RELA PSE.
To the RIGHT HONOURABLE
The Earl of LITCHFIELD.
ORENZO! to recriminate is juft.
Fondness for fame is avarice of air.
I grant the man is vain who writes for praife.
Praise no man e'er deferv'd, who fought no more.
As juft thy fecond charge. I grant the muse
Has often blusht at her degen'rate fons,
Retain'd by fenfe to plead her filthy caufe;
To raife the low, to magnify the mean,
And fubtilize the grofs into refin'd:
As if to magic numbers' pow'rful charm
"Twas giv'n, to make a civet of their fong
Obfcene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obfcure the caufe.
We wear the chains of pleafure, and of pride.
Thefe fhare the man; and these distract him too
Draw diff'rent ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleefure, lark-like, nefts upon the ground.
Joys fhar'd by brute-creation, pride resents;
Pleafure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A point how hard to gain!
But, what can't wit, when ftung by ftrong defire ?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of fenfe can't rife to reafon's tafte;
In fubtle fophiftry's laborious forge,
Wit hammers out a reafon nevi,
To fordid fcenes, and meets them with applaufe
Wit calls the graces the chafte zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thoufand phantoms, and a thoufand fpells,
A thousand opiates fcatters, to delude,
To fafcinate, inebriate, lay asleep,
And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.
Thus that which fhock'd the judgment, fhocks no more;
That which gave pride offence, no more offends.
Pleafure and pride, by nature mortal foes,
At war eternal, which in man shall reign,
By wit's addrefs, patch up a fatal peace,
And hand in hand lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate and gay.
Art, curfed art! wipes off th' indebted blush
From nature's cheek, and bronzes ev'ry shame.
Man fmiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy ftands candidate for praise.
All writ by man in favour of the foul,
These fenfual ethics far, in bulk, tranfcend.
The flow'rs of eloquence, profufely pour'd
O'er fpotted vice, fill half the letter'd world.
Can pow'rs of genius exorcife their page,
And confecrate enormities with fong?
But let not thefe inexpiable ftrains
Condemn the mufe that knows her dignity;
Nor meanly ftops at time, but holds the world
As 'tis, in nature's ample field, a point,
A point in her esteem; from whence to start,
And run the round of universal space,
To vifit being universal there,
And Being's Source, that utmoft flight of mind!
Yet, fpite of this fo vaft circumference,
Well knows, but what is moral, nought is great :
Sing Syrens only? Do not angels fing?
There is in poefy a decent pride,
Which well becomes her when the speaks to profe,
Her younger fifter; haply, not more wife.
Think'ft thou, LORENZO! to find paftimes here?
No guilty paffion blown into a flame,
No foible flatter'd, dignity difgrac'd,
No fairy field of fiction, all on flow'r,
No rainbow colours, here, or filken tale:
But folemn counfels, images of awe,
Truths, which eternity lets fall on man
With double weight, thro' thefe revolving spheres,
This death-deep filence, and incumbent shade :
Thoughts, fuch as fhall revifit your last hour;
Vifit uncall'd, and live when life expires;
And thy dark pencil, midnight! darker ftill
In melancholy dipt, embrowns the whole.
Yet this, ev'n this, my laughter-loving friends!
LORENZO! and thy brothers of the fmile!
If, what imports you moft, can most engage,
Shall steal your ear, and chain you to my fong.
Or if you fail me, know, the wise shall taste
The truths I fing; the truths I fing shall feel;
And, feeling, give affent; and their affent
Is ample recompence; is more than praise.
But chiefly thine, O LITCHFIELD! nor mistake;
Think not un introduc'd I force my way;
NARCISSA, not unknown, not unally'd,
By virtue, or by blood, illuftrious youth!
To thee, from blooming amaranthine bow'rs,
Where all the language harmony, defcends
Uncall'd, and asks admittance for the mufe:
A mufe that will not pain thee with thy praife;
Thy praife fhe drops, by nobler ftill infpir'd.
O Thou! Bleft Spirit! whether the fupreme,
Great antemundane Father! in whofe breast
Embryo creation, unborn being, dwelt,
And all its various revolutions roll'd
Prefent, tho' future; prior to themselves;
Whofe breath can blow it into nought again;
Or, from his throne fome delegated pow'r,
Who, ftudious of our peace, doit turn the thought
|