Her slumbering energies call'd forth,
She rises, conscious of her worth;
And, at her new-found powers elated,
Thinks them not rous'd, but new created.
Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know
What charms from polish'd converse flow,
Speak, for you can, the pure delight
When kindling sympathies unite;
When correspondent tastes impart
Communion sweet from heart to heart;
You ne'er the cold gradations need
Which vulgar souls to union lead;
No dry discussion to unfold
The meaning caught ere well 'tis told :
In taste, in learning, wit, or science,
Still kindled souls demand alliance:
Each in the other joys to find
The image answering to his mind.
But sparks electric only strike
On souls electrical alike;
The flash of intellect expires,
Unless it meet congenial fires:
The language to th' elect alone
Is, like the mason's mystery, known;
In vain the unerring sign is made
To him who is not of the trade.
What lively pleasure to divine,
The thought implied, the hinted line,
To feel allusion's artful force,
And trace the image to its source!
Quick memory blends her scatter'd rays
"Till fancy kindles at the blaze;
The works of ages start to view,
And ancient wit elicits new.
But wit and parts if thus we praise,
What nobler altars should we raise,
Those sacrifices could we see,
Which wit, O Virtue! makes to thee.
At once the rising thought to dash,
To quench at once the bursting flash!
The shining mischief to subdue,
And lose the praise and pleasure too!
Though Venus' self, could you detect her,
Imbuing with her richest nectar,
The thought unchaste-to check that thought,
To spurn a fame so dearly bought;
This is high principle's control!
This is true continence of soul !
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,
A vanquish'd realm, a plunder'd town!
Your conquests were to gain a name,
This conquest triumphs over fame;
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd,
If known, and if commended, void.
Amidst the brightest truths believ'd,
Amidst the fairest deeds achiev'd,
Shall stand recorded and admir'd,
That virtue sunk what wit inspir'd.
But let the letter'd, and the fair,
And, chiefly, let the wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
O shun the perils which attend
On wit, on warmth, and heed your friend;
Though science nurs'd you in her bowers,
Though fancy crown your brow with flowers,
Each thought, though bright invention fill,
Though Attic bees each word distil;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse;
If she withhold her magic spell,
Nor in the social circle dwell;
In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis attention:
Mute angel, yes; thy looks dispense
The silence of intelligence;
Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn;
"Tis thou for talents shalt obtain
That pardon wit would hope in vain;
Thy wondrous power, thy secret charm,
Shall envy of her sting disarm;
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
Our jealous souls no longer burn,
Nor hate thee, though thou shine in turn;
The sweet atonement screens the fault, And love and praise are cheaply bought. With some complacency to hear Though somewhat long the tale appear, The dull relation to attend,
Which mars the story you could mend; 'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty, 'Tis pleasure rising out of duty. Nor vainly think, the time you waste, When temper triumphs over taste.
TO THE HONOURABLE MRS BOSCAWEN.*
ACCEPT, Boscawen ! these unpolish'd lays,
Nor blame too much the verse you cannot praise.
For you, far other bards have wak'd the string,
Far other bards for you were wont to sing;
Yet on the gale their parting music steals,
Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels:
You heard the lyres of Littelton and Young,
And that a grace, and this a seraph strung.
These are no more! but not with these decline
The Attic chasteness or the vig'rous line..
Still, sad Elfrida's poet + shall complain,
Still, either Warton breathe his classic strain :
While, for the wonders of the gothic page,
Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age.
Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire,
While Beattie strikes anew old Spenser's lyre;
He, best to paint the genuine minstrel knew,
Who from himself the living portrait drew.
Though Latin bards had gloried in his name,
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame;
Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient bays,
See Lowth despise the meed of mortal praise;
Spurn the cheap wreath by human science won,
Born on the wing sublime of Amos' son !
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
Frances, daughter of William Evelyn Glanville, Esq., married, in 1742, Admiral Boscawen, by whom she had George Evelyn, third viscount Falmouth; Frances, married the honourable John Leveson Gower; and Elizabeth, duchess of Beaufort. Mrs Boscawen died in 1805. She was a woman of very superior talents, and of a generous spirit.-ED.
Milton calls Euripides sad Electra's poet.
Then bishop of London. He died in 1787.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring fate,
And lengthen nature's transitory date;
At once the critic's and the painter's art,
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace impart;
To form with code correct the graphic school,
And lawless fancy curb by sober rule;
To show how genius fires, how taste restrains,
While, what both are, his pencil best explains,
Have we not Reynolds ?* lives not Jenyns yet,
To prove his lowest title was a wit?+
Though purer flames thy hallow'd zeal inspire
Than e'er were kindled at the muse's fire;
Thee, mitred Chester !‡ all the Nine shall boast:
And is not Johnson ours? himself an host!
Yes, still for you your gentle stars dispense
The charm of friendship and the feast of sense:
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,
To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends;
And while to these I raise the votive line,
O let me grateful own these friends are mine;
With Carter § trace the wit to Athens known,
Or view in Montagu that wit our own:
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's || instructive page,
Intent to raise the morals of the age:
Or boast, in Walsingham, the various power
To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour:
Delany, too, is ours, serenely bright,
Wisdom's strong ray, and virtue's milder light:
* See Sir Joshua Reynolds' very able notes to Du Fresnoy's poem on the "Art of Painting," translated by Mr Mason. Also, his series of "Discourses to the Academy," which though written professedly on the subject of painting, contain the principles of general art, and are delivered with so much perspicuous good sense as to be admirably calculated to assist in forming the taste of the general reader.
+ Mr Soame Jenyns had just published his work "On the Internal Evidence of the Christian Religion."
Dr Beilby Porteus, then bishop of Chester. See his admirable poem on death.
§ Elizabeth Carter, the translator of Epictetus. She died in 1806, at the age of eighty-eight.-ED.
|| Hester Chapone, author of "Letters on the Improvement of the Mind," and other works. Her maiden name was Mulso. She died in 1801, at the age of seventy-four.-ED.
The widow of the Rev. Dr Delany, and celebrated for her exact imitations in silk of the beauties of vegetable life. She was
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