Epist. VI. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare, How small a part of human blessings share Fortune, still envious of the great man's praise, Attend, ye Britons, in so just a cause, Thus unregarded Fenton pass'd away! Like Vinci's strokes, thy verses we behold, 79 And the soft sorrow steals from every eye. There sprightly Chaucer charms our hours away Muse! at that name each thought of pride recall, Ah, think how soon the wise and glorious fall; What though the Sisters every grace impart, To smooth thy verse, and captivate the heart: What though your charms, my fair Cleora, shine Bright as your eyes, and as your sex divine: Yet shall the verses and the charms decay, The boast of youth, the blessing of a day! Not Chaucer's beauties could survive the rage Of wasting Envy, and devouring Age: One mingled heap of ruin now we see ; Thus Chaucer is, and Fenton thus shall be ! EPISTLE VIT. ΤΟ JAMES THOMSON, ESQ. ON HIS SEASONS. FROM JAMES DALACOURT, B. A. FROM Sunless worlds, where Phoebus seldom smiles, So the wing'd bees that idly rove along, Blest Bard with what new lustre dost thou.rise, Soft as the Season o'er the Summer skies! Thy works a little world new-found appear, And thou the Phoebus of a Heaven so fair; Thee their bright sovereign all the signs allow, And Thomson is the name for Nature now: Thou first could'st drive the coursers of the day, Nor through the dazzling glories lost thy way; Thy steeds red hoofs, still trod th' eternal round, Nor threw the burning chariot to the ground. So round Iulus' temples, blazing bright! In locks dishevel'd stream'd a length of light; The prince unharm'd beheld the sparkles spread, Nor shook the shining honors from his head. Beneath thy touch, Description paints anew, In various drapery see the rolling year, But chief the sweetest passion best you sing, The grove's soft theme, and symphony of Spring: And in the waters Phocae feel the fire; And burns though circled round with all his waves. A sudden flash of lightning turns my eye To thunder rumbling in the Summer sky! Beneath thy hand the flaming sheet is spread O'er heaven's wide face, and wraps it round with red; With the broad blaze the kindling lines grow bright, And all the glowing page is fill'd with light; Through the rough verse the thunder hoarsly roars, And on red wings the nimble lightning soars. Here thy Amelia starts, and, chill'd with fears, At every flash her eye-lids swim in tears; What heart but beats for so divine a form, Pale as a lily sinking in the storm! What maid so cold to take a lover's part, But pities Celadon with all her heart! |