He was among the first to acknowledge the merit of Pope, and ushered in the publication of his "Poems" with a recommendatory Coty of Verses, which received the praise, and excited the emulation of Harcourt, and other admirers of our English Homer.
Great Sheffield's mufe the long proceflion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp the leads;
First gives the palm fhe fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shews him how to reign.
Pope hinifelf appears to have valued this Copy of Verfes very highly, though they are extremely feeble and prosaic, and speaks of Sheffield's commendation as the confummation of his fame. Mufe! 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends; i
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends, &c.
Befides this professed testimony of his gratitude, Pope has incidentally mentioned his obligations to him, in his poems, and embellished his Tragedy of Brutus with two choruses.
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Of his other poetical pieces, the Fay on Poetry is the most distinguished. It feems to have been his favourite production; for he was all his life improving it by fucceffive revifals; fo that there is scarcely any poem to be found of which the last editions differ more from the first. It is ranked by Addison (Spectator, No. 253.) with Rofcommon's "Efssay on translated Verse," and Pope's "Effay on Criticifm." Though the verfification is careless, the fenfe is always clear, and the rules are commonly juft, and often delivered with ease, and sometimes with energy. It is justly ranked among our best didactic poems.
The Vision contains little invention, or propriety of fentiment. The Election of a Laureat is an imitation of Suckling's Seffion of the Poets," in which he has characterised the contemporary poets, with fome humour and vivacity. His Odes are written with Pindaric liberty, but are languid and unharmonious. His Tranflations are fufficiently licentious, but very deficient in animation and force, compared with the original. His Songs and amatory pieces are fometimes sprightly and elegant; but have neither gallantry nor tenderness.
“I can recollect no performance of Buckingham," fays Dr. Warton, " that stamps him a true genius; his reputation was owing to his rank. In reading his poems one is apt to exclaim with Pope,
What woful stuff this madrigal would be
In some starv'd hackney fonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines
How the wit brightens, how the style refines!"
"It is certain," fays Lord Orford, " that his Grace's compofitions, in profe, have nothing extraordinary in them; his poetry is moft indifferent, and the greatest part of both is already, fallen into total negle&.”
"Criticifm," fays Dr. Johnfon, "difcovers him to be a writer that fometimes glimmers, but rarely fhines, feebly laborious, and at best but pretty. His fongs are upon common topics; he hopes, and grieves, and repents, and defpairs, and rejoices, like any other maker of little stanzas: to be great he hardly tries, to be gay is hardly in his power.{
" Of the Essay on Poetry, which Dryden has exalted so highly, it may be justly said that the precepts are judicious, fometimes new, and often happily expreffed; but there are many weak lines, and fome ftrange appearances of negligence; as, when he gives the laws of elegy, he infifts upon connection and coherence, without which, fays he,
'fis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an elegy, nor writ with skill;
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's Hill.
Who would not suppose that Waller's "Panegyric," and Denham's " Cooper's Hill" were e'egies? "One celebrated line feems to be borrowed. The Efay calls a perfect character
A faultless monster which the world ne'er faw.
"Scaliger, in his poems, terms Virgil, Sine labe monflrum. Sheffield can scarcely be fuppofed to have read Scaliger's poetry; perhaps he found the words in a quotation.
"His verses are often infipid, but his memoirs are lively and agreeable; he had the perfpicuity, and elegance of an historian, but not the fire and fancy of a poet."
(THE MONUMENT OF HIS MIND, AND MORE PERFECT IMAGE OF HIMSELF)
ARE HERE COLLECTED BY THE DIRECTION Or
Defirous that his Ashes may be honoured, and his Fame and Merit committed to the Teft of Time, Truth, and Pofterity.
IN IMITATION OF THE FRENCH.
IN thofe cold climates, where the fun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A difmal vale lies in a defert ille,
On which indulgent heaven did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-prefaging birds receives:
Poifons are all the plants that foil will bear,
And winter is the only season there:
Millions of graves o'erfpread the fpacious field,
And fprings of blood a thousand rivers yield.;
Whofe ftreams, opprefs'd with carcaffes and bones,
Instead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous temple stands,
Old as the world itself, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four iron gates
Divide mankind, by order of the fates:
Thither in crowds come to one common grave
The young, the old, the monarch, and the slave.
age and pains, thofe evils man deplores, Are rigid keepers of th' eternal doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which fadly load
The facred walls of this obfcure abode ;
And tapers, of a pitchy fubftance made,
With clouds of smoke increase the dismal fhade.
A monster void of reason and of fight
The goddess is, who fways this realm of night :
Her power extends o'er all things that have
breath,
A cruel tyrant, and her name is death.
The fairest object of our wondering eyes
Was newly offer'd up her facrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the altar stood,
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's blood,
When griev'd Orontes, whofe unhappy flame
Is known to all who e'er converse with fame,
His mind poffefs'd by fury and despair,
Within the facred temple made this prayer:
Great Deity who in thy hands doft bear
That iron fceptre which poor mortals fear;
Who, wanting eyes thyself, refpecteft none,
And neither spar'ft the laurel nor the crown!
O thou, whom all mankind in vain withstand,
Each of whose blood must one day stain thy hand!
O thou, who every eye that fees the light
Closest for ever in the fhades of night!
Goddefs, attend, and hearken to my grief,
To which thy power alone can give relief.
Alas! I afk not to defer my fate,
But with my hapless life a fhorter date;
And that the earth would in its bowels hide
A wretch, whom Heaven invades on every fide:
That from the fight of day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my love.
Thou only comforter of minds oppreft,
The port where wearied fpirits are at rest;
Conductor to Elyfium, take my life,
My breaft I offer to thy facred knife;
So just a grace refufe not, nor defpife
A willing, though a worthlefs facrifice.
Others (their frail and mortal state forgot)
Before thy altars are not to be brought
Without constraint; the noise of dying rage,
Heaps of the flain of every fex and age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,
With fever'd heads and arnis confus'dly fpread;
The rapid flames of a perpetual fire,
The groans of wretches ready to expire:
This tragic scene in terror makes them live,
Till that is forc'd which they fhould freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have,
Their fears eclipfe the glory of their grave:
Before thy face they make indecent moan,
And feel a hundred deaths in fearing onc:
Thy flame becomes unhallow'd in their breast,
And he a murderer who was a priest.
But against me thy strongest forces call,
And on my head let all the tempest fall;
No mean retreat fhall any weakness fhow,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,
Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear.
Think not that time, our wonted fure relief,
That univerfal cure for every grief,
Whofe aid so many lovers oft have found,
With like fuccefs can ever heal my wound:
Too weak the power of nature, or of art,
Nothing but death can ease a broken heart
And that thou may'st behold my helpless state,
Learn the extremeft rigour of my fate.
Amidst th' innumerable beauteous train,
Paris, the queen of cities, does contain,
(The fairest town, the largest, and the best)
The fair Almeria fhin'd above the reft.
From her bright eyes to feel a hopeless flame,
Was of our youth the moft ambitious aim;
Her chains were marks of honour to the brave,
She made a prince whene'er she made a flave.
Love, under whofe tyrannic power I groan,
Show'd me this beauty ere 'twas fully blown;
Her timorous charms, and her unpractis'd look,
Their first assurance from my conquest took;
By wounding me, fhe learn'd the fatal art,
And the first figh fhe had was from my heart:
My eyes, with tears moistening her fnowy arms
Render'd the tribute owing to her charms.
But, as I fooneft of all mortals paid
My vows, and to her beauty altars made;
So, among all those flaves that sigh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my chain :
Love's heavy burden my fubmiffive heart
Endur'd not long, before the bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen breast,
And in foft fighs her pity fhe express'd;
Her gentle voice allay'd my raging pains,
And her fair hands fuftain'd me in my chains;
Ev'n tears of pity waited on my moan,
And tender looks were cast on me alone.
My hopes and dangers were lefs mine than hers,
Those fill'd her foul with joys, and these with fears;
Our hearts, united, had the fame delires,
And both alike burn'd with impatient fires.
Too faithful memory! I give thee leave
Thy wretched mafter kindly to deceive;
Oh, make me not poffeffor of her charms,
Let me not find her languish in my arms;
Paft joys are now my fancy's mournful themes:
Make all my happy nights appear but dreams :
Let not fuch blifs before my eyes be brought,
O hide those scenes from my tormenting thought;
And in their place difdainful beauty show;
If thou would'ft not be cruel, make her fo:
And, fomething to abate my deep defpair,
O let her feem lefs gentle, or lefs fair.
But I in vain flatter my wounded mind;
Never was nymph fo lovely or fo kind:
No cold repulfes my defire fuppreft,
I feldom figh'd, but on Almeria's breast:
Of all the paffions which mankind destroy,
I only felt excefs of love and joy :
Unnumber'd pleasures charm'd my fenfe, and they
Were, as my love, without the leaft allay.
As pure, alas! but not so sure to last,
For, like a pleafing dream, they are all past.
From heaven her beauties like fierce lightnings
[flame;
Which break through darkness with a glorious
Awhile they fhine, awhile our minds amaze,
Our wondering eyes are dazzled with the blaze;
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But thunder fellows, whofe refiftless rage
None can withstand, and nothing can affuage;
And all that light which thofe bright flashes gave,
Serves only to conduct us to our grave.
When I had just begun love's joys to tafte,
(Those full rewards for fears and dangers past)
A fever feiz'd her, and to nothing brought
The richest work that ever nature wrought.
All things below, alas! uncertain stand;
The firmest rocks are fix'd upon the fand:
Under this law both kings and kingdoms bend,
And no beginning is without an end.
A facrifice to time, fate dooms us all,
And at the tyrant's feet we daily fall:
Time, whofe bold hand will bring alike to duft
Mankind, and temples too in which they truft.
Her wafted fpirits now begin to faint,
Yet patience ties her tongue from all complaint,
And in her heart as in a fort remains;
But yields at laft to her refiftless pains.
Thus while the fever, amorous of his prey,
Through all her veins makes his delightful way,
Her fate's like Semele's; the flames deftroy
That beauty they too eagerly enjoy.
Her charming face is in its fpring decay'd,
Pale grow the rofes, and the lies fade;
Her skin has loft that luftre which surpass'd
The fun's, and well deferv'd as long to laft:
Her eyes, which us'd to pierce the hardest hearts,
Are now difarm'd of all their flames and darts;
Those stars now heavily and flowly move;
And fickness triumphs in the throne of love.
The fever every moment more prevails,
Its rage her body feels, and tongue bewails:
She, whose difdain fo many lovers prove,
Sighs now for torment, as they sigh for love, [air,
And with loud cries, which rend the neighbouring |
Wounds my fad heart, and weakens my despair.
Both men and gods I charge now with my lofs,
And, wild with grief, my thoughts each other cross,
My heart and tongue labour in both extremes,
This fends up humble prayers, while that blaf
phemes:
I ask their help, whofe malice I defy,
And mingle facrilege with piety.
But, that which must yet more perplex my mind,
To love her truly, I must feem unkind;
So unconcern'd a face my forrow wears,
I must restrain unruly floods of tears.
My eyes and tongue put on diffembling forms,
I show a calmness in the midst of storms;
I seem to hope when all my hopes are gone,
And, almost dead with grief, difcover none.
But who can long deceive a loving eye.
Or with dry eyes behold his mistress die?
When paffion had with all its terrors brought
Th' approaching danger nearer to my thought,
Off on a fudden fell the forc'd disguise,
And fhow'd a fighing heart in weeping eyes:
My apprehenfions, now no more confin'd,
Expos'd my forrows, and betray'd my mind.
The fair afflicted foon perceives my tears,
Explains my fighs, and thence concludes my fears:
With fad prefages of her hopeless cafe,
She reads her fate in my dejected face;
Then feels my torment, and neglects her own,
While I am fenfible of hers alone;
Each does the other's burthen kindly bear,
I fear her death, and the bewails my
Though thus we fuffer under fortune's darts,
'Tis only thofe of love which reach our hearts.
Meanwhile the fever mocks at all our fears,
Grows by our fighs, and rages at our tears;
Thofe vain effects of our as vain defire,
Like wind and oil, increase the fatal fire.
Almeria then, feeling the deftinies
About to hut her lips, and close her eyes;
Weeping, in mine, fix'd her fair trembling hand,
And with these words I fcarce could understand,
Her paffion in a dying voice exprefs'd
Half, and her fighs, alas! made out the rest.
'Tis paft; this pang-Nature gives o'er the ftrife;
Thou must thy mistress lose, and I my life.
I die; but, dying thine, the fates may prove
Their conqueft over me, but not my love:
Thy memory, my glory, and my pain,
In spite of death itself shall still remain.
Dearest Orontes, my hard fate denies,
That hope is the laft thing which in us dies:
From my griev'd breast all those soft thoughts are
And love furvives it, though my hope is dead;
I yield my life, but keep my paffion yet,
And can all thoughts, but of Orontes, quit.
My flame increafes as my ftrength decays;
Death, which puts out the light, the heat will raife:
That ftill remains, though I from hence remove;
I love my lover, but I keep my love.
The fighs which fent forth that last tender word,
Up tow'rds the heavens like a bright meteor foar'd;
And the kind nymph, not yet bereft of charms,
Fell cold and breathiefs in her lover's arms.
Goddess, who now my fate haft understood,
Spare but my tears, and freely take my blood:
Here let me end the ftory of my cares;
My difmal grief enough the rest declares.
| Judge thou by all this mifery difplay'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy aid:
Thus to furvive, reproaches on me draws;
Never fad wishes had so just a cause.
Come then, my only hope; in every place
Thou visitest, men tremble at thy face,
And fear thy name: once let thy fatal hand
Fall on a fwain that does the blow demand.
Vouchsafe thy dart; I need not one of thofe,
With which thou doft unwilling kings depofe :
A welcome death the flightest wound can bring,
And free a foul already on her wing.
Without thy aid, most miferable I
Muft ever wish, yet not obtain to die.
LET others fongs or fatires write,
Provok'd by vanity or fpite;
My mufe a nobler cause shall move,
To found aloud the praise of love :
That gentle, yet refiftless heat,
Which raifes men to all things good and great :
While other paffions of the mind
To low brutality debafe mankind,
By love we are above ourselves refin'd.
Oh love, thou trance divine! in which the foul, Unclogg'd with worldly cares, may range without control;
And foaring to her heaven, from thence infpir'd can teach
High myfteries, above poor reafon's feeble reach.
To weak old age, prudence fome aid may prove,
And curb thofe appetites that faintly move;
But wild, impetuous youth is tam'd by nothing
lefs than love.
Of men too rough for peace, too rude for arts,
Love's power can penetrate the hardest hearts;
And through the clofeft pores a paffage find,
Like that of light, to fhine all o'er the mind.
The want of love does both extremes produce;
Maids are too nice, and men as much too loose;
While equal good an amorous couple find,
She makes him conftant, and he makes her kind.
New charms in vain a lover's faith would prove;
Hermits or bed-rid men they'll fooner move:
The fair inveigler will but fadly find
There's no fuch eunuch as a man in love.
But when by his chafte nymph embrac'd, (For love makes all embraces chaste) Then the transported creature can Do wonders, and is more than man. Both heaven and earth would our defires con
But yet in vain both heaven and earth combine, Unless where love bleffes the great defign. Hymen makes faft the hand, but love the heart; He the fool's god, thou nature's Hymen art; Whofe laws once broke, we are not held by force, But the falfe breach itself is a divorce.
For love the mifer will his gold despise,
The falfe grow faithful, and the foolish wife;
Cautious the young, and complaifant the old,
The cruel gentle, and the coward bold.
Thou gloricus fun within our fouls,
Whofe influence fo much controls;
Ev'n dull and heavy lumps of love,
Quicken'd by thee, more lively move;
And if their heads but any fubftance hold,
Love ripens all that drofs into the pureft gold.
In heaven's great work thy part is such,
That mafter-like thou giv'ft the laf great touch
To heaven's own mafter piece of man;
And finisheft what nature but began:
Thy happy ftroke can into foftnefs bring
Reafon, that rough and wrangling thing.
From childhood upwards we decay,
And grow but greater children every day:
So, reafon, how can we be faid to rife?
So many cares attend the being wife,
'Tis rather falling down a precipice.
From fenfe to reafon unimprov'd we move;
We only then advance, when reafon turns to
Thou reigneft o'er our earthly gods: Uncrown'd by thee, their other crowns are loads; One beauty's smile their meanest courtier brings Rather to pity than to envy kings;
His fellow flaves he takes them now to be,
Favour'd by love perhaps much less than he.
For love, the timorous bashful maid
Of nothing but denying is afraid;
For love the overcomes her shame,
Forfakes her fortune, and forgets her fame
Yet, if but with a conftant lover bleft,
Thanks heaven for that, and never minds the rest.
Love is the falt of life; a higher taste
It gives to pleasure, and then makes it laft.
Thofe flighted favours which cold nymphs dispense,
Mere common counters of the fenfe,
Defective both in metal and in measure,
A lover's fancy coins into a treasure.
How vast the subject! what a boundless store
Of bright ideas fhining all before!
The mufe's fighs forbid me to give o'er!
But the kind god incites us various ways,
And now I find him all my ardour raise,
His precepts to perform, as well as praise.
ELEGY TO THE DUCHESS OF Ŕ
THOU lovely flave to a rude husband's will,
By nature us'd fo well, by him so ill!
For all that grief we see your mind endure,
Your glafs prefents you with a pleasing cure.
Thofe maids you envy for their happier ftate,
To have your form, would gladly have your fate;
And of like flavery each wife complains,
Without fuch beauty's help to bear her chains.
Husbands like him we every where may
fee;
But where can we behold a wife like thee?
While to a tyrant you by fate are ty'd,
By love you tyrannize o'er all befide :
Thofe eyes, though weeping, can no pity move ;
Worthy our grief! more worthy of our love!
You, while fo fair (do fortune what the please)
Can be no more in pain than we at ease;
Unless, unfatisfied with all our vows,
Your vain ambition fo unbounded grows,
That you repine a husband should escape
Th' united force of fuch a face and fhape.
If fo, alas! for all thofe charming powers,
Your cafe is juft as defperate as ours.
Expect that birds fhould only fing to you,
And, as you walk, that ev'ry tree fhould bow
Expect thofe ftatues, as you pafs, fhould burn;
And that with wonder men fhould flatues turn;
Such beauty is enough to give things life,
But not to make a husband love his wife:
A husband, worse than statues, or than trees;
Colder than thofe, lef, fenfible than these.
Then from fo dull a care your thoughts remove,
And waste not fighs you only owe to love.
'Tis pity, fighs from such a breaft should part,
Unless to cafe fome doubtful lover's heart;
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