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Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest:
Where light, to shades descending, plays, not

strives,
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.

Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight; With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write ; With reverence look on his majestic face; Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight: Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless

breast Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. Like his, thy critics in the attempt are lost: When most they rail, know then, they envy most. In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd, Like women's anger, impotent and loud. While they their barren industry deplore, Pass on secure, and mind the goal before. Old as she is, my muse shall march behind, Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind. Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth ; For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth : 90 But oh, the painter muse, though last in place, Has seiz’d the blessing first, like Jacob's race. Apelles' art an Alexander found; And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;

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But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles awhile, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command ;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears

in
every

lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.
Though nature there her true resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we engraft our skill ;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space, To speak the language of their native place: The painter widely stretches his command; Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land. . From hence, my friend, all climates are your

own, Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. All nations all immunities will give To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world would strive.

Sure some propitious planet then did smile, 120 When first you were conducted to this isle: Our genius brought you here, to enlarge our fame; For your good stars are everywhere the same.

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Thy matchless hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee the examples of their wondrous art.
Those masters then, but seen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood :
For what in nature's dawn the child admir’d, 130
The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir’d.

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree, 'Tis only wanting to this age, not thee. Thy genius, bounded by the times like mine, Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design A more exalted work, and more divine. For what a song, or senseless opera Is to the living labour of a play ; Or what a play to Virgil's work would be, Such is a single piece to history,

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live; Kings cannot reign unless their subjects give; And they who pay the taxes bear the rule: Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool: But so his follies in thy posture sink, The senseless idiot seems at last to think. Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be

so vain, To wish their vile resemblance

may

remain ! And stand recorded, at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest !

Else should we see your noble pencil trace Our unities of action, time, and place:

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A whole compos’d of parts, and those the best,
With
every

various character exprest:
Heroes at large, and at a nearer view ;
Less, and at distance, an ignobler crew.
While all the figures in one action join,
As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest;
But venerable age shall add the rest.
For Time shall with his ready pencil stand ;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which time alone can grant ;
To future ages

shall

your And give more beauties than he takes away.

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fame convey,

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ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM.

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FAREWELL, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own:
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive ;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
Whilst his young friend perform’d, and won the

race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?

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V.1. Farewell, too little) This short elegy is finished with the most exquisite art and skill. Not an epithet or expression can be changed for a better. It is also the most harmonious in its numbers of all that this great master of harmony has produced. Oldham's Satire on the Jesuits is written with vigour and energy. It is remarkable that Dryden calls Oldham his brother in satire, hinting that this was the characteristical turn of both their geniuses. * To the same goal did both our studies drive.' Ver. 7.

Dr. J. W.

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