And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey,
And hungry sent the wily fox away.

The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered:
Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared.

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His preaching much, but more his practice wrought;
(A living sermon of the truths he taught);
For this by rules severe his life he squared:

That all might see the doctrine which they heard.
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest;
(The gold of heaven, who bear the God impressed);
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

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The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show,
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,

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These marks of church and churchmen he designed,

And living taught, and dying left behind.

The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn;

The holy father holds a double reign,

The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. Such was the saint; who shone with every grace,

Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face.

God saw his image lively was expressed;

And his own work, as in creation, blessed.

The tempter saw him too with envious eye,
And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.
He took the time when Richard was deposed,
And high and low with happy Harry closed.

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This Prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood, 110 Near though he was, yet not the next of blood.

Had Richard unconstrained resigned the throne,
A King can give no more than is his own;
The titled stood entailed, had Richard had a son.

Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside;
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by Providence
Was by a flattering priest invented since;
And lasts no longer than the present sway,
But justifies the next who comes in play.

The people's right remains; let those who dare Dispute their power, when they the judges are.

He joined not in their choice, because he knew Worse might and often did from change ensue. Much to himself he thought; but little spoke; And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.

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Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretched. And like a primitive apostle preached.

Still cheerful; ever constant to his call;

By many followed; loved by most, admired by all.

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With what he begged, his brethren he relieved!

And gave the charities himself received;

Gave, while he taught; and edified the more,

Because he showed by proof 'twas easy to be poor.
He went not with the crowd to see a shrine;

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But fed us by the way with food divine.

In deference to his virtues, I forbear

To show you what the rest in orders were:

This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright,

He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light. 140

POPE.

EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS, WITH MR. DRYDEN'S TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S ART OF

PAINTING

THIS Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.

Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine thro' long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came,

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And met congenial, ingling flame with flame ;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,

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And each from each contract new strength and jight.

How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,

While summer-suns roll unperceiv'd away;

How oft our slowly-growing works impart,

While Images reflect from art to art;

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How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and something to commend!

What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought,

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Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,

Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy.

With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Or seek some Ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew;

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Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye;

A fading Fresco here demands a sigh:

Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare,

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Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,

Caracci's strength, Correggio's softer line,

Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears

This small, well-polish'd Gem, the work of years!
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the painter's breast!
Thence endless streams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Muse at that Name thy sacred sorrows shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead:
Call round her Tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife :
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this Marble, and be vain no more!

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Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage;
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,
And other Beauties envy Worsley's eyes;
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,
And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

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Oh, lasting as those Colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;

New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;

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Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains;
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains.
The kindred Arts shall in their praise conspire;
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be sung 'till Granville's Mira die;
Alas! how little from the grave we claim!
Thou but preserv'st a Face, and I a Name.

'TIS strange, the Miser should his Cares employ
To gain those Riches he can neer enjoy:
Is it less strange, the Prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ?
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choose his Pictures, Music, Meats:
He buys for Topham, Drawings and Designs,
For Pembroke, Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone,

And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane. ***
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to show, how many Tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Visto's ill got wealth to waste?
Some Dæmon whisper'd, Visto! have a Taste."
Heav'n visits with a Taste the wealthy fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride,

Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a Guide:

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