Such is the man, whom we require the fame
We lent the North; untoucht, as is his fame.
He is too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger, as from fear he's free [x].
Those men alone (and those are useful, too)
Whofe valour is the only art they know,
Were for fad war and bloody battles born;
Let them the ftate defend, and he adorn.
On the Death of Sir ANTHONY VANDIKE, the famous Painter.
VANDIKE is dead; but what bold Muse shall
(Though poets in that word [y] with painters share)
[*] - as from fear he's free.] Yet it was, in part, to vindicate himself from the imputation of this fear, that he always put himself in the way of danger, and, in the end, threw away his valuable life at the battle of Newbury.
[y] — in that word] Namely, dare; alluding to Horace,
"pictoribus atque poetis
"Quidlibet audendi femper fuit æqua poteftas."
T' express her sadness? Poefy muft become
An art like painting here, an art, that's dumb.
Let's all our folemn grief in filence keep,
Like fome fad picture, which he made to weep,
Or those who faw't; for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the fame paffions which he drew.
His pieces fo with their live objects strive,
That both, or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting ftand,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with lefs fuccefs,
When her own work in twins she would exprefs.
His all-refembling pencil did out-pafs
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect, than his art;
Nor was his hand less erring, than his heart [z].
There was no false or fading colour there;
The figures fweet and well-proportion'd were.
Moft other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more fhadows than the men he drew.
Thus ftill he liv'd, till heaven did for him call,
Where reverend Luke falutes him firft of all:
[x] than bis heart.] A noble eulogy of this extraordinary man! and, if report fays true, a very just
Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair;
And could almoft with for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly fee how all things fhine.
Wondroufly painted in the mind divine [a],
Whilft he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady [6] till he loves;
(The love of heavenly objects heaven împroves)
He fees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left fo like them here.
And you, fair widow, who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve.
Your joys and griefs were wont the fame to be;
Begin not now, bleft pair, to disagree.
No wonder, death mov'd not his generous mind:
You, and a new-born you, he left behind.
Even fate exprefs'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.
[a]in the mind divine,] A platonic idea, which Malbranche and our Norris have rendered fo famous. [b] - his beauteous lady] A lady, of distinguished quality, as well as beauty, daughter to the Lord Ruthen, Earl of Gowry.
To Sir WILLIAM DAVENANT:
Upon his Two Firft Books of GONDIBERT, finished before his Voyage to America.
METHINKS, heroic poefy, till now,
Like fome fantastic fairy-land, did show;
Gods, devils, nymphs, witches, and gyants race,
And all, but man, in man's chief work had place.
Thou, like fome worthy knight, with facred arins
Doft drive the monfters thence, and end the charms;
Inftead of thefe, doft men and manners plant,
The things, which that rich foil did chiefly want.
Yet even thy mortals do their gods excell,
Taught by thy Mufe to fight and love so well.
By fatal hands whilft prefent empires fall,
Thine from the grave paft monarchies recall.
So much more thanks from human kind does merit
The poet's fury, than the zealot's spirit.
And from the grave thou mak'ft this empire rife,
Not, like fome dreadful ghost, t'affright our eyes,
But with more luftre and triumphant state,
Than when it crown'd at proud Verona fate.
VOL. I.
So will our God rebuild man's perifh'd frame,
And raife him up much better, yet the fame [c]:
So god-like poets do past things rehearse;
Not change, but heighten, nature by their verfe.
With fhame, methinks, great Italy must see
Her conquerors rais'd to life again by thee.
Rais'd by fuch powerful verse, that ancient Rome
May blush no less to see her wit o'ercome.
Some men their fancies, like their faith, derive [d];
And think all ill but that, which Rome does give.
The marks of old and catholic would find,
To the fame chair would truth and fiction bind.
Thou in those beaten paths difdain'st to tread,
And fcorn'ft to live by robbing of the dead.
[c] So will-yet the fame.] It is pleasant to fee how the wits catch their ideas from each other. Mr. Pope, in a letter of compliment to a friend, who had done much honour to his Efay on Man, expreffes himself in these words" It is indeed the fame fyftem as mine, but il"lustrated with a ray of your own; as they fay our natural "body is the fame ftill, when it is glorified." Works, vol. ix.
[d] Some men their fancies, like their faith, derive,] “Thus wit, like faith, by each man is apply'd "To one finall fect; and all are damn'd befide." Effay on Crit. ver. 396.
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