In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade: 'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. 30 When interest calls off all her sneaking train, And all the obliged desert, and all the vain, She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays, (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise), Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day; Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. 40 * * * * * EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ., SECRETARY OF STATE.[69] A soul as full of worth, as void of pride, Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows. A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, That darts severe upon a rising lie, And strikes a blush through frontless flattery. All this thou wert; and being this before, Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more. Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways, Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise; But candid, free, sincere, as you began, Proceed--a minister, but still a man. Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) Ashamed of any friend, not even of me: The patriot's plain, but untrod path pursue; If not, 'tis I must be ashamed of you. * * * * * 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 every 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; 10 Like them to shine through long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage. Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer suns roll unperceived away! How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art! 20 How oft review; each finding, like a friend, Something to blame, and something to commend!