New graces yearly, like thy works, display; Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains; And finished more through 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 breath an air divine on every 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 Myra die; Alas! how little from the grave we claim? Thou but preservest a Form, and I a Name. A. POPE. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. When Dryden, worn with sickness, bowed with years, Was doomed (my friend, let pity warm thy tears,) The galling pang of penury to feel, For ill-placed loyalty, and courtly zeal; To see that laurel which his brows o’erspread, Transplanted droop on Shadwell’s barren head, The bard oppressed, yet not subdued by fate, For very bread descended to translate; And he, whose fancy, copious as his phrase, Could light at will expression’s brightest blaze, On Fresnoy’s lay employed his studious hour; But niggard there of that melodious power, His pen in haste the hireling task to close, Transformed the studied strain to careless prose, Which, fondly lending faith to French pretence, Mistook its meaning, or obscured its sense. Yet still he pleased, for Dryden still must please, Whether with artless elegance and ease He glides in prose, or from its tinkling chime, } By varied pauses, purifies his rhyme, } And mounts on Maro’s plumes, and soars his heights sublime. } This artless elegance, this native fire, Provoked his tuneful heir to strike the lyre, Who, proud his numbers with that prose to join, Wove an illustrious wreath for friendship’s shrine. How oft, on that fair shrine when poets bind The flowers of song, does partial passion blind Their judgment’s eye! How oft does truth disclaim The deed, and scorn to call it genuine fame! How did she here, when Jervas was the theme, Waft through the ivory gate the poet’s dream! How view, indignant, error’s base alloy The sterling lustre of his praise destroy, Which now, if praise like his my muse could coin, Current through ages, she would stamp for thine! Let friendship, as she caused, excuse the deed; With thee, and such as thee, she must succeed. But what if fashion tempted Pope astray? The witch has spells, and Jervas knew a day, When mode-struck belles and beaux were proud to come, And buy of him a thousand years of bloom. Even then I deem it but a venal crime; Perish alone that selfish sordid rhyme, Which flatters lawless sway, or tinsel pride; Let black oblivion plunge it in her tide. From fate like this my truth-supported lays,