A Letter to a Lady

Madam, to all your censures I submit,
And frankly own I should long since have writ:
You told me, silence would be thought a crime,
And kindly strove to tease me into rhyme:
'No more let trifling themes your Muse employ,
Nor lavish verse to paint a female toy:
No more on plains with rural damsels sport,
But sing the glories of the British court.'
By your commands and inclination sway'd,
I call'd th' unwilling Muses to my aid;
Resolved to write, the noble theme I chose,
And to the Princess thus the poem rose:
[Muse, fly the shades, the sylvan song forbear,
And pipe no more to please the shepherd's ear.]
Aid me, bright Phoebus; aid, ye sacred Nine;
Exalt my genius, and my verse refine.
[Accept, illustrious fair, my grateful Song:
To you my duty and my lays belong.]
My strains with Carolina's name I grace,
The lovely parent of our royal race.
Breathe soft, ye winds, ye waves in silence sleep;
Let prosperous breezes wanton o'er the deep,
Swell the white sails, and with the streamers play,
To waft her gently o'er the wat'ry way.
Here I to Neptune form'd a pompous prayer,
To rein the winds, and guard the royal fair;
Bid the blue Tritons sound their twisted shells,
And call the Nereids from their pearly cells.
Thus my warm zeal had drawn the Muse along,
Yet knew no method to conduct her song:
I then resolved some model to pursue,
Perused French critics, and began anew.
Long open panegyric drags at best,
And praise is only praise when well address'd.
Straight Horace for some lucky ode I sought:
And all along I traced him thought by thought:
This new performance to a friend I show'd;
For shame, says he, what, imitate an ode!
I'd rather ballads write, and Grub Street lays,
Than pillage Caesar for my patron's praise:
One common fate all imitators share,
To save mince-pies, and cap the grocer's ware.
Vex'd at the charge, I to the flames commit
Rhymes, similes, lords' names, and ends of wit;
In blotted stanzas scraps of odes expire,
And fustian mounts in pyramids of fire.
Ladies, to you I next inscribed my lay,
And writ a letter in familiar way:
For still impatient till the Princess came,
You from description wish'd to know the dame.
Each day my pleasing labour larger grew,
For still new graces open'd to my view.
Twelve lines ran on to introduce the theme,
And then I thus pursued the growing scheme:
Beauty and wit were sure by nature joined,
And charms are emanations of the mind;
The soul transpiercing through the shining frame,
Forms all the graces of the princely dame:
Benevolence her conversation guides,
Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye resides.
Such harmony upon her tongue is found,
As softens English to Italian sound:
Yet in those sounds stick sentiments appear,
As charm the judgment, while they soothe the ear.
[Such pure religion in her bosom reign'd
For that, Imperial Crowns she once disdained.]
Religion's cheerful flame her bosom warms,
Calms all her hours, and brightens all her charms.
Henceforth, ye fair, at chapel mind your prayers,
Nor catch your lover's eyes with artful airs;
Restrain your looks, kneel more, and whisper less,
Nor most devoutly criticise on dress.
From her form all your characters of life,
The tender mother, and the faithful wife.
Oft have I seen her little infant train,
The lovely promise of a future reign;
Observed with pleasure ev'ry dawning grace,
And all the mother op'ning in their face.
The son shall add new honours to the line,
And early with paternal virtues shine;
When he the tale of Audenard repeats,
His little heart with emulation beats;
With conquests yet to come, his bosom glows,
He dreams of triumphs and of vanquished foes.
Each year with arts shall store his rip'ning brain,
And from his grandsire he shall learn to reign.
Thus far I'd gone: propitious rising gales
Now bid the sailor hoist the swelling sails.
Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar,
White Albion's cliffs resound from shore to shore,
Behold the bright original appear,
All praise is faint when Carolina's near.
Thus to the nation's joy, but poet's cost,
The Princess came, and my new plan was lost.
Since all my schemes were baulk'd, my last resort,
I left the Muses to frequent the Court;
Pensive each night, from room to room I walk'd,
To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd;
Inquir'd what news, or such a lady's name,
And did the next day, and the next, the same.
Places, I found, were daily giv'n away,
And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay.
I ask'd a friend what method to pursue;
He cried, I want a place as well as you.
Another ask'd me, why I had not writ;
A poet owes his fortune to his wit.
Straight I replied, 'With what a courtly grace,
Flows easy verse from him that has a place!
Had Virgil ne'er at court improved his strains,
He still had sung of flocks and homely swains;
And had not Horace sweet preferment found,
The Roman lyre had never learnt to sound.'
Once ladies fair in homely guise I sung,
And with their names wild woods and mountains rung.
Oh teach me now to strike a softer strain! ns
The court refines the language of the plain.
You must, cries one, the Ministry rehearse,
And with each Patriot's name prolong your verse.
But sure this truth to poets should be known,
That praising all alike, is praising none.
Another told me, if I wish'd success,
To some distinguish'd lord I must address;
One whose high virtues speak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good;
Where valour and strong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, resolute in fight;
Whose gen'rous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronise the man that wants a friend.
You have, 'tis true, the noble patron shown,
But I, alas! am to Argyle unknown.
Still ev'ry one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to succeed;
But now preferments so possess'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a single strain:
Indeed I sometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connection as without design,
One morn upon the Princess this I writ,
An epigram that boasts more truth than wit:
The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
She scorn'd an empire for religion's sake:
For this, on earth the British crown is giv'n,
And an immortal crown decreed in heav'n.
Again, while George's virtues raised my thought,
The following lines prophetic fancy wrought:
Methinks I see some Bard, whose heav'nly rage
Shall rise in song, and warm a future age;
Look back through time, and, wrapt in wonder, trace
The glorious series of the Brunswick race.
From the first George these godlike kings descend,
A line which only with the world shall end.
The next a generous Prince renowned in arms,
And blessed, long bless'd in Carolina's charms;
From these the rest. 'Tis thus secure in peace,
We plough the fields, and reap the year's increase;
[Rescued from debts, the land no longer groans
Beneath the canker of devouring loans.]
Now Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets their canvas spread;
Unnumbered ships the peopled ocean hide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide.
Here paused the sullen Muse: in haste I dress'd;
And through the crowd of needy courtiers press'd;
Though unsuccessful, happy whilst I see,
Those eyes that glad a nation, shine on me.