The Works of Alexander Pope (1717)/To Mr. Pope (Finch)

by Anne Finch

For other versions of this work, see To Mr. Pope (Finch).

 

To Mr. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE Countess of Winchelsea.

 

THE Muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is publick, tho' not proud.
Widely extensive is the Poet's aim,
And, in each verse, he draws a bill on fame.
For none have writ (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend,
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age,
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit,
To hide their Judgments who applaud your Wit:
But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who drive for you as Greece for Homer strove.
Whilst he who best your Poetry asserts,
Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts.
Me Panegyrick verse does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty tryals dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applauses by desert,
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart:
Inflame the Soldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the sage:
Allure, with tender verse, the Female race,
And give their darling passion, courtly grace.
Describe the Forest still in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part display;
Nor let the Critic, there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each differing taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribler might in spight declare,
That for comparison you plac'd 'em there.
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But Envy could not against you succeed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Censure or Praise must from our selves proceed.