TO THE Reverend Dr. AYSCOUGH at Oxford. Written from Paris in the Year 1728. George Lyttelton, 1st Baron Lyttelton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.002 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. II. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 25-30. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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TO THE Reverend Dr. AYSCOUGH at Oxford . Written from Paris in the Year 1728. By the Same . SAY , dearest friend , how roll thy hours away ? What pleasing study cheats the tedious day ? Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore , Where virtue by the charms of wit refin'd , At once exalts and polishes the mind ? How diff'rent from our modern guilty art , Which pleases only to corrupt the heart ; Whose curs'd refinements odious Vice adorn , And teach to honour what we ought to scorn ! Dost thou in sage Historians joy to see How Roman Greatness rose with Liberty ; How the same hands that tyrants durst controul , Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the Pole ; Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire , Each grace , each virtue Freedom could inspire ; Yet in her troubled states see all the woes And all the crimes that giddy Faction knows ; Till rent by parties , by Corruption sold , Or weakly careless , or too rashly bold , She sunk beneath a mitigated doom , The slave and tut'ress of protecting Rome ? Does calm Philosophy her aid impart , To guide the passions , and to mend the heart ? Taught by her precepts , hast thou learnt the end To which alone the wise their studies bend ; For which alone by nature were design'd The pow'rs of thought — to benefit mankind ? Not like a cloyster'd drone , to read and doze , In undeserving , undeserv'd repose ; But reason's influence to diffuse ; to clear Th' enlighten'd world of ev'ry gloomy fear ; Dispel the mists of error , and unbind Those pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind , Happy who thus his leisure can employ ! He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy ; Nor vex'd with pangs that busier bosoms tear , Nor lost to social Virtue's pleasing care ; Safe in the port , yet lab'ring to sustain Those who will float on the tempestuous main . So Locke the days of studious quiet spent ; So Boyle in wisdom found divine content ; So Cambray , worthy of a happier doom , The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome . Good Dr. HOUGH . Wor'ster thus supports his drooping age , Far from court-flatt'ry , far from party rage ; He , who in youth a tyrant's frown defy'd , Firm and intrepid on his country's side , Her boldest champion then , and now her mildest guide . O gen'rous warmth ! O sanctity divine ! To emulate his worth , my friend , be thine : Learn from his life the duties of the gown ; Learn not to flatter , nor insult the crown ; Nor basely servile court the guilty great , Nor raise the Church a rival to the State : To Error mild , to Vice alone severe , Seek not to spread the law of Love by Fear . The priest , who plagues the world , can never mend : No foe to Man was e'er to God a friend : Let reason and let virtue faith maintain , All force but theirs is impious , weak , and vain . Me other cares in other climes engage , Cares that become my birth , and suit my age ; In various knowledge to improve my youth , And conquer Prejudice , worst foe to Truth ; By foreign arts domestick faults to mend , Enlarge my notions , and my views extend ; The useful science of the world to know , Which books can never teach , or pedants shew . A nation here I pity , and admire , Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire , Yet taught by custom's force , and bigot fear , To serve with pride , and boast the yoke they bear : Whose Nobles born to cringe , and to command , In courts a mean , in camps a gen'rous band ; From each low tool of pow'r content receive Those laws , their dreaded arms to Europe give . Whose people vain in want , in bondage blest , Though plunder'd , gay ; industrious , though oppress'd ; With happy follies rise above their fate , The jest and envy of each wiser state . Yet here the Muses deign'd awhile to sport In the short sun-shine of a fav'ring court : Here Boileau strong in sense , and sharp in wit , Who from the ancients , like the ancients writ , Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame , By flatt'ring incense to his Master's fame . Here Moliere , first of comick wits , excell'd Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld ; By keen , yet decent satire skill'd to please , With morals mirth uniting , strength with ease . Now charm'd , I hear the bold Corneille inspire Heroick thought with Shakespear's force and fire ; Now sweet Racine with milder influence move The soften'd heart to Pity and to Love . With mingled pain and pleasure I survey The pompous works of arbitrary sway ; Proud palaces , that drain'd the subject store , Rais'd on the ruins of th' oppress'd and poor ; Where ev'n mute walls are taught to flatter state , And painted triumphs stile Ambition GREAT The victories of LOUIS XVI . painted in the galleries of Versailles . . With more delight those pleasing shades I view , Where Condé from an envious court withdrew Chantilly . ; Where , sick of glory , faction , pow'r and pride , ( Sure judge how empty all , who all had try'd ) Beneath his palms the weary Chief repos'd , And life's great scene in quiet Virtue clos'd . With shame that other fam'd retreat I see Adorn'd by Art , disgrac'd by Luxury St. Cloud . ; Where Orleans wasted ev'ry vacant hour In the wild riot of unbounded pow'r . Where feverish Debauch and impious Love Stain'd the mad table and the guilty grove . With these amusements is thy friend detain'd , Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land ; Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind From present joys to dearer left behind : O native isle , fair Freedom's happiest feat ! At thought of thee my bounding pulses beat ; At thought of thee my heart impatient burns , And all my country on my soul returns . When shall I see the fields , whose plenteous grain No pow'r can ravish from th' industrious swain ? When kiss with pious love the sacred earth , That gave a BURLEIGH , or a RUSSEL birth ? When , in the shade of laws , that long have stood , Prop'd by their care , or strengthen'd by their blood , Of fearless independence wisely vain , The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain ? Yet oh ! what doubt , what sad presaging voice Whispers within , and bids me not rejoice ; Bids me contemplate ev'ry state around , From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound ; Bids their lost rights , their ruin'd glories see ; And tells me , These , like England , once were Free .