LETTER from SMYRNA to his Sisters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733. Thomas Lisle Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.006 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. VI. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 167-172. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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LETTER from SMYRNA to his Sisters at CRUX-EASTON , 1733. By the Same . THE hero who to Smyrna bay From Easton , Hants , pursued his way , Who travers'd seas , and hills and vales , To fright his sisters with his tales , Sing heavenly muse ; for what befel Thou saw'st , and only thou can'st tell . Say first ( but one thing I premise , I'll not be chid for telling lies ; Besides , my grannum us'd to say I always had a knack that way , So , if the love of truth be in ye , Read Strabo , Diodorus , Pliny — But like some authors I could name , Wrapt in myself I lose my theme . ) Say first , those very rocks we spy'd , But left 'em on the starboard side , Where Juno urg'd the Trojan's fate . Shield us , ye Gods , from female hate ! Then how precarious was the doom Of Caesar's line , and mighty Rome , Snatch'd from the very jaws of ruin , And sav'd , poor Dido . Die , for thy undoing , What saw we on Sicilian ground ? ( A soil in ancient verse renown'd ) The self-same spot , or Virgil ly'd , On which the good Anchises dy'd ; The fields where Ceres' daughter sported , And where the pretty Cyclops courted . The nymph hard-hearted as the rocks , Refus'd the monster , scorn'd his flocks , And took a shepherd in his stead , With nought but love and worth to plead : An instance of a generous mind That does much honour to your kind , But in an age of fables grew , So possibly it may'nt be true . While on the summit Aetna glows , His shivering sides are chill'd with snows . Beneath , the painted landskip charms ; Here infant Spring in Winter's arms Wantons secure ; in youthful pride Stands Summer laughing by her side ; Ev'n Autumn's yellow robes appear , And one gay scene discloses all the year , Hence to rude Cerigo we came , Known once by Cytherea's name ; When Ocean first the goddess bore , She rose on this distinguish'd shore . Here first the happy Paris stopp'd , When Helen from her lord elop'd . With pleas'd reflection I survey'd Each secret grott , each conscious shade ; Envy'd his choice , approv'd his flame , And fondly wish'd my lot the same . O were the cause reviv'd again ! For charming Queensbury liv'd not then , The radiant fruit , had she been there , Would scarce have fallen to Venus' share ; Saturnia's self had wav'd her claim , And modest Pallas blush'd for shame ; All had been right : the Phrygian swain Had sigh'd for her , but sigh'd in vain ; The fair Oenone joy'd to find , The pains she felt repaid in kind ; No rape reveng'd , no room for strife , Atrides might have kept his wife , Old Troy in peace and plenty smil'd — But the Iliad . best poem had been spoil'd . How did my heart with joy run o'er , When to the fam'd Cecropian shore , Wafted by gentle breezes , we Came gliding thro' the smooth still sea ! While backward rov'd my busy thought On deeds in distant ages wrought ; On tyrants gloriously withstood ; On seas distain'd with Persian blood ; On trophies rais'd o'er hills of slain In Marathon's unrival'd plain . Then , as around I cast my eye , And view'd the pleasing prospect nigh , The land for arms and arts renown'd , Where wit was honour'd , poets crown'd ; Whose manners and whose rules refin'd Our souls , and civiliz'd mankind ; Or ( yet a loftier pitch to raise Our wonder , and compleat its praise ) The land that Socrates . Plato's master bore — How did my heart with joy run o'er ! Now coasting on the eastern side , We peep'd where Peneus rolls his tide : Where Arethusa came t' appease The shepherd that had lost his bees , And led him to Cyrene's grott ; 'Tis a long tale , and matters not . Dryden will tell you all that past ; See Virgil's Georgics , book the last . I speak on't , but to let you know This grott still stands in statu quo ; Of which if any doubts remain , I've proof , as follows , clear and plain . Here , sisters , we such honours met ! Such honour I shall ne'er forget . The Goddess ( no uncommon case ) Proud , I suppose , to shew her place , Or piqu'd perhaps at your renown , Sent Boreas to invite us down ; And he so press'd it , that we us'd Some pains to get ourselves excus'd . My brother shipmates , all in haste Declar'd , that shells were not their taste ; And I had At Crux-Easton . somewhere seen , you know , A finer grott than she could shew . Hence let the Muse to Delos roam , Or Nio , fam'd for Homer's tomb ; To Naxos , known in ancient time For Bacchus' love , for Theseus' crime . Can she the Lesbian vine forget Whence Horace reinforc'd his wit ? Where the fam'd harp Arion strung Nor play'd more sweet than Sapho sung ? Could the old bards revive again , How would they mourn th' inverted scene ! Scarce with the barren waste acquainted , They once so beautifully painted . And here , 'twixt friends , I needs must say , But let it go no farther , pray , These sung-up , cry'd up countries are Displeasing , rugged , black , and bare ; And all I've yet beheld or known Serve only to endear my own . The matters I shall next disclose , 'Tis likely may be wrapp'd in prose ; But verse methought would suit these better , Besides , it lengthens out my letter . Read then , dear girls , with kind regard , What comes so far , what comes so hard ; And to our mother too make known , How travelling has improv'd her son . Let not malicious critics join Pope's homespun rhimes in rank with mine , Form'd on that very spot of earth , Where Homer's self receiv'd his birth ; Add , as I said , t' enhance their worth , The pains they cost in bringing forth ; While his , as all mankind agrees , Tho' wrote with care , are wrote with ease .