ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
John Durant Breval
, "To Mr. D. B. [Durant Breval?]" Tales, Epistles, Odes, Fables (1729) 50-53.
John Durant Breval:
1728: Thomas Cooke
1729: Thomas Cooke
1742: Alexander Pope
1824: Robert Watt
1725: Rev. John Dart
1725: John Dennis
1725: Aaron Hill
1725: Ambrose Philips
1725: Rev. Christopher Pitt
1725: Dr. George Sewell
1725: Thomas Tickell
1725: Rev. Joseph Trapp
1725: Leonard Welsted
1726: Leonard Welsted
1728: John Durant Breval
1728: Alexander Pope
1729: Sir Richard Blackmore
1729: John Durant Breval
1729: John Dennis
1729: John Gay
1729: Ambrose Philips
1729: Alexander Pope
1729: Richard Savage
1729: Rev. Jonathan Swift
1729: Lewis Theobald
1729: Thomas Tickell
1729: Leonard Welsted
1730: Rev. Laurence Eusden
1730: Henry Fielding
1730: James Ralph
1734: John Dennis
1749: Matthew Concanen
1750 ca.: Samuel Johnson
Would Heav'n propitious to my Vows attend,
You ask what Course of Life would please your Friend.
Bless'd with a plentous Fortune would I live,
Indulging of my Heart the will to give.
Place Me, O! place Me soon, ye guardian Powrs,
Amid the Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bowrs,
Healthful my Body, and my Mind serene,
A willing Pris'ner to the rural Scene;
From servile Flatt'ry, from Detraction far,
And party Rage, that dire domestic War!
Where no unhallow'd Bard grows madly proud
Of the false Praises of a tasteless Croud.
Free from the Eye of Malice let Me rove
Thoughtful from Wild to Wild, from Grove to Grove.
Now on the mossy Bank, beneath the Shade,
For Hours of Love, or Meditation, made,
To the soft Passion I my Heart resign,
And make the long obdurate Maiden mine:
Hence ye prophane, be gone, far hence remove,
Nor listen, Cens'rers, to the Voice of Love!
Arise, my Fair, all cheerful as the Morn,
And let the myrtle Wreath thy Brows adorn!
Now in my Breast I feel poetic Fires,
And chant mellifluous what the God inspires.
Or into Nature for her Secrets pry,
And trace her Workings with a curious Eye.
To mend my Virtues, and exalt my Thought,
What the bright Sons of Greece and Rome have wrote
I canvass o'er; elate with Joy I see,
Albion, their Equals all arise in Thee.
But as at once the fertile Country breeds
The golden Harvest, and the rankest Weeds,
Among the British Sons of Verse we find
In Pope a Bavius and a Labeo join'd.
But hold; I think I hear my Friend complain,
And tell Me Satire but pollutes the Strain.
Once more attend, the Caution I obey;
To the sweet Solitude returns the Lay.
To crown the Blessings, now in Thought possess'd,
There with a Friend like Thee I would be bless'd,
What Converse can, to give Relief inclin'd,
When the dull Blood works Sadness to the Mind.
O! what is Life, or what of Wealth the Powr,
Without the Comforts of the social Hour!
If, while in this delightful Calm I'm lay'd,
The groaning Nation should demand my Aid,
Should the fierce Kingdoms rouse to War again,
And Justice call Me to th' embattel'd Plain,
Farewel ye craggy Mountains, fragrant Flowrs,
Ye painted Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bowrs;
Far hence I go to horrid Scenes of Blood,
Where not Ambition calls but public Good;
Whence if my Stars a kind Return deny,
Without Reluctance in the Field I dy:
But should the wise Disposer, to compleat
My Wish, refix Me in the bless'd Retreat,
There with my Friend I would resign my Breath,
And close my Eyes, without a Fear, in Death.