University of Virginia Library

1.

Hail God of Verse! pardon that thus I take in vain
Thy sacred, everlasting Name,
And in unhallow'd Lines blaspheme:
Pardon that with strange Fire thy Altars I profane.
Hail thou! to whom we mortal Bards our Faith submit,
Whom we acknowledg our sole Text, and holy Writ:
None other Judg infallible we own,
But Thee, who art the Canon of authentick Wit alone.
Thou art the unexhausted Ocean, whence
Sprung first, and still do flow th' eternal Rills of sense:
To none but Thee our Art Divine we owe,
From whom it had its Rise, and full Perfection too.
Thou art the mighty Bank, that ever do'st supply
Throughout the world the whole Poetick Company:
With thy vast stock alone they traffick for a name,
And send their glorious Ventures out to all the Coasts of Fame,

2.

How trulier blind was dull Antiquity,
Who fasten'd that unjust Reproach on Thee?
Who can the sensless Tale believe?
Who can to the false Legend credit give?
Or think thou wantedst sight, by whom all others see?
What Land, or Region, how remote soe're,
Does not so well describ'd in thy great Draughts appear,
That each thy native Country seems to be,
And each t'have been survey'd, and measur'd out By thee?
Whatever Earth does in her pregnant Bowels bear,
Or on her fruitful Surface wear;
What e're the spacious Fields of Air contain,
Or far extended Territories of the Main;
Is by thy skilful Pencil so exactly shown,
We scarce discern where thou, or Nature best has drawn,
Nor is thy quick all-piercing Eye
Or check'd, or bounded here:
But farther does surpass, and farther does descry:
Beyond the Travels of the Sun, and Year.
Beyond this glorious Scene of starry Tapestry,
Where the vast Purliews of the Sky,
And boundless waste of Nature lies,
Thy Voyages thou mak'st, and bold Discoveries.
What there the Gods in Parliament debate,
What Votes, or Acts i'th' Heav'nly Houses pass,
By Thee so well communicated was;
As if thou'dst been of that Cabal of State,
As if Thou hadst been sworn the Privy-Counsellor of Fate.

3.

What Chief, who does thy Warrior's great Exploits survey,
Will not aspire to Deeds as great as they?
What generous Readers would he not inspire
With the same gallant Heat, the same ambitious Fire?
Methinks from Ida's top with noble Joy I view
The warlike Squadrons by his daring Conduct led,
I see th' immortal Host engaging on his side,
And him the blushing Gods out-do.
Where e're he does his dreadful Standards bear,
Horror stalks in the Van, and Slaughter in the Rere.
Whole Swarths of Enemies his Sword does mow,
And Limbs of mangled Chiefs his passage strow,
And flouds of reeking Gore the Field o'reflow:
While Heavn's dread Monarch from his Throne of State,
With high concern upon the Fight looks down,
And wrinkles his Majestick Brow into a Frown,
To see bold Man, like him, distribute Fate.

4.

While the great Macedonian Youth in Non-age grew,
Not yet by Charter of his years set free
From Guardians, and their slavish tyranny,
No Tutor, but the Budg Philosophers he knew:
And well enough the grave, and useful Tools
Might serve to read him Lectures, and to please
With unintelligible Jargon of the Schools,
And airy Terms and Notions of the Colleges:
They might the Art of Prating, and of Brawling teach,
And some insipid Homilies of Vertue preach:
But when the mighty Pupil had outgrown
Their musty Discipline, when manlier Thoughts possess'd
His generous Princely Breast,
Now ripe for Empire, and a Crown,
And fill'd with lust of Honour, and Renown;
He then learnt to contemn
The despicable things, the men of Flegm:
Strait he to the dull Pedants gave release,
And a more noble Master strait took place:
Thou, who the Grecian Warriour so could'st praise,
As might in him just envy raise,
Who (one would think) had been himself too high
To envy any thing of all Mortality,
'Twas thou that taught'st him Lessons loftier far,
The Art of Reigning, and the Art of War:
And wondrous was the Progress, which he made,
While he the Acts of thy great Pattern read:
The World too narrow for his boundless Conquests grew,
He Conquer'd one, and wish'd, and wept for new:
From thence he did those Miracles produce,
And Fought, and Vanquish'd by the Conduct of a Muse.

5.

No wonder rival Nations quarrell'd for thy Birth,
A Prize of greater and of higher worth
Than that which led whole Greece, and Asia forth,
Than that, for which thy mighty Hero fought,
And Troy with ten years War, and its Destruction bought.
Well did they think it noble to have bore that Name,
Which the whole world would with ambition claim:
Well did they Temples raise
To Thee, at whom Nature her self stood in amaze,
A work, she never tried to mend, nor cou'd,
In which mistaking Man, by chance she form'd a God.
How gladly would our willing Isle resign
Her fabulous Arthur, and her boasted Constantine,
And half her Worthies of the Norman Line,
And quit the honour of their Births to be ensur'd to Thine?
How justly might it the wise choice approve.
Prouder in this than Crete to have brought forth Almighty Jove?

6.

Unhappy we, thy British Off-spring here,
Who strive by thy great Model Monuments to rear:
In vain for worthless Fame we toil,
That's pent in the strait limits of a narrow Isle:
In vain our Force, and Art we spend
With noble labours to enrich our Land,
Which none beyond our Shores vouchsafe to understand.
Be the fair structure ne'r so well design'd,
The parts with ne'r so much proportion joyn'd;
Yet foreign Bards (such is their Pride, or Prejudice)
All the choice Wormanship for the Materials sake despise.
But happier thou thy Genius didst dispence
In Language universal as thy sense:
All the rich Bullion, which thy Soveraign Stamp does wear
On every Coast of Wit does equal value bear,
Allow'd by all, and currant every where.
No Nation yet has been so barbarous found,
Where thy transcendent Worth was not renown'd.
Throughout the World thou art with Wonder read,
Where ever Learning does its Commerce spread,
Where ever Fame with all her Tongues can speak,
Where ever the bright God of Wit does his vast Journies take,

7.

Happy above Mankind that envied Name,
Which Fate ordain'd to be thy glorious Theme:
What greater Gift could bounteous Heaven bestow
On its chief Favourite below?
What nobler Trophy could his high Deserts befit,
Than these thy vast erected Pyramids of Wit?
Not Statutes cast in solid Brass,
Nor those, which Art in breathing Marble does express,
Can boast an equal Life, or lastingness
With their well-polish'd Images, which claim
A Nich in thy Majestick Monuments of Fame.
Here their embalm'd incorruptible memories
Can proudest Louvres, and Escurials despise,
And all the needless helps of Ægypts costly Vanities.
No Blasts of Heaven, or Ruine of the Spheres,
Not all the washing Tides of rolling years,
Nor the whole Race of batt'ring time shall e're wear out
The great Inscriptions, which thy Hand has wrought,
Here thou, and they shall live, and bear an endless date,
Firm, as enroll'd in the eternal Register of Fate.
For ever curst be that mad Emperour,
(And curs'd enough he is be sure)
May future Poets on his hated Name
Shed all their Gall, and foulest Infamy,
And may it here stand branded with eternal shame,
Who thought thy Works could mortal be,
And sought the glorious Fabrick to destroy:
In this (could Fate permit it to be done)
His damned Successor he had out-gone,
Who Rome and all its Palaces in Ashes laid,
And the great Ruins with a savage Joy survey'd:
He burnt but what might be re-built and richer made.
But had the impious Wish succeeded here,
'T had raiz'd what Age, nor Art could e're repair.
Not that vast universal Flame,
Which at the final Doom
This beauteous Work of Nature must consume,
And Heav'n and all its Glories in one Urn entomb,
Will burn a nobler, or more lasting Frame:
As firm, and strong as that it shall endure,
Through all the Injuries of Time secure,
Nor die, till the whole world its Funeral Pile become.