Miscellanies in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our great Forefathers in Poetic Song
Were rude in Diction, tho' their Sense was strong;
Well-measur'd Verse they knew not how to frame,
Their Words ungraceful, and the Cadence lame:
Too far they wildly rang'd to start the Prey,
And did too much of Fairy Land display;
And in their rugged Dissonance of Lines,
True manly Thought debas'd with Trifles shines.
'Tis not each Flow'r which wantons on the Mead,
That must appear within the curious Bed;
But Nature's chosen Birth shou'd flourish there,
And with their Beauties crown the rich Parterre.

Such was the Scene, when Dryden came to found
More perfect Lays, with Harmony of Sound:
What lively Colours glow on ev'ry Draught!
How bright his Images, how rais'd his Thought!

The Parts proportion'd to their proper Place,
With Strength supported, and adorn'd with Grace.

With what Perfection did his artful Hand
The various Kinds of Poësy command!
The ready Choir of Muses, at his Call,
To his rich Song, which was inspir'd by All,
Touch'd the sweet Cords of their enchanting Lyre,
And gave his Breast the Fulness of their Fire!

As while the Sun displays his Lordly Light,
The Host of Stars are humbly veil'd from Sight,
'Till when he falls, they kindle all on high,
And gaily sparkle in the nightly Sky;
His Fellow Bards suspended thus their Ray,
Drown'd in the strong Effulgence of his Day;
But glowing to their Rise, at his Decline,
Each cast his Beams, and each began to shine.

As Years advance, th'abated Soul in most
Sinks to low Ebb, in second Childhood lost;
And feeble Age, dishonouring our Kind,
Robs all the Treasures of the wasted Mind;
With hov'ring Clouds obscures the muffled Sight,
And dim Suffusion of enduring Night:
But the rich Fervour of his rising Rage
Prevail'd o'er all th'Infirmities of Age;
And, unimpair'd by Injuries of Time,
Enjoy'd the Bloom of a perpetual Prime:
His Fire not less, he more correctly writ,
With ripen'd Judgment and digested Wit,

When the luxuriant Ardour of his Youth
Succeeding Years had tam'd to better Growth,
And seem'd to break the Body's Crust away,
To give th'expanded Mind more Room to play;
Which, in its Evening, open'd on the Sight
Surprizing Beams of full Meridian Light,
As thrifty of its Splendor it had been,
And all its Lustre had reserv'd 'till then.

So the descending Sun, which hid his Ray
In Mists before, diminishing the Day,
Breaks radiant out upon the dazled Eye,
And in a Blaze of Glory leaves the Sky.

Revolving Time had injur'd Chaucer's Name,
And dimm'd the brilliant Lustre of his Fame;
Deform'd his Language, and his Wit depress'd,
His serious Sense oft sinking to a Jest;
Almost a Stranger ev'n to British Eyes,
We scarcely knew him in the rude Disguise:
But cloath'd by Thee, the burnish'd Bard appears
In all his Glory, and new Honours wears.
Thus Ennius was by Virgil chang'd of old;
He found him Rubbish, and he left him Gold.

Who but thyself cou'd Homer's Weight sustain,
And match the Voice of his Majestic Strain,
When Phœbus' Wrath the Sov'reign Poet sings,
And the big Passion of contending Kings’
No tender Pinions of a gentle Muse,
Who little Points in Epigram pursues,

And, with a short Excursion, meekly plays
Its flutt'ring Wings in mean enervate Lays,
Cou'd make a Flight like this; to reach the Skies,
An Eagle's Vigour can alone suffice.

In ev'ry Part the courtly Ovid's Style,
Thy various Versions beautifully foil.
Here smoothly turn'd, melodious Measures move,
And feed the Flame, and multiply the Love:
So sweet they flow, so touch the heaving Heart,
They teach the Doctor in his boasted Art.
But when the Theme demands a manly Tone,
Sublime he speaks in Accents not his own.
The bristly Boar, and the tremendous Rage
When the fell Centaurs in the Fight engage;
The cruel Storm where Ceyx lost his Life,
And the deep Sorrows of his widow'd Wife;
The cover'd Cavern, and the still Abode
Of empty Visions, and the sleepy God;
The Pow'rs of Nature in her wond'rous Reign,
Old Forms subverting, to produce again,
And mould the Mass anew; th'important Verse
Do's with such Dignity of Words rehearse,
That Virgil, proud of unexampled Fame,
Looks with Concern, and fears a Rival Name.

What vaunting Grecians, of their Knowledge vain,
In lying Legends insolently feign

Of Magic Verses, whose persuasive Charm
Appeas'd the Soul with glowing Passion warm,
Then discompos'd the Calm, and chang'd the Scene,
And with the Height of Madness vex'd agen;
Thou hast accomplish'd in thy wond'rous Song,
With utmost Energy of Numbers strong.
A Flow of Rage comes hurrying on amain,
And now the refluent Tide ebbs out again;
A quiet Pause succeeds; when unconfin'd
It rushes back, and swells upon the Mind.
Th'inimitable Lay, thro' all the Maze
Of Harmony's sweet Labyrinth, displays
The Pow'r of Musick, and Cecilia's Praise.

At first it lifts the flatter'd Monarch high,
With boasted Lineage, to his kindred Sky;
Then to the Pleasures of the flowing Bowl
And mellow Mirth, unbends his easy Soul;
And humbles now, and saddens all the Feast,
With Sense of Human Miseries express'd;
Relenting Pity in each Face appears,
And heavy Sorrow ripens into Tears.
Grief is forbid; and see in ev'ry Eye
The Gaiety of Love, and wanton Joy,
Soft Smiles and Airs, which tenderly inspire
Delightful Hope, and languishing Desire.
But lo! the pealing Verse provokes around
The Frown of Rage, and kindles with the Sound;

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Behold the low'ring Storm at once arise,
And ardent Vengeance sparkling in their Eyes;
Fury boils high, and Zeal of fell Debate,
Demanding Ruin, and denouncing Fate.

Ye British Beauties, in whose finish'd Face
Smile the gay Honours of each bloomy Grace;
Whose Forms, inimitably fair, invite
The sighing Heart, and chear the ravish'd Sight,
Say, what sweet Transports and complacent Joy
Rise in your Bosoms, and your Soul employ,
When Royal Emily the tuneful Bard
Paints in his Song, and makes the rich Reward
Of Knightly Arms in costly Lists array'd,
The World at once contending for the Maid.
How nobly great do's Sigismonda shine,
With constant Faith, and Courage Masculine!
No Menaces cou'd bend her Mind to fear,
But for her Love she dies without a Tear.
There Iphigenia, with her radiant Eyes,
As the bright Sun illuminates the Skies,
In clouded Cymon chearful Day began,
Awak'd the sleeping Soul, and charm'd him into Man.
The pleasing Legends, to your Honour, prove
The Pow'r of Beauty, and the Force of Love.

Who after him can equally rehearse
Such various Subjects in such various Verse?
And with the Raptures of his Strain controul
At Will each Passion, and command the Soul?

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Not Orpheus self, whose animating Lyre
Did Beasts and Rocks and rooted Woods inspire,
More sweetly sung, nor with superior Art
Sooth'd the sad Shades, and soften'd Pluto's Heart.
All own'd at Distance his distinguish'd Name,
Nor vainly vy'd to share his awful Fame;
Unrivall'd living he enlarg'd his Praise,
And dying left without an Heir his Bays.
So Philip's Son, his universal Reign,
Extended amply over Earth and Main,
Thro' conquer'd Climes with ready Triumph rode,
And rul'd the Nations with his pow'rful Nod;
But when Fate call'd the mighty Chief away,
None cou'd succeed to his Imperial Sway,
And his wide Empire languish'd to Decay.

Ego sum Præceptor Amoris. Art. Am. lib. 1.

His Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, entitled Alexander's Feast, or the [illeg.]wer of Musick.