 | Genuine Poems |  |
[Hail venerable Reliques! unto whom]
1.
Hail venerable Reliques! unto whomOld and new Idolatrous Rome
Might pay devotion
Free from superstition.
Your sacred Oracles found the Sibyl's fate,
Equally divine, alike unfortunate.
Injurious time did both disperse,
Like Pompey's Ruines, through an Universe.
Whose leaves (like these) scattered were,
The burthen of the swelling Air,
Though faln, yet like their Laurels flourishing and fair.
Those sacrific'd to Tarquin's Fame,
Deriv'd their splendour from their flame.
These from Charls his name
Illustrious became.
2.
Hail Mercury's and Apollo's Son!If not by Nature, sure by Adoption.
By whose joint gift thou dost inherit
Cicero's tongue, and Virgil's spirit.
In a sacred Vatican,
Or learned Tusculan,
Worthy of Mecœnas breast.
Justly the Muses stil'd, and Cæsar's Laureate,
Since in the State
Thy pen did the sword's business anticipate.
Thy quill the Roman Eagles did outfly,
And conquering taught the Rebell Scot fidelity;
The noblest triumph, and the happiest victory.
The Caledonian Satyre scarce thine withstood;
Unto thy Laurel stoop'd the glory of his wood,
From thee Montross had learn'd to write in wounds and blood.
3.
Thou Cæsar like, for sword and book renown'd,Both in the Muses camp, and Martial crown'd;
(As if thy sacred wreath was meant
Both wits and lightnings flashes to prevent,
Both for security and ornament)
Thy no less flourishing praise
Deserves Minerva's double bayes
Who sang so sweet in troublesom, and Halcyon days;
Trent's dying Swans we see o'rcome with thy Mantuan lays.
With which you sing your own, and Countreys death.
Of Newark's, and your own sad story,
The equal grief and glory.
4.
Hail cœlestial Urn!Whose ashes like the neighbouring stars do shine & burn
And liberally dispense
To the Poetick world wit's benevolence;
Whose greater Orb the less doth influence.
Hail Reverend Bard! whose name in British story
Shall raise new Monuments of glory,
Whereon thou sublim'd shalt sit
The Genius of wit.
The winged Pegasus mounts so high,
As if to the wind the Gennet ow'd his Progeny.
The lofty Pindar stops his flight,
Avd only gazeth at, not emulates thy height.
Whom at that distance plac'd we see,
There's no parallel for thy Degree,
But thine own Climax, or Hyperbole,
Which out soars Dedalus his pitch, without his destiny.
L. T.
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