 | Edwin |  |
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ON THE Tragedy of EDWIN. By an unknown Hand.
How happy were the Muses green Retreats,Where conqu'ring Monarchs fix'd their rural Seats!
Where after Toils of War they strung the Lyre
High as the warmest Fancy could inspire!
Then the Parnassian Laurel, far renown'd,
By turns Augustus and his Horace crown'd.
But now to Merit blind, and deaf to Praise,
Each Man his Fire in Bigot-Zeal conveys;
And he who Censures most, most Wit displays.
Who's eager now and zealous to Commend,
Warm from the Soul and faithful to his Friend?
And dare You rise in this degenerate Age,
Like Light to guide us, and assert the Stage?
For Madness some seem fond to be admir'd,
Big with Extravagance, with Phrensy fir'd:
To Thee the Muses more propitious smile,
Sunk in the Virtues of a softer Stile.
What heav'nly Transport all my Soul alarms?
Thy Verse like Adeliza sweetly charms,
And diff'rent Parties, like her Beauty, warms.
What tho' no Thunder in thy Numbers roll;
Yet copied there, the Image of thy Soul
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Nor wants a borrow'd Pomp to swell thy nervous Lines.
Who can unmov'd with Pity see Thee bring
Thro' gilded Scenes thy glitt'ring wretched King?
Here he shines out in all the Pomp of State,
There furious starts and raves for Elfrid's Fate.
Who weeps not when your Captive Prince appears,
Great tho' in Chains, and glorious tho' in Tears?
His Love how tender, and how chaste the Flame!
No Smoke of Lust deforms the virtuous Dame;
She shines unsully'd like thy spotless Fame.
O may no Envy thy Renown pursue,
Tho' that must prove thy num'rous Praises due.
But who, tho' dull to Merit, can refufe
Tributes of Praise to so divine a Muse?
Then let the wrangling Wretches do their worst,
With canker'd Spite and native Dulness curst;
Thy Verse its own Encomiums will suggest,
And he who reads it most, shall praise it best.
| Edwin | |