University of Virginia Library

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To his Friend, on the following POEM.

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To my Friend on his Characters of the English POETS.

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Poetæ Britannici.

A POEM.

Fine was the matter of that curious Frame
Which lodg'd his Fiery Guest, and like the same.
Nor was a less resemblance in his Sense:
His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.

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When e're he spoke, from his Seraphick Tongue
Ten thousand comely Graces, ever young
With new Calliope's and Clio's sprung.
No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poets mind;
Majestick was his Style, and unconfin'd.
Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain
Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from his fruitful Brain.

The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,
Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse.
Here Deborah in fiery Rapture sings
The rout of Armies, and the fall of Kings.

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Thy Torrent Kison shall for ever flow,
Which trampl'd o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe,
With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,
With sounding Numbers, and united lays
The Seed of Judah to the Battle flew,
And Orders of destroying Angels drew
To their Victorious side; who marching round
Their Foes touch'd Myriad's at the Signal sound,
By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound.
So strong is Verse Divine, when we proclaim
Thy Power, eternal. Light, and sing thy Name!
Nor does it here alone its Magick show,
But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.
So pow'rful is the Muse! when David plaid
The Frantick Dæmon heard him, and obey'd.
No noise, no hiss: the Dumb Apostate lay
Sunk in soft Silence, and dissolv'd away:

But Greece was honour'd with a greater Name,
Homer is Greece's Glory and her Shame.
How could Learned Athens with Contempt refuse
Th' Immortal Labours of so vast a Muse?
Thee, Colophon, his Angry Ghost upbraids,
While his loud numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.
Ungrateful Cities! which could vainly strive
For the dead Homer, whom they scorn'd alive.
So strangely wretched is the Poet's doom,
To wither here and flourish in the Tomb.
His Fame, when living, does but slowly rise,
But stretches like his Body, when he dies.
Though Virgil rising under happier Stars,
Saw Rome succeed in Learning, as in Wars.
When Pollio like a smiling Planet shone,
And Cæsar darted on him like the Sun.

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The fam'd Mæcenas listen'd with desire,
When Tuneful Flaceus touch'd the Roman Lyre.
But when, Mæcenas, will thy Star appear
In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere?
Say, art thou come, and to deceive our Eyes,
Dissemble under D---set's fair disguise?
If so; go on, Great S*ckv*le, to regard
The Poet, and th' imploring Muse reward.
So to thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,
Nor shall the Poet fix Thee in the Skies.
For if a Verse Eternity can claim
Thy own are able to preserve thy Name;
This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain
Octavius hover'd long and sought to Reign.
This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,
Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.
Let Him his Title to such Glory bring,
You give as freely; and more nobly sing.
Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.
Horace and He, are in thy Nature join'd,
The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.
O Light of England, and her highest Grace,
Thou best and greatest of thy ancient Race!
Descend, when I invoke thy Name to shine,
(For 'tis thy praise) on each unworthy Line.
While to the World unprejudic'd, I tell
Our English Poets, and who most excel.
Thee with the foremost thro' the Globe I send
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.

But 'twould be vain and tedious to rehearse,
The meaner Crowd undignify'd for Verse.
On barren Ground who drag th' unwilling Plow,
And feel the sweat of Brain as well as Brow.
Yet since in Verse they covet to be known,
Nor feel the biting Satyr in their own:
Since in the Front th' Intruders will appear
And leave the noblest Poets in the rere.
With common Souldiers, let their Names be curst,
Plac'd foremost, only to be slain the first.

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To save the Valiant from too quick a Fate,
Whose Silken Threads are spun for longer Date.
Whose Names in Brass, or Iron plough'd, shall brave
Oblivion, and th' inexorable Grave.
While that vile Crew, which soon as read, displease,
May slumber in Forgetfulness and Ease,
Till fresher dullness wakes their sleeping Memories.

Nor can we Ry***r's Memory forget,
VVho only wants good Nature and good VVit.
A more than Scythian Heart, that could presume
To bite the Dead, and vex the peaceful Tomb.

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Who talk'd to Shakespear in Heroick Tone
Where lay a Genius; and produc'd his own.
As Edgar with Othello could be read,
And Tom Tram's Story vy'd with Holingshead.
But how could W*st**y in Heroick Dream,
When N*****by stood by, and Christ's his Theme?
That Patron might encourage him to sing,
But sure the Saviour clip'd his daring Wing.
Expound his Doctrine, not his Life Expose,
Desist from Epick, and exhort in Prose.
Next M*****n suffers under Fortunes Curse,
Unhappy in his Judgment, and his Verse:
Art will no Succour to the Critick bring,
And Nature thwarts him, when he aims to sing.
Cautiously resolute the Heat to shun,
He clap'd his Waxen Wings, and dar'd the Sun
Like Icarus; but fell not from the Skies;
For he was prudent, and refus'd to rise.

Go, ply Aquinas, and his Words maintain,
There in Divisions and Distinctions Reign.
Or if in Nobler Sense you would succeed,
Herculean St****fleet, and S***ck read.
Unwearied B****y's Sense and Learning use
To wound the Atheist, and the Deist bruise.
Things should be suited to their proper Tribe,
Leave S---er to plead, and R---ffe to prescribe.
Let Arthur's Critick on our Virgil sit,
And Covent-Garden be the Judge of Wit.
But, if you find a Thirst of being known
A Critick, in no Language but your own:
Then let the Poets a new C---l---er feel,
Correct with Knowledge, and Reprove with Zeal.
Say now, whom next wilt thou, Aonian Muse
Place in this Throng? place boldly next M---x.
Delighting to be heard, as well as read,
He hums, and languishes with Hands and Head.
Ne'er destitute of Friends, (tho' all be gone)
Like Scipio, the best Company alone.
But then, like Sullen Timon, he's betray'd
To that dull Sollitude himself has made.

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His soaring Muse might sometimes reach the Skies,
Did she not prate, and flutter as she flies.
And who can with his Poetry dispence,
Who joins French Vanity with English Sense?

Shall we now tell, how Beaus and Ladies write,
Beaus for Instruction, Ladies for Delight?
Who daily flock at Will's to be inspir'd,
Who at the Rose with generous Wine are fir'd?
Where the poor Muse pays Reck'nings with a Line,
And Barters her Divinity for Wine.
How Holy G---n in mistaken Youth,
VVas led by T---on the way to Truth.
How he a Christian, and a VVit became,
How Blount, and Phaeton at once Proclaim
His Muse, and his Religion, are the same?
How some, like D---fy, with much ease Indite,
VVhile others with much pain, like S*t*le, VVrite,
VVho, when they've Murder'd so much costly Time,
Beat the vext Anvil with continual Chime,
And labour'd hard to Hammer Statutable Rhyme.
Create a

Howard's B. P.

British Prince, as hard a Task,
As might a Cowley, or a Milton ask
To build a Poem of the vastest price,
A Davideis, or a lost Paradise.
So, tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien,
May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
The Dowdie's Off-spring of the freckl'd strain,
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain,
Such to the Rabble shall appear inspir'd,
By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.
Such we except, with those who make pretence,
Studious of Fame, but negligent of Sense.
VVe pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky.
VVho arm'd with Gabble to create a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame.
Not so the Seat of Phœbus rose, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long decay.
To Britany the Temple was convey'd
By Nature's utmost force, and more than Human Aid.

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Built from its Basis by a Noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd Piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.
For joyn'd with Art, she labour'd long to raise
An English Poet meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! for Authors first were known
For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn'd their own.
As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Ore.
Involving Darkness did our Language shroud,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.
Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day.
A Joking Bard, whose Antiquated Muse,
In mouldy Words could solid Sense produce.
Our English Ennius He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskill'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dung-hill shines,
And Golden Fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which Spencer gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful Gleanings made his own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summers Day,
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the Sweets away.
Of Gloriana, and her Knights he sung,
Of Beasts, which from his pregnant Fancy sprung.
O had thy Poet, Britany, rely'd
On Native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd,
Had not wild Fairies blasted his design,
Mæonides and Virgil had been Thine!
Their finish'd Poems he exactly view'd,
But Chaucer's Steps Religiously pursu'd.
He cull'd and pick'd, and thought it greater praise,
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase.
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So Sacred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coin must sure for currant Sterling pass,
Stamp'd with old Chaucer's Venerable Face.
But Johnson found it of a gross Allay,
Melted it down, and flung the Scum away.

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He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coin.
We all rejoic'd to see the pillag'd Ore;
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of Terence, in thy glorious way:
Or Catiline plots better in thy Play.
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,
And doubt which merits most, Rome's Cicero, or Thine.
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.
So Macedon's Imperial Heroe threw
His Wings abroad, and Conquer'd as he flew.
Great Johnson's Deeds stand Parallel with His,
Are Noble Thefts, successful Piracies.

Ev'n Shakespear sweated in his narrow Isle,
And Subject Italy obey'd his Style.
Boccace and Cynthio must a Tribute pay
T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.
Tho' Art ne'er taught him how to write by Rules,
Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools:
Yet He with Plautus could instruct and please,
And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.

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By Native Strength so Theseus bent the Pine,
Which cost the Robber many years Design.

With what delight he tunes his Silver strings,
And David's toils; in David's numbers sings.
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves
Her Rural Pleasures, and his Various Loves.
Yet every Line's so innocent and clear,
Hermits may read them to a Virgin's Ear.
The radiant Godhead in the Bush he found:
Fearless he saw, and trod the hallow'd Ground.
Then her soft Lute Converted Clio strung,
While modestly the mingled Graces sung.
Unstol'n Promethean Fire informs his Song;
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.
His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh supply,
Is always flowing out, but never dry.
Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
And lavish'd Wit was ne'er allow'd a Fault.
A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,
Should hurry forward like the VVind or Sea,

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VVhich laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a vain
Presuming Xerxes shall pretend to Reign,
And on the fliting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.

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O Soul Seraphick, teach us how we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy worth display:
For who can Merit more? or who enough can pay?
Earth was unworthy thy aspiring view,
Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for you.
Thence nothing mean obtrudes on thy design,
Thy Style is equal to thy Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose
Their opening Beauties could to Thee disclose:
Tho' Nature's curious Characters which we
Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.

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Yet Heav'n stood Witness to thy piercing Sight;
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light.
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor could he stay
In lower Night, and such a want of Day:
But wing'd aloft, from sordid Earth retires
To higher Glory, and his kindred Fires;
Like an unhooded Hawk, who loose to prey,
With open Eyes pursues the Ætherial way.
There, happy Soul, assume thy destin'd place,
And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious race:
That Sphere, which Lucifer did once Disgrace.
Or, if amongst the Laurell'd Heads there be,
A Mansion in the Sky reserv'd for Thee;
There, Ruler of thy Orb, aloft appear,
And rowl with Homer in the brightest Sphere.
To whom Calliope has joyn'd thy Name,
And recompenc'd thy Fortunes with his Fame:
Tho' she (forgive our freedom!) some times flows;
In Lines too rugged, and a-kin to Prose.
When Scope is granted to your Speech and Thought,
Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote.
Like some fair Planet thy Majestick Song,
Should move with ease and Sparkle as it rowl'd along.
Like Waller's Muse, who, though inchain'd by Rhyme,
Taught Wondring Poets to keep even Chime.
Harmonious Waller's praise inflames my Breast,
Waller, more sweet and Courtly than the rest
Of Poets, no unmanly Turns pursues,
Rash Errors of an injudicious Muse.
Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks gay;
Just gilds the place, and vanishes away.
In one continued blaze he upwards sprung,
Like those Seraphick Flames of which he Sung.
If, Cromwell, he laments thy mighty Fall,
Nature attending Weeps at the great Funeral.
Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings,
The Monarch to his ancient Throne; or Sings
Batavians worsted on the Conquer'd Main,
Fleets flying, and Advent'rous Opdam Slain;

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Then Rome and Athens to his Song repair,
With Brittish Graces Smiling on his care,
Divinely Charming in a Dress so fair.
As Squadrons in well Marshal'd Order fill,
The Flandrian Plains, and speak no vulgar Skill:
So rank'd is every line, each Sentence such,
No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.
As Pearls in Gold with their own lustre shine,
The Substance precious, and the Work Divine.
So did his Words his beauteous Thoughts enchase,
Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,
A mighty value in a little space.
So the Venusian Clio sung of Old,
When lofty acts in well-chose Phrase she told.
But Rome's aspiring Lyrick mov'd us less,
Sung not so moving, tho' with more success.
O Sacharissa, what could steel thy breast,
To rob the charming Waller of his rest?
To send him murm'ring through the Cypress Grove,
In strains lamenting his Neglected Love.
The attentive Forest did his Grief partake,
And Sympathizing Okes their knotted Branches shake.
Each Nymph, tho' coy, to pity would incline,
And every stubborn Heart was mov'd but Thine.
Hence forth be thou to future Ages known,
Like Niobe, a Monument of Stone.

Here could I dwell, like Bees on flowry Dew,
And Waller's praise eternally pursue,
Could I like Him, in Harmony excell,
So sweetly tune the Lute, and sing so well.
But now my hasty Muse converts her Eye,
To see where Denham and Roscommon fly,
Cautiously daring and correctly high.
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,
Of ancient Spirit, and of ancient race.
Who, when withdrawn from business and affairs,
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting cares,
With thoughts of Verse deceiv'd the sliding time,
And unrewarded sung in Noble Rhyme.

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Not like those venal Bards, who write for Pence,
Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense:
The Critick judges while the Muse indites,
And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden Writes.
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest size,
But like the Stoick's of prodigious price.
Roscommon's Rules shall o'er our Isle be read,
Nor dye, till Poetry it self be Dead.
Fam'd Cooper's Hill, shall like Parnassus stand,
And Denham Reign the Phœbus of the Land.
As long as Silver Thames shall flow, and joyn,
His blended Waters with the foamy Brine:
While his pure stream is so divinely Sung,
Be Thou, Great Poet, Father of our Tongue.

Among these sacred and immortal Names,
A Youth glares out, and his just honour Claims.
See, Circling Fires, instead of Laurel, play
Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd way.
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,
Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.
In her moist Grave the fainting Day's opprest,
And Oldham lies extinguish'd in his West.
Here, pious Muse, lament a while, 'tis just
We pay some Tribute to his Sacred Dust.
O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose
And Lily, for his Youth resembled those.
The brooding Sun took care to dress him gay,
In all the Trappings of the flowry May.
He set him out unsufferably bright,
And sow'd in every part his Beamy Light.
Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,
For what the Morning warm'd, was scorch'd at Noon.
Did not the Laws of Fate so hard appear.
To thriving Youth unseas'nbaely severe,
What prodigies, what wonders had we seen,
In his late Autumn, when a Muse so green
Could Homer praise, and Johnson's happy toil,
VVhile Horace ripen'd in the British soil?
His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,
Like Satyrs, rough; but not deform'd as they.

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His Sense undrest, like Adam, free from blame,
VVithout his Cloathing, and without his shame.
True VVit requires no Ornaments of Skill,
A Beauty Naked, is a Beauty still.
Heated with rage, he lash'd the Romish Crimes,
In rugged Satyr, and ill-sounding Rhymes.
All Italy fear'd his imbitter'd Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp Lucilius stung.

Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse,
Th' extravagance of his unhallow'd Muse.
In Jordan's Stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,
And rose more beauteous than she was before.
Then Fancy curb'd, began to lose her Rage,
And Spark's of Judgment glimmer'd in his page.
VVhen the wild Fury did his breast inspire,
She rav'd, and set the Little VVorld on Fire.
Thus L***gh by Reason strove not to controul,
The Powerful heat, which o'er-inform'd his Soul.
He took his Swinge, and Nature's bounds surpast,
Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.
VVe scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a blaze a Lambent Flame?
Terror and Pity are allow'd to be,
The moving parts of Tragick Poetry.
If Pity sooths us, Otway claims our praise;
If Terror strikes, then L***gh deserves the Bays.
VVe grant a Genius shines in Jaffeir's part,
And Roman Brutus speaks a Master's Art.
But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase,
An Earthly Vapour, or a Mounting blaze.
A rising Meteor never was design'd,
T'amaze the sober part of Human kind.
Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse,
A prostitute and mercenary Muse.
VVhich for poor gains, must in rich Trappings go,
Emptily gay, magnificently low,
Like ancient Rome's Religion, Sacrifice and show.
Things fashion'd for Amusement and surprize,
Ne're move the Head, though they divert the Eyes.

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The mouthing Actor's well-dissembled Rage,
May strike the young Sir Foplings, on the Stage:
But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find,
Like Spencer's Gyant, sunk away in Wind.
It grates judicious Readers, when they meet,
Nothing but jingling Verse, and even feet:
Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,
Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.
L**gh aim'd to rise above great Dr***n's height,
But lofty Dr***n kept a steddy flight.
Like Dædalus, he times with prudent care
His well-wax'd Wings, and waves in Middle-Air.
Crown'd with the sacred Snow of reverend Years,
Dr***n above th' ignobler Crowd appears.
Raises his laurell'd Head, and, as he goes
O'er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows.
The native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name,
By industry he kindled to a flame.
Then to a different Coast his Judgment flew,
He left th' Old World behind, and found a New.
On the strong Columns of his lasting Wit,
Instructive Dr***n built, and peopled it.
In every Page Delight, and Profit shines;
Immortal Sense flows in his mighty Lines.
His Images so strong and lively be,
I hear not Words alone, but Substance see.
The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue
To such perfection from his Numbers sprung.
His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine,
All of a piece throughout, and all Divine.
Adapted Words and sweet Expressions move
Our various passions, Pity, Rage and Love.
I weep to hear fond Anthony complain
In Sh***r's fancy, but in Virgil's strain.
Tho for the Comick, others we prefer,
Himself the Judge: nor does his Judgment err.
But Comedy, 'tis thought, can never claim
The sounding Title of a Poem's name.
For Railery, and what creates a smile,
Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.

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That heav'nly heat refuses to be seen
In a Town-Character, and Comick Mein.
If we would do him right, we must produce
The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse
With her loud Accents fill'd the Listning Ear,
And Peals applauding shook the Theatre.

Long he possest th' Hereditary Plains,
Belov'd by all the Hersdmen, and the Swains,

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Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with fears,
And olden'd in his woe, as well as fears.
Yet still, like Ætna's Mount, he kept his Fire,
And look'd, like beauteous Roses on a Brier:
He smil'd, like Phœbus in a stormy Morn,
And sung, like Philomel against a Thorn.

A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil's flame,
And next in height, would be the next in name.
With Jofty Maro he at first may please:
The Generous Britain rises by degrees;
But once on Wing, through secret paths he rows,
And losing Virgil's sight, in a main Ocean flows.
Then seeks his Pilot through the boundless Sky,
And sometimes soars too eager and too high.
The Mantuan Bird keeps a soft gentle flight,
Is always lofty, and still plays in sight.
Calm and serene his Verse: his active Song
Runs smooth as Thames's River, and as strong.
Like his own Neptune, he commands the Waves;
Like Æolus, high Bl***re sometimes raves.
We grant he labours with no want of Brains,
Or Fire, or Spirit; but he spares the pains.
One happy Thought, or two, may at a heat
Be struck; but Time and Study must compleat
A Verse, sublimely good, and justly great.
It call'd for an Omnipotence, to raise
The World's imperial Poem in Six Days.
But Man, that off-spring of corrupting Clay,
Subject to err, and subject to decay,
In hopes, desires, will, power, (a numerous Train)
Uncertain, fickle, impotent and vain,
Must tire the Heavenly Muse, with endless Prayer,
And call the smiling Angels to his care:
Must sleepless Nights, Vulcanian Labours prove;
Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for a Jove.

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With flame begin thy glorious Thoughts and Style,
Then cool, and bring them to the smoothing File,
If you design to make your Prince appear
As perfect, as Humanity can bear;
Whom Vertues at th' expence of danger please,
Deaf to the Syrens of alluring ease.
No Terrours Thee, Achilles, could invade,
Nor Thee, Ulysses, any charms persuade.
This must be done, if Poets would be read,
Who seek to æmulate the Sacred Dead.

This Congreve follows in his deathless Line,
And the tenth hand is put to the Design.
The happy boldness in his finish'd toil,
Smells more than Sh***r's Wit, or J***n's Oil.
Sing, sing, harmonious Swan, in weeping Strains,
And tell Pastora's Death to mournful Swains:
Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs,
Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.
To Noble D***t bear thy Lyrick Song,
D***t, round whom the crouding Muses throng.
Or let thy Satyr grin with half a smile,
And jeer in easie Eth***ge's style.
Let manly W***ly chalk out the way,
While Art directs where Nature goes astray.
'Tis not for Thee to write of conquering Kings,
The noise of Arms will break thy Peaceful Strings.
The Teian Muse invites Thee from above,
To lay thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.
Let M***gue describe Boyne's swelling Flood,
And purple Fields fatned with hostile Blood.
O Heav'nly Patron of the needy Muse,
Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.
When you Nassaw's bright Actions dar'd to see,
You were the Eagle, and Apollo He.
But when he read Thee, and Thy Value knew,
He was the Eagle, and Apollo You.
Both spoke the Bird in her æthereal height,
The Majesty was His, and Thine the Flight.
Both did Apollo in his Glory show:
The Silver Harp was Thine, and His the Bow.

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So may Pierian Clio cease to fear,
When Honour deigns to Sing, and Majesty to hear!
So may she favour'd live, and ever please
Our D****s, and judicious N****bys!
Nor does the Coronet alone defend
The Muse's cause; the Mitre is her Friend.
Can we forget how Damon's lofty Tongue,
Shook the glad Mountains, how the Valleys rung,
When Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd Sung?
How Mars and Pallas wept to see the Day,
When Athens by a Plague dispeopled lay.
What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost!
Sung with more Spirit than all Athens lost.
Nor can the Mitre now conceal the Bays,
For still we view the Sacred Poets praise.
So, though Eridanus becomes a Star,
Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar:
Below he loses nothing but his Name,
Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same.

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But you who live, no cruel Tempest fear;
Sing on, let Mo***gue and D****t hear.
In stately Verse let William's Praise be told,
William rewards with Honour, and with Gold.
No more of Richlieu's worth; forget not, Fame,
To change Augustus for Great William's Name.
Who, (tho' like Homer's Jupiter he sate,
Musing on something eminently great,
And balanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate)

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25

Lays by the vast concern, and gladly hears,
The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.
The Sleeping Dooms of Empires were delay'd,
And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.
The Double Vertue of Nassovian Fire,
At once the Soldier and the Muse inspire.
The Heroe listen'd when the Thunder Rung
A fatal sound, or when the Harp was strung,
When Mars has acted, or when Phœbus Sung.

But we must all decline; the Muse grows dumb,
Not weary with his Praise but overcome.
Who shall describe him? or what Eye can trace,
The Martial Glories of his Princely Race?
What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?
No Land but Britain, must pretend to shine
With Gods, and Heroes of an equal Line.
So may this Island a new Delos prove,
And joyn Apollo to the Cretan Jove.
What bloom! what youth! what hopes of future fame!
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly flame!
Like two mild Stars, his glorious Fate they show,
But on his Enemies like Comets glow.
How swiftly Glo'ster in his bud began!
How the green Heroe blossoms into Man!
Smit with the thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,
To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms.
See how he Spurs and Rushes to the War!
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar.
What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy they,
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day!

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26

Edwards and Harrys to his Eyes appear
In Warlike Forms, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
At Agincourt, so terrible they stood,
So, when Pictavian Fields were dy'd with Blood.
The Royal Youth with Æmulation glows,
And pours thick Vengeance on his gastly Foes.
Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,
Unseen, above him, and about him, fly.
O'er England's Hopes, their Flaming Swords they hold,
And Wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.
Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,
But, ever waking, bless him in his sleep.
Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,
Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,
Defend the Heroe, and protect his Head.