To growing bards his learned aid shall lend,
The strictest critic, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Muse, whose rude essays
Scarce hope for pardon, not aspire to praise,
Cherish'd by you in time may grow to fame,
And mine furvive with Bristol's glorious name.
Fir'd with the views this glittering fcene difplays,
And fmit with paffion for my country's praise,
My artless reed attempts this lofty theme,
Where facred Ifis rolls her ancient stream;
In cloister'd domes the great Philippa's pride,
Where learning blooms, while fame and worth prefide,
Where the fifth Henry arts and arms was taught,
And Edward form'd his Creffy, yet unfought,
Where laurel'd bards have struck the warbling strings,
The feat of fages, and the nurse of kings.
Here thy commands, O Lancaster, inflame
My eager breast to raise the British name,
Urge on my foul, with no ignoble pride,
To woo the Muse, whom Addison enjoy'd,
See that bold fwan to heaven fublimely foar,
Purfue at distance, and his fteps adore.

TO

"Sit tibi Mufa lyræ folers, & cantor Apollo."

HE Opera first Italian masters taught,

Tinrich'd with fongs, but innocent of thought;

Britannia's learned theatre difdains
Melodious trifles, and enervate strains;
And blushes, on her injur'd stage to see
Nonsense well-tun'd, and sweet stupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil strong.

From words so sweet new grace the notes receive,
And mufic borrows helps, fhe us'd to give.

Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new.
Their cadence in such easy found convey'd,
The height of thought may seem fuperfluous aid;
Yet in fuch charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the fweets of easy found.

Landskips how gay the bowery grotto yields,
Which thought creates, and lavish fancy builds!
What art can trace the vifionary scenes,
The flowery groves, and everlasting greens,
The babbling founds that mimic echo plays,
The fairy fhade, and its eternal maze-?
Nature and Art in all their charms combin'd,
And all Elyfium to one view confin'd!

No further could imagination roam,

Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlborough rais'd the dome.
Ten thoufand pangs my anxious bofom tear,
When drown'd in tears I see th' imploring fair;
When bards lefs foft the moving words supply,
A feeming juftice dooms the nymph to die ;
But here the begs, nor can fhe beg in vain
(In dirges thus expiring fwans complain);
Each verfe fo fwells expreffive of her woes,
And every tear in lines fo mournful flows;
We, fpite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,
O'erlook her crimes, and think fhe ought to live.
Let joy falute fair Rosamonda's fhade,

And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves,
And hears and tells the ftory of their loves,
Alike they mourn, alike they blefs their fate,
Since love, which made them wretched, makes them great.
Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan,
Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addison.
Accept, great monarch of the British lays,
The tribute fong an humble fubject pays.
So tries the artlefs lark her early flight,
And foars, to hail the god of verfe and light.
Unrival'd as unmatch'd be ftill thy fame,
And thy own laurels fhade thy envy'd name:
Thy name, the boaft of all the tuneful quire,
Shall tremble on the ftrings of every lyre;

While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies
Feels correfponding joys or forrows rife,

And views thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes.

ΤΟ

TO THE SAME, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF

CATO.

100 long hath love engrofs'd Britannia's stage,
And funk to softness all our tragic rage:

By that alone did empires fall or rise,

And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes:
The fweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it footh'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame :
A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, fhed for all mankind.

How do our fouls with generous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero ftands beneath the weight
Of all his fufferings venerably great;

Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his fide,
With confcious virtue and becoming pride!

The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhaufted, and his branches bare ;
'Midft storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight:
His naked boughs ftill lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our patriots fadden at his glorious woes ;
Awhile they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and figh for Cato's fate.

Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where ftates and fenates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.

France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more fhe 'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight..
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.

The fenates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find : each deed, each word exprest,
And every thought that fwell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy foul inspire
With Virgil's judgement, and with Lucan's fire ;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee moft.

THE ROYAL PROGRESS.

WH

HEN Brunswick first appear'd, each honest heart,.
Intent on verfe, difdain'd the rules of art;

For him the fongfters, in unmeafur'd odes,
Debas'd Alcides, and dethron`d the gods,
In golden chains the kings of India led,
Or rent the turban from the fultan's head.

Onc