Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.

He said; but his last words were scarcely heard: For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Born upwards by a fubterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.

EPISTLE S.

EPISTLE the FIRST.

TO MY HONORED FRIEND

Sir ROBERT HOWARD,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT POEMS.

A

S there is mufic uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which with a merry heart

The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:

So in your verse a native sweetnefs dwells,
Which fhames compofure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmnefs does fuppofe them deep;
Such is
your mufe no metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.

fo

So firm a ftrength, and yet withal so sweet,

Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis strange each line fo great a weight should bear, And yet no fign of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign

Then least to feel, when moft they fuffer pain;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden fprings within the engine be:
Or 'tis fome happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,
Lets thro its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.