Now cou'd I paint a well-disputed Field,
Or praise proud Beauties, 'till I made them yield.
But Gratitude a diff'rent Song requires,
My Breast enlarges, and dilates my Fires.
Life, the first Bleffing Humankind can boast,
Life, which can never be reftor'd when loft,
Endear'd by Health, from Pain and Sickness free,
Is the bleft Gift bestow'd by Heav'n and thee:
How shall I then, or Heav'n, or you regard?
The Care of both has been beyond Reward.
But grateful Poets, off'ring up their Lays, [Praife.
Find you content with Thanks, and Heav'n with
O! may your Stream of Life run smooth, but ftrong;
Long may you live, that others may live long.
'Till healing Plants no more on Mountains grow;
'Till mineral Waters have forgot to flow,

And paint the Vallies where they glide below;
While Silver Helicon delights the Tafte,
And while the Mufes facred Mount fhall laft;
Their Songs, for thee, the Sifters shall defign,

The grateful Subject of the tuneful Nine;
Oft fhalt thou fill their Songs; -- and always mine.

To Mr. CONGREV E.

By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.

ET other Poets other Patrons chufe,

their Mufe.

With flatt'ring Hopes, and fruitless Labour wait,
And court the flipp'ry Friendship of the Great:
Some trifling Present by my Lord is made,
And then the Patron thinks the Poet paid.
On you, my furer, nobler Hopes depend,
For you are all I wish; you are a Friend.
From you, my Mufe her Infpiration drew,
All the performs, I Confecrate to you.
VOL. V.

D

You taught me firft my Genius and my Pow'r,
Taught me to know my own, but gave me more:
Others may sparingly their Wealth impart,
But he gives nobleft, who bestows an Art.
Nature, and you alone, can that confer,
And I owe you, what you your felf owe her.
O! Congreve, cou'd I write in Verfe like thine,
Then in each Page, in ev'ry charming Line,
Should Gratitude, and facred Friendship shine.
Your Lines run all on eafie, even Feet;
Clear is your Sense, and your Expreffion sweet:
Rich is your Fancy, and your Numbers go
Serene and fmooth, as Crystal Waters flow.
Smooth as a peaceful Sea which never rolls,
And foft, as kind confenting Virgins Souls.
Nor does your Verfe alone our Paffions move,
Beyond the Poet, we the Perfon love.
In you, and almoft only you, we find

}

Sublimity of Wit, and Candor of the Mind:
Both have their Charms, and both give that Delight,
"Tis pity that you shou'd, or fhou'd not Write:
But your ftrong Genius Fortune's Pow'r defies,
And, in despight of Poetry, you rise.
To you the Favour of the World is shown,
Enough for any Merit, but your own.
Your Fortune rifes equal with your Fame,
The beft of Poets, but above the Name.
O! may you never miss deserv❜d Success,
But raife your Fortunes 'till I wish them lefs.

Here fhou'd I, not to tire your Patience, end;
But who can part fo foon, with fuch a Friend.
You know my Soul, like yours, without Defign,
You know me yours, and I too know you mine,
I owe you all I am, and needs must mourn
My want of Pow'r to make you some return.
Since you gave all, do not a part refuse,
But take this flender Off'ring of the Muse.
Friendship, from fervile Int'reft free, secures
My Love, fincerely, and entirely yours.

The LADY's SONG.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

Quire of bright Beauties in Spring did appear,

All the Nymphs were in White, and the Shepherds in [Green,

The Garland was giv'n, and Phyllis was Queen:
But Phyllis refus'd it, and fighing did fay,
I'll not wear a Garland while Pan is away.

II.

While Pan, and fair Syrinx, are fled from our Shore,
The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The foft God of Pleasure, that warm'd our Defires,
Has broken his Bow, and extinguish'd his Fires;
And vows that himself, and his Mother, will mourn,
'Till Pan and fair Syrinx in Triumph return.

III.

Forbear your Addresses, and Court us no more,
For we will perform what the Deity fwore:
But if you dare think of deserving our Charms,
Away with your Sheephooks, and take to your Arms
Then Lawrels and Myrtles your Brows fhall adorn,
When Pan, and his Son, and fair Syrinx, return.

'An Epiftle from Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS to Mr. YALDEN in Oxon.

M'And toff about, in a tempeftuous World,

Y lab'ring Mufe, grown tir'd of being hurl'd

Prays for a Calm, implores fome quiet Seat,
And feeks what yours has found, a fweet Retreat,

Now your bleft Fields their Summer Liv'ry wear,
Their Fruits your loaded Trees in Seafon bear;
But Learning flourishes throughout the Year.
From your full Spring o'er Britain's Ifle it ftreams,
And fpreads like Ifis, when the meets the Thames.
Rear'd on her Banks, the Muses Lawrel grows,
Adorn'd by yours, adorning others Brows.
Sweet are her Streams, fweet the furrounding Air,
But sweeter are the Songs the ecchoes there.
There the Great Ormond's daily Praise is fung,
There Addifon's harmonious Harp is ftrung,
And there Lucretius learnt the English Tongue.
Well might I here the large Account purfue,
But you have ftopt me for I write to you.
Methinks I fee the tuneful Sifters ride,
Mounted like Sea-Nymphs on the fwelling Tide,
The Silver Swans are filent while they play,
Augufta hears their Notes, and puts to Sea,
Dryden and Congreve meet them half the way.
All wafted by their own sweet Voices move,
And all is Harmony ·
And all that's Harmony, is Joy and Love.
All are in all the tuneful Numbers skill'd,
And now Apollo boasts his Confort fill'd.

41111

}

Here liften while our English Maro fings, Born like the Mantuan Swan on equal Wings: Mark the great Numbers, mind the lofty Song, The Sense as clear and juft, the Lines as ftrong. Hark yonder where the Mourning Bride complains, And melt with pity at the moving Strains: Wait the Conclufion, then allay your Grief, Vice meets with Ruin, Virtue with Relief: Walk thither, and the charming Mufick leads, To murm'ring Waters, and enchanting Meads: Mark by the River-fide, along the Plain, The dancing Shepherdefs, and piping Swain, Then fee him take the Kifs that Crowns his Pain. There hearken where the knowing Poet fings Mysterious Nature, and the Seeds of Things;

}

How in the teeming Earth hard Metals grow,
From what far diftant Fountains Rivers flow,
What moves the Stars above, and Seas below.

}

Now fee the charming Confort fail along,
Each tunes his Harp, and each prepares his Song:
To the Mufaum fee them all repair,

And fee them all receive their Laurels there.
A learn'd and rev'rend Circle ready stands,
To Crown the Candidates with willing Hands.
Aldrich, who can the firft large Portion boast,
Knows, loves and cherishes the Mufes moft:
Who gives ev'n Chrift's-Church its peculiar Grace,
The first in Merit, as the firft in Place.

O! Friend, have I not reafon to complain
Of Fate, that fhut me out from fuch a Train?
For that, who would not shift the Tragick Scene?
Tho' tir'd of restless rambling up and down,
Or a more restless Settlement in Town:
Chang'd in the reft, let this my Love commend,
Talden, believe I never chang'd my Friend.

From London-Derry,

Auguft 3. 1699.

}

ODE on the Death of the Marquifs of BLANDFORD.

UCH is the Doom of unrelenting Fate,

SUCH

That greatest Hopes have shortest Date: Our Pleasures vanish, our Designs are croft, And Gifts most justly priz'd are fooneft loft:

Death has the choice of Things on Earth, And, waiting closely from their Birth, The Pride of Nature ftill delights to blast, And, uncreated, will the World out-laft.