Whence health from herbs; from feeds how groves begun,
How vital streams in circling eddies run.

Some teach why round the fun the spheres advance,
In the fix'd meafures of their myftic dance,

How tides, when heav'd by preffing moons, o'erflow,
And fun-born Iris paints her showery bow.

In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary found,
But bufkin'd bards henceforth fhall wifely rage,
And Grecian plans reform Britannia's stage:
Till Congreve bids her fmile, Augusta stands
And longs to weep when flowing Rowe commands.
Britain's Spectators fhall their ftrength combine
To mend our morals, and our taste refine,
Fight virtue's caufe, ftand up in wit's defence,
Win us from vice, and laugh us into fenfe.
Nor, Prior, haft thou hufh'd the trump in vain,
Thy lyre fhall now revive her mirthful ftrain,
New tales fhall now be told; if right I fee,
The foul of Chaucer is reftor'd in thee.
Garth, in majestic numbers, to the stars
Shall raife mock heroes, and fantastic wars;
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope, thy name
Shoots up with strength, and rises into fame
With Philips fhall the peaceful vallies ring,
And Britain hear a fecond Spenfer fing.

That much-lov'd youth, whom Utrecht's walls confine, To Bristol's praifes fhall his Strafford's join:

He too, from whom attentive Oxford draws

Rules for just thinking, and poetic laws,

To growing bards his learned aid shall lend,
The ftricteft critic, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Mufe, whofe rude effays
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 ftream;

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 ftruck the warbling ftrings,
The feat of fages, and the nurse of kings.
Here thy commands, O Lancaster, inflame
My eager breaft 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 steps adore.

TO

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS OPERA OF

ROSAMOND.

Ne fortè pudori

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

HE Opera first Italian masters taught,

Tinrich with fongs, but innocent of thought;

Britannia's learned theatre difdains

Melodious trifles, and enervate strains;
And blushes, on her injur'd stage to fee
Nonsense well-tun'd, and sweet stupidity.
No charms are wanting to thy artful fong,
Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil strong.

From words fo fweet new grace the notes receive,
And mufic borrows helps, the us'd to give.
Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new.
Their cadence in fuch easy found convey'd,

The height of thought may seem superfluous aid;
Yet in fuch charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the sweets 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 Elysium to one view confin'd!

No further could imagination roam,

Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlborough rais'd the dome.
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bofom tear,
When drown'd in tears I fee th' imploring fair;
When bards lefs soft the moving words fupply,
A feeming justice dooms the nymph to die;
But here she 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, spite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,
O'erlook her crimes, and think fhe ought to live.
Let joy falute fair Rofamonda's fhade,

And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghoft the 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 Addifon.
Accept, great monarch of the British lays,
The tribute fong an humble subject pays.
So tries the artless lark her early flight,
And foars, to hail the god of verfe and light.
Unrival'd as unmatch'd be still thy fame,
And thy own laurels fhade thy envy'd name :
Thy name, the boaft of all the tuneful quire,
Shall tremble on the strings of every lyre;
While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies
Feels correfponding joys or forrows rife,

And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes.

ΤΟ

TO THE SAME, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF

CATO.

Tand funk to foftnefs all our tragic rage:

100 long hath love engrofs'd Britannia's stage,

By that alone did empires fall or rife,
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 fill sheltering by his fide,
With confcious virtue and becoming pride!

The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhausted, and his branches bare;
'Midft ftorms and earthquakes, he maintains his ftate,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight:
His naked boughs ftill lend the fhepherds 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 bufinefs wait,
Anxious for Rome, and figh for Cato's fate.

13

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