From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the ENGLISH POETS.
BUT fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful mufe affords The fweeteft numbers and the fittest words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, fhe moves our fimiles and tears. If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,
Her hero pleafes, and her fatire bites.
From her no harfh, unartful numbers fall, She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all : How might we fear our English poetry, That long has flourish'd, should decay in thee; Did not the Mufes' other hope appear, Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear! Congreve ! whofe fancy's unexhausted store Has given already much, and promis'd more. Congreve shall still preferve thy fame alive, And Dryden's mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
On ALEXANDER'S FEAST: Or, The POWER of MUSICK. An ODE.
From Mr POPE'S ESSAY on CRITICISM, 1. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize, And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow. Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood fubdued by found. The power of Mufick all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
From an ODE of GRAY'S.
Behold, where Dryden's lefs presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :
Two courfers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding pace,
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more
Oh! lyre divine, what daring fpirit Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with fupreme dominion Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Mufe's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the fun : Yet fhall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
Upon the DEATH of Lord HASTINGS.
UST noble Haftings immaturely die, The honour of his ancient family, Beauty and learning thus together mect,
To bring a winding for a wedding sheet? Muft virtue prove death's harbinger? must fhe, With him expiring, feel mortality?
Is death, fin's wages, grace's now ? shall art Make us more learned, only to depart ? If merit be disease; if virtue death;
To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath Himself to difcipline? who'd not esteem Labour a crime? ftudy felf-murther deem? Our noble youth now have pretence to be Dunces fecurely, ignorant healthfully.
Rare linguist whofe worth speaks itself, whofe praise, Though not his own, all tongues befides do raise: Than whom great Alexander may feem lefs; Who conquer'd men, but not their languages. In his mouth nations fpake; his tongue might be Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.
His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth; All Europe was too narrow for his birth. A young apostle; and with reverence may I speak it, inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they. Nature gave him a child, what men in vain Oft ftrive, by art though further'd, to obtain. His body was an orb, his fublime foul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole : Whofe regular motions better to our view, Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did fhew. Graces and virtues, languages and arts, Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts. Heaven's gifts, which do like falling ftars appear Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere, Were fix'd, conglobate in his foul; and thence Shone through his body, with fweet influence; Letting their glories fo on each limb fall, The whole frame render'd was celeftial. Come, learned Ptolemy, and tryal make, If thou this hero's altitude canft take : But that tranfcends thy fkill; thrice happy all, Could we but prove thus aftronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which shone More bright i'th’morn', than others beam at noon, He'd take his aftrolabe, and feek out here What new ftar 'twas did gild our hemifphere. Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as these, Where was room left for fuch a foul difeafe? The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which fhrouds Our day-spring in fo fad benighting clouds,
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