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

HE Opera firft Italian masters taught,

THE

Inrich'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
Nonfenfe 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 ftyle hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new.
Their cadence in fuch eafy found convey'd,
The height of thought may feem fuperfluous aid;
Yet in fuch charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needlefs feem the sweets of easy sound.

Landskips how gay the bowery grotto yields,
Which thought creates, and lavish fancy builds!
What art can trace the visionary 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!
I 2

. No

No further could imagination roam,

TiH Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlborough rais'd the dome.
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
When drown'd in tears I fee th' imploring fair;
When bards lefs foft the moving words fupply,
A foeming juftice dooms the nymph to die
But here fhe 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 she ought to live.
Let joy falute fair Rofamonda's fhade,

And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghost the roves,
And hears and tells the story of their loves,
Alike they mourn, alike they bless 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 subject pays.
So tries the artless lark her early flight,
And foars, to hail the god of verse and light.
Unrival'd as unmatch'd be still thy fame,
And thy own laurels fhade thy envy'd name:
Thy name, the boast 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 Rofamond with Henry's eyes.

то

TO THE SAME, ON HIS TRAGEDY OF

CATO.

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

By that alone did empires fall or rise,

And fate depended on a fair-one's eyes :
The sweet 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 juftly 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 ;
'Midst storms and earthquakes, he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight:
His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidft 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 sigh for Cato's fate.

Here taught how ancient heroes rofe to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where states 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 she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford fmiles 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 expreft,
And every thought that swell'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 most.

THE ROYAL PROGRES S.

HEN Brunswick first appear'd, each honeft heart,

Wintent 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.

One,

One, in old fables, and the pagan strain,

With nymphs and tritons, wafts him o'er the main;
Another draws fierce Lucifer in arms,

And fills th' infernal region with alarms;
A third awakes fome druid, to foretel
Each future triumph, from his dreary cell.
Exploded fancies! that in vain deceive,

While the mind nauseates what fhe can't believe.
My Mufe th' expected hero fhall pursue
From clime to clime, and keep him still in view;
His fhining march describe in faithful lays,
Content to paint him, nor prefume to praise;
Their charms, if charms they have, the truth supplies,
And from the theme unlabour'd beauties rife.

By longing nations for the throne defign'd,
And call'd to guard the rights of human-kind;
With fecret grief his god-like foul repines,
And Britain's crown with joylefs luftre fhines,
While prayers and tears his deftin'd progress stay,
And crowds of mourners choke their fovereign's way.
Not fo he march'd, when hoftile fquadrons ftood
In fcenes of death, and fir'd his generous blood;
When his hot courfer paw'd th' Hungarian plain,
And adverfe legions ftood, the fhock in vain.
His frontiers paft, the Belgian bounds he views,
And crofs the level fields his march pursues.
Here pleas'd the land of freedom to furvey,
He greatly feorns the thirft of boundless sway.
O'er the thin foil, with filent joy, he spies
Transplanted woods, and borrow'd verdure rife;