Thy charming verse, and fair translations, fhow
How thy own laurel first began to grow;

How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,

25

And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods.
O! may'st thou still the noble task prolong,
Nor age nor sickness interrupt thy song!
Then may we, wond'ring, read how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms and diffolv'd in streams; 30
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould..
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold,
How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,

Have liv'd a fecond life, and diff'rent natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal

A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Magd. College, Oxon.

June 2. 1693.

36

SINCE, dearest Harry! you will needs request

A short account of all the Muse possest,

That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,
Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes,
Without more preface, writ in formal length,
To fpeak the undertaker's want of strength,

Afterwards Dr. Sacheverell.

I'll try to make their fev'ral beauties known,
And show their verfes' worth, tho' not my own.
Long had our dull forefathers slept fupine,
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine,
Till Chaucer first, a merry bard, arose,
And many a story told in rhyme and profe;
But age has rufted what the poet writ,
Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit;
In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain,
And tries to make his readers laugh in vain.
Old Spenfer next, warm'd with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amus'd a barb'rous age;
An age that, yet uncultivate and rude,
Where'er the poet's fancy led, purfu'd
Thro' pathless fields and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons and enchanted woods.
But now the mystic tale that pleas'd of yore
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-fpun allegories fulfome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well pleas'd at distance all the fights
Of arms and palfries, battleș, fields, and fights,
And damfels in diftrefs, and courteous knights;
But when we look too near the shades decay,
And all the pleasing landscape fades away.

Great Cowley then (a mighty genius!) wrote,
O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought:
His turns too closely on the reader press;
He more had pleas'd us had he pleas'd us less :

While tender airs and lovely dames inspire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire,
So long shall Waller's strains our passion move,
And Sachariffa's beauty kindle love.

go

ICO

Thy verfe, harmonious Bard! and flatt'ring fong,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong;
Thy verfe can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence, 96
And compliment the form that bore him hence!..
Oh, had thy Muse not come an age too foon,
But feen great Naffau on the British throne,
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes of death and horror had we view'd,
And how had Boyn's wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse
In smoother numbers and a fofter verse,
Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair.

*

Nor mult Roscommon pass neglected by, That makes e'en Rules a noble poetry;

105

Rules whofe deep fenfe and heav'nly numbers show The best of critics and of poets too.

III

Nor, Denham! must we e'er forget thy strains, While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains, But see where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years! 115 Great Dryden next! whose tuneful Mufe affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.

* Queen Mary.

Whether in comic founds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, the moves our fmiles or tears.

If fatire or heroic strains the writes,

Her hero pleafes, and her fatire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall;

She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,

120

That long has flourish'd, should decay with thee, 125"
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 fhall ftill preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.

130

I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er, But juftice ftill demands one labour more:

The noble Montagu remains unnam'd,

For wit, for humour, and for judgment, fam'd: 135 To Dorfet he directs his artful Mufe,

In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might use.

How negligently graceful he unreins

His verfe, and writes in loose familiar ftrains!

How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,

And all the hero in full glory fhines!

We fee his army set in just array,

140

And Boyn's dy'd waves run purple to the fea.
Nor Simois, chok'd with men, and arms, and blood,
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

145

Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,

Tho' gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd, [streams: He aids the hero whom before he prais'd.

I've done at length; and now, dear Friend! receive
The last poor present that my Muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse

To them that practise 'em with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell;

151

And so at once, dear Friend and Muse! farewell. 155

IF

TO THE RIGHT HON.

SIR JOHN SOMERS,

LORD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.

THE AUTHOR'S AGE TWENTY-FOUR,

yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares;
If yet your time and actions are your own,
Receive the present of a Muse unknown;
A Mufe that in advent'rous numbers fings
The rout of armies and the fall of kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace restor'd,
By Somers' counfels and by Naffau's fword.

To you, my Lord, these daring thoughts belong, Who help'd to raise the subject of my song;