With beating Hearts the rival Poets wait,
Till you, Athenians, fhall decide their Fate:
Secure, when to thefe learned Seats they come,
Of equal Judgment, and impartial Doom.

Poor is the Player's Fame, whofe whole Renown
Is but the Praise of a capricious Town ;
While with Mock-Majesty, and fancy'd Pow'r
He ftruts in Robes, the Monarch of an Hour
Oft wide of Nature must he act a Part,
Make Love in Tropes, in Bombast break his Heart:
In Turn and Simile refign his Breath,
And rhime and quibble in the Pangs of Death.
We blush, when Plays like thefe, receive Applaufe;
And laugh, in fecret, at the Tears we caufe held
With honeft Scorn our own Succefs difdain, bid
A worthless Honour, and inglorious Gain.

No trifling Scenes at Oxford shall appear;
Well, what we blush to act, may you to hear.
To you our fam'd, our ftandard Plays we bring,
The Work of Poets, whom you taught to fing:,:
Tho' crown'd with Fame, they dare not think it due,
Nor take the Laurel till beftow'd by you.
of the Stage,
Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires the Age,
Begs here he may be try'd by Roman Laws;
To you, O Fathers, he submits his Caufe;
He refts not in the People's gen'ral Voice
Till you, the Senate, have confirm'd his Choice.
Fine is the Secret, delicate the Art,

Great Cato's felf the Glory

To wind the Paffions and command the Heart,
For fancy'd Ills to force out Tears to
And make

to flow,

the gen'rous Soul in Love with Woe; To raise the Shades of Heroes to our View; Rebuild fall'n Empires, and old Tir

Time renew.

How hard the Task! how rare the godlike Rage!
None fhould prefume to dictate for the Stage,
But fuch as boaft a great extenfive Mind,
Enrich'd by Nature, and by Art refin'd;

Who

Who from the ancient Stores their Knowledge bring,
And tafted early of the Mufe's Spring.

May none pretend upon her Throne to fit,
But fuch, as fprung from you, are born to Wit:
Chos'n by the Mob, their lawlefs Claim we flight:
Yours is the old hereditary Right.

T

Thoughts occafioned by the Sight of an original Picture of King CHARLES I. taken at the Time of his Trial.

Infcribed to GEORGE CLARKE, Efq;.

-Animum Pictura pafcit inani

Multa gemens, largoque humectat flumine vultum. Virg.

CAN

AN this be he could Charles, the Good, the Great,
Be funk by Heaven to fuch a dismal State !
How meagre, pale, neglected, worn with Care!
What feady Sadnefs, and auguft Defpair!
In thofe funk Eyes the Grief of Years I trace,
And Sorrow feems acquainted with that Face.
Tears, which his Heart difdain'd, from me o'erflow,
Thus to furvey God's Substitute below,
In folemn Anguish, and majestic Woe.

When spoil'd of Empire by un-hallow'd Hands,
Sold by his Slaves, and held in impious Bands ;
Rent from, what oft had sweeten'd anxious Life,
His helpless Children, and his bofom Wife;
Doom'd for the Faith, plebeian Rage to ftand,
And fall a Victim for the guilty Land;
Then thus was feen, abandon'd and forlorn,
The King, the Father, and the Saint to mourn.
How could't thou, Artist, then thy Skill display?
Thy steady Hands thy favage Heart betray :

Near

Near thy bold Work the ftun'd Spectators faint,
Nor fee unmov'd, what thou unmov'd could't paint. A
What brings to mind each various Scene of Woe,
Th' infulting Judge, the folemn-mocking Show,
The horrid Sentence, and accurfed Blow.

Where then, juft Heav'n, was thy unactive Hand,
Thy idle Thunder, and thy ling'ring Brand!
Thy Adamantine Shield, thy Angel Wings,
And the great Genii of anointed Kings!
Treafon and Fraud fhall thus the Stars regard!
And injur'd Virtue meet this fad Reward!
So fad, none like, can Time's old Records tell,
Though Pompey bled, and poor Darius fell.
All Names but one too low-that one too high:
All Parallels are Wrongs, or Blafphemy.

O Pow'r fupreme? how fecret are thy Ways!
Yet Man, vain Man, would trace the myftic Maze,
With foolish Wisdom, arguing, charge his God,
His Balance hold, and guide his angry Rod;
New-mould the Spheres, and mend the Sky's Defign,
And found th' Immense, with his fhort fcanty Line.
Do thou, my Soul, the deftin'd Period wait,
When God shall solve the dark Decrees of Fate,
His now unequal Difpenfations clear,
And make all wife and beautiful appear;
When fuff'ring Saints aloft in Beams fhall glow,
And profp'rous Traitors gnafh their Teeth below.
Such boding Thoughts did guilty Confcience dart,
A Pledge of Hell to dying Cromwell's Heart:
Then this pale Image feem'd t' invade his Room,
Gaz'd him to Stone, and warn'd him to the Tomb,
While Thunders roll, and nimble Lightnings play,
And the Storm wings his fpotted Soul away.

A Blast more bounteous ne'er did Heav'n command To fcatter Bleffings o'er the British Land.

Not that more kind, which dash'd the Pride of Spain, And whirl'd her Crush'd Armada round the Main;

Not

Not thofe more kind, which guide our floating Tow'rs,
Waft Gums and Gold, and made far India ours:
That only kinder, which to Britain's Shore

Did Mitre, Crowns, and Stuart's Race restore,
Renew'd the Church, revers'd the Kingdom's Doom,
And brought with Charles an Anna yet to come.
O Clarke, to whom a Stuart trusts her Reign
O'er Albion's Fleets, and delegates the Main;
Dear, as the Faith thy loyal Heart hath fworn,
Tranfmit this piece to Ages yet unborn.
This Sight shall damp the raging Ruffian's Breaft,
The Poifon fpill, and half-drawn Sword arrest;
To foft Compaffion ftubborn Traitors bend,
And one destroy'd, a thousand Kings defend.

A Fragment of a Poem on Hunting.

Dona cano Divúm, lætas venantibus artes,
Aufpicio, Diana, tuo

Gratius.

HOrfes and Hounds, their Care, their various. Race,

The numerous Beafts, that range the rural Chafe,
The Huntsman's chofen Scenes, his friendly Stars,
The Laws and Glory of the Sylvan Wars,
I first in British Verse presume to raise;
A vent'rous Rival of the Roman Praife.

Let me, chaft Queen of Woods, thy Aid obtain,
Bring here thy light-foot Nymphs, and fprightly Train:
If oft, o'er Lawns, thy Care prevents the Day
To roufe the Foe, and prefs the bounding Prey,
Woo thine own Phoebus in the Task to join,
And grant me Genius for the bold Defign.
In this foft Shade, O, footh the Warrior's Fire,
And fit his Bow-ftring to the trembling Lyre,

And

And teach, while thus their Arts and Arms we fing,
The Groves to echo, and the Vales to ring,

Thy Care be firft the various Gifts to trace,
The Minds and Genius of the latrant Race.
In Pow'rs distinct the diff'rent Clans excel,
In Sight or Swiftnefs, or fagacious Smell;
By Wiles ungenerous fome furprife the Prey,
And fome by Courage win the doubtful Day.
See'ft thou the Gaze-hound! how with Glance fevere
From the clofe Herd he marks the deftin'd Deer!.
How every Nerve the Greyhound's ftretch displays,
The Hare preventing in her airy Maze;

The luckless Prey how treach'rous Tumblers gain,
And dauntless Wolf dogs shake the Lion's Mane;
O'er all, the Blood-hound boasts fuperior Skill,
To fcent, to view, to turn, and boldly kill!

His Fellows' vain Alarms rejects with Scorn,
True to the Mafter's Voice, and learned Horn.
His Noftrils oft, if ancient Fame fing true,
Trace the fly Felon through the tainted Dew,
Once fnuff'd he follows with unalter'd Aim,
Nor Odours lure him from the chofen Game,
Deep-mouth'd he thunders, and inflam'd he views,
Springs on relentless, and to death purfues.

Some Hounds of Manners vile, nor lefs we find
Of Fops in Hounds, than in the reas'ning Kind,
Puff'd with Conceit run gladding o'er the Plain,
And from the Scent divert the wifer Train;
For the Foe's Footsteps fondly fnuff their own,
And mar the Mufic with their fenfelefs Tone;
Start at the starting Prey, or ruftling Wind,
And, hot at first, inglorious lag behind.
A fantering Tribe! may fuch my Foes difgrace.
Give me, ye Gods, to breed the nobler Race.
Nor grieve thou to attend, while Truths unknown
I fing, and make Athenian Arts our own.
N

VOL. II.

Doft