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ample, to the great improvement of the English Odc. There is certainly a pleasure in beholding any thing that has art and difficulty in the contrivance; especially, if it appears so carefully executed, that the difficulty does not shew itself, till it is sought for ; and that the seeming easiness of the work, first sets us upon quiry. Nothing can be called beautiful without proportion. When symmetry and harmony are wanting, neither the eye nor the car can be pleased. Therefore certainly poetry, which includes painting and music, should not be destitute of them ; and of all poetry, especially the Ode, whose end and effence is harmony.

Mr. Cowley, in his Preface to his Pindaric Odes, speaking of the music of numbers, says, “ which fome“ times (especially in Songs and Odes) almost without

any thing else makes an excellent poet."

Having mentioned Mr. Cowley, it may very well be expected, that fomething should be faid of him, at a time when the imitation of Pindar is the theme of our discourse. But there is that great deference due to the memory, great parts, and learning of that gentleman, that I think nothing should be objected to the latitude he has taken in his Pindaric Odes. The beauty of his verses, are an atonement for the irregularity of his Itanzas; and though he did not imitate Pindar in the ftriétness of his numbers, he has very often happily copied him in the force of his figures, and sublimity of his file and sentiments.

Yet I must beg leave to add, that I believe those irregular Odes of Mr. Cowley may have been the princi


pal, though innocent occafion, of so many deformed poems since, which, instead of being true piétures of Pindar, have (to use the Italian painters term) been only caricatures of him, resemblances that for the most part have been either horrid or ridiculous.

For my own part, I frankly own my error, in having heretofore miscalled a few irregular stanzas a Pindaric Ode; and possibly, if others, who have been under the same mistake, would ingenuously confess the truth, they might own, that, never having consulted Pindar himself, they took all his irregularity upon trust; and finding. their account in the great ease with which they could produce Odes without being obliged either to nieasure or design, remained fatisfied; and it may be, were not altogether unwilling to neglect being undeceived.

Though there be little (if any thing) left of Orpheus but his name, yet if Pausanias was well informed, we may be assured, that brevity was a beauty which he most industriously laboured to preserve in his Hymns, notwithstanding, as the same author reports, that they were but few in number.

The shortness of the following Ode will, I hope, atone for the length of the Preface, and in some measure for the defects which may be found in it. It consists of the same number of stanzas with that beautiful Ode of Pindar, which is the first of his Pythics ; and though I was unable to imitate him in any other beauty, I resolved to endeavour to copy his brevity, and take the advantage of a remark he has made in the last Strophé of the fame Ode; which take in the para- * phrase of Sudorius.


Qui multa paucis stringere commode
“ Novere, morsus hi facile invidos
“ Spernunt, & auris mensque pura
“ Omne supervacuum rejeĉtat.”

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DAUGHTER of Memory, immortal Muse,

Calliope ; what poet wilt thou chule,

Of Anna's name to sing ?
To whom wilt thou thy fire impart,

Thy lyre, thy voice, and tuneful art ;
Whom raise fublime on thy ætherial wing,
And confecrate with dews of thy Caftalian spring

Without thy aid, the most aspiring mind
Must flag beneath, to narrow flights confin’d,

Striving to rise in vain :
Nor e'er can hope with equal lays

To celebrate bright Virtue's praise.
Thy aid obtain'd, ev’n I, the humblest swain,
May climb Pierian heights, and quit the lowly plain.

High in the starry orb is hung,

And next Alcides' guardian arm,
That harp to which thy Orpheus sung,
Who woods, and rocks, and winds, could charm ;


That harp which on Cyllene's shady hill,
When first the vocal shell was found,

With more than mortal skill
Inventer Hermes taught to sound :
Hermes on bright Latona's son,

By sweet persuasion won,
The wondrous work beitow'd;

Latona's son, to thine

Indulgent, gave the gift divine:
A god the gift, a god th' invention show'd.

To that high-sounding lyre I tune my strains;
A lower note his lofty song disdains

Who sings of Anna's name.
The lyre is struck! the sounds I hear!

O Muse, propitious to my prayer!
O well-known founds! O Melody, the same
That kindled Mantuan fire, and rais’d Meonian flame!

Nor are these sounds to British bards unknown,
Or sparingly reveal’d to one alone :

Witness sweet Spenfer's lays :
And witness that immortal song,

As Spenser sweet, as Milton strong,
Which humble Boyne o'er Tiber's food could raise,
And mighty William sing, with well-proportion’d praise,

Rise, fair Augusta, lift thy head,

With golden towers thy front adorn ;
Come forth, as comes from Tithon's bed

With chearful ray the ruddy morn.


Tly lovely form, and fresh-reviving state,
In crystal flood of Thames survey;

Then, bless thy better fate,
Bless Anna's most auspicious fivay.
While distant realms and neghbouring lands,

Arm’d troops and hostile bands

fide molest,
Thy happier clime is free,

Fair Capital of Liberty !
And plenty knows, and days of halcyon reft.

As Britain's isle, when old vex'd Ocean roars,
Uníhaken fees against her silver shoars

His foaming billows beat ;
So Britain's Queen, amidst the jars

And tumults of a world in wars,
Fix'd on the base of her well-founded state,
Serene and safe looks down, nor feels the shocks of fate.

11. But greatest souls, though bleft with sweet repose, Are fooneft touch'd with sense of others woes.

Thus Anna's mighty mind,
To mercy and soft pity prone,

And mov'd with sorrows not her own,
Has all her peace and downy rest resign’d,
To wake for common good, and fuccour human-kind.

Fly, tyranny; no more be known
Within Europa’s blissful bound;
Far as th’unhabitable zone
Fly every hospitable ground.


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