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O you, my Lord, my Mufe her tribute pays
Of various verte, in various rude effays;
To you, fhe first address'd her early voice,
By inclination led, and fix'd' by choice;

you, on whose indulgence the depends, Her few collected lays the now commends.

By no one measure bound, her numbers range,
And, unrefolv'd in choice, delight in change;
Her fongs to no diftinguish'd fame afpire,

For, now,
she tries the reed, anon, attempts the lyre;
In high Parnaffus fhe no birthright claims,
Nor drinks deep draughts of Heliconian streams;
Yet near the facred mount fhe loves to rove,
Vifits the fprings, and hovers round the grove.
She knows what dangers wait too bold a flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian height:

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Yet, fhe admires the wing that fafely foars,

At distance follows, and its track adores.

She knows what room, what force, the fwan requires,
Whofe towering head above the clouds afpires,
And knows as well, it is your lowest praife,
Such heights to reach with equal strength and ease.
O had your genius been to leifure born,

And not more bound to aid us, than adorn!
Albion in verfe with ancient Greece had vy'd,

And gain'd alone a fame, which, there, seven states divide.
But fuch, ev'n such renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the patriot in the poet loft.

A true poetic state we had deplor'd,
Had not your miniftry our coin restor❜d.

But ftill, my Lord, though your exalted name
Stands foremost in the fairest lift of Fame,
Though your ambition ends in public good
(A virtue lineal to your house and blood):
Yet think not meanly of your other praise,
Nor flight the trophies which the Mufes raife.
How oft, a patriot's beft-laid fchemes we find
By Party crofs'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he fucceed, he undergoes this lot,

The good receiv'd, the giver is forgot.

But honours which from verfe their fource derive,
Shall both furmount Detraction, and survive:
And Poets have unquestion'd right to claim ;
If not the greatest, the most lasting name.



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"Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." VIRG.



EHOLD, Alexis, fee this gloomy shade,


Which feems alone for forrow's fhelter made;
Where no glad beams of light can ever play,
But night fucceeding night excludes the day;
Where never birds with harmony repair,
And lightsome notes, to cheer the dusky air.
To welcome day, or bid the Sun farewell,
By morning lark, or evening Philomel.

No violet here, nor daify, e'er was seen;
No fweetly-budding flower, nor fpringing green:
For fragrant myrtle, and the blushing rofe,
Here, baleful eugh with deadly cypress grows.
Here then, extended on this wither'd mofs,
We'll lie, and thou shalt fing of Albion's lofs,

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