Shakes Heav'n's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And fets th' almighty Thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes I more than fee,
Whilft ev'ry verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And feems above the critic's nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terror and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's outfpread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare And tun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my fpirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs funk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rife,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise,
What tongue, what words of rapture, can express
A vifion fo profufe of pleasanthess!
Oh! had the poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men,
His other works might have deserv'd applause;
But now the language can't fupport the cause;
While the clean current, tho' ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.
But now, my Mufe, a fofter ftrain rehearse,
Turn ev'ry line with art, and fmooth thy verfe;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays :
Muse! tune thy verse with art to Waller's praise.
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
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 ftorm that bore him hence!
Oh, had thy Mufe not come an age too foon, T
But feen great Naffau on the British throne,
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, . ICO
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What fcenes 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 rehearfe
In fmoother numbers and a fofter verfe,
Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by, That makes e en Rules a noble poetry; Rules whofe deep fenfe and heav'nly numbers show The best of critics and of poets too.
Nor, Denham! muft we e'er forget thy ftrains, While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains. But fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years! 115 Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful Mufe affords The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.
Whether in comic founds or tragic airs
She forms her voice, the moves our smiles or tears. If fatire or heroic strains she writes,
Her hero pleases, 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,
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 shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice still 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 strains!
How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory fhines!
We fee his army fet in just array,
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,
Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,
Tho' gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd, [ftreams: 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. 151 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;
And fo at once, dear Friend and Mufe! farewell. 155
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 prefent 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;
To you the hero of my verfe reveals
His great defigns, to you in council tells
His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unftorm'd and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Defcribe his conduct and reward his pains;
But fince the state has all your cares engrost,
And poetry in higher thoughts is loft,
Attend to what a leffer Muse indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights. 20
On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment must expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar paffions, are above
Degrading envy or misguided love.
If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays, 25
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write is what you praise. 27
WHEN now the bus'nefs of the field is o'er,
The trumpets fleep and cannons cease to roar,
When ev'ry difmal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid,
Attend, aufpicious Prince! and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
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