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What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare,

And ftun the reader with the din of war!

With fear my spirits and my blood retire,

To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire;

But when, with eager fteps, from hence I rife,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradife;
What tongue, what words of rapture can exprefs
A vision fo profuse of pleasantness!

Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen,

To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men ;
His other works might have deferv'd applause!
But now the language can't fupport the caufe;
While the clean current, tho' ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.

But now, my Muse, a fofter strain rehearse,
Turn ev'ry line with art, and smooth thy verfe;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays :
Mufe, tune thy verfe, with art, to Waller's praife.
While tender airs and lovely dames infpire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire:
So long shall Waller's ftrains our paffion move
And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love.

Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flatt'ring song,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong,
Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the ftorm that bore him hence.

Oh

Oh had thy Muse not come an age too soon,
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 fmoother numbers and a fofter verfe;
Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana wou'd have feem'd more fair.
Nor muft Rofcommon pass neglected by,
That makes e'en rules a noble poetry;

Rules whofe deep sense and heav'nly numbers fhow
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 rhime, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whofe tuneful Mufe affords

The fweeteft numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comic founds or tragic airs

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

If fatire or heroic ftrains she writes,

Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.

From her no harfh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and fhe charms in all.

How

How might we fear our English poetry,

That long has flourish'd, fhou'd decay with thee;
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 preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.

I'm tir'd with rhiming, and wou'd fain give o'er,
But juftice ftill demands one labour more:
The noble Montague remains unnam'd,

For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Muse,

In numbers fuch as Dorfet's self might use.
How negligently careful he unreins

His verfe, and writes in loofe familiar ftrains;

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 streams. But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,

He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.

I've

I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The last poor prefent that my Muse can give.

I leave the arts of poetry and verfe

To them that practise them with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,
And fo at once, dear friend and Mufe, farewel.

LETTERA

LETTERA SCRITTA D'ITALIA

AL MOLTO ONORABILE

CARLO Conte HALIFAX.

Dal Signore GIUSEPPE ADDISON, l'Anno MDCCI. In Verfi Inglesi.

E TRADOTTA IN VERSI TOSCANI. *

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, fanctos aufus recludere fontes.

MEN

ENTRE, Signor, l'ombre villefche attragonvi,
E di Britannia dagli ufici toltovi

Non piu, ch' a fuoi ingrati figli piaccia
Per lor vantaggio, vofiro ozio immolate;
Me in efteri regni il fato invia
Entro genti feconde in carmi eterni,

U la dolce ftagion, e'l vago clima

Fanno, che voftra quiete in verfi io turbi.

*By the Abbot Anton, Maria Salvini Greek profeffor at Flerence.

Ovunque

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