Poetae Britannici.  
A POEM, Satyrical and Panegyrical.  
Primum ego me illorum dederim quibus esse Poetas  
Excerpam numero.—  
— Cui Mens divinior atque Os  
Magna locuturum, des Nominis hujus honorem.  Hor. 
LONDON, Printed for A. Roper at the Black-Boy, and R. Basset at the Mitre, both in Fleetstreet; and Sold by Mr. Jefferies Bookseller in Cambridge, MDCC.   

To his Friend, on the following POEM.  
OThers their praise may gratefully bestow,  
And pay that Debt, which they to merit own:  
But In indebted on a double Score,  
Much for your Verse, but for your Friendship more:  
And who an equal recompense can tell,  
For one who sings, and one who loves so well?  
To praise your Verse, is what the most will do,  
I would do something more, in praising you;  
Not, how the Poet's for his Verse admired,  
But how good Nature makes the Man desired.  
And yet the Task's so great to praise a Friend,  
That I much rather would your Verse commend.  
I would indeed; but something in your Lines  
So strange, so dazzling, so peculiar Shines,  
That loud-tongued praise must here be at a stand,  
And Silent wonder only must commend.  
Thus mighty Joy is by excess concealed,  
Yet Shakes the breast, and fain would be revealed▪  
Intranc'd in ecstasy, unmoved it lies,  
The ●●ights too heavy, and it cannot rise.  
W. DOVE.   

To my Friend on his Characters of the English POETS.  
AT last our English Tongue is happy made,  
And our Wit's grown industrious as our Trade;  
The Reverend Prophet now with joy may see,  
The utmost of his wish fulfilled in Thee,  
All Foreign Wit in English dress displayed,  
Without the help of any Foreign Aid:  
Whatever Ancient Greece or Rome could Boast,  
Is now Transported to the British Coast:  
Now all their bright perfections scattered shine  
In every Poem, but Unite in Thine;  
So the Sun yields a double Heat and Light,  
When in a Glass his scattered Beams Unite:  
Maeon's Great Son, no longer shall confine,  
To his famed Verse the force of Heat Divine:  
Our Godlike Milton has as Nobly Wrote,  
He Sings as boldly as his Angels fought!  
Judicious Dryden, may with Virgil claim,  
Of just, yet daring flights, the prudent Fame:  
Waller in Verse as Tender as his Love,  
Like soft Catullus, does our passions move:  
To Horace and to Cow does belong,  
The Boundless Fancy of the Lyric Song;  
Bion and Congreve, shall in Mournful Swains,  
Lament Untimely Fate to Weeping strains:  
Brave Cutar, like Tyrtaeus, shall Engage  
The Heroe's Courage, and the Poet's Rage.  
Oldham and Juvenal in keenest Rhimes,  
Shall lash the Follies of Degenerate Times.  
Whither does Fancy hurry me along?  
To you (my Friend) this Province does belong.  
Your Copious Wit can only Theirs express,  
For only Yours can Suit an equal dress.  
Your flowing Numbers can alone dispense,  
The warmest Fancy with the coolest sense.  
Your heat of Youth can Tower a Milton's flight,  
And Judgement can like Virgil steer it Right.  
Oh may some Genius like yourself arise,  
Whose Wit and Learning may the World Surprise!  
As you have given each Tuneful Bard his due,  
May he confer the same Reward on you,  
W. Words.   

Poetae Britannici. A POEM.  
SURE, when the Maker in his Heavenly Breast  
Designed a Creature to command the rest,  
Of all th' erected Progeny of Clay,  
His Noblest Labour was his first Essay.  
There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind  
Proportioned for the Father of Mankind.  
The vigour of Omnipotence was seen.  
In his high Actions, and imperial Mien.  
Enriched with Arts unstudied, and untaught,  
With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought;  
To rule the World, and what he ruled to Sing,  
And be at once the Poet, and the King.  
Whether his Learning with his Breath he drew,  
And saw the depth of Nature at a view:  
Or, new descending from th' Angelic Race,  
Retained some Tincture of his native place.  
Fine was the matter of that curious Frame  
Which lodged his Fiery Guest, and like the same.  
Nor was a less resemblance in his Sense:  
His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.  
When e'er he spoke, from his Seraphic Tongue  
Ten thousand comely Graces, ever young  
With new Calliopes and Clios sprung.  
No shackling Rhyme chained the free Poet's mind;  
Majestic was his Style, and unconfined.  
Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain  
Sprung forth, unlaboured, from his fruitful Brain.  
But when he yielded to deluding Charms,  
Th' harmonious Goddess shunned his empty Arms.  
The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspired,  
But to the Skies, her ancient Seat, retired.  
Yet here and there Celestial Seeds she threw,  
And reigned melodious Blessings, as she flew.  
Which some received, whom gracious Heaven designed  
For high Employments, and their Clay refined.  
Who, of a Species more sublime can tame  
The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame.  
When in their Breasts th' impetuous Numen rowls,  
And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls.  
Thus the Companion of the Godhead sung,  
And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he sprung.  
He, first of Poets, told how Infant light  
Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night;  
How Sin and Shame th' Unhappy Couple knew,  
And through affrighted Eden, more affrighted, flew.  
How God advanced his Darling Abrams fame  
In the sure promise of his lengthened Name.  
On Horeb's top, or Sina's flaming Hill,  
Familiar Heaven revealed his sacred Will.  
Seth's Column then firm and unshaken stood,  
And long outlived the malice of the Flood.  
His Father's fall was Lettered on the Stone;  
Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were known.  
Thence Divine Moses with exalted Thought  
In Hebrew Lines the World's beginning wrote.  
The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,  
Inspired with something nobler than a Muse.  
Here Deborah in fiery Rapture sings  
The rout of Armies, and the fall of Kings.  
Thy Torrent Kison shall for ever flow,  
Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe,  
With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,  
With sounding Numbers, and united lays  
The Seed of Judah to the Battle flew,  
And Orders of destroying Angels drew  
To their Victorious side; who marching round  
Their Foes touched Myriad's at the Signal sound,  
By Harmony they fell, and died without a Wound.  
So strong is Verse Divine, when we proclaim  
Thy Power, eternal Light, and sing thy Name!  
Nor does it here alone its Magic show,  
But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.  
So powerful is the Muse! when David played  
The Frantic Daemon heard him, and obeyed.  
No noise, no hiss: the Dumb Apostate lay  
Sunk in soft Silence, and dissolved away:  
Nor was this Miracle of Verse confined  
To Jews alone; for in a Heathen mind  
Some strokes appear: thus Orpheus was inspired;  
Enchanting Sirens at his Song retired.  
To Rocks and Seas he the cursed Maids pursued,  
And their Strong charms by stronger charms subdued.  
But Greece was honoured with a greater Name,  
Homer is Greece's Glory and her Shame.  
How could Learned Athens with Contempt refuse  
Th' Immortal Labours of so vast a Muse?  
Thee, Colophon, his Angry Ghost upbraids,  
While his loud numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.  
Ungrateful Cities! which could vainly strive  
For the dead Homer, whom they scorned alive.  
So strangely wretched is the Poet's doom,  
To whither here and flourish in the Tomb.  
His Fame, when living, does but slowly rise,  
But stretches like his Body, when he dies.  
Though Virgil rising under happier Stars,  
Saw Rome succeed in Learning, as in Wars.  
When Pollio like a smiling Planet shone,  
And Caesar darted on him like the Sun.  
The famed Maecenas listened with desire,  
When Tuneful Flaccus touched the Roman Lyre.  
But when, Maecenas, will thy Star appear  
In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere?  
Say, art thou come, and to deceive our Eyes,  
Dissemble under D— set's fair disguise?  
If so; go on, Great S—ckv— le, to regard  
The Poet, and th' imploring Muse reward.  
So to thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,  
Nor shall the Poet fix Thee in the Skies.  
For if a Verse Eternity can claim  
Thy own are able to preserve thy Name;  
This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain  
Octavius hovered long and sought to Reign.  
This Sun prevailed upon his Eagles' sight,  
Glared in their Royal Eyes, and stopped their flight.  
Let Him his Title to such Glory bring,  
You give as freely; and more nobly sing.  
Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,  
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.  
Horace and He, are in thy Nature joined,  
The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.  
O Light of England, and her highest Grace,  
Thou best and greatest of thy ancient Race!  
Descend, when I invoke thy Name to shine,  
(For 'tis thy praise on each unworthy Line.  
While to the World unprejudiced, I tell  
Our English Poets, and who most excel.  
Thee with the foremost through the Globe I send  
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.  
But 'twould be vain and tedious to rehearse,  
The meaner Crowd undignifyed for Verse.  
On barren Ground who drag th' unwilling Blow,  
And feel the sweat of Brain as well as Brow.  
Yet since in Verse they covet to be known,  
Nor feel the biting satire in their own:  
Since in the Front th' Intruders will appear  
And leave the noblest Poets in the rear.  
With common Soldiers, let their Names be cursed,  
Placed foremost, only to be slain the first.  
To save the Valiant from too quick a Fate,  
Whose Silken Threads are spun for longer Date.  
Whose Names in Brass, or Iron ploughed, shall brave  
Oblivion, and th' inexorable Grave.  
While that vile Crew, which soon as read, displease,  
May slumber in Forgetfulness and Ease,  
Till fresher dullness wakes their sleeping Memories.  
Some stuffed in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme,  
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime,  
Observe their twenty Faces, how they strain  
To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain▪  
O'er Darby-Ale maliciously they sit,  
And, mellow, rail at Woman, or at Wit..  
The vainest labour to secure renown,  
Tho' each could be a P—tt— s, or a B—  
Who in Burlesque, Mob-Poets have outran;  
But what's a dapper Pigmy to a Man?  
Lampoon and satire different skill betray,  
Much as nice Fencing, and Bear-Garden-Play.  
The Satyr's push is Artful and Polite;  
You must a pointed Hudibras indite,  
A Fleckno, or a Dispensary write.  
Like polished Steel, they glitter; while the worst  
Must in Dishonour and Oblivion rust.  
Tho' D D —y may grow troublesome to Fame,  
Resolved to be Immortal to his Shame;  
Let him with Quixots cloy the sated Town,  
And cram Jack Straws, and Massanello's Down  
In Comedy Immodest, and Profane,  
And Comic only in the Tragic strain,  
Impertinent, indecent, hardened, vain.  
The tickled Rabble view him with surprise,  
The Phantom dazzles their deluded Eyes.  
Unable the Judicious to persuade,  
They know his Essence, and despise his Shade.  
Nor can we Ry Ry—r's Memory forget,  
Who only wants good Nature and good Wit..  
A more than Scythian Heart, that could presume  
To by't the Dead, and vex the peaceful Tomb.  
Who talked to Shakespeare in Heroic Tone  
Where lay a Genius; and produced his own.  
As Edgar with Othello could be read,  
And Tom Trams Story vied with Holingshead.  
But how could W—st—y in Heroic Dream,  
When N— by stood by, and Christ's his Theme?  
That Patron might encourage him to sing,  
But sure the Saviour clipped his daring Wing.  
Expound his Doctrine, not his Life Expose,  
Desist from Epic, and exhort in Prose.  
Next M—rn suffers under Fortune's Curse,  
Unhappy in his Judgement, and his Verse:  
Art will no Succour to the Critic bring,  
And Nature thwarts him, when he aims to sing  
Cautiously resolute the Heat to shun,  
He clapped his Waxed Wings, and dared the Sun  
Like Icarus; but fell not from the Skies;  
For he was prudent, and refused to rise.  
Go, ply Aquinas, and his Words maintain,  
There in Divisions and Distinctions Reign.  
Or if in Nobler Sense you would succeed,  
Herculean St— fleet, and S—ck, read.  
Unwearied B— y's Sense and Learning use  
To wound the Atheist, and the Deist bruise.  
Things should be suited to their proper Tribe,  
Leave S—er to plead, and R—ffe to prescribe.  
Let Arthur's Critic on our Virgil sit,  
And Covent-Garden be the Judge of Wit.  
But, if you find a Thirst of being known  
A Critic, in no Language but your own:  
Then let the Poets a new C— l— oer feel,  
Correct with Knowledge, and Reprove with Zeal.  
Say now, whom next wilt thou, Aonian Muse  
Place in this Throng? place boldly next M— x.  
Delighting to be heard, as well as read,  
He hums, and languishes with Hands and Head.  
Ne'er destitute of Friends, (tho' all be gone)  
Like Scipio, the best Company alone.  
But then, like Sullen Timon, he's betrayed  
To that dull Solitude himself has made.  
His soaring Muse might sometimes reach the Skies,  
Did she not prate, and flutter as she flies.  
And who can with his Poetry dispense,  
Who joins French Vanity with English Sense?  
Shall we now tell, how Beaus and Ladies writ,  
Beaus for Instruction, Ladies for Delight?  
Who daily flock at Will's to be inspired,  
Who at the Rose with generous Wine are fired?  
Where the poor Muse pays Reckon with a Line,  
And Barters her Divinity for Wine.  
How Holy G— n in mistaken Youth,  
Was led by T— on the way to Truth.  
How he a Christian, and a Wit became,  
How Blount, and Phaeton at once Proclaim  
His Muse, and his Religion, are the same?  
How some, like D—fy, with much ease Indite,  
While others with much pain, like S— t— le Writ,  
Who, when they've Murdered so much costly Time,  
Beat the vexed Anvil with continual Chime,  
And laboured hard to Hammer Statutable Rhyme.  
Create a 
* Howard's B. P.  British Prince, as hard a Task,  
As might a Cowley, or a Milton ask  
To build a Poem of the vastest price,  
A Davideis, or ● lost Paradise.  
So, tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien,  
May labour with a Hero, or a Queen,  
The Dowdie's Offspring of the freckled strain,  
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain,  
Such to the Rabble shall appear inspired,  
By Coxcombs envied, and by Fools admired.  
Such we except, with those who make pretence,  
Studious of Fame, but negligent of Sense.  
We pity Madmen who attempt to fly,  
And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky.  
Who armed with Gabble to create a Name,  
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame.  
Not so the Seat of Phoebus' rose, which lay  
In Ruins buried, and a long decay.  
To Britain the Temple was conveyed  
By Nature's utmost force, and more than Human Aid.  
Built from its Basis by a Noble Few,  
The stately Fabric in perfection view.  
While Nature gazes on the polished Piece,  
The Work of many rolling Centuries.  
For joined with Art, she laboured long to raise  
An English Poet meriting the Bays.  
How vain a Toil! for Author's first were known  
For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorned their own.  
As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore,  
For glittering Brass exchanged their shining Ore.  
Involving Darkness did our Language shroud,  
Nor could we view the Goddess through the Cloud.  
Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,  
Till Chaucer risen, and pointed out the Day.  
A Joking Bard, whose Antiquated Muse,  
In mouldy Words could solid Sense produce.  
Our English Ennius He, who claimed his part  
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskilled in Art.  
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghill shines,  
And Golden Fragments glitter in his Lines.  
Which Spencer gathered, for his Learning known,  
And by successful Glean made his own.  
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,  
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the Sweets away.  
Of Gloriana, and her Knights he sung,  
Of Beasts, which from his pregnant Fancy sprung.  
O had thy Poet, Britain, relied  
On Native Strength, and Foreign Aid denied,  
Had not wild Fairies blasted his design,  
Maeonides and Virgil had been Thine!  
Their finished Poems he exactly viewed,  
But Chaucer's Steps Religiously pursued.  
He culled and picked, and thought it greater praise,  
T' adore his Master, than improve his Phrase.  
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;  
So Sacred was th' Authority of Age!  
The Coin must sure for currant Sterling pass,  
Stamped with old Chaucer's Venerable Face.  
But Johnson found it of a gross Alloy,  
Melted it down, and fling the Scum away.  
He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,  
And pressed his Sacred Image on the Coin.  
We all rejoiced to see the pillaged Over;  
Our Tongue enriched, which was so poor before.  
Fear not, Learned Poet, our impartial blame,  
Such Thefts as these add lustre to thy Name.  
Whether thy laboured Comedies betray  
The Sweat of Terence, in thy glorious way:  
Or Catiline plots better in thy Play.  
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,  
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,  
And doubt which merits most, Rome's Cicero, or Thine.  
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,  
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.  
So Macedon's Imperial Hero threw  
His Wings abroad, and Conquered as he flew.  
Great Johnson's Deeds stand Parallel with His,  
Are Noble Thefts, successful Piracies.  
Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's frame  
Are filled with larger Particles of flame.  
Scorning Confinement, for more Lands they groan,  
And stretch beyond the Limits of their own.  
Fletcher, whose Wit, like some Luxuriant Vine,  
Profusely wantoned in each Golden Line:  
Who, prodigal of Sense, by B— mont's care,  
Was pruned so wisely, and became so fair:  
Can from his copious Brain new Humours bring,  
A bragging Bessus, or inconstant King.  
Can Laughter now, now melting Pity raise  
In his Amyntor's and Aspasia's.  
But Rome and Athens must the Plots produce,  
With France, the Handmaid of the English Muse.  
Even Shakespeare sweated in his narrow Isle,  
And Subject Italy obeyed his Style.  
Boccace and Cynthio must a Tribute pay  
T' enrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.  
Thou Art ne'er taught him how to write by Rules,  
Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools:  
Yet He with Plautus could instruct and please,  
And what required long toil, perform with ease.  
By Native Strength so Theseus bent the Pine,  
Which cost the Robber many years Design.  
Tho' sometimes Rude, Unpolished and Undressed  
His Sentence flows more careless than the rest.  
But when his Muse complying with his Will,  
Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,  
Then hear him Thunder in the pompous strain  
Of Aeschylus, or sooth in Ovid's Vein.  
Then in his Artless Tragedies I see,  
What Nature seldom gives, Propriety.  
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes  
When Desdemona by her Husband dies.  
When I view Brutus in his Dress appear,  
I know not how to call him too severe.  
His rigid Virtue There atones for all,  
And makes a Sacrifice of Caesar's Fall.  
Nature wrought Wonders then; when Shakespeare died  
Her dearest Cowley risen, dressed in her gaudy Pride▪  
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,  
And builds an Ovid, when a Tully falls.  
With what delight he tunes his Silver strings,  
And David's toils, in David's numbers sings.  
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves  
Her Rural Pleasures, and his Various Loves.  
Yet every Line's so innocent and clear,  
Hermits may read them to a Virgin's Ear.  
The radiant Godhead in the Bush he found:  
Fearless he saw, and trod the hallowed Ground.  
Then her soft Lute Converted Clio strung,  
While modestly the mingled Graces sung.  
Unstol'n Promethean Fire informs his Song;  
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.  
His Wit, unfathomed, has a fresh supply,  
Is always flowing out, but never dry.  
Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,  
And lavished Wit was ne'er allowed a Fault.  
A Spirit, that is unconfined and free,  
Should hurry forward like the Wind or Sea,  
Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a vain  
Presuming Xerxes shall pretend to Reign,  
And on the flitting Air impose his ponderous Chain.  
If you who read him well, should chance to find  
His Phrase too mean t' express his lofty mind,  
His Turns too numerous, or too harsh his Rhyme,  
Impute it to his Years, and Fortune's Crime.  
He stood afar, and viewed the Promised Land;  
But perished e'er he touched the Sacred Strand.  
Through what Tempestuous Fo●●unes was he hurled!  
What Troubles, which alarmed all the World,  
Frighted the Muses! nor was he inclined  
To throw important Minutes to the Wind.  
There let such Drudges study, who are paid,  
Verse was his Recreation, not his Trade.  
Immortal Cowley! who alone could dare  
With Wings well balanced tempt th' unbounded Air.  
Who to his Lyre Pindaric Strains could call,  
Nor feared the danger of a threatened Fall.  
O had He lived to Waller's Reverend Age,  
Bettered his Measures, and Reformed his Page!  
Then Britain's Isle might raise her Trophies high.  
And solid Rome, or witty Greece outvie.  
The Rhine, the Tiber, and Parisian Seyne,  
When e'er they pay their Tribute to the Main  
Should no kind Name more gratefully rehearse,  
Than lofty Cowley's never dying Verse.  
The Thames should sweep her Briny Way before,  
And with his Fame salute each distant Shore.  
Then He, like Glorious Milton, had been known  
To Lands, which Conquest has insured our own.  
Milton! whose Muse kisses th' Embroidered Skies,  
While Earth below grows little as she flies.  
Through trackless Air she bends her winding flight,  
Far as the Confines of retreating Light.  
Tells the Singed Moors, how Sceptered Death began  
His lengthening Empire o'er offending Man.  
Unteaches Conquered Nations to Rebel,  
By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.  
Now Seraphs Crowned with Helmets I behold,  
Helmets of substance more refined than Gold.  
The Skies with an united Lustre shine,  
And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies join.  
God's plated Son, Majestically gay,  
Urges' Chariot through the Crystal way;  
Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders as he flies;  
Arms in his Hands, and Terror in his Eyes.  
O'er heavens wide Arch the routed Squadrons roar,  
And transfixed Angels grow 〈…〉 upon the Diamond Floor.  
Then, wheeling from Olympus' Snowy top,  
Through redned Air the giddy Leaders drop  
Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,  
And gaze on the lost Sky from whence they fell.  
I see the Fiend, who, tumbled from his Sphere,  
Once by the Victor God, gins to fear  
New Lightning, and a second Thunderer.  
I hear him yell, and argue with the Skies;  
Wast not enough, Relentless Power, he cries,  
Despair of better State, and loss of Light  
Irreparable? was not loathsome Night,  
And ever during dark, sufficient pain,  
But Man must Triumph by our Fall, and Reign  
To register the Fate which we sustain?  
Hence Hell is doubly Sealed: Almighty Name,  
Hence after Thine we feel the Poet's flame,  
And in Immortal Song renew reviving Shame.  
O Soul Seraphic, teach us how we may  
Thy Praise adapted to thy worth display:  
For who can Merit more? or who enough can pay?  
Earth was unworthy thy aspiring view,  
Sublimer Objects were reserved for you.  
Thence nothing mean obtrudes on thy design,  
Thy Style is equal to thy Theme Divine,  
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.  
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose  
Their opening Beauties could to Thee disclose:  
Tho' Nature's curious Characters which we  
Exactly view, were all erased to Thee.  
Yet Heaven stood Witness to thy piercing Sight;  
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light.  
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor could he stay  
In lower Night, and such a want of Day:  
But winged aloft, from sordid Earth retires  
To higher Glory, and his kindred Fires;  
Like an unhooded Hawk, who lose to prey,  
With open Eyes pursues the Aetherial way.  
There, happy Soul, assume thy destined place,  
And in you Sphere begin thy glorious race:  
That Sphere, which Lucifer did once Disgrace.  
Or, if amongst the Laurelled Heads there be,  
A Mansion in the Sky reserved for Thee;  
There, Ruler of thy Orb, aloft appear,  
And roll with Homer in the brightest Sphere.  
To whom Calliope has joined thy Name,  
And recompensed thy Fortunes with his Fame:  
Tho' she (forgive our freedom!) some times flows;  
In Lines too rugged, and akin to Prose.  
When Scope is granted to your Speech and Thought,  
Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote.  
Like some fair Planet thy Majestic Song,  
Should move with ease and Sparkle as it rolled along.  
Like Waller's Muse, who, though enchained by Rhyme,  
Taught Wondering Poets to keep even Chime.  
Harmonious Waller's praise inflames my Breast,  
Waller, more sweet and Courtly than the rest  
Of Poets, no unmanly Turns pursues,  
Rash Errors of an injudicious Muse.  
Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks gay;  
Just gilds the place, and vanishes away.  
In one continued blaze he upwards sprung,  
Like those Seraphic Flames of which he Sung.  
If, Cromwell, he laments thy mighty Fall,  
Nature attending Weeps at the great Funeral.  
Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings,  
The Monarch to his ancient Throne; or Sings  
Batavians worsted on the Conquered Main,  
Fleets flying, and Adventurous Opdam Slain;  
Then Rome and Athens to his Song repair,  
With British Graces Smiling on his care,  
Divinely Charming in a Dress so fair.  
As Squadrons in well Marshaled Order fill,  
The Flandrian Plains, and speak no vulgar Skill:  
So ranked is every line, each Sentence such,  
No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.  
As Pearls in Gold with their own lustre shine,  
The Substance precious, and the Work Divine.  
So did his Words his beauteous Thoughts enchase,  
Both shone and sparkled with unborrowed Grace,  
A mighty value in a little space.  
So the Venusian Clio sung of Old,  
When lofty acts in well-chose Phrase she told.  
But Rome's aspiring Lyric moved us less,  
Sung not so moving, tho' with more success.  
O Sacharissa, what could steel thy breast,  
To rob the charming Waller of his rest?  
To send him murmuring through the Cypress Grove,  
In strains lamenting his Neglected Love.  
The attentive Forest did his Grief partake,  
And Sympathising Okes their knotted Branches shake.  
Each Nymph, tho' coy, to pity would incline,  
And every stubborn Heart was moved but Thine.  
Hence forth be thou to future Ages known,  
Like Niobe, a Monument of Stone.  
Here could I dwell, like Bees on flowery Dew,  
And Waller's praise eternally pursue,  
Can I like Him, in Harmony excel,  
So sweetly tune the Lute, and sing so well.  
But now my hasty Muse converts her Eye,  
To see where Denham and Roscommon fly,  
Cautiously daring and correctly high.  
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,  
Of ancient Spirit, and of ancient race.  
Who, when withdrawn from business and affairs,  
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting cares,  
With thoughts of Verse deceived the sliding time,  
And unrewarded sung in Noble Rhyme.  
Not like those venal Bards, who writ for Pence,  
Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense:  
The Critic judges while the Muse indites,  
And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden Writes.  
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest size,  
But like the Stoick's of prodigious price.  
Roscommon's Rules shall o'er our Isle be read,  
Nor die, till Poetry itself be Dead.  
Famed Cooper's Hill, shall like Parnassus stand,  
And Denham Reign the Phoebus of the Land.  
As long as Silver Thames shall flow, and join,  
His blended Waters with the foamy Brine:  
While his pure stream is so divinely Sung,  
Be Thou, Great Poet, Father of our Tongue.  
Among these sacred and immortal Names,  
A Youth glares out, and his just honour Claims.  
See, Circling Fires, instead of Laurel, play  
Around his Head, and Sun the brightened way.  
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,  
Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.  
In her moist Grave the fainting Day's oppressed,  
And Oldham lies extinguished in his West.  
Here, pious Muse, lament a while, 'tis just  
We pay some Tribute to his Sacred Dust.  
O'er his fresh Marble strew the fading Rose  
And Lily, for his Youth resembled those.  
The brooding Sun took care to dress him gay,  
In all the Trappings of the flowery May.  
He set him out unsufferably bright,  
And sowed in every part his Beamy Light.  
Th' unfinished Poet budded forth too soon,  
For what the Morning warmed, was scorched at Noon.  
Did not the Laws of Fate so hard appear.  
To thriving Youth unseas'nbaely severe,  
What prodigies, what wonders had we seen,  
In his late Autumn, when a Muse so green  
Can Homer praise, and Johnson's happy toil,  
While Horace ripened in the British soil?  
His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,  
Like Satyrs, rough; but not deformed as they.  
His Sense undressed, like Adam, free from blame,  
Without his Clothing, and without his shame.  
True Wit requires no Ornaments of Skill,  
A Beauty Naked, is a Beauty still.  
Heated with rage, he lashed the Romish Crimes,  
In rugged satire, and ill-sounding Rhymes.  
All Italy feared his imbittered Tongue,  
And trembled less when sharp Lucilius stung.  
Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse,  
Th' extravagance of his unhallowed Muse.  
In Jordan's Stream she washed the tainted Sore,  
And risen more beauteous than she was before.  
Then Fancy curbed, began to lose her Rage,  
And Spark's of Judgement glimmered in his page.  
When the wild Fury did his breast inspire,  
She raved, and set the Little World on Fire.  
Thus L—gh by Reason strove not to control,  
The Powerful heat, which o'er-informed his Soul.  
He took his Swinge, and Nature's bounds surpassed,  
Stretched her, and bend her, till she broke at last.  
We scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;  
But who will call a blaze a Lambent Flame?  
Terror and Pity are allowed to be,  
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.  
If Pity soothes us, Otway claims our praise;  
If Terror strikes, then L—gh deserves the Bays.  
We grant a Genius shines in Jaffeir's part,  
And Roman Brutus speaks a Master's Art.  
But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase,  
An Earthly Vapour, or a Mounting blaze.  
A rising Meteor never was designed,  
T' amaze the sober part of Human kind.  
Were I to write for Fame, I would not choose,  
A prostitute and mercenary Muse.  
Which for poor gains, must in rich Trappings go,  
Emptily gay, magnificently low,  
Like ancient Rome's Religion, Sacrifice and show.  
Things fashioned for Amusement and surprise,  
ne'er move the Head, though they divert the Eyes.  
The mouthing Actor's well-dissembled Rage,  
May strike the young Sir Foplings, on the Stage:  
But, disengaged, the swelling Phrase I find,  
Like Spencer's Giant, sunk away in Wind.  
It grates judicious Readers, when they meet,  
Nothing but jingling Verse, and even feet:  
Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,  
Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.  
L—gh aimed to rise above great Dr— n height,  
But lofty Dr— n kept a steady flight.  
Like Daedalus, he times with prudent care  
His well-waxed Wings, and waves in Middle-Air.  
Crowned with the sacred Snow of reverend Years,  
Dr— n above th' ignobler Crowd appears.  
Raises his laurelled Head, and, as he goes  
O'er-shoulders all, and like Apollo shows.  
The native Spark, which first advanced his Name,  
By industry he kindled to a flame.  
Then to a different Coast his Judgement flew,  
He left th' Old World behind, and found a New.  
On the strong Columns of his lasting Wit,  
Instructive Dr— n built, and peopled it.  
In every Page Delight, and Profit shines;  
Immortal Sense flows in his mighty Lines.  
His Images so strong and lively be,  
I hear not Words alone, but Substance see.  
The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue  
To such perfection from his Numbers sprung.  
His Tropes continued, and his Figures fine,  
All of a piece throughout, and all Divine.  
Adapted Words and sweet Expressions move  
Our various passions, Pity, Rage and Love.  
I weep to hear fond Anthony complain  
In Sh—r's fancy, but in Virgil's strain.  
Tho for the Comic, others we prefer,  
Himself the Judge: nor does his Judgement err.  
But Comedy, 'tis thought, can never claim  
The sounding Title of a Poem's name.  
For Raillery, and what creates a smile,  
Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.  
That heavenly heat refuses to be seen  
In a Town-Character, and Comic Mein.  
If we would do him right, we must produce  
The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse  
With her loud Accents filled the Listening Ear,  
And Peals applauding shaken the Theatre.  
They fond seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,  
Who think that Foreign-banks produced thy Bays.  
Is he obliged to France, who draws from thence  
By English energy, their captive sense?  
Tho' Edward, and famed Henry warred in vain,  
Subduing what they could not long retain;  
Yet now beyond our Arms, the Muse prevails,  
And Poets conquer, when the Hero fails.  
This does superior Excellence betray:  
O could I write in thy immortal way!  
If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make  
Such great improvements, Nature must forsake  
Her ancient Style; and in some grand Design,  
She must her own Originals decline,  
And for the noblest Copies, follow Thine.  
This all the World must offer to thy praise,  
And this Thalia sang in rural lays.  
As sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain,  
As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain;  
Such Divine Dr— ns charming Verses show,  
Please like the River, like the River flow.  
When his first years in mighty order ran,  
And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,  
Around his Lips the waxed Artists hung,  
And breathed Ambrosial Odours as they sung.  
In yellow Clusters from their Hives they flew,  
And on his Tongue distilled eternal Due:  
Thence from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,  
More sweet than Honey from the knotted Oak.  
More smooth than streams, that from a Mountain glide,  
Yet lofty as the Top, from whence they slide.  
Long he possessed th' Hereditary Plains,  
Beloved by all the Hersdmen, and the Swains,  
Till he resigned his Flock, oppressed with fears,  
And oldened in his woe, as well as fears.  
Yet still, like Aetna's Mount, he kept his Fire,  
And looked, like beauteous Roses on a Brier:  
He smiled, like Phoebus in a stormy Morn,  
And sung, like Philomela against a Thorn.  
Here, Siren of sweet Poesy, receive  
That little praise, my unknown Muse can give.  
Be Thou immortal, nor harsh censure fear,  
Tho' angry Bl—re in Heroics jeer.  
A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil's flame,  
And next in height, would be the next in name.  
With lofty Maro he at first may please:  
The Generous Britain rises by degrees;  
But once on Wing, through secret paths he rows,  
And losing Virgil's sight, in a main Ocean flows.  
Then seeks his Pilot through the boundless Sky,  
And sometimes soars too eager and too high.  
The Mantuan Bird keeps a soft gentle flight,  
Is always lofty, and still plays in sight.  
Calm and serene his Verse: his active Song  
Runs smooth as Thames' River, and as strong.  
Like his own Neptune, he commands the Waves;  
Like Aeolus, high Bl—re sometimes raves.  
We grant he labours with no want of Brains,  
Or Fire, or Spirit; but he spares the pains.  
One happy Thought, or two, may at a heat  
Be struck; but Time and Study must complete  
A Verse, sublimely good, and justly great.  
It called for an Omnipotence, to raise  
The World's imperial Poem in Six Days.  
But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay,  
Subject to err, and subject to decay,  
In hopes, desires, will, power, (a numerous Train)  
Uncertain, fickle, impotent and vain,  
Must tyre the Heavenly Muse, with endless Prayer,  
And call the smiling Angels to his care:  
Must sleepless Nights, Vulcanian Labours prove;  
Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for a Jove.  
With flame begin thy glorious Thoughts and Style,  
Then cool, and bring them to the smoothing File,  
If you design to make your Prince appear  
As perfect, as Humanity can bear;  
Whom Virtues at th' expense of danger please,  
Deaf to the Sirens of alluring ease.  
No Terrors Thee, Achilles, could invade,  
Nor Thee, Ulysses, any charms persuade.  
This must be done, if Poets would be read,  
Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.  
This Congreve follows in his deathless Line,  
And the tenth hand is put to the Design.  
The happy boldness in his finished toil,  
Smells more than Sh—r's Wit, or I Oil.  
Sing, sing, harmonious Swan, in weeping Strains,  
And tell Pastora's Death to mournful Swains:  
Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs,  
Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.  
To Noble D— t bear thy Lyric Song,  
D— t, round whom the crowding Muse's throng.  
Or let thy satire grin with half a smile,  
And jeer in easy Eth— ge's style.  
Let manly W—ly chalk out the way,  
While Art directs where Nature goes astray.  
'Tis not for Thee to write of conquering Kings,  
The noise of Arms will break thy Peaceful Strings.  
The Teian Muse invites Thee from above,  
To lay thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.  
Let M—gue describe Boyne's swelling Flood,  
And purple Fields fattened with hostile Blood.  
O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse,  
Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.  
When you Nassaw's bright Actions dared to see,  
You were the Eagle, and Apollo Herald  
But when he read Thee, and Thy Value knew,  
He was the Eagle, and Apollo You.  
Both spoke the Bird in her aethereal height,  
The Majesty was His, and Thine the Flight.  
Both did Apollo in his Glory show:  
The Silver Harp was Thine, and His the Bow.  
So may Pierian Clio cease to fear,  
When Honour deigns to Sing, and Majesty to hear▪  
So may she favoured live, and ever please  
Our D— s, and judicious N— bies!  
Nor does the Coronet alone defend  
The Muse's cause; the Mitre is her Friend.  
Can we forget how Damon's lofty Tongue,  
Shook the glad Mountains, how the Valleys rung,  
When Rochester's Seraphic Shepherd Sung?  
How Mars and Pallas wept to see the Day,  
When Athens by a Plague dispeopled lay.  
What Learning perished, and what Lives it cost!  
Sung with more Spirit than all Athens lost.  
Nor can the Mitre now conceal the Bays,  
For still we view the Sacred Poet's praise.  
So, though Eridanus becomes a Star,  
Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar:  
Below he loses nothing but his Name,  
Still faithful to his Banks, his Streams the same.  
But Smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song;  
Let Creech be numbered with the Sacred Throng.  
Whose daring Soul could with Manilius fly,  
And, like an Atlas, Shoulder up the Sky.  
He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can Trace,  
His wondrous Footsteps, and mysterious Race.  
See, how he Walks above in mighty strains,  
And wanders o'er the wide Aetherial plains!  
He Sings what Harmony the Spheres obey,  
In Verse more Tuneful, and more sweet than they.  
'Tis cause of Triumph when Rome's Genius shines,  
In Nervous English, and well Worded Lines.  
Two famous Latins our bright Tongue adorn,  
And a new Virgil is in England Born.  
An Aeneid to Translate, and make a New,  
Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.  
For though th' Invention of a Godlike Mind,  
Excels the Works of Nature and Mankind.  
Yet a well Languaged Version will require  
An equal Genius, and as strong a Fire.  
These claim at once our Study and our praise,  
Famed for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase.  
These are thy Eagles, England, who alone  
Soar high, and talk in an Imperial Tone,  
Who bear not Jove's loud Thunder, but their own.  
Hail Glorious Titles, who have been my Theme!  
O could I Writ so well as I esteem!  
From her low Nest, my humble Soul should rise,  
As a Young Phoenix out of Ashes flies.  
Above what France or Italy can show,  
The Celebrated Tasso, or Boileau.  
Come, come, who e'er thou art that seekest to fin●  
Something to pleasure and instruct thy Mind.  
If, when retired from business or from Men,  
You love the studied Travels of the Pen,  
Employ the Minutes of your Vacant time,  
On C C —y, or on Dr— n Noble Rhyme.  
For these, if well observed, can strictly show,  
In charming Numbers what is false, what true,  
And Teach more good than Hobbs or Locke can do.  
Hail ye Poetic Dead! who wander now  
In Fields of Light; at your fair Shrines we bow.  
Freed from the Malice of injurious Fate,  
Ye blessed partakers of a happier State.  
Whether Entombed with English Kings you sleep,  
Or common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:  
There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,  
May cheerful Birds their pious Offerings pay!  
There may sweet Myrrh with balmy Tears perfume  
The hallowed ground, and Roses deck the Tomb!  
But you who live, no cruel Tempest fear;  
Sing on, let Mother— gue and D— t hear.  
In stately Verse let William's Praise be told,  
William rewards with Honour, and with Gold.  
No more of Richlieu's worth; forget not, Fame,  
To change Augustus for Great William's Name.  
Who, (tho' like Homer's Jupiter he sat,  
Musing on something eminently great,  
And balanced in his Mind the World's important Fate)  
Lays by the vast concern, and gladly hears,  
The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.  
The Sleeping Dooms of Empires were delayed,  
And Fate stood silent while the Poet played.  
The Double Virtue of Nassovian Fire,  
At once the Soldier and the Muse inspire.  
The Hero listened when the Thunder Rung  
A fatal sound, or when the Harp was strung,  
When Mars has acted, or when Phoebus Sung.  
O could my Muse reach M— ns Towering flight,  
Or stretch her Wings to the Maeonian height!  
Through Air, and Earth, and Seas, I would disperse  
His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.  
The Murmuring Waves to hear me should grow tame,  
And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name.  
The Docil Birds should the loud Lesson bear,  
To farthest East and West, through Liquid Air.  
Then should they warble in a Tyrant's Ear,  
And with sweet Notes instruct him whom to fear.  
But we must all decline; the Muse grows dumb,  
Not weary with his Praise but overcome.  
Who shall describe him? or what Eye can trace,  
The Martial Glories of his Princely Race?  
What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?  
No Land but Britain, must pretend to shine  
With Gods, and Heroes of an equal Line.  
So may this Island a new Delos prove,  
And join Apollo to the Cretan Jove.  
What bloom! what youth! what hopes of future fame!  
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heavenly flame!  
Like two mild Stars, his glorious Fate they show,  
But on his Enemies like Comets glow.  
How swiftly Glo'ster in his bud began!  
How the green Hero blossoms into Man!  
Smit with the thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,  
To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms.  
See how he Spurs and Rushes to the War!  
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar.  
What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy they,  
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day!  
Edwards and Harrys to his Eyes appear  
In Warlike Forms, and shake the glittering Spear.  
At Agincourt, so terrible they stood,  
So, when Pictavian Fields were died with Blood.  
The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,  
And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.  
Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,  
Unseen, above him, and about him, fly.  
O'er England's Hopes, their Flaming Swords they hold,  
And Wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.  
Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,  
But, ever waking, bless him in his sleep.  
Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,  
Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,  
Defend the Hero, and protect his Head.  
After whose Conquests, and the work of Fate,  
The Arts, and Muses on his Triumph wait.  
The Streams of Thamisis, exulting Ring,  
When fair Augusta's lofty Clios sing.  
Granta, and Rhedycina's Tuneful Throng,  
Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.  
Live, Heavenly Youth, beyond invidious Time,  
To shine in Annals, and immortal Rhyme.  
Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,  
Bright as the Sun, shall, as the Sun endure.  
But on thy Fame no envious spots shall Prey,  
Till English Sense, and Valour shall decay.  
Till Learning, and the Muses Mortal grow,  
Or Cam, or Isis shall forget to flow.  
FINIS.