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Here rural notes a gentle mirth inspire,
Here lofty lines the kindling reader fire; .
Like that fair tree you praise, the poem charms,
Cools like the fruit, or like the juice it warms.
Blest clime, which Vaga's fruitful streams improve,
Etruria's envy, and her Cosmo's love;
Redstreak he quaffs behind the Chian vine,
Gives Tuscan yearly for thy Scudmore's wine ;
And ev’n his Tasso would exchange for thine.
Rise, rise, Roscommon, see the Blenheim Muse
The dull constraint of monkish rhyme refuse ;
See, o'er the Alps his towering pinions soar,
Where never English poet reach'd before :
See mighty Cosmo's counsellor and friend,
By turns on Cosmo and the Bard attend :
Rich in the coins and busts of ancient Rome,
In him he brings a nobler treasure home;
In them he views her gods, and domes design'd;
In him the soul of Rome, and Virgil's mighty mind;
To him for ease retires from toils of state,
Not half so proud to govern as translate.

Our Spencer, first by Pizan poets taught, To us their tales, their style, and numbers brought. To follow ours, now Tuscan bards descend, From Philips borrow, though to Spencer lend,

VOL. I.

Like Philips too the yoke of rhyme disdain ;
They first on English bards imposed the chain,
First from an English bard from rhyme their free.

dom gain.
Tyrannic rhyme, that cramps to equal chime,
The gay, the soft, the florid and sublime :
Some say this chain the doubtful sense decides,
Confines the fancy, and the judgment guides :
I'm sure in needless bonds it poets ties,
Procrustes like, the axe or wheel applies,
To lap the mangled sense, or stretch it into size :
At best a crutch, that lifts the weak along,
Supports the feeble, but retards the strong ;
And the chance thoughts, when govern'd by the

close, Oft rise to fustian, or descend to prose. Your judgment, Philips, ruled with steady sway, You used no curbing rhyme, the Muse to stay; To stop her fury, or direct her way. Thee on the wing thy uncheck'd vigour bore, To wanton freely, or securely soar.

So the stretch'd cord the shackle-dancer tries, As prone to fall, as impotent to rise : When freed he moves, the sturdy cable bends, He mounts with pleasure, and secure descends ;

Now dropping seems to strike the distant ground, Now high in air his quivering feet rebound.

Rail on, ye triflers, who to Will's repair ; For new lampoons, fresh cant, or modish air ; Rail on at Milton's son, who wisely bold Rejects new phrases, and resumes the old : Thus Chaucer lives in younger Spencer's strains, In Maro's page reviving Ennius reigns ; The ancient words the Majesty complete, And make the poem venerably great : So when the queen in royal habits drest, Oft mystick emblems grace th' imperial vest, And in Eliza's robes all Anne stands confest.

A haughty bard, to fame by volumes raised, At Dick's, and Batson's, and through Smithfield

praised, Cries out aloud-Bold Oxford bard, forbear With rugged numbers to torment my ear; Yet not like thee the heavy critick soars, But paints in fustian, or in turn deplores ; With Bunyan's style profanes heroic songs, To the tenth page lean Homilies prolongs ; For far fetch'd rhymes makes puzzled angels strain), And in low prose dull Lucifer complain :

His envious Muse, by native dulness curst, Damns the best poems, and contrives the worst.

Beyond his praise or blame thy works prevail Complete where Dryden and thy Milton fail ; Great Milton's wing on lower themes subsides, And Dryden oft in rhyme his weakness hides; You ne'er with jingling words deceive the ear, And yet, on humble subjects, great appear. Thrice happy youth, whom noble Isis crowns ! Whom Blackmore censures, and Godolphin owns : So on the tuneful Margarita's tongue The listening nymphs and ravish'd heroes hung: But cits and fops the heaven-born music blame, And bawl, and hiss, and damn her into fame : Like her sweet voice, is thy harmonious song, As high as sweet, as easy, and as strong.

Oh! had relenting Heaven prolong'd his days, The towering bard had sung in nobler lays, How the last trumpet wakes the lazy dead, How saints aloft the cross triumphant spread, How opening heavens their happy regions shew, And gnawing gulphs, with flaming vengeance glow, And saints rejoice above, and sinners howl below: Well might he sing the day he could not fear, And paint the glories he was sure to wear.

Oh best of friends, will ne'er the silent urn
To our just vows the hapless youth return?
Must he no more divert the tedious day?
Nor sparkly thoughts in antique words convey ?
No more to harmless irony descend,
To noisy fools a grave attention lend,
Nor merry tales with learn'd quotations blend?
No more in false pathetick phrase complain
Of Delia's wit, her charms, and her disdain ?
Who now shall godlike Anna's fame diffuse !
Must she, when most she merits, want a muse?
Who now our Twisden's glorious fate shall tell ;
How loved he lived, and how deplored he fell ?
How, while the troubled elements around,
Earth, water, air, the stunning din resound, .
Through streams of smoke, and adverse fire, he

rides,
While every shot is levell’d at his sides?
How, while the fainting Dutch remotely fire
And the famed Eugene's iron troops retire,
In the first front, amidst a slaughtered pile,
High on the mound he dy'd near great Argyll.

Whom shall I find unbiass'd in dispute, Eager to learn, unwilling to confute?

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