V.

Here Garth appears, to whom confign'd
The double Charge of Health and Wit we find.
Apollo, griev'd to fee his Arts difgrac'd,«
Phyfic and Poetry at once debas'd;

Their facred Ends for public Good defign'd,
Perverted to destroy and plague Mankind,
To Garth the double Charge imparts,
Of living Verfe, and healing Arts.
Him when the God refolv'd to fend,
He bid Hygieia on his Steps attend.
Bid ev'ry Mufe, and ev'ry Grace prepare,
To warm the Bard with all their Fires,

To join his Song with all their Lyres,
And make his matchlefs Poem all their Care,

VI.

*

But now arriv'd I mount the facred Hill,
And Joy and Rapture all my Senfes fill.
My melancholy Thoughts retire apace,
And fly like Dæmons from the Place.
I feel, I feel the God return,
He takes Poffeffion of my Breast,
And I with all his Fury burn.

Again I feel the pleafing Smart;

Love fills his ancient Throne, my Heart; A charming Tyrant, and a welcome Gueft.

VII.

I know ye well, ye filent Groves,
Confcious of my fecret Loves:
Tell me how often have I found,
Beneath your gentle Shade,
In penfive Act upon the Ground,

The mournful STREPHON* laid.

STREPHON, the Glory of our British Plains,
The Wish of all the Nymphs, and Envy of the
Swains.

How often have I heard his charming Voice,

Thro' all the neighb'ring Hills refound,
And to repeat the Heav'nly Notes rejoice.
With Myra he begins his Lays,
And ends 'em all in Myra's Praise;
Nothing but Myra dwells upon his Tongue,
Charm of his Heart, and Subject of his Song.
Her Beauty and the Verse alike fucceed,

Nor can Oblivion fear;

For after Ages fhall with Rapture read,
What we with Rapture hear.

The pow'rful Lute on which the Thracian play'd,
Was by the Mufes to the Skies convey'd ;

One more bright Star fhall in the Field appear,
And Granville's Pen adorn the glitt'ring Sphere.

*George Granville, Efq; late Lord Lanfdowne.

+ The Countess of Newburgh.

VIII. But

But foft, I hear

VIII.

The founding Lyre;

And fee the God is near,

And all the tuneful Choir,

I've reach'd the tow'ring Height,

'Tis here the Muses stay ;

From hence I'll take my Flight,

And wing my airy Way.

That does the Gods inspire, Then may'st thou in Immortal Lays A more than Mortal Beauty praise.

Or fhould thy melting Pinions fail,
And I precipitate defcend;
Should my unlucky Stars prevail,
And give my Days this fatal End;

Yet in the Monuments of Fame
I fhall fecure a lafting Name;

And to have dare'd a Thing fo great,
Will place me far above the Pow'r of Fate.
Then when I draw my latest Breath,
Should Almahide vouchsafe to smile,
That would compenfate for my Death,

And more than pay me for

X.

my Toil.

Stay, foolish Muse, thy Hurry stay,
Where will thy Madness run?

To Almahide direct thy Way,

And feek no other Sun.'

'Tis fhe fupplies,

With brighter Eyes,

The Distance of the God of Day. When they are shut, in Britain then 'tis Night, And we eternal Darkness fear,

But when the radiant Balls appear,

We feel their Warmth, and blefs the rifing Light.
Thus fhall my Theme my Song infpire,

And heat my Breast with double Fire;
And thus my humble Genius raise
High as the Beauty that I praise.

Thus

Thus be my Want of Strength fupply'd, Thus may fhe grant what Nature has deny'd,. I ask no Inspiration but from Almabide.

XI.

In the World's early Days,
When firft Religion did appear;
Religion, which has coft Mankind fo dear
When Men began to raise

Gods to themselves, and then thofe Gods to fear,
Chofe various Lords, and tir'd of being free,
Of ev'ry Virtue fram'da Deity:
Had Almabide been known,

Had he been born to shine,

They had ador'd no other Shrine,

All thefe Perfections are in Her combin'd,
The Fom of Venus and Diana's Mind.
Her Rays a Luftre like the Sun's difpence,
And shed on all a bounteous Influence.

A cruel Glance from thofe fair Eyes,
A Word by her in Anger fpoke,
Gives more Alarms,

Than Jove in Arms,

And fwifter than his Light'ning flies,
And furer than his Stroke.

Only below she could not dwell,
Or Hell would be no longer Hell.
At her Approach the Realms of Woe

Would change their horrid Face;
The burning Flood forget to flow,

And Furies fly the Place.

C 4

XII. And