The circling ftreams, once thought but pools,

of blood

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(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food) From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall fave; While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave, Nor are you, learned friend, the leaft renown'd; Whofe fame, not circumfcrib'd with English ground,

ore,

Flies like the nimble journies of the light; 35
And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,
Redeem'd from error, or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of
Your works unite, and ftill discover more.
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books, as well as men.
Nor is this work the leaft: you well may give
To men new vigour, who make ftones to live.

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bert Boyle, feventh fon of Richard, Earl of Cork and Burlington, born in 1677, not only as being the founder of the Royal Society, for which he is here celebrated, but alfo for being the founder of a lecture, which has produced a feries of difcourfes in defence of natural and revealed religion, which, for learning and argument, cannot be paralleled in any age or country. His brother, mentioned in the next line, Earl of Orrery, was a foldier and statefman, and wrote eight tragedies in rhyme, now totally forgotten. Dr. J. WARTON.

Ver. 30. Whether life's fuel,] The merit of the very important difcovery of the circulation of the blood, has been denied to our illuftrious countryman, Dr. Harvey. It has been by fome afcribed to the famous Father Paul. Dr. Wotton gives it to Servetus, who was fo inhumanly burnt by Calvin. Sir George Ent, a celebrated phyfician, is the perfon mentioned, verfe 32. Dr. J. WARTON.

Through you, the Danes, their short dominion

loft,

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A longer conqueft than the Saxons boaft. Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found

A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown'd;

Where by their wond'ring fubjects they were

feen,

Joy'd with their ftature, and their princely

mien.

Our fovereign here above the rest might stand, And here be chofe again to rule the land.

Thefe ruins fhelter'd once his facred head, When he from Wor'fter's fatal battle fled; Watch'd by the genius of this royal place, And mighty vifions of the Danish race.

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Ver. 53. These ruins fhelter'd once &c.] In the dedication, made by Dr. Charleton, of his book, concerning Stonehenge, to King Charles II. there is the following memorable paffage, which gave occafion to the fix concluding lines of this poem. " I have had the honour to hear from that oracle of truth and wifdom, your Majesty's own mouth: you were pleased to vifit that monument, and, for many hours together, entertain yourself with the delightful view thereof, when after the defeat of your loyal army at Worcester, Almighty God, in infinite mercy to your three kingdoms, miraculously delivered you out of the bloody jaws of those minifters of fin and cruelty."

DERRICK.

Ver. 55. Watch'd by] In furveying this ftupendous work of the most remote antiquity, the mind is feized with that religious awe and fuperftition, moft adapted to awaken and excite poetical enthufiafm:

quædam divina voluptas

Percipit, atque horror!

Lucret.

His refuge then was for a temple shown:
But, he reftor'd, 'tis now become a throne.

From his mentioning the genius of the place, and the mighty vifions, one would have expected that our poct would have caught fire, and enlarged on fo promifing a fubject; but he has difappointed us, and given only a hint. Mr. Serjeant, in an elegant Ode on this fubject, has fhewn how fufceptible it was of true poetry; as has the author of the following Sonnet, which I cannot forbear to infert in this place.

SONNET.

Thou nobleft monument of Albion's ifle!
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's fhore,
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,
T'entomb his Britons flain by Hengift's guile:
Or Druid priefts, fprinkled with human gore,
Taught mid thy maffy maze their myftic lore:
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with favage fpoil,
To Victory's idol vaft, an unhewn fhrine,
Rear'd the rude heap; or, in thy hallow'd round,
Repofe the kings of Brutus' genuine line;
Or here thofe kings in folemn ftate were crown'd.
Studious to trace thy wond'rous origine,
We mufe on many an antient tale renown'd.

Dr. J. WARTon.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

TO THE

LADY CASTLEMAIN*,

UPON HER ENCOURAGING HIS

FIRST PLAY.

As feamen, fhipwreck'd on fome happy shore,

Discover wealth in lands unknown before;

* Mr. Dryden's first play, called the Wild Gallant, was exhibited with but indifferent fuccefs. The lady, whofe patronage he acknowledges in this epiftle, was Barbara, daughter of William Villiers Lord Grandifon, who was killed in the king's fervice at the battle of Edge-hill, in 1642, and buried in Chriftchurch, in Oxford. This lady was one of Charles the Second's favourite miftreffes for many years, and fhe bore him feveral children. 1. Charles Fitzroy, Duke of Southampton; 2. Henry Fitzroy, Earl of Eufton and Duke of Grafton; 3. George Fitzroy, Earl of Northumberland; 4. Charlotta, married to Sir Edward Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire, afterwards Earl of Litchfield, and brother to Eleonora, Countess of Abingdon, on whom Dryden has written a beautiful elegy; 5. A daughter, whom the King denied to be his.

This lady was, before the was known to his Majefty, married to Roger Palmer, Efq. who was created Earl of Caftlemain, by whom he had a daughter, whom the King adopted, and who married with Thomas Lord Dacres, Earl of Suffex.

The Countess of Caftlemain was afterwards created Dutchefs of Cleveland. DERRICK.

And, what their art had labour'd long in vain, By their misfortunes happily obtain :

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So my much-envy'd mufe, by forms long toft, 5
Is thrown upon your hofpitable coaft,
And finds more favour by her ill fuccefs,
Than fhe could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppofe;
While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chofe:
But have done what Cato could not do, 11
you
To choose the vanquifh'd, and reftore him too.
Let others ftill triumph, and gain their caufe
By their deferts, or by the world's applaufe;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praife defpife,
Fame is the trumpet, but your fmile the prize,
You fit above, and fee vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow:
But thofe great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance:
So great a foul, fuch fweetnefs join'd in one,
Could only fpring from noble Grandifon.
You, like the ftars, not by reflection bright, 25
Are born to your own heaven, and your own
light;

Ver. 9. Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppofe;

While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chofe:]
Victrix caufa deis placuit fed victa Catone.

JOHN WARTON.

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