Then tuneful Pope, whom all the nine inspire,
With saphic sweetness, and pindaric fire.
Father of verse! melodious and divine!
Next peerless Milton should distinguish'd shine.
Smooth flow his numbers when he paints the grove,
Th' enraptur'd virgins list'ning into love.
But when the night and hoarse resounding storm,
Rush on the deep, and Neptune's face deform,
Rough runs the verse, the son'rous numbers roar
Like the hoarse surge that thunders on the shore.
But when he sings th' exhilerated swains,
Th' embow'ring groves, and Windsor's blissful plains,
Our eyes are ravish'd with the sylvan scene,
Embroider'd fields, and groves in living green:
His lays the verdure of the meads prolong,
And wither'd forests blossom in his song;
Thames' silver streams his flowing verse admire,
And cease to murmur while he tunes his lyre.

Next shou'd appear great Dryden's lofty muse,
For who would Dryden's polish'd verse refuse?
His lips were moisten'd in Parnassus' spring,
And Phœbus taught his laureat son to sing.
How long did Virgil untranslated moan,
His beauties fading, and his flights unknown;
Till Dryden rose, and, in exalted strain,
Re-sang the fortune of the god-like man?
Again the Trojan prince with dire delight,
Dreadful in arms, demands the ling'ring fight:
Again Camilla glows with martial fire,
Drives armies back, and makes all Troy retire.
With more than native lustre Virgil shines,
And gains sublimer heights in Dryden's lines.

The gentle Watts, who strings his silver lyre
To sacred odes, and heav'n's all-ruling fire;
Who scorns th' applause of the licentious stage,
And mounts yon sparkling worlds with hallow'd rage,
Compels my thoughts to wing the heav'nly road,
And wafts my soul, exulting, to my God;
No fabled Nine harmonious bard! inspire
Thy raptur'd breast with such seraphic fire;
But prompting Angels warm thy boundless rage,
Direct thy thoughts, and animate thy page.
Blest man! for spotless sanctity rever'd,
Lov'd by the good, and by the guilty fear'd;
Blest man! from gay delusive scenes remov'd,
Thy Maker loving, by thy Maker lov'd;
To God thou tun'st thy consecrated lays,
Nor meanly blush to sing Jehovah's praise.
Oh! did, like thee, each laurel'd bard delight,
To paint Religion in her native light,
Not then with Plays the lab'ring' press would groan,
Nor Vice defy the Pulpit and the Throne;
No impious rhymer charm a vicious age,
Nor prostrate Virtue groan beneath their rage:
But themes divine in lofty numbers rise,
Fill the wide earth, and echo through the skies.

These for Delight;—for Profit I would read,
The labour'd volumes of the learned dead:
Sagacious Locke, by Providence design'd
T' exalt, instruct, and rectify the mind.
Th' unconquerable Sage,[[A]] whom virtue fir'd,
And from the tyrant's lawless rage retir'd,
When victor Cæsar freed unhappy Rome,
From Pompey's chains, to substitute his own.
Longinius, Livy, fam'd Thucydides,
Quintillian, Plato and Demosthenes,
Persuasive Tully, and Corduba's Sage,[[B]]
Who fell by Nero's unrelenting rage;
Him[[C]] whom ungrateful Athens doom'd to bleed,
Despis'd when living, and deplor'd when dead.
Raleigh I'd read with ever fresh delight,
While ages past rise present to my fight:
Ah man unblest! he foreign realms explor'd,
Then fell a victim to his country's sword!
Nor should great Derham pass neglected by, }
Observant sage! to whose deep piercing eye }
Nature's stupendous works expanded lie. }

Nor he, Britannia, thy unmatch'd renown!
(Adjudg'd to wear the philosophic crown)
Who on the solar orb uplifted rode,
And scan'd th' unfathomable works of God,
Who bound the silver planets to their spheres,
And trac'd th' elliptic curve of blazing stars!
Immortal Newton; whole illustrious name
Will shine on records of eternal fame.

By love directed, I wou'd choose a wife,
T' improve my bliss and ease the load of life.
Hail Wedlock! hail, inviolable tye!
Perpetual fountain of domestic joy!
Love, friendship, honour, truth, and pure delight,
Harmonious mingle in the nuptial rite.
In Eden first the holy state begun,
When perfect innocence distinguish'd man;
The human pair, th' Almighty Pontiff led,
Gay as the morning to the bridal bed;
A dread solemnity th' espousals grac'd,
Angels the Witnesses, and GOD the PRIEST!
All earth exulted on the nuptial hour,
And voluntary roses deck'd the bow'r!
The joyous birds, on ev'ry blossom'd spray,
Sung Hymenians to th' important day,
While Philomela swell'd the sponsal song,
And Paradise with gratulations rung.

Relate, inspiring muse! where shall I find
A blooming virgin with an angel mind,
Unblemish'd as the white-rob'd virgin quire
That fed, O Rome! thy consecrated fire;
By reason aw'd, ambitious to be good,
Averse to vice, and zealous for her God?
Relate, in what blest region can I find
Such bright perfections in a female mind?
What Phœnix-woman breathes the vital air,
So greatly greatly good, and so divinely fair?
Sure, not the gay and fashionable train,
Licentious, proud, immoral and prophane;
Who spend their golden hours in antic dress,
Malicious whispers, and inglorious ease.—

Lo! round the board a shining train appears,
In rosy beauty, and in prime of years!
This hates a flounce, and this a flounce approves,
This shews the trophies of her former loves;
Polly avers that Sylvia dress in green,
When last at church the gaudy Nymph was seen;
Chloe condemns her optics, and will lay
'Twas azure sattin, interstreak'd with grey;
Lucy invested with judicial pow'r,
Awards 'twas neither—and the strife is o'er.

Then parrots, lap-dogs, monkeys, squirrels, beaus,
Fans, ribbands, tuckers, patches, furbaloes,
In quick succession, thro' their fancies run,
And dance incessant on the flippant tongue.
And when fatigued with ev'ry other sport,
The belles prepare to grace the sacred court,
They marshal all their forces in array,
To kill with glances and destroy in play.
Two skilful maids, with reverential fear,
In wanton wreaths collect their silken hair;
Two paint their cheeks, and round their temples pour
The fragrant unguent, and the ambrosial show'r;
One pulls the shape-creating stays, and one
Encircles round her waist the golden zone:
Not with more toil t' improve immortal charms,
Strove Juno, Venus, and the Queen of Arms,
When Priam's Son adjudg'd the golden prize
To the resistless beauty of the skies.
At length equip'd in love's enticing arms,
With all that glitters and with all that charms,
Th' ideal goddesses to church repair,
Peep thro' the fan and mutter o'er a pray'r,
Or listen to the organ's pompous sound,
Or eye the gilded images around;
Or, deeply studied in coquetish rules,
Aim wily glances at unthinking fools;
Or shew the lilly hand with graceful air,
Or wound the fopling with a lock of hair:
And when the hated discipline is o'er,
And Misses tortur'd with Repent no more,
They mount the pictur'd coach, and to the play
The celebrated idols hie away.

Not so the Lass that shou'd my joys improve,
With solid friendship, and connubial love:
A native bloom, with intermingled white,
Should set features in a pleasing light;
Like Helen flushing with unrival'd charms.
When raptur'd Paris darted in her arms.
But what, alas! avails a ruby cheek,
A downy bosom, or a snowy neck!
Charms ill supply the want of innocence,
Nor beauty forms intrinsic excellence:
But in her breast let moral beauties shine,
Supernal grace and purity divine:
Sublime her reason, and her native wit
Unstrain'd with pedantry and low conceit;
Her fancy lively, and her judgment free,
From female prejudice and bigotry:
Averse to idle pomp, and outward show,
The flatt'ring coxcomb, and fantastic beau.