Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains,
Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains.
Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares,
Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years.
Yet still, like Ætna's Mount, he kept his Fire,
And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier.
He smil'd, like Phoebus in a Stormy Morn,
And sung, like Philomel against a Thorn.
Here Syren of sweet Poesy, receive
That little praise my unknown Muse can give.
Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear
Tho' angry B—— more in Heroicks jeer.
A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil's Flame,
And would be next in Majesty and Name.
With lofty Maro he at first may please;
The Righteous Briton rises by degrees.
But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows,
And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,
The Mantuan Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,
Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight.
Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song
Runs smooth as Thames's River, and as strong.
Like his own Neptune he the Waves confines,
While Bl—— re rumbles, like the King of Winds.
His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,
Jade out our Patience with excessive length.
While Readers, Yawning o'er his Arthurs see
Whole Pages spun on one poor Simile.
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 compleat
A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.
It call'd 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 tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer,
And call the smiling Angels to his care.
Must sleep less 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 Vertues at th' expence of Danger please,
Deaf to the Syrens of alluring ease.
No Terrours 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.
Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains
Virgilian Addison describes Campaigns.
Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find,
Not of the Gyant, nor the Pygmy kind.
Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song,
Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.
This Congreve follows in his Deathless Line,
And the Tenth Hand is put to the Design.
The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil
Claims more than Shakespear's Wit, or Johnson's Oil.
Sing on, 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.
Or let thy Satyr grin with half a Smile,
And jeer in Easy Etherege's Style.
Let Manly Wycherly chalk out the Way,
And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.
'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings,
The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.
The Teian Muse invites Thee from above
To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.
Let MONTAGUE describe Boyn's swelling Flood
And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood.
O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse!
Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.
When You Nassau's bright Actions dar'd to see,
You was the Eagle, and Apollo He.
But when He read You, and Your Value knew,
He was the Eagle, and Apollo You.
Both spoke the Bird in her Æthereal height,
The Majesty was His, and Thine the Flight.
Both did Apollo in His Glory shew,
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 favour'd live, and always please
Our Dorset's, and Judicious Normanby's!
Nor does the Coronet alone defend
The Muses Cause: The Miter is Her Friend.
Can we forget how Damon's lofty Tongue
Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung
When Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd Sung.
How Mars and Pallas wept to see the Day
When Athens by a Plague dispeopled lay.
What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost!
Sung with more Spirit than all Athens lost.
Nor can the Miter now conceal the Bays,
For still we view the Sacred Poet's praise.
So tho' Eridanus becomes a Star
Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar,
Below he loses nothing but his Name,
Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same.
But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song,
Let Creech be numbred with the Sacred Throng.
Whose daring Muse 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 Ethereal 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 shinesA. Lucretius and Manilius.
In nervous English, and well-worded Lines.
Two Famous Latins[A] our bright Tongue adorn,
And a new Virgil[B]B. Mr. Dryden's Virgil. is in England born.
An Æneid to translate, and make a new,
Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.