Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung,
And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung.
He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light,
Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night.
How Sin and Shame th' Unhappy Couple knew,
And thro' affrighted Eden, more affrighted, flew.
How God advanc'd his Darling Abram's fame,
In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name.
On Horeb's Top, or Sinah's flaming Hill
Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will.
Unshaken then Seth's stony Column stood,
Surviving the Destruction of the Flood.
His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone,
Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known.
Thence Divine Moses, with exalted thought,
In Hebrew Lines the Worlds Beginning wrote.The Progress of Poetry.
The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,
Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse.
Here Deborah in fiery rapture sings,
The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings.
Thy Torrent, Kison, shall for ever flow,
Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe.
With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,
With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays,
The Seed of Judah to the Battle flew,
And Orders of Destroying Angels drew
To their Victorious side: Who marching round
Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound,
By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound.
So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim
Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name!
Nor does it here alone it's Magick show,
But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.
So powerful is the Muse! When David plaid,
The Frantick Dæmon heard him, and obey'd.
No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay
Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away.
Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'dOrpheus.
To Jews alone: For in a Heathen mind
Some strokes appear: Thus Orpheus was inspir'd,
Inchanting Syrens at his Song retir'd.
To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd,
And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd.Homer.
But Greece was honour'd with a Greater Name,
Homer is Greece's Glory and her Shame.
How could Learn'd Athens with contempt refuse,
Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse?
Thee, Colophon, his angry Ghost upbraids,
While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.
Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive
For the Dead Homer, whom they scorn'd Alive.
So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom!
To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.
Tho' Virgil rising under happier Stars,
Saw Rome succeed in Learning as in Wars.
When Pollio, like a smiling Planet, shone,
And Cæsar darted on him, like the Sun.
Nor did Mecænas, gain a less repute,
When Tuneful Flaccus touch'd the Roman Lute.
But when, Mecænas, will Thy Star appear
In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere?
Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes
Dissembled under DORSET's fair Disguise?
If so; go on, Great Sackvile, to regard
The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward.
So to Thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,
Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.
For if a Verse Eternity can claim,
Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.
This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain
Octavius hover'd long, and sought to Reign.
This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,
Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.
Let him his Title to such Glory bring,
You give as freely, and more nobly sing.
Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.
Horace and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd,
The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.
O Light of England, and her highest Grace!
Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race!
Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine
(For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line,
While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell
The noblest Poets, and who most excel.
Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send,
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.
But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse
The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse
On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough,
And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.
A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.
Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.
Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.
Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,
Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,
And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)
Create a BRITISH PRINCE; as hard a task,
As would a Cowley or a Milton ask,
To build a Poem of the vastest price,
A DAVIDEIS, or LOST PARADISE.
So tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien
May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.