Whene'er you sing, silent, as he, they'll stand, Speak by their eyes, grow eloquent by hand: Tongues are confusion, but as learnt by you, All but Pythagoras's doctrine's true; Campbell and he taught silence—had he heard How much thy lays to silence were preferr'd, He had recanted from thy powerful song, And justly wish'd each organ had a tongue.
But could he see, what you, in every line, Prophetic tell of Campbell's sight divine, Like Crœsus's sons his loosened nerves must break, And ask the cause—or make his Campbell speak.
TO MR. CAMPBELL.
Milton's immortal wish[B] you sure must feel, To point those fates which you to all reveal; If second-sight so much alarms mankind, What transports must it give to know thy mind? Thy book is but the shadow of thy worth, Like distant lights, which set some picture forth. But if the artist's skill we nearer trace, And strictly view each feature of the face, We find the charm that animates the whole, And leave the body to adore the soul. Milton's immortal wish you sure must feel, To point those fates which you to all reveal.
I. Philips.
To see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight,
Paradise Lost.
THE PARALLEL
TO MR. CAMPBELL.
As Denham sings, mysterious 'twas, the same Should be the prophet's and the poet's name[C]; But while the sons of genius join to praise, What thine presaging dictates to their lays, The things they sweetly sing, and you foreshow, Open the Sampson riddle to our view; Strong are thy prophecies, their numbers sweet, And with the lion combs of honey meet.