Shakes Heav'n's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And fets th' Almighty Thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilst ev'ry verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And seems above the critick's nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terror and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Meffiah's outspread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, fcare,
And ftun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my fpirits and my blood retire,
To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager fteps, from hence I rife,
And view the firft gay scenes of Paradise,
What tongue, what words of rapture, can exprefs
A vifion fo profufe of pleafantnefs!

Oh! had the poet ne'er prophan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithlefs men,
His other works might have deferv'd applause:
But now the language can't fupport the cause;
While the clean current, tho' ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.

But now, my Mufe, a fofter ftrain rehearse,
Turn ev'ry line with art, and smooth thy verse;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays :
Mufe! tune thy verse with art to Waller's praise.
While tender airs and lovely dames inspire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire,
So long fhall Waller's ftrains our paffion move,
And Sachariffa's beauty kindle love.

Thy verfe, harmonious bard! and flatt'ring song,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward ftrong;
Thy verfe can fhew e'en Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the ftorm that bore him hence!

Ob,

Oh, had thy Mufe not come an age too foon,
But feen great Naffau on the British throne,
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes of death and horror had we view'd,
And how had Boyn's wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,
In fmoother numbers and a fofter verse,
Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair.
Nor muft Rofcommon pafs neglected by,
That makes e'en rules a noble poetry;

Rules, whofe deep fenfe and heav'nly numbers fhew
The best of criticks and of poets too.

Nor, Denham! must we e'er forget thy ftrains,

While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains.
But fee where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in rhyme, but charming e'en in years!
Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful Mufe affords
The sweetest numbers and the fittest words.

Whether in comick founds or tragick airs

She forms her voice, fhe moves our fmiles or tears.
If fatire or heroick strains the writes,

Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall
She wears all dreffes, and fhe charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee,
Did not the Mufes other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve! and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has giv'n already much, and promis'd more;
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.

I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But juftice ftill demands one labour more:
302

The

*

The noble Montague remains unnam'd,

For wit, for humour, and for judgment, fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Muse,

In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins

His verfe, and writes in loofe familiar ftrains!
How Naffau's god-like acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory shines !

We fee his army fet in just array,

And Boyn's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.

Nor Simois, choak'd with men, and arms, and blood,
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,

Tho' gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their streams: But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,

He aids the hero whom before he prais❜d.

I've done at length-and now, dear friend! receive The last poor present that my Mufe can give :

I leave the arts of poetry and verse,

To them that practise 'em with more fuccefs.

Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell;
And fo, at once, dear Friend and Mufe, farewel!

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Phillis; or, The Progrefs of Love

Elegy, on the Violation of the Rights of Sepulture

Written at Midnight in a Thunder Storm

Solomon

Edwin and Emma

Newmarket

56

58

134

137

Melpomene; or, The Regions of Terror and Pity

225

Ode

Ode to Death, from the French of the King of Pruffia

375