That Orpheus, by his foft harmonious ftrains,
Tam'd the fierce tigers of the Thracian plains;
Amphion's notes, by their melodious powers,

Drew rocks and woods, and rais'd the Theban towers :"

Thefe miracles from numbers did arife:

Since which, in verfe heaven taught his mysteries,

And by a priest, poffefs'd with rage divine,
Apollo fpoke from his prophetic shrine.
Soon after Homer the old heroes prais'd,
And noble minds by great examples rais'd;
Then Hefiod did his Grecian fwains incline
To till the fields, and prune the bounteous vine.
Thus ufeful rules were by the poets aid,"
In eafy numbers to rude men convey'd,
And pleaûngly their precepts did impart ;
First charm'd the ear, and then engag'd the heart:
The Mufes thus their reputation rais'd,

And with just gratitude in Greece were prais'd.
With pleasure mortals did their wonders fee,
And facrific'd to their divinity;

But want, at last, base flattery entertain'd,
And old Parnaffus with this vice was ftain'd:
Defire of gain dazzling the poets eyes,

Their works were fill'd with fulfome flatteries.
Thus needy wits a vile revenue made,
And verfe became a mercenary trade.
Debafe not with fo mean a vice thy art:
If gold must be the idol of thy heart,
Fly, fly th' unfruitful Heliconian ftrand,
Thofe ftreams are not inrich'd with golden fand:

Great wits, as well as warriors, only gain
Laurels and honours for their toil and pain:
But what an author cannot live on fame,
Or pay a reckoning with a lofty name :
A poet to whom fortune is unkind,

Who when he goes to bed has hardly din'd;
Takes little pleasure in Parnaffus' dreams,
Or relishes the Heliconian streams.

Horace had eafe and plenty when he writ,
And, free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit.
'Tis true; but verfe is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famish who deferve to eat :

What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and fenfe,
Receive the ftars propitious influence;

When a fharp-fighted prince, by early grants,
Rewards your merits, and prevents your wants?
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your nobleft theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spenser raise his reverend head,
Cowley and Denham ftart up from the dead;
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins fing;
Let Dryden with new rules our stage refine,
And his great models form by this defign:
But where's a fecond Virgil, to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verfe ?.
What Orpheus fing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forefts move again;
Shew his bold fleet on the Batavian fhore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar;

}

Paint Europe's balance in his steady hand,
Whilft the two worlds in expectation stand
Of peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I speak new glories ftrike my eyes,
Glories, which heaven itself does give, and prize,
Bleffings of peace; that with their milder rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days:
Now let rebellion, difcord, vice, and rage,
That have in patriots forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the minifters of hell:

His rays their poisonous vapours fhall dispel:
'Tis he alone our fafety did create,

His own firm foul fecur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Bout'feu's of the state,
Authors, for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftiest numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whofe verfe in fatire has been bred,
And never durft heroic measures tread;
Yet you thall fee me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best affiflance yield:
Offer your leffons, that my infant Mufe
Learnt, when the Horace for her guide did chufe:
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And afar off hold up the glorious prize.
But pardon too, if, zealous for the right,
A ftrict obferver of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I feparate the allay,
And fhow how hafty writers fometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend ;
A sharp, but yet a neceffary friend.

THRE

THREN ODIA AUGUSTALIS:

A FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, facred to the happy Memory of King CHARLES II.

TH

I.

HUS long my grief has kept me dumb :
Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,
Tears ftand congeal'd, and cannot flow;
And the fad foul retires into her inmoft room:
Tears, for a ftroke foreseen, afford relief;
But, unprovided for a fudden blow,
Like Niobé we marble grow;

And petrify with grief.

Our British heaven was all ferene,

No threatening cloud was nigh,
Not the leaft wrinkle to deform the fky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the firft age in nature's golden fcene;
Supine amidst our flowing store,

We flept fecurely, and we dreamt of more :
When fuddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already loft before we fear'd.

Th' amazing news of Charles at once were fpread,
At once the general voice declar'd,

"Our gracious prince was dead."

No fickness known before, no flow difeafe,
To foften grief by just degrees :

But like an hurricane on Indian feas,

The tempeft rofe;

An unexpected burst of woes :
With scarce a breathing space betwixt,

This now becalm'd, and perifhing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height

Should fink beneath his heavenly weight,

And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
As once it fhall,

Should gape immenfe, and rushing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;

So fwift and fo furprising was our fear :

Our Atlas fell indeed; but Hercules was near.

II.

His pious brother, fure the best

Who ever bore that name,
Was newly rifen from his reft,
And, with a fervent flame,

His ufual morning vows had juft addrest
For his dear fovereign's health;
And hop'd to have them heard,
In long increase of years,
In honour, fame, and wealth:

Guiltless of greatness thus he always pray'd,
Nor knew nor wifh'd thofe vows he made,
On his own head fhould be repay'd.

Soon as th' ill-omen'd rumour reach'd his ear,
Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,
Who can defcribe th' amazement of his face!
Horror in all his pomp was there,

Mute and magnificent without a tear:
And then the hero firft was feen to fear.

Half