Write for immortal fame; nor ever chufe
Gold for the object of a generous mufe.
I know a noble wit may, without crime,
Receive a lawful tribute for his time:
Yet I abhor thofe writers, who defpife
Their honour; and alone their profits prize;
Who their Apollo bafely will degrade,
And of a noble science make a trade.
Before kind reafon did her light difplay,
And government taught mortals to obey,
Men, like wild beafts, did nature's laws pursue,
They fed on herbs, and drink from rivers drew;
Their brutal force, on luft and rapine bent,
Committed murder without punishment:
Reafon at last by her all-conquering arts,
Reduc'd these favages, and tun'd their hearts;
Mankind from bogs, and woods, and caverns calls,
And towns and cities fortifies with walls:
Thus fear of juftice made proud rapine ceafe,
And shelter'd innocence by laws and peace.
These benefits from poets we receiv'd,

From whence are rais'd thofe fictions fince believ'd,
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 tow'rs &

Thefe miracles from numbers did arife:

Since which, in verfe heaven taught his myfteries,
And by a priest, poffefs'd with rage divine,
Apollo fpoke from his prophetick fhrine.
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 vinc.
Thus ufeful rules were by the poets aid,

In eafy numbers to rude men convey'd,

4

And

And pleasingly their precepts did impart;

First charm'd the ear, and then engag'd the heart:
The mufes thus their reputation rais'd,

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

But want, at laft, bafe 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 strand,
Those streams 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 ftreams.

Horace had ease 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 famifh 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 Spenfer 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 ftage refine,
And his great models form by this defign:
But where's a fecond Virgil, to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epick 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 ftand
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 poifonous vapours fhall difpel:
'Tis he alone our fafety did create,

His own firm foul fecur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Boutefeus 3 of the ftate.
Authors for him your great endeavours raise;
The loftieft numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whofe verfe in fatire has been bred,
And never durft heroick measures tread;
Yet you fhall fee me, in that famous field,
With eyes and voice, my best afsistance yield:
Offer your leffons, that my infant muse
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.

3 Boutefeu fignifies an incendiary.

}

}

But

But pardon too, if zealous for the right,
A ftrict obferver of each noble flight,
From the fine gold I feparate the allay,
And show how hafty writers fometimes ftray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend;
A fharp, but yet a neceffary friend.

1

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

A

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

Fortunati ambo! fi quid mea carmina possunt,
Kalla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo.

T

I.

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

And petrify with grief.

Virg

Our