To the unknown AUTHOR of this excellent POEM.

TAKE it as earneft of a Faith renew'd,

Your Theme is vaft, your Verfe divinely good: Where, tho' the Nine their beauteous ftroaks repeat,

'And the turn'd Lines on Golden Anvils beat,
It looks as if they ftrook 'em at a heat.
So all ferenely Great, so juft refin'd,

Like Angels Love to Humane Seed inclin'd,
It starts a Giant, and exalts the Kind.
'Tis Spirit feen, whose fiery Atoms roul,
So brightly fierce, each Syllable's a Soul.
'Tis minature of Man, but he's all Heart;

"Tis what the World would be, but wants the Art;
To whom ev'n the Phanaticks Altars raife,
Bow in their own defpite, and grin your Praife.
As if a Milton from the Dead arose,

M

Fil'd off the Ruft, and the right Party chofe.
Nor, Sir, be shock'd at what the Gloomy fay,
Turn not your Feet too inward, nor too splay.
'Tis Gracious all, and Great: Push on your Theme,
Lean your griev'd Head on David's Diadem.
David that rebel Ifrael's Envy mov'd,
David by God and all good Men belov'd.
The Beauties of your Abfalom excel:

But more the Charms of Charming Annabel;

Of Annabel, than May's first Morn more bright, Chearful as Summer's Noon, and chaft as Winter's

Night.

Of Annabel the Mufes dearest Theme,

Of Annabel the Angel of my Dream.
Thus let a broken Eloquence, attend,

And to your Mafter-piece these Shadows fend.

NAT. LER

I

To the Unknown AUTHOR OF this admirable POEM.

Thought, forgive my Sin, the boafted fire
Of Poets Souls did long ago expire;

Of Folly or of Madness did accufe

The wretch that thought himself possest with Muse;
Laugh'd at the God within, that did inspire
With more than human thoughts the tuneful Quire;
But fure 'tis more than Fancy, or the Dream
Of Rhimers flumbring by the Mufes ftream.
Some livelier Spark of Heav'n, and more refin'd
From Earthly drofs, fills the great Poet's Mind.
Witnefs these mighty and immortal Lines,
Through each of which th' informing Genius fhines.
Scarce a diviner Flame infpir'd the King,
Of whom thy Mufe does fo fublimely fing.
Not David's felf could in a nobler Verfe
His gloriously offending Son rehearse;
Tho' in his Breaft the Prophet's Fury met,
The Father's Fondness, and the Poet's Wit.
Here all confent in Wonder and in Praife,
And to the Unknown Poet Altars raise.
Which thou muft needs accept with equal joy
As when Aneas heard the Wars of Troy,
Wrapt up himself in darkness and unfeen,
Extoll'd with Wonder by the Tyrian Queen.
Sure thou already art fecure of Fame,
Nor want'ft new Glories to exalt thy Name:
What Father elfe would have refus'd to own
So great a Son as God-like Abfalom?

R. DUKE

To the Conceal'd AUTHOR of this incomparable POEM.

Ail Heav'n-born Muse! hail ev'ry Sacred page!

Th' infpiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh,
The North at length teems with a work to vie
With Homer's Flame and Virgil's Majefty.
While Pindus lofty Heights our Poet fought,
(His ravisht Mind with vaft Idea's fraught)
Our Language fail'd beneath his rifing Thought;
This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines
He dreins of all their Gold, t'adorn his Lines:
Through each of which the Mantuan Genius fhines.
The Rock obey'd the pow'rful Hebrew Guide,
Her flinty Breaft diffolv'd into a Tide:
Thus on our ftubborn Language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he fails.
The Dialect, as well as fenfe, invents,
And, with his Poem, a new fpeech prefents.
Hail then thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown,
That give your Country Fame, yet fhun your own!
In vain----for ev'ry where your Praife you find,
And not to meet it you must fhun Mankind.
Your Loyal Theme each Loyal Reader draws,
And ev'n the factious give your Verfe applause,
Whose lightning strikes to ground their Idol cause.
The Caufe for whofe dear fake they drank a Flood
Of Civil Gore, nor fpar'd the Royal-blood:
The Caufe whofe Growth to crufh, our Prelates wrote
In vain, almoft in vain our Hero's fought.
Yet by one Stab of your keen Satyr dies:
Before your Sacred Lines their fhatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! If unworthy we appear to know

The Sire, to whom this lovely Birth we owe:

ર

(Deny'd our ready Homage to express, And can at beft but thankful be by guefs:) This hope remains,--May David's God-like Mind, (For him 'twas wrote) the unknown Author find : And, having found, fhow'r equal Favours down On Wit fo vaft as cou'd oblige a Crown.

N. TATE

ABSALOM

AND

ACHITOPHEL

I

N pious Times, e'er Prieft-craft did

begin,

Before Polygamy was made a Sin;
When Man on many multiply'd

his kind,

E'er one to one was, curfedly, con-
fin'd:

When Nature prompted, and no Law deny'd
Promifcuous ufe of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Ifrael's Monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did variously impart

To Wives and Slaves : and, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land,
Michal, of Royal Blood, the Crown did wear;
A Soil ungrateful to the Tiller's Care:
Not fo the reft; for feveral Mothers bore
To God-like David, feveral Sons before.
But, fince like Slaves his Bed they did afcend,
No true Succeffion could their Seed attend.
Of all the numerous Progeny was none
So Beautiful, fo Brave as Abfalom: