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Another ask'd me, why I had not writ:
A poet owes his fortune to his wit.
Strait I reply'd, with what a courtly grace,
Flows eafy verfe from him that has a place!
Had Virgil ne'er at court improv'd his ftrains;
He still had fung of flocks and homely Twains;
And had not Horace fweet preferment found,
The Roman lyre had never learnt to found.

Once ladies fair in homely guife I fung,

And with their names wild woods and mountains

rung.

Oh, teach me now to ftrike a fofter strain!
The court refines the language of the plain.

You muft, cries one, the miniftry rehearse,
And with each patriot's name prolong your verfe..
But fure this truth to poets should be known,
That praifing all alike, is praifing none.

Another told me, if I wifh'd fuccefs,

To fome diftinguish'd lord I must addrefs;
One whofe high virtues fpeak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good;
Where valour and ftrong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, refolute in fight;

Whofe

Whofe gen'rous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronize the man that wants a friend.
You have, 'tis true, the noble patron fhown,
But I, alas! am to Argyle unknown..

Still ev'ry one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to fucceed;
But now preferments fo poffefs'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a fingle strain:
Indeed I fometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connexion as without defign.
One morn upon the Princess this I writ,
An Epigram that boafts more truth than wit.
The pomp of titles eafy faith might shake,
She fcorn'd an empire for religion's fake:

For this, on earth, the British crown is giv'n,

And an immortal crown decreed in heav'n.

Again, while GEORGE's virtues rais'd my thought, The following lines prophetick fancy wrought. Methinks I fee fome bard, whofe heav'nly rage Shall rife in fong, and warm a future age; Look back through time, and, rapt in wonder, trace The glorious feries of the Brunswick race.

From the firft GEORGE thefe godlike kings defcend,

A line which only with the world shall end.

The

The next a gen'rous prince renown'd in arms,
And blefs'd, long blefs'd in Carolina's charms;
From thefe the reft. 'Tis thus fecure in peace,
We plow the fields, and reap the years increase:
Now Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets the canvas spread;
Unnumber'd ships the peopled ocean hide,

And wealth returns with each revolving tide.
Here paus'd the fullen mufe, in hafte I drefs'd,
And through the croud of needy courtiers prefs'd;
Though unsuccessful, happy whilft I fee,

Those eyes that glad a nation, shine on me.

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九九

ON A

Mifcellany of POEMS

TO

BERNARD LINTOTT.

S when fome fkilful cook, to please each

Would in one mixture comprehend a feaft,

With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his dish with diff'rent forts of fare,

Fishes and fowl delicioudly unite,

To feaft at once the tafte, the fmell, and fight. 6

So,

So, Bernard, muft a mifcellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;

The mufes O'lio, which all taftes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldft thou for mifcellanies raise thy fame;
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the mufes in the piece conspire,

The lyrick bard must strike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroick ftrains muft here and there be found,
And nervous sense be fung in lofty found;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,

And fill fome pages with melodious woe;
Let not your am'rous fongs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satyr muft interfere, whofe pointed rage

May lafh the inadness of a vicious age;
Satyr, the muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with pindarick lays,
Those fwell the piece, but very rarely please:
Let fhort-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line.

Tranflations fhould throughout the work be fown,

And Homer's godlike mufe be made our own;

K 2

Horace

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