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Deck'd in thy verse, as clad with rays they shine,
All glorified, iminortal, and divine.
As Britain in rich soil al ounding wide,
Furnish'd for use, for luxury, and pride,
Yet spreads her wanton fails on every shore
For foreign wealt', infatiate fill of more;
To her own wool tlie Gills of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous lai veits India's mines;
So Dryden, not contented with the fame
Of his own works, though an immortal rame,
To lards remote sends torta his learned mure,
The noblest seeds of foreign wit to choose:
Feasting our sense so many various ways,
Say, is't thy lounty, or thy thirst of praise ?
That, by comparing others, all might see
Who moft excel, are yet excell'd by thee.


U'T see where artful Dryden next appears,

Grown old in rhyme, fut charming ev’n in years.
Great Dryden next! whole tunelul muse affords
The sweetest numbers and the fittet vords.
Whether in comic lourds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, the mores our smiles and tears
If satire or hero.c ftrain, the writes,
Her hero plcares, and her fatire rites.
From her no ha: 1h unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dretles, and she charms in all :
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, thould decay in thee:
Did not the Muses' other hore appear,
Harmonious Concreve, and to bid our fear!
Congreve ! whole faucy's unexhausted Store
Has given already mech, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall til preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mule irall in his friend lurvive

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Provoke our wonder and transcend our praise !
Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat and quench thy rage?
Not so thy Ovid in his exile wote;

AN ( D E. Griefchill'd his breast, and check 'd his rising thought; Persive and fad, his drooping muse tetrays FROM MR POPE'S ESSAY ON CRITICISM, I. 376. The Roman genius in its last decays.

Prevailing warmth has still thy mind poflett, TEAR hotv Timrotheus' vary'd lays surprize, And second youth is kindled in thy breast.

And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! Thou mak't the beautie, of the Romans krown,

While, at each change, the son of Lybian jove And England toasts of riches rot her own:

Now burns with sioiy, and then melts with loze; Thy lines inave heighten’d Virgil's majesty,

Now his fierce oves with sparkling fury glow, And Horace wonders at himself in thee.

Now sighs íteai ors, and tears begin to flow. Thou teachest Persius to ir form our ille

Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found In smçother numbers, and a clearer style : And the world's viełor stood subdued hy sound, And Juvenal, infructed in thy page,

The power of Music all our hearts allow,
Edges bis satire, and improves his rage.

And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And fill outshines the bright original.

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Tlıy charming verse and fair trar Nasions then
How thy own laurel first bezan o grow;

How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry Gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods. FROM AN ODE OF GRAY.

O may'st thou still the roble tale prolors,
Nor age, nor fickness interrupt thy song:

EHOLD, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Then may we wondering react, how human limbs Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams, Two coursers of ethereal race, Of tlose rich fruits that on the fertile mould With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding Turn'd yellow by deg ees, and ripen'd into gold:

pace. How some in feathers, or a ragged hide

Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd. Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform’d, reveal Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
A nobler change than he himself can tell,

Thoughts that breathe, and words that bum.

But, ah! 'tis heard ro more
Mag. Coll. Oxon.

Oh! lyre divine, what daring fpirit
June 2, 1693.

Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

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Take theme is Valt, your verfe divinely good : The bea life storieve horiek de ar fake they drank a flood


That the Theban eagle hear,

Th' inspiring fun to Albion draws more nigh, Saling with supreme dominion

The north ai length teems with a work, to pic Through the azure deep of air:

With Homer's Aame and Virgil's majesty. Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

While Pindus' loity heighth our poet sought, Sach forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray

(His ravith'd mind with vast ideas fraught) With orient hues, unborro v'd of the sun: Our language fail'd beneath his rising thought. Yet ihali he mount, and keep his diftant way This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate

He drains of all their gold, i' adorn his lines : Etrieath the good how far but far above the great. Through each of which the Mantuan genius thines.

| The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide,
Her finty breast diffolv'd into a tide:
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as, invents,

And, with his poem, a new speeclı presents.
THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR Hail, then, thou matchless Bard, thou great un-

That give your country fame, yet Mun your own! ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.

In vain ; for every where your praise you find,
And, rot to meet it, you must nun mankind.

Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws, 'AKE it as earneft of a faith renew'd,

And ev’n the factious give your verfe applause,

lightning strikes to ground idol : Where, though the Nine their beauteous itrokes

Of civil gore, nor spar'd the royal blood; repeat, And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat,

The cause, whose growth to cruin, our prelates It looks as if they strook them at a heat. So all serenely great, so just reñin'd

In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought; Like angels love to human feed inclin'd,

Yet by one stab of your keen fatire dies ; It ftarts a giant, and exalts the kind.

Lefore your sacred lines their facter'd Dagon lies. 'Tis prie leen, whose fiery atoms roil,

Oh! if unworthy we appear to know

The sire, to whom this lovely birth we owe: So brightly fierce, each fyllabie 's a soul.

Deny'd our ready homage to express, Ti's Miniature of man, but he's all heart ; 'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art ;

And can at best but thankful be by guess; Towi on even the fanaticks altars raise,

This hope remains: May David's godlike mind Eow in their own despite, and grin your praise ;

(For him 'twas v roce) the unknown author find; As if a Milton from the dead arose,

And, having found, hower equal favours down Fld off the rust, and the right party chose.

On wit so vas, as could oblige a crown

Nor, Sir, be shock'd at what the gloomy say;
Tum roi your feet too inward, ror too splay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: puih on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.
David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov’d;
David, by Cod and all good men belov'd.

The beauties of your Absalom excel:
Put more the charms of charmin: Annabel :

O. Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,
Chearful as summer's noon, and chaíte as winter's

NCE more our awful poet arms, t'engage
Of Annabel, the Muse's dearest theme ;
Of Annabel, the angel of my dream.

Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
Thus let a broken eloquence atte.t,

And every Mufe attends hiin to the field. Add to your maiter-piece these shadows send. By art and nature for this task design'd,

NAT. LEE. Yet modestly the fight he long declind;

Fortore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loos'd his fatire till the needful hour.
His sovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.
Bleft Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crown'd,

And bleft the cause that such a champion sound!
THE CONCEALED AUTHOR With chofen verse upon the foe he falls,

And black sedition in each quarter galls; ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL. Secure of conqueft he rebates his rage;

Yet, like a prince with subjects forc'd e' engage,

His fury not without distinction sheds, AIL, heaven-born Muse! hail, every facred Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads; page!

To less-infected members gentle sound, The glory of our ifle and of our age.

Or spares, or elle pours balm into the wound.






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Such gererous grace, th' ungrateful tribe abuse, | Firm, as fair Albion, midnt the ragine man,
And trespar: on the mercy of his Muse:

Surveys incircling danger with disdain.
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring, In vain the waves alsault the unmov'd More,
To snarl and bark against the poets' king;


In vain the winds with mingled fury roar, A crow, that fcandalize the nation more,

Fair Albion's beautious chifts thine whiter than Than all their treason-canting prieits before.

before. On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful finile, Nor shalt thou move, though he'l thy fall conspire, But their powerful patrons turns his style: Though the worse rare of zeal's fanatic fire; A style so keen, as ev'n from faction draws Thou beit, thou greatest of the British race, The vital poison, Rahs to th' heart their cause. Thou only fit to fill great Charles's pace. Take then, great Bard, what tribute we can raise ; Ah, wretched Britons ! ali, too stubborn ine! Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise. Ah, Itift-neck'd Israel on blest Canaan's foil !

N, TATE. Are those dear proofs of heaven's induigence vain,

Restoring David and his genóle reign ?
Is it in vain thou all the goods dont know,
Aufpic.ous stars on mortals shed below,
While all thy ftreams with milk, thy lands with

honey flow?

No more, sond isle! ro more thyself engage UNKNOWN AUTHOR THE MEDAL ; In civil fury, and intestine rage :

No rebel zeal thy du teous land molest, ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL,

But a l'mooth calm soothe every peaceful breast

While in fuch charming notes divirely fings

The best of poets, of the best of kings. "HUS pious ignorance, with dubious praise,

J. Adam,
They knew not the lov'd deity; they knew
Divine effects a caure divine did thew;
Nor can we doubt when such these numbers are,
Such is their cause, though the worst Musc thall

To Mr. P R Y DEN,
Their sacred worth in humble verse declare.
As gentle Thames, charm'd with thy tuncful song,

Glides in a peaceiul majetty along ;
No rebel fone, no lofty bank, does brave
The eary passage of his fient wave:

THOSE Cols the pious ancients did a ore, So, sacred poet, so thy numbers fow, Sinewy, yet mild as happy lovers wooe ;

Thinking it rude to use the common way Strong, yet harmonious too as planets inove, Of talk, wher, they did to such beings pray. Yet fost as down upon the wings of love.

Nay, they that taught religion first, thought fif
How sweet does virtue in your dress appear ; In verse its sacred precepts to transmit:
How much more charming, when much less severe ! :o Solon too did liis firit Natutes'draw,
Whilft you our senses harmlessly beguile,

And every little stanza was a law.
With all th' allurements of your happy Ityle ; By thesc few precedents we plainly fee
Y'infinuare loyalty with kind deceit,

The primitive design of poetry;
And into sense th’unthinking many cheat. Which, by reso ing to its native use,
So the sweet Thracian with his charming ivre You generously have rescued from abure.
Into rude nature virtue did inspire;

Whilft your lov'd Muse coes in sweet numbers fing, So he the favage herd to reason drew,

She vindicates her Cod, and godlike king. Yet scarce so I veet, so charmingly as you

Atheist, and rehel too, he does oppose
O that you would, with some fuch powerful charm, God and the king have always the same foes).
Enervate Albion to jut valour warm!

Legions of verfe you raise in their defence,
Whether much-sufiering Charles Mall theme afford, And write the fac vus to obedierce;
Or the great deeds of godlike James's sword, You the hold Arian to Arms defy,
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again

A conquering champion for the Deity
Another fiect might pass the subject main, Againit the Whigs first parents, who did dare
Another Edward lead the Britons on,

To disinherit God-Almighty's heir.
Or such an Offory as you did moan;

And what the hot-brain d Arian îrst began,
While in such numbers you, in such a strain, Is carried on by the Socinian,
Inflame their courage and reward their pain, Who ftill associates to keep God a man.
Let falfe Achitophel the rout engage,

But 'tis the prince of poets' talk alone
Talk eafy Absalom to rebel rage ;

T'allert the rights of God's and Charles's throne. Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,

Whilft vulgar poets purchase vulgar fame Or modest Corah more new plots reveal;

By chaunting Chloris' or fair Phyllis' name; Whilft conftant to himself, secure of fate,

Whose reputation shall last as long, Cood David ftill maintains the royal state. As faps and ladies sing the amorous song. Though each in vain such various ills employs, A nobler subject wisely they refuse, Birinly he stands, and ev’n those ills enjoys; The mighty weight would crush their feeble Mura

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So, Nory tells, a painter once would try

But first takes time with majesty to rife, With his told hand to limn a deity :

Then, without pride, divinely great, And he, by frequent practising that part,

She mounts her native 1kies ; Could draw a minor-god with wondrous art :

And, Goddess like, retains lier itate But when great Jove did to the workman tit,

When down again the dies. The thur.derer such horror did beget,

Commands, which judgment gives, she still obeys, That put the fnghted artist to a 1tand,

Both to depress her flight, and raise. And made his pencil drop from 's baffled hand. Thus Mercury froin htaven descends,

And to this under world his journey bends,

When Jove his dread commands has given :

But still, descending, dignity maintains,
TO MR. DRYDEN, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF As much a God upon our humble plains,

As when he, towering, reafcends to heaven.

But when thy Goddess takes her flight,

With so much majesty to such a height,

As can alone suffice to prove, CHILE mounting with expanded wings

That the descends from mighty Jove :

Gods! how thy thoughts then rise, and soar, and plores,

Thine! While with seraphic founds he towering sings,

Immortal spirit animates each line ; Till to divinity he foars :

Each with bright Aaine that fires our soule is crown'da Mankind stands wondering at his fight,

Each has magnificence of sound, Charm'd with his music, and his height :

And harmony divine. Which both tranfcend our praife,

Thus the first orbs, in their high rounds, Nay Gods incline their ravish'd cars,

With shining poinp advance; And tune their own harmonious spheres,

And to their own coleftial sounds To bis melodious lays.

Majestically dance, Thou, Dryden, canit his notes recite

On, with eternal symphony, they roll, In modern numbers, which express

Each turn'd in its harmonious course Their music, and their utmost might:

And each inform'd by the prodigious force Thou, wondrous poet, with success

Of an empyreal soul. Canít emulate his night.

en ex

See a Poem by Dort, in this work


Sometimes of humble rural things,
Thy Muse, which keeps great Maro still in sight,
in middle air with varied numbers sings ;

And sometimes her sonorous flight
To heaven sublimely wings.




TUST noble Hastings immaturely die,
Beauty and learning thus together meet,
To bring a winding for a wedding sheet?
Muft virtue prove death's harbinger? muft she,
With him expiring, feel mortality?
Is death, fin's wages, grace's now? thall art
Make us more learned, only to depart ?
If merit be disease; if virtue death;
To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath
Himself to discipline : 'who'd not esteem
Labour a crime? study felf-murther deem?

Our noble youth nov lave pretence to be
Dunces securely, ignorant healthfully:
Rare linguist, whose worth speaks itself, whose prate
Though not his own, all tongues befides do raise :
Than whom great Alexander may seem less ;
Who conquer'd men, but not their languages.
In his mouth nations spake ; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.
His native soil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.

A young apostle; and with reverence may
I speak it, inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they.'
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art, though further'd, to obtain.

His body was an orb, his sublime soul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole:


Whose regular motions beteer to our view,

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone, Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did hew. Now thy beloved, heaven-ravilhed (pouse is gong Graces and virtues, languages, and arts,

Whose kiliul fire in vain Itrove to apply Beauty and learning, fillid up all the parts. Med cines, when thy balm was no remedy, Heaven's gifts, which do like falling itars appear With greater than Platonic love, O wed Scatter'd in others; all as in their sphere, His soul, though noc his body, to thy bed: Were fix'd conglobate in his foul; and thence Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth Shone through his tody, with sweet influence; Th’ideas of lus virtue, kr.owledge, worth; Letting their glories so on each limb fall,

Transcribe th' original in new copies; give The whole frame render'd was cele ttial.

Hastings o'th' better part; fo fall he live Come, learn’d Ptolemy, and trial make, In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be If thou this hero's altitude canst take:

of an heroic divine progeny:
But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all, An issue, which t'eternity Mall last,
Could we but prove thus altronomical.

Yet but th' irradiations which he cait.
Livd Tycho now, struck with this ray which shone irect no mausoleums: for his heft
More bright i'th' morn, than others beam at noon, Monument is his spouse's masble breas.
He'd take his aftrolabs, and seek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere.
Replenish'd then with such rare gitts as the le,
Where was room left for such a foul difrate?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil which throuds
Our day-spring in so fad benighting clouds,
Heaven would ro longer trust its pledge; but thus

Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede fiom us.
Was there ro milder way but the small-pox,
The very filthiness of Pandora's box?

OLIVER CROMWELL. So many spots, like neves on Venus' foil, One jewel fet off with so many a foil;

WRITTEN AFTER HIS FUNERAL. Blifters with pride (wellid, wbich through's ficth

did sprout Like rose-buds fuck i' th' lily skin about. Each little pimple had a tear in it,


ND row 'tis time; for their officious halle, To wail the fault its rising did commit:

Who would helore have borne him to the sky,
Which rebel-like, with its own lord at strise; Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
Thus made an infurrection 'gain his life. .

Did let too foon the sacred eagle fly.
Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer soul within ?

Though our best noies are creason to his fame, No comet need foretel his change drew on,

Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; Whose corps might seem a constellation.

Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, O! had he dy'd of old, how great a strife

Hath render'd too authentic by its choice. Vad been, who from his death should draw their

life? Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er Though in his praise no arts can liberal te, Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæsar, were?

Since they whore Muses have the highest flown,

Add not o his immortal memory,
Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this
An universal metempsychols.

But do an act of friend hip to their own:
Must all these aged fires in one funeral
Expire? all die in one so young, so small ? Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Had swoln 'tove any Greek or Roman name. Left all the world prevent what we Mould do,
But hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought And claim a title in him by their praise,
The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought.
Thus fades the oak i'th' sprig, i'tli'blade the corn; How Thall I then le in, or where conclude,
Thus without young, this Phænix dies, new-born.

To draw a fame so truly circular ; Must then old chree-legod grey-beards with their For in a round what order can be thew'd, gout,

Where all the parts fo equal perfect are ?
Catarrhs, rheums, aches, five three long ages out ?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hospital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal!

His grandeur he deriy'd from heaven alone ;
Must drunkards, lechers spent with finning, live

For lie was great ere fortune made him fo: With such helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give ?

And wars, like mists that rise against the sun None live, but fuch as should die ? Thall we meet

Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. With none but ghostly fathers in the street ? Grief makes me rail ; forrow will force its way;

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, And Mowers of tears tempestuous fighs best lay,

But to our crown he did frefh jewels bring; The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes

Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born, Will weep out lafting ftreams of elegies.

With the too carly thoughts of being king.



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