VIII.

Enough, Urania, heavenly fair!

Now to thy native skies repair,
And rule again the starry sphere;
Cecilia comes, with holy rapture fill'd,
To ease the world of care,

Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd!
Phoebus himself to her must yield,
And at her feet lay down

His golden harp and laurel crown. The soft entervate lyre is drown'ḍ In the deep organ's more majestic found. In peals the fwelling notes afcend the skies; Perpetual breath the swelling notes fupplies, And lasting as her name,

Who form'd the tuneful frame,

Th' immortal mufic never dies.

Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd, Phœbus himself to her muft yield, And at her feet lay down

His golden harp and laurel crown.
The soft enervate lyre is drown'd
In the deep organ's more majestic found.
In peals the fwelling notes afcend the skies;
Perpetual breath the fwelling notes fupplies,
And lasting as her name,

Who form'd the tuneful frame,
Th' immortal mufic never dies.

A

FTER a painful life in study spent,

The learn'd themselves their ignorance lament; And aged men, whofe lives exceed the space Which feems the bound prefcrib'd to mortal race, With hoary heads, their fhort experience grieve, As doom'd to die before they 've learn'd to live. So hard it is true knowledge to attain, So frail is life, and fruitless human pain!· Whoe'er on this reflects, and then beholds, With ftrict attention, what this book unfolds, With admiration ftruck, fhall question who So very long could live, fo much to know? For fo complete the finish'd piece appears, That learning feems combin'd with length of years; And both improv'd by pureft wit, to reach At all that study or that time can teach. But to what height must his amazement rife! When, having read the work, he turns his eyes Again to view the foremost opening page, And there the beauty, fex, and tender age,

of

Of her beholds, in whose pure mind arose

Th' ætherial fource from whence this current flows!

When prodigies appear, our reason fails,
And fuperftition o'er philofophy prevails.
Some heavenly minister we strait conclude,
Some angel-mind with female form endued,
To make a fhort abode on earth, was fent,
(Where no perfection can be permanent)
And, having left her bright example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the throne, eternal hymns
She fings, amid the choir of feraphims;
Or fome refulgent star informs, and guides,
Where the, the bleft intelligence, prefides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as impious to enquire, as vain:
And all we ought, or can, in this dark state,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.

E PIT A PH

Upon ROBERT HUNTINGDON, of Stanton Harcourt, Efq. and ROBERT his Son.

THIS peaceful tomb does now contain

Father and fon, together laid;

Whose living virtues shall remain,

When they, and this, are quite decay'd.

What man fhould be, to ripenefs grown,
And finish'd worth fhould do, or fhun,
At full was in the father fhown;

What youth could promife, in the fon.

But death obdurate, both destroy'd

The perfect fruit, and opening bud: First feiz'd thofe fweets we had enjoy'd, Then robb'd us of the coming good.

то M R.

DRYDEN,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS

S when of old heroic ftory tells

A of knights imprifon'd long by magic fpells,

Till future time the deftin'd hero fend,

By whom the dire enchantment is to end :
Such feems this work, and fo referv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poefy.

Those fullen clouds, which have, for ages paft,
O'er Perfius' too-long fuffering Mufe been caft,
Difperfe, and fly before thy facred pen,

And, in their room, bright tracks of light are feers! Sure Phoebus' felf thy fwelling breast infpires,

The god of mufic, and poetic fires :

Elfe, whence proceeds this great furprize of light!
How dawns this day, forth from the womb of night!
Our wonder now does our past folly show,
Vainly contemning what we did not know:

So,

So, unbelievers impiously defpife

The facred oracles, in myfteries.

Perfius, before, in small esteem was had,
Unlefs, what to antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with fcruple read,
(So far our ignorance our faith misled)
Till you, Apollo's darling priest, thought fit
To place it in the poet's facred writ.

As coin, which bears fome awful monarch's face,
For more than its intrinfic worth will pafs;
So your bright image, which we here behold,
Adds worth to worth, and dignifies the gold,
To you, we all this following treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a rock did flow.
Old ftoick virtue, clad in rugged lines,
Polish'd by you, in modern brilliant fhines;
And as before, for Perfius, our esteem
To his antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever praise from us is due,
Belongs not to old Perfius, but the new.
For ftill obfcure, to us no light he gives;
Dead in himfelf, in you alone he lives.

So ftubborn flints their inward heat conceal,
Till art and force th' unwilling fparks reveal;

But through your skill, from thofe fmall feeds of fire, Bright flames arife, which never can expire.