Then faints and angels shall agree

In one eternal jubilee :

All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine,
And God himself with pleasure fee

The whole creation in a chorus join.

CHORUS.

Confecrate the place and day,

To mufic and Cecilia.

Let no rough winds approach, nor dare
Invade the hallow'd bounds,

Nor rudely fhake the tuneful air,

Nor spoil the fleeting founds.

Nor mournful figh nor groan be heard,

But gladness dwell on every tongue; Whilst all, with voice and ftrings prepar'd, Keep up the loud harmonious fong.

And imitate the bleft above,

In joy, and harmony, and love.

INCE, deareft Harry, you will needs request A short account of all the Muse-possest, That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times, Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes; Without more preface, writ in formal length, To speak the undertaker's want of strength, I'll try to make their feveral beauties known, And fhow their verfes worth, though not my own. Long had our dull forefathers slept fupine, Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine; Till Chaucer firft, a merry bard, arofe, And many a story told in rhyme and profe. But age has rufted what the Poet writ, Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit: In vain he jefts in his unpolifh'd ftrain, And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. Old Spenfer next, warm'd with poetic rage,

In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age;

An

An age that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where-e'er the poet's fancy led, pursued
Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods.
But now the myftic tale, that pleas'd of yore,
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-fpun allegories fulfome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleas'd at distance all the fights,
Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights,
And damfels in diftrefs, and courteous knights.
But when we look too near, the fhades decay,
And all the pleafing landikip fades away.

Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote,
O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought:
His turns too clofely on the reader prefs:
He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us lefs,
One glittering thought no fooner ftrikes our eyes.
With filent wonder, but new wonders rife.
As in the milky-way a fhining white

O'erflows the heavens with one continued light;
That not a single star can fhew his rays,
Whilft jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great Poet, that I dare to name

}

Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verfe with blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its excefs:

But wit like thine in any fhape will please.
What Mufe but thine can equal hints infpire,
And fit the deep-mouth'd Pindar to thy lyre:
Pindar, whom others in a labour'd train,
And forc'd expreffion, initate in vain ?

D 2

Well

Well-pleas'd in thee he foars with new delight,

And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight.

Bleft man! whose spotless life and charming lays
Employ'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise;
Bleft man! who now fhall be for ever known,
In Sprat's fuccefsful labours and thy own.

But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,
Unfetter'd in majestic numbers walks :

No vulgar hero can his Muse engage;

Nor earth's wide fcene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! fee! he upwards fprings, and towering high
Spurns the dull province of mortality,
Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets th' Almighty thunderer in arms.
What e'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilft every verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And feems above the critics nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terror and delight,
When angel with arch-angel copes in fight!
When great
Meffiah's out-fpread banner fhines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!

What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, fcate,
And ftun the reader with the din of war!

With fear my fpirits and blood retire,

my

To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire;

But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise;

What tongue, what words of rapture can exprefs
A vifion fo profufe of pleafantnefs!

Oh

Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deserv'd applause!
But now the language can't support the cause;
While the clean current, though ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.

But now, my Muse, a softer strain rehearse, Turn every line with art, and smooth thy verse; The courtly Waller next commands thy lays : Mufe, tune thy verfe, with art, to Waller's praise. While tender airs and lovely dames infpire Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire : So long fhall Waller's ftrains our paffion move, And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love. Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flattering song, Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward ftrong. Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the ftorm that bore him hence. Oh had thy Mufe not come an age too foon, But feen great Nassau on the British throne! How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage! What scenes of death and horror had we view'd, And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood! Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse, In fmoother numbers and a fofter verfe; Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air, And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair. Nor muft Rofcommon pafs neglected by, That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry :