Rules whofe deep fenfe and heavenly numbers fhow
The beft of critics, and of poets too.
Nor, Denham, muft we e'er forget thy ftrains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains.
But fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whofe tuneful Mufe affords
The sweeteft numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comic founds or tragic airs
She forms her voice, fhe moves our fmiles or tears.
If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,
Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.
From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve ! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice ftill demands one labour more :
The noble Montague remains unnam'd,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Mufe,
In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might ufe.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verfe, and writes in loose familiar ftrains;
How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory fhines!
We fee his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the fea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the Poet's highest themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their ftreams.
But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,
He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.
I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The laft poor prefent that my Muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse
To them that practife them with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I 'll now prepare to tell,
And fo at once, dear friend and Mufe, farewel.
RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX,
"Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
"Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis
"Aggredior, fanctos aufus recludere fontes."
WHILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public pofts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your eafe ;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the foft feafon and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded fcenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields incompass me around,
And fill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the Mufe fo oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to fearch the hills and woods
For rifing springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource,
To fee the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I furvey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for ftreams immortaliz'd in fong,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the Mufe's skill,
And in the smooth defcription murmur ftill.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That deftitute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet fung so often in poetic lays,
With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys;
So high the deathlefs Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobferv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's sword renown'd,
Its rifing billows through the world refound,
Where'er the Hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
Oh could the Muse my ravifh'd breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine,
And Virgil's Italy fhould yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile,
That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,
Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents :
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feafons lavish all their pride
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rife,
And the whole year in gay confufion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with fculpture pierce the skies,
And here the proud triumphal arches rife,
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