Or if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute.
He faid; buthis last words were scarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Born upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

}

*

EPISTLES.

1

EPISTLE the FIRST.

TO MY HONORED FRIEND

Sir ROBERT HOWARD,

ON HIS

EXCELLENT POEM S.

A

S there is music uninform'd by art
In those wild notes, which witha merryheart

The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less:

So in your verse a native sweetness dwells,
Which shames compofure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even calmness does suppose them deep;
Such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no fign of toil, no sweat appear. -
Either your art hides art, as stoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;
And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful mufe..
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,
Lets thro its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.