Erynnis faw 't, and made in her own feed

The innocent Parricide to bleed;

She flew his wrathful fons with mutual blows:

But better things did then fucceed,

And brave Therfander, in amends for what was past, arofe.

Brave Therfander was by none,

In war, or warlike sports, out-done.
Thou, Theron, his great virtues doft revive ;.
He in my verse and thee again does live.

Loud Olympus happy thee,

Ifthmus and Nemæa does twice happy fee;
For the well-natur'd honour there,
Which with thy brother thou didst share,
Was to thee double grown

By not being all thine own;

And thofe kind pious glories do deface
The old fraternal quarrel of thy race.

Greatnefs of mind and fortune too.
Th' Olympic trophies fhew:
Both their feveral parts must do

In the noble chace of fame;

This without that is blind, that without this is lame. Nor is fair Virtue's picture feen aright

But in Fortune's golden light.

Riches alone are of uncertain date,

And on fhort man long cannot wait; The virtuous make of them the best, And put them out to Fame for interest i

With

With a frail good they wifely buy

The folid purchase of eternity:

They, whilft life's air they breathe, confider well, and. know

Th' account they must hereafter give below;
Whereas th' unjust and covetous above,
In deep unlovely vaults,

By the just decrees of Jove,

Unrelenting torments prove,

The heavy neceffary effects of voluntary faults.

Whilft in the lands of unexhausted light,
O'er which the god-like fun's unwearied fight
Ne'er winks in clouds, or fleeps in night,
An endless spring of age the good enjoy,
Where neither Want does pinch, nor Plenty cloy:
There neither earth nor fea they plow,

Nor aught to labour owe

For food, that whilft it nourishes does decay,

And in the lamp of life confumes away.

Thrice had these men through mortal bodies past,

Did thrice the trial undergo,

Till all their little drofs was purg'd at last,

The furnace had no more to do.

Then in rich Saturn's peaceful state

Were they for facred treasures plac'd,

The Mufe-difcovered world of Iflands Fortunate.

Soft-footed winds with tuneful voices there

Dance through the perfum'd air:

There

There filver rivers through enamel'd meadows glide,
And golden trees enrich their fide;
Th' illuftrious leaves no dropping autumn fear,
And jewels for their fruit they bear,

Which by the bleft are gathered

For bracelets to the arm, and garlands to the head.
Here all the Heroes, and their Poets, live;
Wife Rhadamanthus did the sentence give,
Who for his juftice was thought fit
With fovereign Saturn on the bench to fit.
Peleus here, and Cadmus, reign;
Here great Achilles, wrathful now no more,
Since his bleft mother (who before
Had try'd it on his body' in vain)

Dipt now his foul in Stygian lake,

Which did from thence a divine hardness take,

That does from passion and from vice invulnerable

make.

To Theron, Mufe! bring back thy wandering fong,
Whom those bright troops expect impatiently;
And may they do so long !

How, noble archer! do thy wanton arrows fly
At all the game that does but cross thine eye;
Shoot, and spare not, for I fee

Thy founding quiver can ne'er emptied be :
Let Art ufe method and good-husbandry,
Art lives on Nature's alms, is weak and poor;
Nature herself has unexhaufted store,

Wallows

Wallows in wealth, and runs a turning maze,

That no vulgar eye can trace.

Art, instead of mounting high,

About her humble food does hovering fly;

Like the ignoble crow, rapine and noise does love ;
Whilft Nature, like the facred bird of Jove,
Now bears loud thunder; and anon with filent joy
The beauteous Phrygian boy

Defeats the ftrong, o'ertakes the flying prey,
And fometimes basks in th' open flames of day;
And fometimes too he fhrowds

His foaring wings among the clouds..

Leave, wanton Mufe! thy roving flight;
To thy loud ftring the well-fletcht arrow put
Let Agrigentum be the Butt,

And Theron be the White.

And, lest the name of verse should give Malicious men pretext to misbelieve,

By the Caftalian waters fwear (A facred oath no poets dare

To take in vain,

No more than Gods do that of Styx prophane),
Swear, in no city e'er before,

A better man, or greater-foul'd, was born;
Swear, that Theron fure has fworn

No man near him fhould be

poor;

Swear, that none e'er had fuch a graceful art

Fortune's free gifts as freely to impart,

With an unenvious hand, and an unbounded heart,

But

But in this thankless world the givers
Are envied ev'n by the receivers :
'Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion,
Rather to hide, than pay, the obligation :
Nay, 'tis much worse than fo;
It now an artifice does grow,
Wrongs and outrages to do,

Left men fhould think we owe.

Such monsters, Theron! has thy virtue found:
But all the malice they profefs,

Thy fecure honour cannot wound;
For thy vaft bounties are fo numberless,
That them or to conceal, or else to tell,
Is equally impoffible!

THE