Fierce and unbroken yet, Impatient of the fpur or bit; Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place; But flings writer and reader too, that fits not sure. THE MUSE. The Queen, my Mufe, will take the air: Unruly Fancy with ftrong Judgment trace; Put in nimble-footed Wit, Smooth-pac'd Eloquence join with it; Sound Memory with young Invention place; Harness all the winged race. Let the postillion Nature mount, and let The coachman Art be fet; And let the airy footmen, running all befide, Figures, Conceits, Raptures, and Sentences, In a well-worded dress ; [Lyes, And innocent Loves, and pleasant Truths, and useful In all their gaudy liveries. Mount, glorious Queen! thy travelling throne, And bid it to put on; For long, though chearful, is the way, And life, alas! allows but one ill winter's day. Where Where never foot of man, or hoof of beast,. The paffage prefs'd; Where never fish did fly, And with short filver wings cut the low liquid fky; The bufy morning's curious eye; The wheels of thy bold coach pafs quick and free, Is all thy plain and fmooth uninterrupted way! Thou fathom'ft the deep gulf of ages paft, The years which thou doft plcafe; Like shipwreck'd treasures, by rude tempefts caft "Let Brought up again to light and public ufe by thee. But fly With an unwearied wing the other way on high, There There into the close nefts of Time doft peep, And there, with piercing eye, Through the firm shell and the thick white, doft spy Years to come a-forming lie, Clofe in their facred fecundine asleep, Till, Hatch'd by the fun's vital heat, And, ripe at laft, with vigorous might And fure we may The fame too of the present say, If paft and future times do thee obey. Thou stop'ft this current, and doft make Thy certain hand holds fast this flippery fnake! Men scarce can fee it, much less tafte, Thou comfiteft in fweets to make it last. Which melts fo foon away With the fun's ray, Thy verfe does folidate and cryftallize, Till it a lafting mirror be! Nay, thy immortal rhyme Makes this one fhort point of time To fill up half the orb of round eternity. то V то M R. HOBBE S. AST bodies of philofophy I oft have seen and read; But all are bodies dead, Or bodies by art fashioned; I never yet the living foul could fee, 'Tis only God can know Whether the fair idea thou doft show Agree intirely with his own or no. 'Tis fo like truth, 'twill ferve our turn as well. As firm the parts upon their centre reft, Long did the mighty Stagyrite retain Saw his own country's fhort-liv'd leopard flain ; So did this noble empire waste, Sunk by degrees from glories paft, And in the school-men's hands it perifh'd quite at laft: It perifh'd, and it vanish'd there, The life and foul, breath'd out, became but empty air! The fields, which answer'd well the ancients' plough, The poor relief of present poverty. Food and fruit we now muft want, Unless new lands we plant. We break-up tombs with facrilegious hands To walk in ruins, like vain ghosts, we love, We fearch among the deal For treasures buried; Whilft ftill the liberal earth does hold So many virgin-mines of undiscover'd gold. The Baltic, Euxine, and the Cafpian, And nothing fees but feas and skies, |