By art and nature for this task design'd,
Yet modeftly the fight he long declin'd;
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loos'd his fatire till the needful hour.
His fovereign's right, by patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his avenging genius to his aid.
Bleft Mufe, whofe wit with fuch a caufe was crown'd,
And bleft the cause that such a champion found!
With chofen verfe upon the foe he falls,
And black fedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with fubjects forc'd t' engage,
Secure of conqueft he rebates his rage;
His fury not without diftinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To lefs-infected members gentle found,
Or fpares, or elfe pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trefpafs on the mercy of his Mufe:
Their wretched doggrel rhymers forth they bring,
To fnarl and bark against the poets' king;
A crew, that fcandalize the nation more,
Than all their treafon-canting priests before.
On thefe he scarce vouchfafes a fcornful fmile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A ftyle fo keen, as ev'n from faction draws
The vital poifon, ftabs to th' heart their caufe.
Take then, great Bard, what tribute we can raise;
Accept our thanks, for you tranfcend our praise.
To the unknown AUTHOR of the MEDAL; and of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
THUS pious ignorance, with dubious praise,
Altars of old to Gods unknown did raife: They knew not the lov'd deity; they knew Divine effects a caufe divine did fhew;
Nor can we doubt, when fuch thefe numbers are, Such is their caufe, though the worft Mufe fhall dare Their facred worth in humble verfe declare.
As gentle Thames, charm'd with thy tuneful fong, Glides in a peaceful majesty along;
No rebel ftone, no lofty bank, does brave
The eafy paffage of his filent wave :
So, facred poet, fo thy numbers flow,
Sinewy, yet mild as happy lovers wooe;
Strong, yet harmonious too as planets move,
Yet foft as down upon the wings of love.
How fweet does virtue in your drefs appear;
How much more charming, when much lefs fevere !
Whilft you our fenfes harmlessly beguile,
With all th' allurements of your happy stile;
Y'infinuate loyalty with kind deceit,
And into fenfe th' unthinking many cheat.
So the sweet Thracian with his charming lyre
Into rude nature virtue did infpire;
So he the favage herd to reafon drew,
Yet fcarce fo fweet, fo charmingly as you.
O that you would, with fome fuch powerful charm,
Enervate Albion to just valour warm !
Whether much-fuffering Charles fhall theme afford,
Or the great deeds of godlike James's sword.
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again
Another fleet might pass the subje&t main,
Another Edward lead the Britons on,
Or fuch an Offory as you did moan;
While in fuch numbers you, in fuch a strain,
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let falfe Achitophel the rout engage,
Talk eafy Abfalom to rebel rage;
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,
Or modeft Corah more new plots reveal;
Whilft conftant to himself, fecure of fate,
Good David still maintains the royal state.
Though each in vain fuch various ills employs,
Firmly he stand, and ev'n those ills enjoys;
Firm as fair Albion, midst the raging main,
Surveys incircling danger with disdain.
In vain the waves affault the unmov'd thore,
In vain the winds with mingled fury roar,
Fair Albion's beauteous cliffs fhine whiter than before.
Nor fhalt thou move, though hell thy fall confpire,
Though the worse rage of zeal's fanatic fire;
Thou beft, thou greateft of the British race,
Thou only fit to fill great Charles`s place.
Ah, wretched Britons! ah, too ftubborn ifle!
Ah, ftiff-neck'd Ifrael on bleft Candan's foil!
Are thofe dear proofs of heaven's indulgence vain,
Reftoring David and his gentle reign?
Is it in vain thou all the goods doft know,
Aufpicious stars on mortals fhed below,
While all thy ftreams with milk, thy lands with honey flow?
No more, fond ifle! no more thyself engage
In civil fury, and inteftine rage:
No rebel zeal thy duteous land moleft,
But a finooth calm foothe every peaceful breast.
While in fuch charming notes divinely fings
The best of poets, of the best of kings.
To Mr. DRYDEN, on his RELIGIO LAICI.
THOSE Gods the pious ancients did adore,
They learnt in verfe devoutly to implore,
Thinking it rude to ufe the common way
Of talk, when they did to fuch beings pray.
Nay, they that taught religion firft, thought fit
In verfe its facred precepts to tranfmit:
So Solon too did his first ftatutes draw,
And every little ftanza was a law.
By thefe few precedents we plainly fee
The primitive defign of poetry;
Which, by reftoring to its native use,
You generoully have refcued from abufe.
Whilst your lov'd Mufe does in fweet numbers fing,
She vindicates her God, and godlike king.
Atheist, and rebel too, fhe does oppofe
(God and the king have always the fame foes).
Legions of verfe you raife in their defence,
And write the factious to obedience;
You the bold Arian to arms defy,
A conquering champion for the Deity
Against the whigs first parents, who did dare
To difinherit God-Almighty's heir.
And what the hot-brain'd Arian firft began,
Is carried on by the Socinian,
Who ftill affociates to keep God a man.
But 'tis the prince of poets' talk alone
T'affert the rights of God's and Charles's throne.
Whilft vulgar poets purchase vulgar fame
By chaunting Chloris' or fair Phyllis' name;
Whofe reputation shall last as long,
As fops and ladies fing the amorous fong.
A nobler fubject wifely they refuse,
The mighty weight would crush their feeble Muse.
So, story tells, a painter once would try
With his bold hand to limn a deity:
And he, by frequent practifing that part,
Could draw a minor-god with wondrous art:
But when great Jove did to the workman fit,
The thunderer fuch horror did beget,
That put the frighted artist to a stand,
And made his pencil drop from 's baffled hand.
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