TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,
Who lately writ a religious book, intituled, "Hiftorical Applications, and Occafional Meditations upon "several subjects."
OLD is the man that dares engage
For piety, in such an age!
Who can prefume to find a guard
From fcorn, when Heaven 's fo little spar'd?
Divines are pardon'd; they defend
Altars on which their lives depend:
But the prophane impatient are,
When nobler pens make this their care:
For why should these let in a beam
Of divine light, to trouble them;
And call in doubt their pleasing thought,
~That none believes what we are taught?
High birth and fortune warrant give
That fuch men write what they believe:
And, feeling firft what they indite,
New credit give to antient light.
Amongst these few, our author brings
His well-known pedigree from Kings.
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find:
I wish the throng of Great and Good
Made it less easily understood!
TO A PERSON OF HONOUR,
Upon his incomparable, incomprehenfible Poem, intituled, THE BRITISH PRINCES.
IR! you've oblig'd the British nation more,
Than all their Bards could ever do before;
And, at your own charge, monuments as hard
As brafs or marble, to your fame have rear'd.
For, as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how their brave ancestors could fight;
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,
Or they have acted, at a nobler height.
You, of your antient Princes, have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd:
Explain'd their customs and their rights anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew:
Unriddled thofe dark oracles, as well
As thofe that made them, could themselves foretell.
For, as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again:
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in your Poem plac'd him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new life to men:
Make rival Princes meet in arms and love,
Whom diftant
For, as eternity has neither past
Nor future, authors fay, nor first nor last;
But is all inftant; your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.
Then why fhould you, whose miracles of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-busied head,
T'observe what times they liv'd in, or were dead?
For, fince you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower;
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar latitude.
For no man 's fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not fome proportion with your wit.
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring fense, that understands it here.
TO MR. CREECH,
On his Tranflation of LUCRETIUS.
'HAT all men wish'd, though few could hope
to fee,
We are now bleft with, and oblig'd by thee.
Thou! from the antient learned Latin store,
Giv'ft us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the Stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage.
Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the Wits' garden is o'er-run with weeds.
There Farce is Comedy; bombaft call'd strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
'Tis hard to fay they fteal them now-a-days;
For fure the antients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling infects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenfer knew, that Taffo felt before;
And Death found furly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-plac'd laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæfar, like Augustus, kind!
But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread:
Thou art not curft to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.
What may we not expect from fuch a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'ft in youth, what age has fought in vain, And bring'ft forth fons without a mother's pain.
So easy is thy fense, thy verse so sweet,
Thy words fo proper, and thy phrase so fit;
We read, and read again: and still admire
Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous
Pardon this rapture, Sir! But who can be
Cold and unmov'd, yet have his thoughts on thee?
Thy goodness may my feveral faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your feverer fight,
They seem unworthy to behold the light;
Let them with speed in deferv'd flames be thrown!
They'll fend no fighs, nor murmur out a groan ;
But, dying filently, your justice own.
His lofs fupply'd, now all our fears
Are, that the Nymph should melt in tears.
Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take,
For his, your own, and for our fake;
Left his fair foul, that lives in you,
Should from the world for ever go.
HLORIS! what 's eminent we know, Muft for fome cause be valued fo: Things without ufe, though they be good, Are not by us fo understood.
The early rofe, made to display
Her blushes to the youthful May,
Doth yield her sweets, fince he is fair,
And courts her with a gentle air.
Our stars do fhew their excellence,
Not by their light, but influence:
When brighter comets, since still known,
Fatal to all, are lik'd by none.
So, your admired beauty still
Is, by effects, made good or ill.
Upon our late Lofs of the Duke of CAMBRIDGE.
HE failing bloffoms which a young plant bears,
Engage our hope for the fucceeding years:
And hope is all which art or nature brings,
At the first trial, to accomplish things.
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