Well-pleas'd in thee he foars with new delight, And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight. Bleft man! whose spotlefs life and charming lays Employ'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise; Bleft man who now fhall be for ever known, In Sprat's fuccessful labours and thy own. But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfetter'd in majestic numbers walks : No vulgar hero can his Muse engage; Nor earth's wide fcene confine his hallow'd rage. See! fee! he upwards fprings, and towering high Spurns the dull province of mortality, Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms, What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare, Oh Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen, But now, my Muse, a fofter strain rehearse, Turn every line with art, and finooth thy verse; The courtly Waller next commands thy lays : Muse, tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praife. While tender airs and lovely dames inspire Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire : So long shall Waller's strains our passion move, And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love. Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flattering song, Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong. Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the ftorm that bore him hence. Oh had thy Mufe not come an age too soon, But feen great Naffau on the British throne! How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage ! What fcenes of death and horror had we view'd, And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood! Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse, In fimoother numbers and a fofter verfe; Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air, And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair. Nor muft Rofcommon pass neglected by, That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry : Rules whofe deep fenfe and heavenly numbers fhow Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains, She forms her voice, the moves our fmiles or tears. Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites. From her no harfh unartful numbers fall, That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee; The noble Montague remains unnam`d, For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd; In numbers such as Dorset's self might use. His verfe, and writes in loose familiar ftrains; How How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines, And all the hero in full glory shines ! We fee his army fet in just array, And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea. Shall longer be the Poet's highest themes, Though gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their ftreams. But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd, He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd. I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The last poor present that my Muse can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verfe To them that practise them with more fuccefs. A LETTER FROM ITALY. ΤΟ ΤΗΕ RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN THE YEAR MDCCI. * Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus, W HILE you, my Lord, the rural fhades admire, Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please, For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground; To |