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But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rulesig
And sense no longer will submit to fools.

By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whofe bright airy top
The Epick poets fo divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human fense ;
A work of such ineftimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth !
Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe,
Do those mere founds the world's attention draw !
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a trvo-legg'd beast;
So these gigantic fouls amaz’d we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endlefs fame,
And universal shouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear so mean, fo poor,
Verse will seemn profe; but ftill persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill;
As something of divine the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be instructed, but infpir'd:
But he, disclosing facred inyfteries,
Has shewn where all the mighty magic lies ;
Describ'd the fecds, and in what order fown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown..


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Sure from some angel he the secret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.

But what, alas ! avails it poor mankind,
To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind ?
The way is shewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak Reason's fight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whofe juft difcernment, Virgil-like, is such
Never to say too little or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay ;
Put he must do beyond what I can say;
Muft above Taffo's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenfer, and ev’n Milton fail.




1. 'TIS faid, that favourite, mankind,

Was made the lord of all below; But yet the doubtful are concern d to find, 'Tis only one man tells another so.

And, for this great dominion here,

Which over other beasts we claim,
Reason our best credential does appear,

By which indeed we domineer,
But how absurdly, we may see with shame.





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Reason, that folemn trifle ! light as air,
Driven and down by censure or applause ;

By partial love away 'tis blown,
Or the least prejudice can weigh it down ;
Thus our high privilege becomes our snare.

In any nice and weighty cause,
How weak, at best, is Reason !


grave Impofe on that small judgment which we have.

In all those wits, whose names have spread so wide,

And ev’n the force of time defy'd,

Some failings-yet may be descry’d.
Among the rest, with wonder be it told,

That Brutus is admir'd for Cæsar's death;
By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal breath.

Brutus, ev’n he, of all the rest,
In whom we should that deed the most detest,

Is of mankind esteem'd the best.
As snow descending from some lofty hill,
Is by its rolling course augmenting still,
So from illustrious authors down have rollid
Those great encomiums he receiv'd of old :

Republic orators will shew esteem,

And gild their eloquence with praise of him :
But Truth, unveil'd, like a bright sun appears,
To shine away this heap of seventeen hundred years.

In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious wit,
(To whom in all besides I willingly submit)

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That Cæsar's life no pity could deserve
From one who kill'd himself, rather than serve.
Had Brutus chofe rather himself to say,

Than any master to obey,
Happy for Rome had been that noble pride ;
The world had then remain’d in peace, and only Brutus

For he, whose foul disdains to own
Subjection to a tyrant's frown,

And his own life would rather end,
Would sure much rather kill himself, than only hurt

his friend.
To his own furord in the Philippian field

Brutus indeed at last did yield :
But in those times felf-killing was not rare,
And his proceeded only from despair :

He might have chosen elle to live,
In hopes another Cæsar would forgive;
Then, for the good of Rome, he could once more
Conspire against a life which had spar'd his before.

Our country challenges our utmost care,
And in our thoughts deserves the tenderest share;
Her to a thousand friends we should prefer,
Yet not betray them, though it be for her.'
Hard is his heart, whom no desert can move,

A mistress or a friend to love,
Above whatc'er he does besides enjoy;
But may he, for their fakes, his fire or fons destroy !


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For sacred justice, or for public good,
Scorn'd be our wealth, our honour, and our blood :
In such a cause, want is a happy state,
Ev’n low disgrace would be a glorious fate;
And death itself, when noble fame survives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives.

But 'tis not surely of fo fair renown
To spill another's blood, as to expose our own :

Of all that's ours we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to friendship, oh! 'tis facrilege to toueh.

Can we stand by unmov'd, and see
Our mother robb’d and ravish'd? Can we be

Excus’d, if in her cause we never stir,
Pleas’d with the strength and beauty of the ravilher?

Thus sings our bard with heat almost divine ;
'Tis pity that his thought was not as strong as fine.

Would it more justly did the case express,
Or that its beauty and its grace were less.

(Thus a nymph sometimes we fee,
Who so charming seems to be,
That, jealous of a soft surprize,

We scarce durft trust our eager eyes)
Such a fallacious ambush to escape,

It were but vain to plead a willing rape;
A valiant son would be provok'd the more;
A force we therefore must confess, but acted long before;

A marriage since did intervene,
With all the folemn and the sacred scene;


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