No vulgar hero can his muse ingage;

Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! see, he upward springs, and tow'ring high
Spurns the dull province of mortality,

Shakes heav'ns eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets th' Almighty thunderer in arms.
What-e'er his pen describes I more than see, I'
Whilst ev'ry verse array'd in majesty,

Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws,
And seems above the critick's nicer laws.
How are you struck with terror and delight,
When angel with arch-angel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's out-spread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!

What sounds of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare,
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise;
What tongue, what words of rapture can express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness."

Oh had the poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deserv'd applause!
But now the language can't support the cause;
While the clean current, tho' serene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the sight.

* I wonder what these laws could be. Nobody understood the critic's nicest laws, better than Milton, or observed them with more respect. The observation might be true of Shakespeare; but, by illhap, we do not so much as find his name in this account of English poets.

b

A vision so profuse of pleasantness.] A prettily turned line. The expression (originally Milton's, P. L. iv. 243. viii. 286.) pleased our poet so much, that we have it again in the letter from Italy-profuse of bliss, and elsewhere.

Serene and bright,] This is a strange description of Milton's language, if he means the language of his prose works. The panegyric seems made at random.

But now my muse a softer strain rehearse,
Turn ev'ry line with art, and smooth thy verse;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays :
Muse tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praise.
While tender airs and lovely dames inspire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire;
So long shall Waller's strains our passion move,
And Sacharissa's beauties kindle love.

Thy verse, harmonious bard, and flatt'ring song,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong.
Thy verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the storms that bore him hence.
Oh had thy muse not come an age too soon,
But seen great Nassau on the British throne!
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes 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 would'st rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a softer verse;
Thy pen had well describ'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana wou'd have seem'd more fair.

Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,
That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry:

Rules, whose deep sense, and heav'nly numbers show
The best of criticks, and of poets too.

Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains.
But see where artful Dryden next appears

Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whose tuneful muse affords
The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comick sounds or tragick airs"

She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears.
If satire or heroic strains she writes,.

Her hero pleases, and her satire bites.

* Whether in comic sounds or tragick airs] A writer in fashion, like the stoical wise man, is every thing he has a mind to be. Dryden's comedies are very indifferent, and his tragedies still worse.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,

That long has flourish'd, shou'd decay with thee;
Did not the muses other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice still demands one labour more:
The noble Montague remains unnam'd,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorset he directs his artful muse,

In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins

His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains;
How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory shines.

We see his army set in just array,

And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.

Nor Simois choak'd with men, and arms, and blood;

Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,

Tho' gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams. But now, to Nassau's secret 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 verse

To them that practise 'em with more success.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,

And so at once, dear friend and muse, farewell.

* Congreve shall still] Another poet in fashion: but it is not safe to prophecy of such. All he had of Dryden's muse was only his quaint and ill-applied wit.

LETTERA SCRITTA D'ITALIA

AL MOLTO ONORABILE

CARLO CONTE HALIFAX,

Dal Signore GIUSEPPE ADDISON, l'Anno MDCCI. In Versi Inglesi.

E TRADOTTA IN VERSI TOSCANI.a

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

MENTRE, Signor, l'ombre villesche attraggonvi,
E di Britannia dagli Ufici toltovi

Non piu, ch' a suoi ingrati Figli piaccia
Per lor vantaggio, vostro ozio immolate;
Me in esteri Regni il Fato invia
Entro genti feconde in carmi eterni,
U la dolce stagion, e'l vago Clima
Fanno, che vostra quiete in versi io turbi.
Ovunque io giri i miei rapiti lumi,
Scene auree, liete, e chiare viste inalzansi,
Attornianmi Poetiche Campagne,
Parmi ognor di calcar classico suolo;
Sì sovente ivi Musa accordò l'Arpa,
Che non cantato niun colle sorgevi,
Celebre in versi ivi ogni pianta cresce,
E in celeste armonia ciascun rio corre.
Come mi giova a cercar poggi, e boschi
Per chiare fonti, e celebrati fiumi,
Alla Nera veder fiera in suo corso
Tracciar Clitumno chiaro in sua sorgente,

By the Abbot Anton. Maria Salvini, Greek Professor at Florence.

LETTER FROM ITALY,

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES LORD HALIFAX,

IN THE YEAR MDCCI.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

VIRG. Geor. ii.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's publick posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime.

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetick fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods.
For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,

The subject, so inviting to our classical traveller, seems to have raised his fancy, and brightened his expression. Mr. Pope used to speak very favorably of this poem.