An age
that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where-e'er the poet's fancy led, pursued
Through pathlefs fields, and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods.
But now the myftic tale, that pleas'd of yore,
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-spun allegories fulfome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleas'd at diftance all the fights,
Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights,
And damfels in diftrefs, and courteous knights.
But when we look too near, the fhades decay,
And all the pleafing landskip fades away.
Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote,
O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought:
His turns too closely on the reader press:
He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less.
One glittering thought no fooner strikes our eyes
With filent wonder, but new wonders rife.
As in the milky-way a fhining white
O'erflows the heavens with one continued light;
That not a fingle star can fhew his rays,
Whilft jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great Poet, that I dare to name
Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verfe with blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its excess :
But wit like thine in any shape will please.
What Mufe but thine can equal hints inspire,
And fit the deep-mouth'd Pindar to thy lyre:
Pindar, whom others in a labour'd strain,
And forc'd expreffion, imitate in vain?
Well-pleas'd in thee he foars with new delight, [flight.
And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler
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 majeftic numbers walks :
No vulgar hero can his Mufe 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,
And fets th' Almighty thunderer in arms.
Whate'er his pen defcribes I more than fee,
Whilft every verfe, array'd in majefty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And feems above the critics nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terror and delight,
When angel with arch-angel copes in fight!
When great Meffiah's out-fpread banner fhines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare,
And ftun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my fpirits and my blood retire,
To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager fteps, from hence I rife,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise;
What tongue,
what words of rapture can express
A vifion fo profufe of pleasantnefs!
Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deferv'd applause!
But now the language can't fupport the cause;
While the clean current, though ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.
now, my Mufe, a fofter ftrain rehearse, Turn every line with art, and fmooth thy verfe; 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 defire: So long shall Waller's ftrains our paffion move, And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love. Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flattering fong, Can make the vanquifh'd great, the coward strong. Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the storm that bore him hence. Oh had thy Muse not come an age too foon, 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 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 wouldst rehearse, In smoother 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 pafs neglected by, That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry :
Rules whofe deep fense and heavenly numbers show
The best of critics, and of poets too.
Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy ftrains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains.
But fee 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 comic founds or tragic airs
She forms her voice, fhe moves our fmiles or tears.
If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,
Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.
From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and fhe charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But juftice ftill demands one labour more:
The noble Montague remains unnam'd,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Mufe,
In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might ufe.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains;
How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory fhines!
We fee his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the Poet's higheft 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 verse
To them that practise them with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,
And fo at once, dear friend and Mufe, farewel.
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