From Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the ENGLISH POETS.
UT fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years. Great Dryden next! whofe tuneful muse affords The fweeteft numbers and the fitteft words. Whether in comic founds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, fhe moves our fmiles and tears. If fatire or heroic ftrains the writes,
Her hero pleafes, 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, should decay in thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear!
Congreve ! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve fhall ftill preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
On ALEXANDER'S FEAST: Or, The POWER of MUSICK. An ODE.
From Mr POPE'S ESSAY on CRITICISM, 1. 376.
how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow.
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor ftood fubdued by found.
The power
of Mufick all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.
From an ODE of GRAY'S.
Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear :
Two courfers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But, ah! 'tis heard no more
Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with fupreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Mufe's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the fun :
Yet fhall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
Upon the DEATH of Lord HASTINGS.
UST noble Haftings immaturely die,
The honour of his ancient family,
Beauty and learning thus together meet,
To bring a winding for a wedding fheet?
Muft virtue prove death's harbinger? muft fhe,
With him expiring, feel mortality?
Is death, fin's wages, grace's now ? fhall art
Make us more learned, only to depart ?
If merit be difeafe; if virtue death;
To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath
Himself to discipline? who'd not esteem
Labour a crime? ftudy felf-murther deem?
Our noble youth now have pretence to be
Dunces fecurely, ignorant healthfully.
Rare linguist whofe worth fpeaks itself, whofe praise,
Though not his own, all tongues beides do raise :
Than whom great Alexander may feem lefs;
Who conquer❜d men, but not their languages.
In his mouth nations fpake; his tongue might be
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy.
His native foil was the four parts o'th' earth;
All Europe was too narrow for his birth.
A young apoftle; and with reverence may
I fpeak it, infpir'd with gift of tongues, as they.
Nature gave him a child, what men in vain
Oft strive, by art though further'd, to obtain.
His body was an orb, his fublime foul
Did move on virtue's, and on learning's pole:
Whose regular motions better to our view,
Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did fhew.
Graces and virtues, languages and arts,
Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts.
Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear
Scatter'd in others; all, as in their fphere,
Were fix'd, conglobate in his foul; and thence
Shone through his body, with sweet influence;
Letting their glories fo on each limb fall,
The whole frame render'd was celeftial.
Come, learned Ptolemy, and tryal make,
If thou this hero's altitude canft take:
But that transcends thy fkill; thrice happy all,
Could we but prove thus aftronomical.
Liv'd Tycho now, ftruck with this ray which shone
More bright i'th' morn', than others beam at noon,
He'd take his aftrolabe, and feek out here
What new star 'twas did gild our hemifphere.
Replenish'd then with fuch rare gifts as thefe,
Where was room left for fuch a foul disease?
The nation's fin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds
Our day-spring in so fad benighting clouds,
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