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EPISTLE S.

EPISTLE THE FIRST. To my honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, on his excellent POEMS.

AS

S there is mufic uninform'd by art

In those wild notes, which with a merry heart
The birds in unfrequented fhades express,
Who, better taught at home, yet please us less :
So in your verse a native sweetnefs dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels.
Singing no more can your foft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,

Their even calmness does suppose them deep;
Such is your Mufe: no metaphor fwell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the iky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Shew fand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samfon's riddle meet.

'Tis ftrange each line fo great a weight should bear,
And yet no fign of toil, no sweat appear.

Either your art hides art, as ftoics feign

Then leaft to feel, when moft they fuffer pain;

And we, dull fouls, admire, but cannot fee
What hidden springs within the engine be :

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Or 'tis fome happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies fpread,
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms cafually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce fo beautiful a world.
Nor dare I fuch a doctrine here admit,
As would deftroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your ftrong genius then which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run fo lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himfelf could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel thofe heavens and gods he bore.
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our inftruction make their fecond end :
We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that woo
At once a beauty, and a fortune too.

Of moral knowledge poefy was queen,

And still the might, had wanton wits not been ;
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge.
Like fome brave captain, your fuccessful pen
Reftores the exil'd to her crown again :

And gives us hope, that, having feen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,

All

All will at length in this opinion rest,
"A fober prince's government is best.”

This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' improvement of the richest ground,
That foil which thofe immortal laurels bore,
That once the facred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's griefs are fo exprefs'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had the fo fpoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghoft repose,
Your Mufe fo justly has difcharged thofe,
Eliza's fhade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig'd, no lefs
Your kindness great Achilles doth confefs ;
Who, drefs'd by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become thofe virgin robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure ftiff, as if design'd in buff:
His colours laid fo thick on every place,
As only fhew'd the paint, but hid the face.
But as in perspective we beauties fee,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;

So here our fight obligingly mistakes

That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks difguis'd,

More for their dreffing, than their substance priz'd.

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Your curious notes fo fearch into that age,

When all was fable but the facred page,

That, fince in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.

But, what we moft admire, your verfe no lefs
The prophet than the poet doth confefs.

Ere our weak eyes difcern'd the doubtful ftreak

Of light, you faw great Charles his morning break. So fkilful feamen ken the land from far,

Which fhews like mifts to the dull passenger.

To Charles your Muse first pays her duteous love,
As ftill the antients did begin from Jove.

With Monk you end, whose name preferv'd shall be,
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,

Who thought it greater honour to obey

His country's intereft, than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things, of worthy men,

Is the peculiar talent of your pen :

Yet let me take your mantle up, and I

Will venture in your right to prophely.

"This work, by merit firft of fame fecure,

"Is likewife happy in its geniture:

"For, fince 'tis born when Charles afcends the throne, "It fhares at once his fortune and its own."

EPISTLE THE SECON D.

To my honoured friend Dr. CHARLETON, on his learned and ufeful works; but more particularly his Treatife of STONE-HENGE, by him restored to the true founder.

THE longeft tyranny that ever sway'd,

Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reafon to the Stagirite, And made his torch their univerfal light. So truth, while only one supply'd the state, Grew scarce, and dear, and yet fophifticate. Still it was bought, like emp'ric wares, or charms, Hard words feal'd up with Ariftotle's arms. Columbus was the firft that fhook his throne; And found a temperate in a torrid zone: The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze, The fruitful vales fet round with fhady trees; And guiltless men, who danc'd away their time, Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime. Had we still paid that homage to a name, Which only God and nature justly claim; The western feas had been our utmost bound, Where poets ftill might dream the fun was drown'd: And all the ftars that fhine in fouthern skies, Had been admir'd by none but savage eyes. Among th' afferters of free reason's claim, Our nation's not the leaft in worth or fame.

The

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