Lo! the fame Oak appears before my Eyes,
Nor alter'd in its Shape, nor former Size;
As many Ants the num'rous Branches bear,
The fame their Labour, and their frugal Care;
The Branches too a like Commotion found,
And hook th' induftrious Creatures on the Ground,
Who, by degrees, (what's scarce to be believ’d)
A nobler Form, and larger Bulk receiv'd,
And on the Earth walk'd an unusual Pace
With many Strides, and an erected Face;
Their num'rous Legs, and former Colour loft,
The Infects cou'd a Human Figure boaft.

I wake, and waking find my Cares again,
And to the unperforming Gods complain,
And call their Promife and Pretences vain.
Yet in my Court I heard the murm'ring Voice
Of Strangers, and a mixt uncommon Noife:
But I fufpected all was still a Dream,
'Till Telamon to my Apartment came,
Op'ning the Door with an impetuous hafte,

}

O come, faid he, and fee your Faith and Hopes furpaft:
I follow, and, confus'd with Wonder, view

Thofe Shapes which my prefaging Slumbers drew:
I faw, and own'd, and call'd them Subjects; they
Confeft my Pow'r, fubmiffive to my Sway.
To Jove, Reftorer of my Race decay'd,
My Vows were firft with due Oblations paid.
I then divide with an impartial Hand
My empty City, and my ruin'd Land,
To give the New-born Youth an equal share,
And call them Myrmidons, from what they were.
You faw their Perfons, and they still retain

The Thrift of Ants, tho' now transform'd to Men..
A Frugal People, and inur'd to fweat,

Lab'ring to gain, and keeping what they get.
Thefe, equal both in Strength and Years, shall join
Their willing Aid, and follow your Delign,
With the firft Southern Gale that fall prefent
To fill your Sails, and favour your Intent.

To Dottor GIBBONS.

By Mr CHARLES HOPKINS.

HE Fires that fell in Ages paft from Heav'n,

Life, the most active, most exalted Fire
The great creating Godhead could inspire,
Breath'd into Man, while yet the World was new,
Is now committed to the Care of you:

How you discharge your Truft, maintain your Poft,
Tho' you are filent, I have cause to boast.
Again, the rising Muse expands her Wings,
Again prepares to mount, and mounting fings:
Again wou'd celebrate fome facred Name,
And chufes you, who rais'd her, for her Theme.
Ye conscious Poets, be no longer vain,
Confefs your Weakness, and your Pride contain ;
Quit your bold Claim, and end your idle Strife,
It is not yours to give Immortal Life.
Ev'n you, to him, on all occafions fly,
Without whofe Aid you and your Mufes die.
His Succour is implor'd, where Wit declines,
Where Lovers languish, and where Beauty pines;
Where Monarchs faint beneath the weight of Crowns,
And ficken in their Robes on Silver Thrones:
His facred Art, their facred Lives fuftains,

And ftrengthens them again to guide the Reins.
As Iris enter'd with her Golden Beams

The Cave of Sleep, and chas'd away the Dreams;
Diseases seem to fly at his approach,
And circling Blood keeps measure at his touch.
So leaps the Lover's Heart, fo beats and moves,
When he lyes folded in her Arms he loves.
So, influenc'd by the Moon, wide Oceans roll:
And fo the Needle trembles to the Pole.
O Gibbons! I am rais'd; there's nought I fee
Above my reach, when thus reviv'd by thee.

Now

Now cou'd I paint a well-disputed Field,
Or praise proud Beauties, 'till I made them yield.
But Gratitude a diff'rent Song requires,
My Breast enlarges, and dilates my Fires.
Life, the first Bleffing Humankind can boast,
Life, which can never be reftor'd when loft,
Endear'd by Health, from Pain and Sickness free,
Is the bleft Gift bestow'd by Heav'n and thee:
How shall I then, or Heav'n, or you regard ?
The Care of both has been beyond Reward.
But grateful Poets, off' ring up their Lays, [Praife.
Find you content with Thanks, and Heav'n with
O! may your Stream of Life run fmooth, but strong;
Long may you live, that others may live long.
'Till healing Plants no more on Mountains grow;
'Till mineral Waters have forgot to flow,
And paint the Vallies where they glide below
While Silver Helicon delights the Taste,
And while the Mufes facred Mount shall laft;
Their Songs, for thee, the Sifters shall design,
The grateful Subject of the tuneful Nine;
Oft fhalt thou fill their Songs;

and always mine.

To Mr. CONGREV E.

By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.

ET other Poets other Patrons chufe,

a their Mufe.

With flatt'ring Hopes, and fruitless Labour wait,
And court the flipp'ry Friendship of the Great:
Some trifling Present by my Lord is made,
And then the Patron thinks the Poet paid.
On you, my furer, nobler Hopes depend,
For you are all I wish; you are a Friend.
From you, my Mufe her Infpiration drew,
All the performs, I Confecrate to you.
VOL. V.

D

You taught me firft my Genius and my Pow'r,
Taught me to know my own, but gave me more:
Others may fparingly their Wealth impart,
But he gives nobleft, who bestows an Art.
Nature, and you alone, can that confer,
And I owe you, what you your felf owe her.
O! Congreve, cou'd I write in Verse like thine,
Then in each Page, in ev'ry charming Line,
Should Gratitude, and facred Friendship shine.
Your Lines run all on eafie, even Feet;
Clear is your Senfe, and your Expreffion fweet:
Rich is your Fancy, and your Numbers go
Serene and smooth, as Crystal Waters flow.
Smooth as a peaceful Sea which never rolls,
And foft, as kind confenting Virgins Souls.
Nor does your Verfe alone our Paffions move,
Beyond the Poet, we the Perfon love.
In you, and almoft only you, we find

Sublimity of Wit, and Candor of the Mind:

}

Both have their Charms, and both give that Delight, Tis pity that you fhou'd, or fhou'd not Write:

9

But your ftrong Genius Fortune's Pow'r defies,
And, in defpight of Poetry, you rise.
To you the Favour of the World is shown,
Enough for any Merit, but your own.
Your Fortune rifes equal with your Fame,
The best of Poets, but above the Name.
O! may you never miss deserv'd Success,
But raise your Fortunes "till I wish them lefs.

Here fhou'd I, not to tire your Patience, end;
But who can part fo foon, with fuch a Friend.
You know my Soul, like yours, without Design,
You know me yours, and I too know you mine.
I owe you all I am, and needs must mourn
My want of Pow'r to make you fome return.
Since you gave all, do not a part refufe,
But take this flender Off'ring of the Muse.
Friendship, from fervile Int'reft free, fecures
My Love, fincerely, and entirely yours.

The LADY's SONG.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

A Quire of bright Beauties in Spring did appear,

To chufe a May-Lady to govern the Year : All the Nymphs were in White, and the Shepherds in [Green,

The Garland was giv'n, and Phyllis was Queen:

But Phyllis refus'd it, and fighing did say,

I'll not wear a Garland while Pan is away. i

II.

While Pan, and fair Syrinx, are fled from our Shore,
The Graces are banish'd, and Love is no more:
The foft God of Pleasure, that warm'd our Defires,
Has broken his Bow, and extinguish'd his Fires;
And vows that himself, and his Mother, will mourn,
'Till Pan and fair Syrinx in Triumph return.

III.

Forbear your Addreffes, and Court us no more,
For we will perform what the Deity swore:
But if you dare think of deserving our Charms,
Away with your Sheephooks, and take to your Arms;
Then Lawrels and Myrtles your Brows fhall adorn,
When Pan, and his Son, and fair Syrinx, return.

An Epiftle from Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS to Mr. YALDEN in Oxon.

M and toll about, in a tempeftuous World,

lab'ring Mufe, grown tir'd of being hurl'd

Prays for a Calm, implores fome quiet Seat,
And seeks what yours has found, a sweet Retreat,