Now Ovid boasts the' advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.
O! may'st thou still the noble task prolong,
Nor age nor sickness interrupt thy song!
Then may we, wondering, read how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms and dissolv'd in streams;
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold,
How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a second life, and different natures tried.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.
Magd. College, Oxon.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST
TO MR. HENRY SACHEVERELL*.
SINCE, dearest Harry! you will needs request
A short account of all the Muse possest,
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,
Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes,
• Afterwards Dr. Sacheverell.
Without more preface, writ in formal length,
To speak the undertaker's want of strength,
I'll try to make their several beauties known,
And show their verses' worth, though not my own.
Long had our dull forefathers slept supine,
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine,
Till Chaucer first, a merry bard, arose,
And many a story told in rhyme and prose;
But age has rusted what the poet writ,
Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit;
In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain,
And tries to make his readers laugh in vain.
Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age;
An age that, yet uncultivate and rude,
Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued
Through pathless fields and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons and enchanted woods.
But now the mystic tale that pleas'd of yore
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow,
While the dull mortal lies too plain below.
We view, well pleas'd, at distance all the sights
Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights,
And damsels in distress, and courteous knights;
But when we look too near the shades decay,
And all the pleasing landscape 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 sooner strikes our eyes
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise;
As in the Milky-way a shining white
O'erflows the heavens with one continued light,
That not a single star can show his rays,
Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great poet! that I dare to name
The' unnumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its excess;
But wit like thine in any shape will please.
What Muse 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 expression, imitate in vain?
Well pleas'd in thee he soars with new delight, And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight.
Bless'd man! whose spotless life and charming lays Employ'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise; Bless'd man! who now shall be for ever known In Sprat's successful labours and thy own.
But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfetter'd in majestic numbers, walks:
No vulgar hero can his Muse engage,
Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! see! he upward springs, and, towering high,
Spurns the dull province of mortality;
Shakes Heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets the' almighty thunderer in arms!
Whate'er his pen describes, I more than see,
Whilst every verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and sublime, my whole attention draws,
And seems above the critic's nicer laws.
How are you struck with terror and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's outspread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What sound 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, though serene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the sight.
But now, my Muse, a softer strain rehearse,
Turn every 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 beauty kindle love.
Thy verse, harmonious bard! and flattering song,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong;
Thy verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the storm 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 would have seem'd more fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,
That makes e'en Rules a noble poetry;
Rules, whose deep sense and heavenly numbers
The best of critics and of poets too.
[show Nor, Denham! must we e'er forget thy strains, While Cooper's Hill commands the neigbouring 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 comic sounds or tragic 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.
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 flourished, should 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 promised 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 Montagu remains unnam❜d,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment, famed:
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