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Nor doft thou only dive so low,
With an unweary'd Wing, the other Way as high:
Where Fates among the Stars do grow,
There into the clofe Nests of Time doft peep,
And there with piercing Eye,
Thro the firm Shell, and the thick White doft spy
Times to come a forming lye,
Close in their sacred Secundine afleep;
Till hatch'd by the Sun's vital Hear,
Which o'er them yet does brooding fit,
They Life and Motion get :
And ripe at last with vig'rous Might
Break thro' the Shell, and take their everlasting Flight.
And sure we may
The same too of the Present say,
If Past and Future Times do thee obey :
Thou stop'ft this Current, and doft make
The running River fettle, like a Lake;
Thy certain Hand holds fast this flipp'ry Snake.
The Fruit which does so quickly wafte,
Men scarce can see it, much less talte,
Thou comfirest in Sweets to make it last.
This shining Piece of Ice,
Which melts so soon away, .
With the Sun's Ray;
Thy Verse does folidate and chryftallize,
Till it a lasting Mirrour be:
Nay, thy immortal Rhyme
Makes this one short Point of Time
To fill up half the Orb of round Eternity.
Invocations of the Muses.
Now e'er we venture to unfold
Archievements so resolv'd and bold,
We should, as learned Poets use,
Invoke th’Asliftance of some Muse:
We think 'tis no great matter which ;
They're all alike ; yet we shall pitch
On one that fits our purpose most,
Whom therefore thus we do accoft.
Queen of all harmonious Things!
Dancing Words, and speaking Strings;
What God, what Hero wilt thou fing?
What happy Man to equal Glories bring ?
Begin, begin thy noble Choice;
(Covel. Pind. And let the Hills around refle& the Image of thy Voice.
Now 'Erato, thy Poet's Mind inspire, And fill his Soul with thy celestial Fire.
Dryd. Virg. And now the mighty Labour is begun, Ye Muses, open all your Helicon : For well you know, and can record alone, What Fame to future Times conveys but darkly down. Dryd.
Ye Muses, ever fair, and ever young, Aflift my Numbers, and inspire my Song. For you in singing martial Facts excel, You best remember, and alone can tell.
Descend from Heav'n, Urania ! by that Name
If rightly thou art call'd, whose Voice divine
Foll'wing, above th'olympian Hill I foar ;
Above the Flight of Pegasean Wing:
The Meaning, not the Name I call ; for thou
Nor of the Muses Nine, nor on the Top.
Of old Olympius dwell'ft ; but heav'nly-born,
Before the Hills appear'd, or Fountains flow'd,
Thou with eternal Wisdom didft converse ;
Wisdom, thy Sifter; and with her didst play
In Presence of th'Almighty Father, pleas'd
With thy celestial Song : Up-led by thee
Into the Heav'n of Heav'ns I have presum'd,
An earthly Guest, and drawn Empyreal Air,
Thy Temp'ring: With like Safety guided down,
Return me to my nacive Element:
Left from this flying Steed unrein'd, (as once
Bellerophon, tho' from a lower Clime)
Dismounted, on th' Aleian Field I fall,
Erroneous, there to wander, and forlorn.
Half yet remains unsung, bar narrower bound
Within the visible diurnal Sphere ;
Standing on Earth, not rapt above the Pole,
More fafe I fing with mortal Voice, unchang'd
To hoarse or mute ; cho'fall’n on evil Days,
On evil Days tho' fall'n and evil Tongues ;
In Darkness, and with Dangers compass'd round,
And Sollitude : Yet not alone, while thou
Visit'st my Slumbers nightly, or when Morn
Purples the Eait ; ftill govern thou my Song,
Urania, and fic Audience find, cho' few :
But drive far off the barb'rous Dissonance
Of Bachus and his Revellers, che Race
Of that wild Rout chat rore the Thracian Bard
In Rhodope ; where Woods and Rocks had Ears
To Rapture, till the savage Clamour drown'd
Both Harp and Voice ; nor could the Mufe defend
Her Son. So fail not thou, who thee implores:
For thou art heav'nly, she an empty Dream.
Thou chat with Ale or viler Liquors,
Didst inspire Withers, Pryn, and Vickars,
And force them, tho it were in Spight
Of Nature, and their Stars, to write ;
Who, as we find in sullen Writs,
And cross-grain'd Works of modern Wics,
With Vanity, Opinion, Want,
The Wonder of the Ignorant,
The Praises of the Author, pen'd
B'himself, or Wit-insuring Friend,
The Itch of Picture in the Front,
With Bays, and wicked Rhyme upon't,
All that is left o'th'forked Hill,
To make Men scribble without Skill;
Canft make a Poet spite of Fate,
And teach all People to translate ;
Tho' out of Languages in which
They understand no Part of Speech:
Aflift me but this once I implore,
And I shall trouble thee no more.
MUSICK. See Lute, Lyre, Poetry, Singing.
Tell me, O Muse! (for thou, or none, canft tell)
The mystick Pow'rs, that in blest Numbers dwell.
At first a various unform'd Hint we find
Rise in some God-like Poet's fercile Mind,
Till all the Parts and Words their Places take;
And with just Marches Verse and Musick make.
Such was God's Poem, this World's new Essay;
So wild and rude in its first Draught it lay :
Th'ungovern's Parts no Correspondence knew,
And artlefs War from thwarting Motions grew,
Till they to Number and fix'd Rules were
By the eternal Mind's poetick Thought :
Water and Air he for the Tenour chose,
Earth made the Base, the Treble Flame arose :
To th’active Moon a quick brisk Stroke he gave,
To Saturn's String a Touch more soft and grave :
The Motions strait, and round, and swift, and flow,
And short, and long, were mix'd and woven fo,
Did in such artful Figures smoothly fall,
As made this decent measur'd Dance of All,
And this is Musick.
Gew From Harmony, from Heav'nly Harmony,
This universal Frame began :
From Harmony to Harmony
Thro' all the Compass of the Notes it ran,
The Diapason closing full in Man.
But Man may justly tuneful Strains admire,
His Soul is Musick, and his Breast a Lyre.
A Lyre, which while its various Notes agree,
Enjoys the Sweet of its own Harmony.
In us rough Hatred with soft Love is joyn'd,
And sprightly Hope with grov'ling Fear combin'd,
To form the Parts of our harmonious Mind.
What ravilhes the Soul, what charms the Ear,
Is Musick, tho' a various Dress it wear.
Beauty is Musick too, tho' in Disguise,
Too fine to touch the Ear, it strikes the Eyes,
And thro' 'em to the Soul the silent Stroke conveys.
'Tis Musick Heavenly, such as in a Sphere,
We only can admire, but cannot hear.
Nor is the Pow'r of Numbers less below;
By them all Humours yield, all Passions bow,
And stubborn Crowds are chang'd, yet know not how.
Let other Arts in senlless Matter reign,
Mimick in Brass, or with mix'd Juices ftain;
Musick, the mighty Artist, Man can rule;
As long as it has Numbers, he a Soul,
As much as Man can those mean Arts controul:
If Musick be the Food of Love, play on:
That Strain again : It had a dying Fall:
Oh! It came o'er my Ear like a sweet Sound,
That breaths upon a Bank of Violets,
Stealing and giving Odour.
Shak. Twelfth Night Musick has
Charms to footh â savage Breast; To foften Rocks, and bend a knotty Oak: I've read that things inanimate have mov'd, And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd By Magick Numbers, and perswalive Sound. Cong. Mourn. Bride:
Let there be Musick! Let the Master touch
The sprightly String, and softly-breathing Flute ;
Till Harmony rowze ev'ry gentle Passion !
Teach the cold Maid to lose her Fears in Love,
And the fierce Youth to languish at her Feet.
Begin! Ev'n Age it self is cheer'd with Musick,
It wakes a glad Remembrance of our Youth,
Calls back past Joys, and warms us into Transport. Row.Fair Pex.
'Twas at the Royal Feast for Persia won;
By, Philip's warlike Son;
Alofc in awful State
The God-like Heroe sate,
On his Imperial Throne,
His valiant Peers were plac'd around,
Their Brows with Roses and with Myrtles bound,
(So should Desert in Arms be crown'a )
The lovely Thais by his Side
Sate like a blooming eastern Bride,
In Flow'r of Youth and Beauties Pride.
Happy, happy, happy Pair;
None but the Brave deserves the Fair:
Timotheus plac'd on high
Amid the cuneful Quire;
With flying Fingers touch'd the Lyre;
The trembling Notes afcend the Sky
And heay'nly Joy inspire.
The Song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful Seats above,
(Such is the Pow'r of mighty Love ;)
A Dragon's fiery Form bely'd the God:
Sublime on radiant Spires he rode;
When he to fair Olympia press’d,
And while he sought her snowy Breast
Then round her slender Waste he curl'd,
And stamp'd an Image of himself, a Sov'raign of the World:
The lift'ning Crowd admire the lofty Sound,
A present Deity, they shout around;
A prefent Deity the vaulted Roofs rebound,
Wich ravish'd Ears
The Monarch hears,
Afsumes the God,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the Spheres.
The Praise of Bacchus then the sweet Musician suriga
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly God in Triumph comes;
Sound the Trumpets, beat the Drums.
Flush'd with a purple Grace,
He thews his honest Face ;
Now give the Hautboys Breath; he comes! he comes
Bacchus ever fair and young,
Drinking Joys did first ordain:
Bacchus Blessings are a Treasure,
Drinking is the Soldier's Pleafure
Rich the Treasure,
Sweet the Pleasure,
Sweet is Pleasure afrer Paini.
Sooth'd with the Sound, the King greit vain;
Fought all his Batcels o'er again,
And thrice he routed all
his Foes, and
thrice he flew the Siain: Y y