INCE, dearest Harry, you will needs request
S'N Gher account of all the Mule-podielt,
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,
Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes;.
Without more preface, writ in formal length,
To speak the undertaker's want of strength,
I'll try to make their feveral beauties known,
And fhow their verfes worth, though not my own..
Long had our dull forefathers flept fupine,
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine;
Till Chaucer firft, a merry bard, arofe,
And many a story told in rhyme and profe.
But age has rufted what the Poet writ,
Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit:
In vain he jefts in his unpolish'd ftrain,
And tries to make his readers laugh in vain.
Old Spenfer next, warm'd with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age ~
An age that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where-e'er the poet's fancy led, pursued
Through pathlefs 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-fpun allegories fulfome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleas'd at diftance all the fights,
Of arms and palfries, battles, fields, and fights,
And damfels in diftrefs, and courteous knights.
But when we look too near, the fhades decay,
And all the pleasing landskip 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 fooner ftrikes our eyes..
With filent wonder, but new wonders rife.
As in the milky-way a fhining white
O'erflows the heavens with one continued light;
That not a fingle ftar can fhew his rays,
Whilft jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great Poet, that I dare to name
Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verie with blame;;
Thy fault is only wit in its excefs:
But wit like thine in any fhape will please.
What Mufe 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 expreffion, imitate in vain ?
D 2
Rules whofe deep fenfe and heavenly numbers fhow The beft of critics, and of poets too.
Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains.
But fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whofe tuneful Mufe affords
The fweeteft numbers, and the fitteft words.
Whether in comic founds or tragic airs
She forms her voice, the moves our finiles or tears.
If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,
Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.
From her no harfh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and the charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear :
Congreve ! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preferve thy farne alive,
And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend furvive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice still demands one labour more :
The noble Montague remains unnam'd,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Mufe,
In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verfe, and writes in loose familiar ftrains;
How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory fhines!
We see his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood; Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the Poet's highest themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their ftreams.
But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,
He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.
I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The laft poor present that my Muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verfe
To them that practise them with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,
And fo at once, dear friend and Mufe, farewel.
RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX,
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus, "Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis "Aggredior, fan&tos ausus recludere fontes." VIRG. Georg. ii.
HILE you, my Lord, the rural fhades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the foft feafon and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repofe with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded fcenes and fhining profpects rife,
Poetic fields incompass me around,
And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the Mufe fo oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rifing fprings and celebrated floods!
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