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Thy pen had well described 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 neighbouring

plains. But see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming even 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 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 flourish’d, 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 tired with rhyming, and would fain give o'er, But justice still demands one labour more: The noble Montagu remains unnamed, For wit, for humour, and for judgment, famed: To Dorset he directs his artful Muse, In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.

How negligently graceful he unreins
His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains !
How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory shines !
We see his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dyed waves run purple to the sea.
Nor Simois, choked with men, and arms, and blood,
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in

their streams :
But now, to Nassau's secret councils raised,
He aids the hero whom before he praised.
I've done, at length ; and now, dear Friend !

receive The last poor present that my Muse can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verse To them that practise them with more success. Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell; And so at once, dear Friend and Muse! farewell.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS,

LORD-KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.

IF yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares;
If yet your time and actions are your own,
Receive the present of a Muse unknown;
A Muse that in advent'rous numbers sings
The rout of armies and the fall of kings,

Britain advanced, and Europe's peace restored, By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword.

To you, my Lord, these daring thoughts belong, Who help'd to raise the subject of my song; To

you the hero of my verse' reveals His great designs, to you in council tells His inmost thoughts, determining the doom Of towns unstorm'd, and battles yet to come. And well could you, in your immortal strains, Describe his conduct, and reward his pains ; But since the state has all your cares engrossid, And poetry in higher thoughts is lost, Attend to what a lesser Muse indites, Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights,

On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait, And from your judgment must expect my fate, Who, free from vulgar passions, are above Degrading envy or misguided love. If you, well pleased, shall smile upon my lays, Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise, For next to what you write is what you praise,

TO

THE KING.
WHEN now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;
When every

dismal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid,
Attend, auspicious Prince! and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.

Others, in bold prophetic numbers skilld,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;

My Muse, expecting, on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in every blow,
But durst not in heroic strains rejoice;
The trumpets, drums, and cannons, drown'd her

voice :
She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore,
And floating corpse' lie beating on the shore ;
She saw thee climb the banks, but tried in vain
To trace her hero through the dusty plain,
When through the thick embattled lines he broke,
Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost in clouds

of smoke. O that some Muse, renown’d for lofty verse, In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse! Draw thee, beloved in peace and fear'd in wars, Inured to noonday sweats and midnight cares ! But still the godlike man, by some hard fate, Receives the glory of his toils too late: Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;

the hero, one the poet breeds. A thousand years in full succession ran Ere Virgil raised his voice, and sung

the man Who, driven by stress of Fate, such dangers bore On stormy seas and a disastrous shore; Before he settled in the promised earth, And

gave the empire of the world its birth. Troy long had found the Grecians bold and fierce Ere Homer muster'd

in verse; Long had Achilles quell’d the Trojans' lust, And laid the labour of the gods in dust, Before the towering Muse began her flight, And drew the hero raging in the fight,

up their troops

One age

Engaged in tented fields and rolling floods,
Or slaughtering mortals, or a match for gods.

And here, perhaps, by Fate's unerring doom,
Some mighty bard lies bid in years to come,
That shall in William's godlike acts engage,
And with his battles warm a future age.
Hibernian fields shall here thy conquests show,
And Boyne be sung when it has ceased to flow;
Here Gallic labours shall advance thy fame,
And here Seneffe shall wear another name.
Our late posterity, with secret dread,
Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure read
How, in the bloody field, too near advanced,
The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glanced.

The race of Nassaus was by Heaven design'd To curb the proud oppressors of mankind, To bind the tyrants of the earth with laws, And fight in every injured nation's cause, The world's great patriots; they for justice call, And, as they favour, kingdoms rise or fall. Our British youth, unused to rough alarms, Careless of fame, and negligent of arms, Had long forgot to meditate the foe, And heard, unwarm'd, the martial trumpet blow ; But now, inspired by thee, with fresh delight, Their swords they brandish, and require the fight; Renew their ancient conquests on the main, And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again; Fired when they hear how Agincourt was strow'd With Gallic corpse' and Cressy swam in blood, With eager warmth they fight, ambitious all Who first shall storm the breach or mount the wall. In vain the thronging enemy, by force, Would clear the ramparts, and repel their course;

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