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Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods.
But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore,
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well pleased at distance all the sights
Of arms and palfreys, battles,3 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 :

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He more had pleased us, had he pleased 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

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O'er-flows the heavens with one continued light;
That not a single star can show his rays,

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Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze.

Pardon, great Poet, that I dare to name

Th' unnumbered beauties of thy verse with blame;

Thy fault is only wit in its excess,

But wit like thine in any shape will please.

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What Muse but thine can equal hints inspire,

And fit the deep-mouthed Pindar to thy lyre:
Pindar, whom others in a laboured strain,

And forced expression, imitate in vain ?
Well-pleased in thee he soars with new delight,
And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a

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[nobler flight.

Blest man whose spotless life and charming lays
Employed the tuneful Prelate in thy praise:
Blest man! who now shalt be for ever known,
In Sprat's successful labours and thy own.

8 1694, palfreys, cattels.

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1694, could equal hints.

But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,
Unfettered in majestic numbers walks;
No vulgar hero can his Muse engage;

Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallowed rage.
See! see, he upward springs, and towering high
Spurns the dull province of mortality,

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Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets th' Almighty thunderer in arms.
Whate'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilst every verse, arrayed 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!

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When great Messiah's outspread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!

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What sounds 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;

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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 profaned his pen,

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To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men ;

His other works might have deserved 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.

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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 ;5

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61694, propagate desires.

So long shall Waller's strains our passion move,
And Sacharissa's beauties kindle love.

Thy verse, harmonious Bard, and flattering song.
Can make the vanquished great, the coward strong, 95
Thy verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence.
And compliment the storms 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 glittered in thy page,
And warmed thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes of death and horror had we viewed,
And how had Boyne's wide current reeked in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a softer verse;
Thy pen had well described her graceful air,

And Gloriana would have seemed more fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,
That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry:

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Rules whose deep sense and heavenly numbers show 110 The best of critics, and of poets too.

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 rime, 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

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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,

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That long has flourished, should decay with thee; 125 Did not the Muse's 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.

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I'm tired with riming, 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,

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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,

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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,

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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.

Tve done at length; and now, dear Friend,
receive

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The last poor present that my Muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse

To them that practice them with more success.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,

And so at once, dear Friend and Muse, farewell. 155

A Letter from Italy

To the Right Honourable CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.
In the year MDCC1.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum ! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis

Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.-Virg. Geor. 2.

While you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rime.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on Classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.

How am I pleased to search the hills and woods

For rising springs and celebrated floods !
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,
To see the Mincio draw his watery store
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
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