works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.
So powerful is the Muse! When David plaid,
The Frantick Dæmon heard him, and obey'd.
No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay
Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away.
Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'dOrpheus.
To Jews alone: For in a Heathen mind
Some strokes appear: Thus Orpheus was inspir'd,
Inchanting Syrens at his Song retir'd.
To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd,
And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd.Homer.

But Greece was honour'd with a Greater Name,
Homer is Greece's Glory and her Shame.
How could Learn'd Athens with contempt refuse,
Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse?
Thee, Colophon, his angry Ghost upbraids,
While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.
Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive
For the Dead Homer, whom they scorn'd Alive.
So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom!
To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.

Tho' Virgil rising under happier Stars,
Saw Rome succeed in Learning as in Wars.
When Pollio, like a smiling Planet, shone,
And Cæsar darted on him, like the Sun.
Nor did Mecænas, gain a less repute,
When Tuneful Flaccus touch'd the Roman Lute.

But when, Mecænas, will Thy Star appear
In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere?
Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes
Dissembled under DORSET's fair Disguise?
If so; go on, Great Sackvile, to regard
The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward.
So to Thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,
Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.
For if a Verse Eternity can claim,
Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.
This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain
Octavius hover'd long, and sought to Reign.
This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,
Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.
Let him his Title to such Glory bring,
You give as freely, and more nobly sing.
Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.
Horace and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd,
The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.

O Light of England, and her highest Grace!
Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race!
Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine
(For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line,
While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell
The noblest Poets, and who most excel.
Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send,
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.

But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse
The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse
On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough,
And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.
A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.
Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.
Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,
Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,
And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)
Create a BRITISH PRINCE; as hard a task,
As would a Cowley or a Milton ask,
To build a Poem of the vastest price,
A DAVIDEIS, or LOST PARADISE.
So tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien
May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,
By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.
I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky.
Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,
Not so the Seat of Phoebus role, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.
To Britany the Temple was convey'd,
By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.
Built from the Basis by a noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.

For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise
An English Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known
For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.Chaucer

Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day.
A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our English Ennius He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,Spencer
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which Spencer gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.
O had thy Poet, Britany, rely'd
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
Mæanides and Virgil had been Thine!
Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,
But Chaucer's steps religiously pursu'd.

He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So secred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for currant Sterling pass,
Stamp'd with old Chaucer's Venerable Face.
But Johnson found it of a gross Alloy,
Melted it down, and slung the Dross away
He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.
We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of Terence, in thy Glorious way,
Or Catliine plots better in thy Play.
Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,
And doubt which merits most, Rome's Cicero, or Thine.
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.
So Macedon's Imperial Hero threw
His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.
Great Johnson'sBen. Johnson. Deeds stand Parallel with His,
Were Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies.

Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame
Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.
Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,
And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.

Fletcher and Beaument Fletcher, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,
Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.
Who, prodigal of Sense, by Beaumont's care,
Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.
Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,
A bragging Bessus, or