to his Song repair
With British Graces smiling on his Care,
Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.
As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill
The Flandrian Plains, and speak no vulgar Skill;
So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such,
No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.
As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine,
The Substance precious, and the Work Divine:
So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase,
Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,
A mighty Value in a little Space.
So the Venusian Clio sung of Old,
When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.
But Rome's aspiring Lyrick pleas'd us less,
Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.
O Sacharissa, what could steel thy Breast,
To Rob Harmonious Waller of his Rest?
To send him Murm'ring thro' the Cypress-Grove,
In strains lamenting his neglected Love.
Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake,
And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake.
Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline;
And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.
Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known;
Like Niobe, a Monument of Stone.

Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew,
And Waller's praise Eternally pursue,
Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,
So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.

But now the forward Muse converts her Eye
To see where Denham, and Roscommon fly,
Cautiously daring, and correctly High.
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,
Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.
Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs,
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,
With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time,
And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.
Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence,
Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense,
The Critick judges what the Muse indites,
And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden, Writes.* Epictetus.
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,
But like the Stoicks[*], of prodigious Price.
Roscommon's Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,
Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.
Fam'd Cooper's Hill shall, like Parnassus, stand,
And Denham reign, the Phæbus of the Land.Oldham.

Among these sacred and immortal Names,
A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims;
See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play
Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way.
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,
Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.
Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just
We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.
O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose
And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.
The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay,
In all the Trappings of the flowry May.
He set him out unsufferably bright,
And sow'd in every part his beamy Light.
Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,
For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.

His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,
Like Satyrs Rough, but not Deform'd as they.
His Sense undrest, like Adam, free from Blame,
Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame,
True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,
A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.

Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the Romish Crimes,
In rugged Satyr and ill-sounding Rhymes.
All Italy felt his imbitter'd Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp Lucilius Stung.
Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse
Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.
In Jordan's stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,
And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,
And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,
When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,Lee.
She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.
Thus Lee by Reason strove not to controul
That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.
He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,
Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.
I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?

Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,Otway.
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.
If Pity sooths us, Otway claims our Praise;
If Terrour strikes, then Lee deserves the Bays.
We grant a Genius shines in Jaffeir's Part,
And Roman Brutus speaks a Master's Art.
But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase
An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze.
A rising Meteor never was design'd,
T'amaze the sober part of Human kind.
Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse
A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse.
Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go,
Emptily Gay, magnificently Low,
Like Ancient Rome's Religion, Sacrifice and Show.
Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize,
Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes.
The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage,
May please the Young Sir Foplings on the Stage.
But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find
Like Spencer's Giant sunk away in Wind.
It grates judicious Readers when they meet
Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet.
Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,
Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.Dryden.
Lee aim'd to rise above great Dryden's Height,
But lofty Dryden keeps a steddy Flight.
Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care
His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air.
The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name,
By industry he kindled to a Flame.
The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue
To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung.
His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine,
All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.
His Images so strong and lively be,
I hear not Words alone, but Substance see;
Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move
Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love.
I weep to hear fond Anthony complain
In Shakespear's Fancy, but in Virgil's Strain.

Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer,* See Preface to Aurengzebe.
Himself[*] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err.
But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim
The sounding Title of a Poem's Name.
For Raillery, and what creates a Smile
Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.
That Heav'nly Heat refuses to be seen
In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.

If we would do him right, we must produce
The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse
With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear,
And Peals applauding shake the Theater.

They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,
Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays.
Is he oblig'd to France, who draws from thence
By English Energy, their Captive Sense?
Tho' Edward and fam'd Henry Warr'd in vain,
Subduing what they could not long retain:
Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,
And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.

This does superiour excellence betray;
O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!
If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make
Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake
Her