humble Soul shou'd rise
As a young Phoenix out of Ashes flies
Above what France or Italy can shew,
The Celebrated Tasso, or Boileau.

Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find
Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind:
If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men,
You love the Labour'd Travels of the Pen;
Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time
On Cowley, or on Dryden's useful Rhyme:
Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse,
The Tragick, Lyrick, or Heroick Muse:
For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew
In Charming Numbers, what is false, what true,
And teach more good than Hobbs or Lock can do.

Hail, ye Poetick Dead, who wander now
In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow.
Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,
Ye blest Partakers of a happier State!
Whether Intomb'd with English Kings you sleep,
Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:
There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,
May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay!
There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume
The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.

While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear,
Sing on; let Montague and Dorset hear.
In Stately Verse let William's Praise be told,
WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold.
No more of Richelieu's Worth: Forget not, Fame,
To change Augustus for Great William's Name.
Who, tho' like Homer's Jupiter, he sate,
Musing on something eminently great
And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate;
Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears
The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.
Whether this Praise to Stepny's Muse belong,
Or Prior claim it for Pindarick Song.
The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd,
And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.
The double Vertue of Nassovian Fire
At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire.
The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung
A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,
When Mars has Acted, or when Phoebus Sung.

O cou'd my Muse reach Milton's tow'ring Flight,
Or stretch her Wings to the Mæonian Height!
Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse
His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.
The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame,
And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name
But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb,
Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome.
Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace
The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race?
What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?
No Land but Britain, must pretend to shine
With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.* The Duke of Glouceiter. Here the Author laments he prov'd so bad a Prophet.
So may this Island a new Delos prove,
Joyn[*] Young Apollo to the Cretan Jove!
What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame!
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame!
How swiftly Gloster in his Bud began!
How the Green Hero blossoms into Man!
Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,
To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms:
See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,
What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.
Edwards and Harry's to his Eyes appear
In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
At Agincourt so terrible they stood,
So when Pictavian Fields were dy'd with Blood.
The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,
And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.
Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,
Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly.
O'er England's Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,
And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.
Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,
But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep.
Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,
Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,
Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.

After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,
The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.
The Streams of Thamisis, exulting, Ring,
When fair Augusta's lofty Clio's Sing
Granta and Rhedycina's Tuneful Throng
Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.

Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time,
Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme.
Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,
Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure.
But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey,
Till English Sense and Valour shall decay.
Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,
Or Cam or Isis shall forget to Flow.