English

PART THE SECOND .

When two dire Chiefs determin'd battle wage,
Firm to assert the Empire of the Stage,
'Mid the conflicting havoc of the Scene,
How bold the critic-wight who steps between!
From either party, he has cause to dread
Theatric thunders vollied at his head;
For while D IURNAL S WISS are kept in pay,
A war of words prolongs th' immortal fray.
But I, who, haply, from no danger shrink,
Where nothing more is shed than harmless Ink;
Who, blest in secret vanity can smile

Of full sonorous voice, and lofty form,
That voice, too, sometimes, swell'd into a storm;
Yet boldly anxious Nature to redeem,
And bring old-fashion'd Sense into esteem;
R AYMOND , if scan'd by Stricture's sternest laws,
Tho' wonder be supprest, must force applause.
Not seldom have I mark'd his utmost art,
Impatient, struggling thro' a meaner part,
Where Emulation pent, would, vainly, strive
To keep some puling modern piece alive;
And the laborious load of dulness shook
The lion-nerves of K EMBLE , or of C OOKE .

PART THE FIRST .

Now that gaunt War, in pity to our Isle,
Sleeks his grim features to a sullen smile,
Sweet Peace, unscar'd by his terrific crest,
Clasps the dread Daemon to her turtle-breast,
Hangs his dark helmet on the myrtle-bough,
And binds with olive-wreath his blood-stain'd brow;
While barren P ETER pries abroad in vain,
For heroes, worthy his P INDARIC strain,
Stoop'd from a lofty L OUSIAD , and a K ING ,
To R UMFORD , and Receipts for Rotten Ling;
Or, fatal to each fond, uxorious Peer,

BOOK II.

O H ARCOURT ! whom the' ingenuous love of arts
Has carried from thy native soil beyond
The' eternal alpine snows, and now detains
In Italy's waste realms, how long must we
Lament thy absence? whilst in sweet sojourn
Thou view'st the relics of old Rome, or what
Unrivall'd authors by their presence made
For ever venerable, rural seats,
Tibur and Tusculum, or Virgil's urn,
Green with immortal bays, which haply thou,
Respecting his great name, dost now approach
With bended knee, and strow with purple flowers,

BOOK I .

What soil the Apple loves, what care is due
To Orchats, timeliest when to press the fruits,
Thy gift, Pomona! in Miltonian verse
Adventrous I presume to sing, of verse
Nor shrill'd nor studious; but my native soil
Invites me, and the theme, as yet unsung.
Ye Ariconian Knights and fairest Dames,
To whom propitious Heav'n these blessings grants,
Attend my lays! nor hence disdain to learn
How Nature's gifts may be improv'd by art.

Ah! wretched Israel! all thy Beauty's fled!
Thy datling Sons, thy great Defenders dead!
Upon thy Mountains they, lamented, dy'd,
Who for thy sake the worst of Ills defy'd,
Who for thy sake the worst of Ills defy'd,
Saw Death unmov'd, undaunted met their Fate,
Resolv'd to save, or fall the Victims of the State.

See! low as Earth thy mighty Chiefs are laid,
They who were as superior Pow'rs obey'd;
Who with Majestick Miens, and Airs Divine,
So lately did in glitt'ring Armour shine,

'Twould like the blest Millennium prove,
That Prototype of Joys above,
Where Truth th' Ascendant still shall gain,
Justice shall triumph, Virtue reign:
Where having view'd each other's Heart,
And found them void of Fraud and Art,
Free from Avarice, free from Hate,
Sincerely good, and firm as Fate,
We shall our Souls in one combine,
Shall join them with a Knot Divine,
A Knot so closely, strongly ty'd,
That nothing shall the Bond divide;
And that it may be sure to last,
Love, with a Smile, shall bind it fast:

Thro' the pure Æther wing'd my way,
And view'd the Works of Art Divine;
Seen boundless Love it self display,
And Wisdom in Perfection shine:
With the bright Natives of the Sky,
And such as once frail Mortals were,
Had rang'd thro' all the Realms on High,
And trod the liquid Plains of Air,
Where something new would still delight,
Something my Knowledge still improve;
Would me to Songs of Praise invite,

Such only those Delights shall share,
Which in Perfection still are there;
Delights too great for us to know,
While we're thus hood-wink'd here below;
While we to Flesh are thus confin'd,
To Flesh, that Darkner of the Mind;
That Medium , which obscures the Light,
That worse than an Egypttan Night:
But when we've thrown this Veil aside,
Dispell'd those Shades, which Day does hide;
When from the Cells in which we lie,
All Thought, to glorious Heights we fly:
We then shall Truths with Clearness see,

The tow'ring self-sufficient Mind
Hastily leaves the World behind;
Like Icarus , does soar too high,
Too near the melting Heat does fly;
It tempts the Dangers it should shun,
And by Presumption is undone:
While such as with a prudent Care,
By small Essays for Flight prepare;
Who raise themselves by slow Degrees,
First only perch upon the Trees,
Or on the Summit of some Hill,
E're they their great Designs fulfil,
There prune their Wings, and thence with Fear
Explore the dusky Atmosphere;