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There stand the new Creations of the Muse, Poetic Persons, whom the Writers use Whene'er a cause magnificently great Would fix attention with peculiar weight. 'Tis hence that humble Provinces are seen Transform'd to Matrons with neglected mien, Who call their Warriors in a mournful found, And shew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground, While over Urns reclining Rivers moan They should enrich a nation not their own. 'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd To be but rules of reason in the mind; The heavenly Forms start forth, appear to breathe, And in bright shapes converse with men beneath; And, as a God in combat Valour leads, In council Prudence as a Goddess aids.

There Exclamations all the voice employ In sudden Aushes of Concern or Joy : Then seem the sluices, which the Passions bound, To burst asunder with a speechless found; And then with tumult and surprize they roll, And shew the case important in the foul.

There rising Sentences attempt to speak, Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break But so the Part directs to find the rest, That what remains behind is more than guess’d. Thus fill'd with ease, yet left unfinish'd too, The sense looks large within the Reader's view: He freely gathers all the Paffion means, And artful filence more than words explains.


Methinks a thousand Graces more I fee,
And I could dwell—but when would thought be free?
Engaging Method ranges all the band,
And smooth Transition joins them hand in hand :
Around the musick of my lays they throng,
Ah, too deserving objects of my fong!
Live, wondrous Palace, live secure of time,
To Senses Harmony, to Souls sublime,
And just Proportion all, and great Design,
And lively Colours, and an Air divine.

'Tis here that, guided by the Muses' fire,
And fill'd with sacred thought, her friends retire,
Unbent to care, and unconcern’d with noise,
To taste repose and elevated joys,
Which in a deep untroubled leisure meet,
Serenely ravishing, politely sweet.
From hence the Charms that most engage they choose,
And, as they please, the glittering objects use;
While to their Genius, more than Art, they trust,
Yet Art acknowledges their labours juft.
From hence they look, from this exalted show,
To choose their subject in the world below,
And where an Hero well deserves a name,
They confecrate his acts in fong to Fame;
Or, if a Science unadorn’d they find,
They smooth its look to please and teach the mind;
And where a Friendship's generously strong,
They celebrate the knot of souls in fong;
Or, if the Verses must inflame Desire,
The thoughts are melted, and the words on fire:

But, when the Temples deck'd with glory stand,
And hymns of Gratitude the Gods demand,
Their bosoms kindle with Celestial Love,
And then alone they cast their eyes

Hail, sacred Verse! ye sacred Muses, hail !
Could I your pleasures with your fire reveal,
The world might then be taught to know you right,
And court your rage, and envy my delight.
But, whilft I follow where your pointed beams
My course directing shoot in golden streams,
The bright appearance dazzles Fancy's eyes,
And weary'd-out the fix'd Attention lies ;
Enough, my Verses, have you work'd my breaft,
I'll seek the sacred Grove, and fink to reft.”

No longer now the ravish'd Poet sung, His voice in easy cadence left the tongue ; Nor o'er the musick did his fingers Ay, The sounds ran tingling, and they seem’d to die,

O, Bolingbroke! O Favourite of the skies, O born to gifts by which the noblest rise, Improv'd in arts by which the brightest please, Intent to business, and politę for ease; Sublime in eloquence, where loud applause Hath ftild thee Patron of a nation's cause. "'T was there the world perceiv'd and own’d thee great, Thence Anna call’d thee to the reins of State; Go, said the greatest Queen, with Oxford go, And still the tumults of the world below, Exert thy powers, and prosper; he that knows, To move with Oxford, never should repose.”

She spake: the Patriot overspread thy mind,
And all thy days to public good resign'd.
Else might thy soul, so wonderfully wrought
For every depth and turn of curious thought,
To this the Poet's sweet recess retreat,
And thence report the pleasures of the seat,
Describe the raptures which a Writer knows,
When in his breast a vein of fancy glows,
Describe his business while he works the mine,
Describe his temper when he sees it shine,
Or say, when Readers easy verse insnares,
How much the Writer's mind can act on theirs :
Whence images, in charming numbers fet,
A fort of likeness in the soul beget,
And what fair visions oft we fancy nigh
By fond delusions of the swimming eye,
Or further pierce through Nature's maze to find
How passions drawn give passions to the mind.

Oh, what a sweet confusion! what surprize!
How quick the shifting views of pleasure rise !
While, lightly skimming, with a transient wing,
I touch the beauties which I wish to sing.
Is Verse a sovereign Regent of the foul,
And fitted all its motions to control ?
Or are they fifters, tun'd at once above,
And shake like unisons if either move ?
For, when the numbers fing an eager fight,
I've heard a soldier's voice express delight;
I've seen his eyes with crowding spirits shine,
And round his hilt his hand unthinking twine.


When from the shore the fickle Trojan Aies,
And in sweet measures poor Eliza dies,
I've seen the book forsake the virgin's hand,
And in her eyes the tears but hardly stand.
I've known her blush at soft Corinna's name,
And in red characters confess a flame :
Or wish fuccefs had more adorn'd his arms,
Who gave the world for Cleopatra's charms.

Ye Sons of Glory, be my first appeal,
If here the power of lines these lines reveal.
When some great youth has with impetuous thought
Read o'er atchievements which another wrought,
And seen his courage and his honour go
Through crowding nations in triumphant show,
His soul, enchanted by the words he reads,
Shines all impregnated with sparkling feeds,
And courage here, and honour there, appears
In brave design that foars beyond his years,
And this a spear, and that a chariot lends,
And war and triumph he by turns attends;
Thus gallant pleasures are his waking dream,
Till some fair cause have call'd him forth to fame.
Then, form’d to life on what the Poet made,
And breathing slaughter, and in arms array'd,
He marches forward on the daring foe,
And emulation acts in every blow.
Great Hector's shade in fancy stalks along,
From rank to rank amongst the martial throng;
While from his acts he learns a noble rage,
And shines like Hector in the present age.

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