TO MR. DRYDEN.
[OW long, great Poet, fhall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praife?
Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote,
Grief chill'd his breaft, and check'd his rifing thought:
Penfive and fad, his drooping Mufe betrays
The Roman genius in its laft decays.
Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast;
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majefty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And still out-fhines the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show
How thy own laurel first began to grow:
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.
O may'ft thou still the noble task prolong,
Nor age, nor fickness, interrupt thy fong:
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams;
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a fecond life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.
Magd. College, Oxon.
June 2, 1693.
The Author's age 22.
THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS,
LORD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL,
1695.
IF yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares;
If yet your time and actions are your own;
Receive the present of a Mufe unknown:
A Muse that, in adventurous numbers, fings
The rout of armies, and the fall of Kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace reftor'd,
By Somers' counfels, and by Naffau's fword.
To you, my Lord, these daring thoughts belong
Who help'd to raise the subject of my fong;
Το
you the hero of my verse reveals
His great defigns, to you in council tells
His inmoft thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unftorm'd, and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But, fince the ftate has all your cares engrofs'd,
And poetry in higher thoughts is loft,
Attend to what a leffer Muse indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights.
On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgement must expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar paffions, are above
Degrading envy, or misguided love;
If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write, is what you praise.
HEN now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets fleep, and cannons cease to roar, When every difmal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, aufpicious prince; and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
My Muse expecting on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft has feen thee preffing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in every blow;
But durft not in heroic ftrains rejoice;
The trumpets, drums, and cannons, drown'd her voice:
She faw the Boyne run thick with human gore,
And floating corps lie beating on the shore;
She faw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain
To trace her Hero through the dusty plain,
When through the thick embattled lines he broke, Now plung'd amidst the foes, now loft in clouds of fmoke.
O that fome Muse, renown'd for lofty verse, In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse! Draw thee belov'd in peace, and fear'd in wars, Inur'd to noon-day fweats, and mid-night cares! But ftill the God-like man, by some hard fate, Receives the glory of his toils too late ;
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