But Milton *) next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfetter'd in majestic numbers walks.
No vulgar hero can his muse engage;
Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! see! he upwards springs, and towering high
Spurns the dull province of mortality,
Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And sets th' almighty thunderer in arms.
Whate'er his pen describes I more than see,
Whilst every verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and sublime, my whole attention draws,
And seems above the critic's nicer laws.
How are you struck with terror and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah's out-spread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What sound of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare,
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire.
But when with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise;
What tongue, what words of rapture can express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness!
poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deserv'd applause!
But now the language can't support the cause;
While the clean current, though serene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the sight.
But now my muse, a softer strain rehearse,
Tarn every
line with art, and smooth thy verse;
The courtly Waller **) next commands thy lays:
Muse, tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praise.
While tender airs, and lovely dames inspire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire:
So long shall Waller's strains our passions move,
And Saccharissa's beauty kindle ve.
Thy verse, harmonious Bard, and flattering song,
*) S. S. 154. **) S. S. 189.
Can make the vanquish'd, great, the coward strong,
Thy verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the storm that bore him hence.
Oh had thy muse not come an age too soon,
But seen great Nassau on the British throne!
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes of death and horror had we view'd,
And how had Boyne's *) wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a softer verse,
had well describ'd her graceful air,,
And Gloriana would have seem'd more fair.
Nor must Roscommon **) pass neglected by,
That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry:
Rules whose deep sense and heavenly numbers show
The best of critics, and of poets too.
Nor, Denham ***) must we e'er forget thy strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains.
But see where artful Dryden ****) next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but、charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whose tuneful muse affords
The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comic sounds, or tragic airs,
She forms her voice, she moves our smiles, or tears.
If satire or heroic strains she writes,
Her hero pleases and her satire bites.
From her no harsh, unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,,
That long had flourish'd, should decay with thee;
Did not the muses' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve *****), and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy famo alive,
And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive.
*) Boyne, ein Flufs in der, Irländischen Landschaft Leinster, wo, Wilhelm am isten Julius 1690 seinen Gegner Jacob völlig schlug. **) S. 184. ***) S. 144. *****) S. 196.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But justice still demands one labour more:
The noble Montague *) remains unnam'd,
For wit, for humour, and for jugdment fam'd.
To Dorset **) he directs his artful muse,
In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains:
How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory shines!
We see his army set in just array,
And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the sea.
Nor Simois, chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams, But now, to Nassau's secret councils rais'd,
He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.
I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive
The last poor present, that my muse can give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse
To them, that practise them with more success.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell;
And so at once, dear friend, and muse, farewell!
2) AN HYMN.
When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys;
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
*) Charles Montague Earl of Halifax, geboren 1661, gestorben 1715. 1690 schrieb er seine schöne Epistel: to the Earl of Dorset, occasioned by his Majesty's victory on Ire land. Man findet seine Gedichte im 6ten Theile der Ander sonschen Sammlung. **) Charles Sackville Earl of Dorset, geboren den 24sten Januar 1657, gestorben den 19ten Januar 1705-6. Man findet die wenigen dichterischen Arbeiten dieses Mannes gleichfalls im ɓten Bande der Andersonschen Sammlung.
O how shall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravish'd heart!
But thou canst read it there.
Thy providence my life sustain'd,
And all my wants redrest;
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.
Unnumber'd comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow'd,
Before my infant heart conceiv'd
From whence these comforts flow'd.
When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps i ran,
Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe,
And led me up to man.
Through hidden dangers, toils and death,
It gently clear'd my way,
And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they.
When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew'd my face;
And when in sins and sorrows sunk,'
Reviv'd my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o'er,
And in a kind and faithful' friend
Hast doubled all my store.
Then thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a chearful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll pursue;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails; and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity to thee,
A joyful song I'll raise;
For, oh! eternity's too short,
To utter all thy praise.
3) A LETTER FROM ITALY, TO THE RIGHT HONOUR ABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX *).,
While you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,'
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
*) Siehe die erste Anmerkung zu Seite 242. Der Lord hat te ansehnliche Staatsämter bekleidet, legte indessen, durch Um stände genöthigt, verschiedene derselben im Anfang der Re gierung der Königin Anna (1702) nieder.
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