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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,

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       And all the hero in full glory shines!

       We see his army set in just array,

       And Boyne's dyed waves run purple to the sea.

       Nor Simois choked 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 raised,

       He aids the hero, whom before he praised.

       I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive

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       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.

      A LETTER FROM ITALY,

      TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN THE YEAR 1701.

      Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,

       Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis

       Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

       VIRG., Geor. ii.

      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 ravished eyes,

       Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,

       _10

       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,

       Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows,

       And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.

       How am I pleased to search the hills and woods

       For rising springs and celebrated floods!

       To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,

       And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,

       _20

       To see the Mincio draw his watery store

       Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,

       And hoary Albula's infected tide

       O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.

       Fired with a thousand raptures I survey

       Eridanus[5] through flowery meadows stray,

       The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,

       The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,

       And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,

       Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

       _30

       Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng

       I look for streams immortalised in song,

       That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

       (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,)

       Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,

       And in the smooth description murmur still.

       Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

       And the famed river's empty shores admire,

       That, destitute of strength, derives its course

       From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source,

       _40

       Yet sung so often in poetic lays,

       With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;

       So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!

       Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,

       That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,

       And unobserved in wild meanders play'd;

       Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renowned,

       Its rising billows through the world resound,

       Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,

       Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

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       Oh could the Muse my ravished breast inspire

       With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire,

       Unnumbered beauties in my verse should shine,

       And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

       See how the golden groves around me smile,

       That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,

       Or when transplanted and preserved with care,

       Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.

       Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments

       To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:

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       Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,

       And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.

       Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats,

       Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;

       Where western gales eternally reside,

       And all the seasons lavish all their pride:

       Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,

       And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

       Immortal glories in my mind revive,

       And in my soul a thousand passions strive,

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       When Rome's exalted beauties I descry

       Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

       An amphitheatre's amazing height

       Here fills my eye with terror and delight,

       That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,

       And held uncrowded nations in its womb;

       Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies;

       And here the proud triumphal arches rise,

       Where the old Romans' deathless acts displayed,

       Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid:

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       Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,

       And wondering at their height through airy channels flow.

       Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,

      

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