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and checked his rising thought;

       Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays

       The Roman genius in its last decays.

       Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possess'd,

       And second youth is kindled in thy breast;

       _10

       Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,

       And England boasts of riches not her own;

       Thy lines have heightened Virgil's majesty,

       And Horace wonders at himself in thee.

       Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle

       In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;

       And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,

       Edges his satire, and improves his rage.

       Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,

       And still outshines the bright original.

       _20

       Now Ovid boasts the 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, changed by angry gods,

       And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.

       Oh, mayst thou still the noble task prolong,

       Nor age nor sickness interrupt thy song!

       Then may we wondering read, how human limbs

       Have watered kingdoms, and dissolved in streams;

       _30

       Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould

       Turned yellow by degrees, and ripened into gold:

       How some in feathers, or a ragged hide,

       Have lived a second life, and different natures tried.

       Then will thy Ovid, thus transformed, reveal

       A nobler change than he himself can tell.

      Mag. Coll. Oxon, June 2, 1693. The Author's age, 22.

A POEM TO HIS MAJESTY,[2] PRESENTED TO THE LORD KEEPER.

       Table of Contents

      TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JOHN SOMERS,

      LOKD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.

      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 Muse unknown:

       A Muse that in adventurous numbers sings

       The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,

       Britain advanced, and Europe's peace restored,

       By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword.

       To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong,

       Who helped to raise the subject of my song;

       _10

       To you the hero of my verse reveals

       His great designs; to you in council tells

       His inmost thoughts, determining the doom

       Of towns unstormed, and battles yet to come.

       And well could you, in your immortal strains,

       Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:

       But since the state has all your cares engross'd,

       And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,

       Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,

       Pardon her faults and countenance her flights.

       _20

       On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait,

       And from your judgment must expect my fate,

       Who, free from vulgar passions, are above

       Degrading envy, or misguided love;

       If you, well pleased, shall smile upon my lays,

       Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise;

       For next to what you write, is what you praise.

      TO THE KING.

      When now the business of the field is o'er,

       The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar;

       When every dismal echo is decay'd,

       And all the thunder of the battle laid;

       Attend, auspicious 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:

       _10

       She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe,

       When Europe was concerned in every blow;

       But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; is

       The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned her voice:

       She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore,

       And floating corps lie beating on the shore:

       She saw thee climb the banks, but tried in vain

       To trace her hero through the dusty plain,

       When through the thick embattled lines he broke,

       Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke.

       _20

       Oh that some Muse, renowned for lofty verse,

       In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!

       Draw thee beloved in peace, and feared in wars,

       Inured to noonday sweats, and midnight cares!

       But still the godlike man, by some hard fate,

       Receives the glory of his toils too late;

       Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;

       One age the hero, one the poet breeds.

       A thousand years in full succession ran

       Ere Virgil raised his voice, and sung the man

       _30

       Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore

       On stormy seas and a disastrous shore,

       Before he settled in the promised earth,

       And gave the empire of the world its birth.

       Troy long had found the Grecians bold and fierce,

       Ere Homer mustered up their troops in verse;

       Long had Achilles quelled the Trojans' lust,

       And laid the labour of the gods in dust,

       Before the towering Muse began her flight,

       And drew the hero raging in the fight,

       _40

       Engaged in tented fields and rolling floods,

       Or slaughtering mortals, or a match for gods.

       And here, perhaps, by fate's unerring doom,

       Some mighty

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