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        How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays

        Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise?

        Can neither injuries of time, nor age,

        Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?

        Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote;

        Grief chilled his breast, 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;

        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.

           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;

        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.

        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;

        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.

           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.

        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:

        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.

           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

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