Part 3

The _Teian Muse_ invites Thee from above To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love. Let _MONTAGUE_ describe _Boyn's_ swelling Flood And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood. O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse! Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse. When You _Nassau's_ bright Actions dar'd to see, _You_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo He_. But when He read You, and Your Value knew, _He_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo You_. Both spoke the Bird in her _Æthereal_ height, The _Majesty_ was _His_, and _Thine_ the _Flight_. Both did _Apollo_ in His Glory shew, The Silver _Harp_ was _Thine_, and _His_ the _Bow_,

So may _Pierian Clio_ cease to fear, When _Honour_ deigns to sing, and _Majesty_ to hear! So may she favour'd live, and always please Our _Dorset's_, and Judicious _Normanby's_!

Nor does the _Coronet_ alone defend The Muses Cause: The _Miter_ is Her Friend. Can we forget how _Damon's_ lofty Tongue Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung When _Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd_ Sung. How _Mars_ and _Pallas_ wept to see the Day When _Athens_ by a Plague dispeopled lay. What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost! Sung with more Spirit than all _Athens_ lost. Nor can the _Miter_ now conceal the Bays, For still we view the _Sacred Poet's_ praise. So tho' _Eridanus_ becomes a Star Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar, Below he loses nothing but his Name, Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same.

But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song, Let _Creech_ be numbred with the Sacred Throng. Whose daring Muse could with _Manilius_ fly, And, like an _Atlas_, shoulder up the Sky. He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race. See, how He walks above in mighty strains, And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains! He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey, In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they.

'Tis cause of Triumph, when _Rome's_ Genius shines In nervous _English_, and well-worded Lines. Two Famous _Latins_[6] our bright Tongue adorn, And a new _Virgil_[7] is in _England_ born. An _Æneid_ to translate, and make a new, Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.

[6] _Lucretius_ and _Manilius_.

[7] Mr. _Dryden's_ _Virgil_.

For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind; Yet a well-languag'd Version will require An equal _Genius_, and as strong a Fire. These claim at once our Study and our Praise, Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase. These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand At _Paul's_ or _Cornhill_, _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_. Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas, An Ornament to _Foreign Libraries_.

Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my _Theme_! O could I write so well as I esteem! From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise As a young _Phoenix_ out of Ashes flies Above what _France_ or _Italy_ can shew, The Celebrated _Tasso_, or _Boileau_.

Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind: If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men, You love the _Labour'd Travels_ of the Pen; Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time On _Cowley_, or on _Dryden's_ useful Rhyme: Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse, The _Tragick, Lyrick_, or _Heroick_ Muse: For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew In _Charming Numbers_, what is false, what true, And teach more good than _Hobbs_ or _Lock_ can do.

Hail, ye _Poetick Dead_, who wander now In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate, Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! Whether Intomb'd with _English Kings_ you sleep, Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep: There, on each Dawning of the tender Day, May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay! There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.

While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear, Sing on; let _Montague_ and _Dorset_ hear. In Stately Verse let _William's_ Praise be told, WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. No more of _Richelieu's_ Worth: Forget not, Fame, To change _Augustus_ for Great _William's_ Name. Who, tho' like _Homer's_ _Jupiter_, he sate, Musing on something eminently great And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate; Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years. Whether this Praise to _Stepny's_ Muse belong, Or _Prior_ claim it for _Pindarick Song_. The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd, And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd. The double Vertue of _Nassovian Fire_ At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire. The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung, When _Mars_ has Acted, or when _Phoebus_ Sung.

O cou'd my Muse reach _Milton's_ tow'ring Flight, Or stretch her Wings to the _Mæonian_ Height! Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse. The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame, And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb, Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome. Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race? What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise? No Land but _Britain_, must pretend to shine With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line. So may this Island a new _Delos_ prove, Joyn[8] Young _Apollo_ to the _Cretan Jove_! What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame! How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame! How swiftly _Gloster_ in his Bud began! How the _Green Hero_ blossoms into Man! Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms, To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms: See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War! Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar, What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day. _Edwards_ and _Harry's_ to his Eyes appear In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear. At _Agincourt_ so terrible they stood, So when _Pictavian_ Fields were dy'd with Blood. The Royal Youth with Emulation glows, And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes. Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky, Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly. O'er _England's_ Hopes their flaming Swords they hold, And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old. Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep, But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep. Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread, Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed, Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.

[8] _The Duke of_ Glouceiter. _Here the Author laments he prov'd so bad a Prophet_.

After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate, The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait. The Streams of _Thamisis_, exulting, Ring, When fair _Augusta's_ lofty _Clio's_ Sing _Granta_ and _Rhedycina's_ Tuneful Throng Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.

Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time, Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme. Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure, Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure. But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey, Till _English_ Sense and Valour shall decay. Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow, Or _Cam_ or _Isis_ shall forget to Flow.