When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art: 'Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
Poets that lasting marble feek,
Muft carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in fand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.
Chaucer his fense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not fing in vain.
The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The fhining fubjects of his rage,"
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with fuccefs his love.
This was the gen'rous poet's fcope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can fo far extend their fame.
Verfe, thus defign'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as prefent love.
UPON THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON'S
Tranflation of Horace, De Arte Poetica: and of the ufe of poetry.
ROME was not better by her Horace taught,
Than we are here to comprehend his thought:
The poet writ to noble Pifo there;
A noble Pifo does inftruct us here;
Gives us a pattern in his flowing style,
And with rich precepts does oblige our ifle:
Britain! whose genius is in verse express'd,
Bold and fublime, but negligently drefs'd.
Horace will our fuperfluous branches prune,
Give us new rules, and fet our harp in tune;
Direct us how to back the winged horfe,
Favour his flight, and moderate his force.
Tho' poets may of inspiration boast,
Their rage, ill govern'd, in the clouds is loft.
He that proportion'd wonders can disclose,
At once his fancy and his judgment shows,
Chafte moral writing we may learn from hence,
Neglect of which no wit can recompenfe.
The fountain which from Helicon proceeds,
That facred ftream! fhould never water weeds,
Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow,
Which envy or perverted nature fow.
Well-founding verses are the charm we use,
Heroick thoughts and virtue to infuse:
Things of deep fense we may in prose unfold,
But they move more in lofty numbers told.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that found, as well as fenfe, perfuadės.
The Mufes' friend, unto himself severe,
With filent pity looks on all that err;
But where a brave, a publick, action fhines,
That he rewards with his immortal lines.
Whether it be in council or in fight,
His country's honour is his chief delight;
Praise of great acts he scatters as a feed
Which the like in coming ages
may
Here taught the fate of verfes, (always priz'd
With admiration, or as much defpis'd)
Men will be lefs indulgent to their faults,
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts.
Poets lofe half the praife they should have got,
Could it be known what they difcreetly blot,
Finding new words, that to the ravifh'd ear
May like the language of the gods appear,
Such as of old wife bards employ'd, to make
Unpolish'd men their wild retreats forfake:
Law-giving heroes, fam'd for taming brutes,
And raifing cities with their charming lutes:
For rudeft minds with harmony were caught,
And civil life was by the Mufes taught.
So wand'ring bees would perish in the air,
Did not a found, proportion'd to their ear,
Appease their rage, invite them to the hive,
Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive :
To rob the flow'rs, and to forbear the spoil,
Preferv'd in winter by their fummer's toil;
They give us food which may with nectar vie,
And wax that does the abfent fun fupply.
FLORIBUS Angligenis non hanc tibi necto corollam,
Cùm fatis indigenis te probet ipfe Liber:
Per me Roma fciet tibi fe debere, quòd Anglo
Romanus didicit cultiùs ore loqui.
Ultima quæ tellus Aquilas duce Cæfare vidit,
Candida Romulidum te dace fcripta videt.
Confilio ut quondam Patriam nil juveris, esto!
Sed ftudio cives ingenioque juvas.
Namque dolis liber hic inftructus, et arte Batava,
A Belga nobis ut caveamus, ait.
Horremus per te civilis dira furoris
Vulnera; difcordes Flandria quaffa monet.
Hic difcat miles pugnare, orare fenator;
Qui regnant, leni fceptra tenere manu.
Macte, Comes! virtute novâ, veftri ordinis ingens
Expedition into Scotland in the fummer folftice. Swirr as Jove's meffenger, (the winged god *) With fword as potent as his charming rod, He flew to execute the King's command, And in a moment reach'd that northern land, Where day contending with approaching night, 5 Affifts the hero with continu'd light.
On foes furpris'd, and by no night conceal'd, He might have rush'd; but noble pity held His hand awhile, and to their choice gave space Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. Ló This not well heard, his cannon louder fpoke, And then, like lightning, thro' that cloud he broke. His fame, his conduct, and that martial look, The guilty Scots with fuch a terrour strook, That to his courage they refign the field, Who to his bounty had refus'd to yield. Glad that fo little loyal blood it cost,
He grieves fo many Britons fhould be loft;
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