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Do Gifts, like these, our Gratitude command?
What Debtors are we to the Poet's Hand ?
Whose nobler Streams in larger Currents roul ;
Those but inform the Ground, and thefe the Soul,
Here Laurell’d Shade; thy own great Image fee ;
To draw the Poet is to Picture Thee :
Th’extenfive Thought, the Energy divine,
The Flame, the Genius, and the Soul was Thine;
Each various Note declares thy Master-Skill,
How form’d to write, how worthy to excel,
To Virtue fteddy, to thy Country true,
We read the Poet, and the Patriot too.
Does Liberty demand thy loftier Strain?
with Wonder on thy Tamerlane ;
Thro' every Scene pursue the Godlike Causez
And give the Fav'rite Hero full Applause.
When the thrill Trumpet summons him away,
The warm’d Spectator Mhares the bloody Fray;
In anxious Wishs, feels a Soldier's Pride,
Lifts in the War, and combats on his Side.
How does he charm, when bounteous to Distrering
Sedate in Fight, and humble in Success?
A Victor, yet without a Victor's Mind,
He Conquers not t'enflaye, but free Mankind,
To distant Times marks out th' unerring Way,
Learns Kings to Rule, and Subjects to obey;
Serikes every Bosom with a sacred Awe,
And thews the happy Age a true NASSAU,
Or if some lowly Theme the Poet claim,
Some banish'd Lover, or neglected Dame,
Love's thousand Passions all his Skill employ,
The quick alternate Tides of Grief and Joy :
How well he paints the sad Extremes of Fate!
How well describes th' unhappy-happy State?
Each conscious Sinner does his Guilt confess,
And awful Silence speaks the Bard's Success;
So well th’expresive Miferies are shown,
Some tender Breast ftill makes the Woe its own :
The Virgin's Cheek the moving Scene approves,
And artless Sighs betray how well the loves.
The fcornful Nymph condemns her long Disdain,
And to her Arnis invites her injurd Swain.
When some † fair Wanton mourns her past Desires,
Love's foul Embraces, and unlawful Fires;
So foft fae pleads, the pitying Audience melt,
And clear the Sinner, tho they damn the Guilt.
The * Libertine in Love exults a-while
On violated Charms and ravish'd Spoil,
But soon his Triumphs find a timely Date;
The Villan's Crimes receive the Villian's Fate.
But why on fingle Beauties do I dwell,
When ev'ry finishid Scene is wrote so well ?
When thy vaft Works are in themselves repaid,
And modeft Nature owns thy happier Aid.
Lotbario in the Fair Penitent.
But now the Skill is lost, the Musick o'er,
And he who charm'd us once, can charm no more.'
Envy at last repents her canker'd Hare,
And feals her Error in her Lofs too late.
To native Dust now wastes the mortal Frame,
And nought survives the Poet, but his Fame.
Brave then in that, or Time, or Envy's Rage,
And be a LUCAN to a distant Age.
Yes, sacred Shade, thy Writings shall be read,
'Till even Arts. are with their Founders dead:
Whilst Friend Mhip burns within a faithful Breft,
Thy Name be cherish'd, and thy Worth confest.
Oblivion is the common Mortal Doom :
But thou Malt Live when Dead, and Florish in the
TArewel, the Ĝenius of the British Stage,
Farwel, the Patriot of a madding Age ;
O ROWE! unhappy deathless Bard, farewel,
Whose Worth applauding Theatres Mall tell;
Oft as thy Heroes on the Stage appear,
Each Eye to Thee Shall drop a grateful Tear :
Shouts to thy Name each grateful Voice shall raise,
And clapping Crowds in Thunder speak thy Praise,
Too cruel Death ! that would no longer spare This great Recorder of the Brave and Fair ; That in one dreadful Instant snatch'd from hence The best good Nature, and the finest Sense :
Too cruel Death! that could refuse to save
Him, that has resçu'd Thousands from the Grave;
Him that to latest Worlds conveys the Fame
Of TAMERLANE and great ULISSES' Name;
At whose Command departed Saints revive,
And in his moving Scenes for ever live,
Past Times return, and from the moulder'd Tomb
Rise up the mighty Chiefs of Greece and Rome :
Their ancient Legions rally on the Plain,
And act their fromer Triumphs o'er again.
Touch'd with his powerful Magick, we deplore
The Beautious Penitent, and Guilty SHORE.
GRAT, to appease the Wrath of human Laws,
Bleeds, a Fair Martyr, in her SAVIOUR'S Cause;
Undaunted bleeds, and by his matchless Art,
The fatal Blow wounds ev'ry British Heart,
We mourn with beating Breasts the greedy Stroke,
And yield reluctant to the Romish Yoke :
Of Idols now succeeds a motly Band,
And Popery pours in upon the Land ;
Rage, Superftition, Massacre and Blood,
Come arm'd from Hell against the Publick Gool:
Zeal fets on Fire the Holy Smithfield Pile,
And Prielicraft rages thro' the trembling Isle.
Well has our Loyal Poet set to yiew
This direful Scene, this wonder-working Crew,
A bloody Tribe of perfecuting Elyes,
That weakly damn all Christians but themselyes: