His generous Soul difdain'd that vain Pretence,
So fhocking to the Gospel, and to Senfe ;.
And in his Scenes the graceful Marks appear
Of Christian Freedom, and of Christian Fear.
Firm to that noble Caufe which fir'd his Mind,
He never to a Popish Scheme inclin'd;
Nor fought the Favours of a Tyburn Crowd,
Whofe perjur'd Hearts to foreign Gods have bow'd;
He judg'd it always an inglorious thing
To court their Praises who defaim'd their KING;
Enough for him that CONGREVE was his Friend,
That GARTH and STEELE, and ADDISON commend
That BRUNSWICK with the Bays his Temples bound,
And PARKER with Immortal Honour's crown'd.
Great LUCAN now, by his unwearied Pains,
Breaths Roman Liberty in English Strains;
Dying, this wealthy Pledge He left behind,
The trueft Pattern of his Free-born Mind:
Four times four Ages this heroick Song
Has lain, unlabour'd from its native Tongue,
Which now tranflated with its genuine Fire,
Shall noble Thoughts of Liberty infpire;
Convince the Bigot of the weighty Truth,
And free from paffive Chains the British Youth:
Too long the ufeful Work has been delay'd,
But well that feeming Ill is now repaid:
Heay'n but deferr'd to make it more compleat,
Not ev'ry Bard the glorious Theme could treat,
Not every Bard, that in mechanick Verfe
Can a dull Love-Tale fluently rehearse,
And can in lifeless, jingling Lines complain.
Of the falfe Nymph, or the forfaken Swain:
Vigour of Style, and Fancy must combine,
With Majefty of Rage, and Power divine,
To make the English like the Roman shine.
Such must he be, as LUCAN was of old,
His Figures ftrong, and his Expreffions bold.
With the fame conftant Love of Freedom charm'd,
With the fame Paffion for his Country warm'd,
Whofe Veins with one unvary'd Tenour flow,
Zealous and active, like Immortal ROWE.
At length, ye Sons of Servitude, awake,
And from your Necks the selfish Burthen shake;
Nor blindly, nor difdainfully refuse
This laft great Labour of the Laurell❜d Mufe ;
Pay the juft Honours to his facred Head,
Nor, whom you env'd Living, envy Dead:
Against the Dead all Violences cease,›
Great CHAUCER now, and SHAKESPEAR reft in Peace; DRYDEN no more the impious World upbraids,
And MILTON flumbers in the filent Shades.
Thou too, thrice honour'd, in that ancient Dome, Where foon or late our British Laureats come;
Where the fam'd Poets of three Ages lie,
And to their Tombs invite the curious Eye,
Where great NEWCASTLE, still to Wit a Friends
TO DRYDEN bids the stately Pile ascend;
(Immortal, glorious Deed which After-times
Shall celebrate in their exalted Rhimes,)
Amongst thy Kindred Bards thy Bones fhalt truft,
And mix in Quiet with Poetick Dust;
There no feign'd Dangers shall alarm thy. Brcaft,
No Factious murmurs interrupt thy Reft;
Banish'd fhall be all Noife of worldly things,
Of warring Armies, and contending Kings;
The groundless Clamours of th' ambitious Gowns
And ALBERONI's Crimes fhall be unknown,
Pain, Lofs and Sorrow, fhall be far away,
Clafp'd in th' Embraces of thy native Clay,
Till the laft welcome Trump hall bid you Rife,
And cloath'd with Glory you afcend the opening Skies
EE! Thyrfis, fee! beneath yon fpreading Thorn,
Whose blushing Berries ev'ry Bough adorn,
The good Menalcas fits, his Head reclin❜d,
His Crook thrown by, nor feems his Flock to mind;
Down from his Eyes the Briny Torrents rowl,
And mighty Grief feem's lab'ring in his Soul:
The Pofture fpeaks a matchlefs Weight of Woe;
Hafte, Thyrfis hafte, the fudden Caufe to know.
From whence, Menalcas, do thefe Ills arife,
Which rack thy Breaft, and overflow thy Eyes?
Has from thy Ewe fome tender Lamb been wrung?
Or has thy Fav'rite Heifer caft her Young?
Broke are-thy Folds by fome vile Midnight Thief,
Or is Clarissa Cause of all this Grief?
Does the in Secret blefs fome other Swain?
her broken Faith disdain.
No, Thyrfis, no, a Subject greater far,
Than Flocks, or Herds, or fickle Women are,
Claims all these Tears, thefe fruitless Tears I fhed,
Colin the foft harmonious Colin's dead.
Is Colin dead! If that fad Tale be true,
Then have we Caufe to mourn as much as you.
Colin the Pride and Darling of the Plain,
Admir'd by ev'ry Nymph, Carefs'd by ev'ry Swain.
Whene'er he tun'd his Pipe beneath the Shade,
The nodding Boughs beat Time while Colin play'd.
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