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His generous Soul disdain'd that vain Pretence,
So shocking to the Gospel, and to Sense;.
And in his Scenes the graceful Marks appear
Of Christian Freedom, and of Christian Fear.

Firm to that noble Cause which fir’d his Mind, He never to a Popish Scheme inclin'd; Nor fought the Fayours of a Tyburn Crowd, Whose perjur'd Hearts to foreign Gods have bow'd ; He judgd 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 cumn

mmend ; That BRUNSWICK with the Bays his Temples bound, And PARKER with Immortal Honour's crown'd.

Grcat LUCAN now, by his unwcaried Pains,
Breaths Roman Liberty in English Strains ;
Dying, this wealthy Pledge He left behind,
The trueft Pattern of bis Free-born Mind :
Four times four Ages this heroick Song
Has lain, unlabour'd from its native Tongue,
Which now translated with its genuine Fire,
Shall noble Thoughts of Liberty inspire ;
Convince the Bigot of the weighty Truth,
And free from passive Chains the British Youth :
Too long the useful Work has been delay'd,
But well that seeming Ill is now repaid :
Heay'n but deferr'd to make it more compleat,
Not ev'ry Bard the glorious Theme could treat,


Not ev'ry Bard, that in mechanick Verse
Can a dull Love-Tale fluently rehearse,
And can in lifeless, jingling Lines complain
Of the false Nymph, or the forsaken Swain :
Vigour of Style, and Fancy must combinc,
With Majesty of Rage, and Power divine,
To make the English like the Roman Mine.
Such must he be, as LUC AN was of old,
His Figures strong, and his Expresions bold.
With the same constant Love of Freedom charm’d,
With the fame Passion for his Country warm’d,
Whose 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 thake; Nor blindly, nor disdainfully refuse This last great Labour of the Laurellid Mufe ; Pay the just Honours to his Sacred Head, Nor, whom you eny'd Living, envy Dead : Against the Dead all Violencès cease, Great CHAUCER now, and SHAKESPEAR reft in Peace s DRIDEN no more the impious World upbraids, And MILTON flumbers in the silent Shades.

Thou too, thrice honour'd, in that ancient Deme, Where soon or late our British Laureats come; Where the fan’d Poets of thice Ages lie, And to their Tombs invite the curious Eye,


Where great NEWC ASTLE, still to Wit a Friend
TO DRYDEN bids the stately Pile ascend;
(Immortal, glorious Deed ! which After-times
Shall celebrare in their exalted Rhimes, )
Amongst thy Kindred Bards thy Bones shalt trust,
And mix in Quiet with Poctick Duft;
There no feign'd Dangers shall alarm thy. Brcalty
No Factious murmurs interrupt thy Rest;
Banish'd shall be all Noise of worldly things,
Of warring Armies, and contending Kings ;
The groundless Clamours of th' ambitious Gown
And ALBERONI's Crimes shall be unknown,
Pain, Loss and Sorrow, shall be far away,
Clasp'd in th’ Embraces of thy native Clay,
'Till the last welcome Trump Shall bid you Rise,
And cloath'd with Glory you-ascend. the opening Skies

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Honoured Memory of


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DAPHNIS. EE! Tbyrfis, fee ! beneath yon spreading Thorn

Whofe blushing Berries ev'ry Bough adorn, The good Menalias fits, his Head reclin’d, His Crook thrown by, nor seems his Flock to mind; Down from his Eyes the Briny Torrents rowl, And mighty Grief secm's lab'ring in his Soul :


The Posture speaks a matchless Weight of Woc;
Hafte, Thyrfis haste, the sudden Caufe to know.


From whence, Menalcas, do these Ills arise,
Which rack rhy Brcast, and overfiow thy Eyes ?
Has from thy Ewe fome tender Lamb been wrung?
Or has thy Fay'rite Heifer cast her Young?
Broke are thy Folds by fome vileMidnight Thief,
Or is Clarisa Cause of all this Grief?
Does the in Secret bļefs fome other Swain :
· Why, let her


her broken Faith disdain.


No, Tbyrfis, no; a. Subject greater far, Than Flocks, or Herds, or fickle Women are, Claims all these Tears, thefe fruitless Tears I shed, Colin! the soft harmonious Colin's dead.

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Is Colin dead! If that fad Tale be true, Then haye we Cause to mourn as much as you.. Colin! the Pride and Darling of the Plain, Admir'd by ev'ry Nymph, Caress’d by cv'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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