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And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some happiness, that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in

your

head The curious net that is for fancies spread,* Lets through its meshes every meaner thought, While rich ideas there are only caught? Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair To be the child of chance, and not of care. No atoms, casually together hurld, Could e'er produce so beautiful a world ; Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit, As would destroy the providence of wit. 'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel. To carry weight, and run so lightly too, Is what alone your Pegasus can do. Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more, Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. Your easier odes, which for delight were penn’d, Yet our instruction make their second end; We're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that woo At once a beauty, and a fortune too. Of moral knowledge poesy was queen, And still she might, had wanton wits not been; Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large, And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge. Like some brave captain, your successful pen Restores the exiled to her crown again ; And gives us hope, that having seen the days When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays, All will at length in this opinion rest, “ A sober prince's government is best.”

a

This is not all; your art the way has found
To make improvement of the richest ground;
That soil which those immortal laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.*
Eliza's griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than what Jove, had said,
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your muse so justly has discharged those,
Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be obliged, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;
Who, dress’d by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those virgin robes he took.t
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your numbers, with your author's, view :

,
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if design'd in buff;
His colours laid so thick on every place,
As only shew'd the paint, but hid the face.
But, as in perspective, we beauties see,
Which in the glass, not in the picture, be;
So here our sight obligingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar dishes are, by cooks, disguised,
More for their dressing than their substance prized.

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* Sir Robert Howard's collection contains a translation of the Fourth Book of the Æneid, under the title of “ The Loves of Dido and Eneas.".

+ Sir Robert also translated the Achilleis of Statius, an author whom Dryden seldom mentions without censuring his turgid and bombastic style of poetry. The story of this neglected epic turns on the juvenile adventures of Achilles.

Your curious notes* so search into that age,
When all was fable but the sacred page,
That, since in that dark night we needs must stray,
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But, what we must admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break :t
So skilful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shews like mists to the dull passenger.
To Charles your muse first pays her duteous love,
As still the ancients did begin from Jove;
With Monk you end,+ whose name preserved shall

be,
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory ;
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's interest, than the world to sway.S
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your pen ;
Yet let me take your mantle up, and I
Will venture, in your right, to prophesy :-

“ This work, by merit first of fame secure,
Is likewise happy in its geniture ;*
For since 'tis born when Charles ascends the throne,
It shares at once his fortune and its own.”

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

TO MY HONOURED FRIEND,

DR CHARLETON,

ON HIS

LEARNED AND USEFUL WORKS,

BUT MORE PARTICULARLY HIS TREATISE OF STONE

HENGE, BY HIM RESTORED TO THE TRUE.

FOUNDER.

Walter CHARLETON, M. D. was born in 1619, and educated at Oxford to the profession of physic, in which he became very eminent. During the residence of King Charles I. at Oxford, in the Civil Wars, Charleton became one of the physicians in ordinary to his majesty. He afterwards settled in London; and, having a strong bent towards philosophical and historical investigation, became intimate with the most learned and liberal of his profession, particularly with Ent and Harvey. He wrote several treatises in the dark period preceding the Restoration, when, the government being in the hands of swordsmen equally ignorant and fanatical, a less ardent mind would have been discouraged from investigations, attended neither by fame nor profit. These essays were upon physical, philosophical, and moral subjects. After the Restoration, Charleton published the work upon which he is here congratulated by our author. Its full title is, “ CHOREA GIGANTUM, or the most famous antiquity of Great Britain, STONEHENGE, standing on Salisbury Plain, restored to the Danes. By Walter Charleton, M.D., and Physician in Ordinary to his Majesty.