Of moral knowledge Poesy was queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been,
Who, like ill guardians, liv'd themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch'd their charge:
Like some brave captain, your successful pen
Restores the exil'd to her crown again,
And gives ns 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."
This is not all; your art the way has found
To make th' 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 fun'ral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your Musc so justly has discharged those.
Eliza's shade may now its wand'ring cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace,
But if Æneas be oblig'd, 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.
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 ev'ry 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. 80
Thus vulgar dishes are by cooks disguis'd,
More for their dressing than their substance priz'd.
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 most 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.
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 preserv'd shall be
As Rome recorded Rufus' memory,
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His country's int'rest than the world to sway.
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."
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.
HE longest tyranny that ever sway'd, Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite, And made his torch their universal light. So truth, while only one supply'd the state, Grew scarce and dear, and yet sophisticate. Still it was bought, like emp'ric wares or charms, Hard words, seal'd up with Aristotle's arms. Columbus was the first that shook his throne, And found a Temp'rate in a Torrid zone; The fev'rish air fann'd by a cooling breeze, The fruitful vales set round with shady trees, And guiltless men who danc'd away their time, Fresh as their groves, and happy as their clime. Had we still paid that homage to a name, Which only God and Nature justly claim,
The western seas had been our utmost bound,
Where poets still might dream the sun was drown'd,
And all the stars that shine in southern skies,
Had been admired by none but savage eyes.
Among th' asserters of free Reason's claim,
Our nation's not the least in worth or fame.
The world to Bacon does not only owe
Its present knowledge, but its future too.
Güiberd shall live till loadstones cease to draw,
Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe;
And noble Boyle, not less in Nature seen
Than his great brother read in states and men.
The circling streams, once thought but pools of blood,
(Whether life's fuel or the body's food)
From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save,
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are you, learned Friend! the least renown'd,
Whose fame, not circumscrib'd with English ground,
Flies, like the nimble journies of the light,
And is, like that, unspent, too, in its flight.
Whatever truths have been by Art or Chance
Redeem'd from error or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,
Your works unite, and still discover more:
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books as well as men.
Nor is this work the least; you well may give
To men new vigour, who make stones to live.
Thro' you the Danes, their short dominion lost, 45
A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.
Stone-Henge, once thought a temple, you have found
A throne, where kings,our earthly gods, were crown'd;
Where by their wond'ring subjects they were seen,
Joy'd with their stature and their princely mien. 50
Our Sov'reign here above the rest might stand,
And here be chose again to rule the land.
These Ruins shelter'd once his sacred head,
When he from Worc'ster's fatal battle fled,
Watch'd by the Genius of this royal place,
And mighty visions of the Danish race.
His refuge, then, was for a temple shown;
But, he restor'd, 'tis now become a throne.
To the Lady CASTLEMAIN, upon her encouraging his first play.
seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before,
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain;
So my much-envy'd Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast.
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
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