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OETS may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain : Both bound together, live or die ; The verses, and the prophesy.
But who can hope his line should long
Laft in a daily-changing tongue ?
While they are new, envy prevails ;
And as that dies, our language fails.
When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
Poets that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek.
We write in sand : our language grows ;
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.
Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers loft :
Years have defac'd his matchless strain;
And yet he did not fing in vain.
The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.
Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis ; quædam fortasse omnibus placeant.
S when some skilful cook, to please each guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care,
He fills his dish with diff'rent sorts of fare ;
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,
To feast at once the taste, the smell, and fight:
So, Bernard ! muft a Miscellany be,
Compounded of all kinds of poetry ;
The Muses olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldst thou for miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Muses in the piece conspire:
The Lyrick Bard must ftrike th' harmonious lyre ;
Heroick strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound.
Let Elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some pages with melodious woe:
Let not your am'rous songs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love.
Satire mult interfere, whose pointed rage
May lalh the madness of a vicious age:
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit;
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindarick lays ;.
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please:
Let short-breath'd Epigram it's force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line.
Translations should throughout the work be fown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own :
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain :
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the list’ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry classick in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design:
Thro’ various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.
Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live :
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoice, and clap their wings-
• Anacreon lives!' they cry; th' harmonious swain
• Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain :
• 'Tis he-our loft Anacreon lives again !!
But when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The sportive revels of the god of love,
Like Maro's Mufe he takes a loftier flight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's fight.
If thou would't have thy volume stand the test,
And of all others be reputed best,
Let Congreve teach the liftning groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Paftora's urn.
Let Prior's Muse with soft'ning accents move,
Soft as the strains of constant 'Emma's love ;
Or let his fancy chuse some jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream:
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour and with Spencer's strains.
Waller in Granville lives: when Mira fings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the founding ftrings ;
With sprightly turns his noble genius thines,
And manly sense adorns his easy lines.
On Addison's sweet lays attention waits,
And filence guards the place while he repeats:
His Muse alike on ev'ry subject charms,
Whether she paints the god of love or arms:
In him pathetick Ovid sings again,
And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.
Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song,
Sense flows in easy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phæbus in his learned son we see,
Alike in phyfick as in poetry.
When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure roves
Amidst the plains, the murm'ring streams and groves,
Attentive Echo, pleas'd to hear his songs,
Thro' the glad fhade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgment far outshoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.
From these successful bards collect thy strains, And praise with profit shall reward thy pains : Then, while calves-leather binding bears the sway, And Meep-skin to it's sleeker glofs gives way; While neat old Elzivir is reckon'd better Than Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter ; While print-admirers careful Aldus chuse, Before John Morphew, or the weekly news; So long shall live thy praise in books of fame, And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name,