Takes little pleasure in Parnaffus' dreams,

Or relishes the Heliconian streams.

Horace had ease and plenty when he writ,
And free from cares for money or for meat,
Did not expect his dinner from his wit.

'Tis true; but verfe is cherish'd by the great,
And now none famish who deferve to eat:
What can we fear, when virtue, arts, and sense,
Receive the ftars propitious influence ;

}

When a fharp-fighted prince, by early grants
Rewards your merits, and prevents your wants?
Sing then his glory, celebrate his fame;
Your nobleft theme is his immortal name.
Let mighty Spencer raise his reverend head,
Cowly and Denham start up from the dead
Waller his age renew, and offerings bring,
Our monarch's praise let bright-ey'd virgins fing
Let Dryden with new rules our ftage refine,
And his great models form by this defign:
But where's a fecond Virgil, to rehearse
Our hero's glories in his epic verse ?
What Orpheus fing his triumphs o'er the main,
And make the hills and forefts move again;
Shew his bold fleet on the Batavian fhore,
And Holland trembling as his cannons roar ;

Paint Europe's ballance in his steady hand,
Whilft the two worlds in expectation stand
Of peace or war, that wait on his command?
But as I fpeak new glories ftrike my eyes,
Glories, which heaven itself does give, and prize,
Bleffings of
peace; that with their milder. rays
Adorn his reign, and bring Saturnian days:

Now let rebellion, difcord, vice, and

rage,

That have in patriots forms debauch'd our age,
Vanish with all the ministers of hell:

His rays their poisonous vapors fhall dispel :
"Tis he alone our fafety did create,

His own firm soul secur'd the nation's fate,
Oppos'd to all the Bout'feaus of the state.
Authors for him your great endeavours raise ;
The loftieft numbers will but reach his praise.
For me, whofe verse in satire has been bred,
And never durft heroic measures tread ;

Yet you

shall see me, in that famous field,

With eyes and voice, my best affistance yield:
Offer your leffons, that my infant muse

}

Learnt, when she Horace for her guide did chuse:
Second your zeal with wishes, heart, and eyes,
And afar off hold up the glorious prize.
But pardon too, if zealous for the right,
A strict obferver of each noble flight,

From the fine gold I feparate the allay,
And show how hafty writers fometimes stray:
Apter to blame, than knowing how to mend
A sharp, but yet a neceffary friend.

FUNERAL PINDARIC POEM, facred to the happy Memory of King CHARLES II.

I.

TH
Tsure longes a lethargy in mighty woe,

HUS long my grief has kept me dumb:

Sure there's a lethargy in mighty woe,

Tears stand congeal'd, and cannot flow

And the fad foul retires into her inmost room:

Tears, for a ftroke foreseen, afford relief;

But, unprovided for a fudden blow,

Like Niobe we marble grow;

And petrify with grief.

Our British heaven was all ferene,

No threatning cloud was nigh,

Not the least wrinkle to deform the sky;
We liv'd as unconcern'd and happily
As the first age in nature's golden fcene;
Supine amidst our flowing ftore,

We slept fecurely, and we dreamt of more :
When fuddenly the thunder-clap was heard,
It took us unprepar'd and out of guard,
Already loft before we fear'd.

Th' amazing news of Charles at once were spreads At once the general voice declar'd,

"Our gracious prince was dead."

No fickness know before, no flow disease,
To foften grief by juft degrees :

But like an hurricane on Indian feas,
The tempeft rofe;

An unexpected burft of woes:

With fearce a breathing space betwixt,
This now becalm'd, and perifhing the next.
As if great Atlas from his height

Should fink beneath his heavenly weight,

And with a mighty flaw, the flaming wall
As once it fhall,

Should gape immenfe, and rufhing down, o'erwhelm this nether ball;