great Master, and able to teach Mr. Dennis. How few have excell'd! none, except in Variety.

}

But moft by Numbers judge a Poet's Song. And smooth or rough with fuch is right or wrong; In the bright Mufe tho' thousand Charms confpire, Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire, Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their Ear, Not mend their Minds: As fome to Church repair, Not for the Doctrine, but the Mufick there. These equal Syllables alone require, Tho' oft the Ear the open Vowels tire; While Expletives their feeble Aid do join ; And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line, While they ring round the fame unvary'd Chimes, With fure Returns of ftill-expected Rhymes. Where-e'er you find the cooling Western Breeze, In the next Line, it whispers thro' the Trees; If Chrystal Streams with pleafing Murmurs creep, The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with Sleep: Then, at the laft, and only Couplet fraught, With fome unmeaning Thing they call a Thought, A needlefs Alexandrine ends the Song, [along, That like a wounded Snake draws its flow Length Leave fuch to tune their own dull Rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly flow; And praise the eafy Vigor of a Line,

[join. Where Denham's Strength, and Waller's Sweetness 'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence, The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense. Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth Stream in fmoother Numbers flows; But when loud Surges lafh the founding Shore, The hoarfe, rough Verfe fhould like the Torrent roar. When Ajax ftrives fome Rock's vaft Weight to throw, The Line too labours, and the Words move flow;

Not fo, when swift Camilla fcours the Plain, [Main. Flies o'er th' unbending Corn, and skims along the

Thefe, we believe, will be a fatisfactory Proof of his great Power as a Poet, if any Body yet doubts of it, or if any Lover and Reader of English Poetry has not before seen thofe admir'd and very famous Lines.

Before we speak of Homer, the Dunciad, &c. we fhall take Notice of fome other Writings of our Poet:

To Mr. Jervas, with Mr. Frefnoy's Art of Painting.

On a Fan of the Author's Defign, in which was painted the Story of Cephalus and Procris; with the Motto Aura veni.

On Silence, in Imitation of Lord Rochester.

An Epitaph.

Verfes occafion'd by fome of the Duke of Buckingham's.

He wrote a most excellent Letter in Verse from Eloifa to Abelard; it is chiefly taken from the French Letters between thofe two extraordinary Perfons. Mr. Bayle, in his Historical Dictionary, makes Mention of them: They flourish'd in the twelfth Centu ry, and were two of the most diftinguish'd Perfons of their Age in Learning and Beauty, but for no thing more famous than for their unfortunate Paffion. After a long Courfe of Calamities, they retired each to a feveral Convent, and confecrated the Remainder of their Days to Religion. It was many Years after this Separation that a Letter of Abelard's to a Friend (which contained the Hiftory of his Misfortunes) fell into the Hands of Eloifa; this awak'ning all her Tendernefs, occafioned thofe celebrated Letters, which give fo.lively a Defcription of the Struggles of Grace and Nature, Virtue and Paffion.

There

There is a Spirit of Tenderness and a Delicacy of Sentiments runs all through the Letter; but the prodigious Conflict, the War within, the Difficulty of making Love give up to religious Vows, and Impoffibility of forgetting a first real Paffion, fhine above all the reft.

Ah wretch! believ'd the Spouse of God in vain,
Confefs'd within the Slave of Love and Man.
Affift me Heav'n! but whence arofe that Pray'r?
Sprung it from Piety, or from Despair ?:
Ev'n here where frozen Chastity retires,
Love finds an Altar for forbidden Fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the Lover, not lament the Fault;
I view my Crime, but kindle at the View,
Repent old Pleasures, and follicit now:
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past Offence,
Now think of thee, and curfe my Innocence,
Of all Affliction taught a Lover yet,
'Tis fure the hardest Science to forget!
How fhall Ilofe the Sin, yet keep the Senfe,
And love th' Offender, yet deteft th' Offence?
How the dear Object from the Crime remove,
Or how diftinguish Penitence from Love?
Unequal Tafk! a Paffion to refign,

For Hearts fo touch'd, fo pierc'd, fo loft as mine.
E'er fuch a Soul regains its peaceful State,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often, Hope, Despair, Resent, Regret,
Conceal, Difdain-do all Things but forget.
But let Heav'n feize it, all at once 'tis fir'd,
Not touch'd, but rapt, not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me Nature to fubdue,
Renounce my Love, my Life, myfelf-and you.

Fill my fond Heart, with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can fucceed to thee.

How happy is the blameless Veftal's Lot?
The World forgetting, by the World forgot.
Eternal Sunshine of the fpotless Mind!

Each Pray'r accepted, and each Wish refign'd;
Labour and Reft, that equal Periods keeps ;
Obedient Slumbers that can wake and weep;
Defires compos'd, Affections ever even,
Tears that delight, and Sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace fhines around her with ferenest Beams,
And whisp'ring Angels prompt her golden Dreams.
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal Ring,
For her white Virgins Hymenaals fing;
For her the unfading Rofe of Eden blooms,
And Wings of Seraphs fhed divine Perfumes ;
To Sounds of heav'nly Harps fhe dies away,
And melts in Vifions of eternal Day.

Far other Dreams my erring Soul employ,
Far other Raptures, of unholy Joy;
When at the Clofe of each fad, forrowing Day,
Fancy reftores what Vengeance fnatch'd away,
Then Confcience fleeps, and leaving Nature free,
All my loose Soul unbounded springs to thee.
O curft, dear Horrors of all confcious Night!
How glowing Guilt exalts the keen Delight!
Provoking Dæmons all Restraint remove,
And ftir within me every Source of Love.

I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy Charms,
And round thy Phantom glue my clasping Arms.
I wake no more I hear, no more I view,
The Phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud, it hears not what I fay;
Iftretch my empty Arms, it glides away:
To dream once more I clofe my willing Eyes;
Ye foft Illufions, dear Deceits, arife!

Alas

Alas no more! methinks we wandring go

Thro' deary Wastes, and weep each other's Woe;
Where round fome mould'ring Grove palelvy creeps,
And low brow'dRocks hang nodding o'er the Deeps.
Sudden you mount; you beckon from the Skies;
Clouds interpofe, Waves roar, and Winds arise
Ifhriek, ftart up, the fame fad Prospect find,
And wake to all the Griefs I left behind.

;

What Scenes appear where e'er I turn my View, The dear Ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rife in the Grove, before the Altar rise, Stain all my Soul, and wanton in my Eyes! I waste the Mattin Lamp in Sighs for thee, Thy Image steals between my God and me, Thy Voice I seem in every Hymn to hear, With ev'ry Bead I drop too foft a Tear. When from the Cenfor Clouds of Fragrance roll, And fwelling Organs lift the rifing Soul. One Thought of thee puts all the Pomp to flight, Priefts, Tapers, Temples, fwim before my Sight: In Seas of Flame my plunging Soul is drown'd, While Altars blaze, and Angels tremble round.

While proftrate here, in humble Grief I lie, Kind, virtuous Drops juft gath'ring in my Eye, While praying, trembling, in the Duft I roll, And dawning Grace is opening on my Soul. Come, if thou dar'ft, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to Heav'n; difpute my Heart; Come, with one Glance of thofe deluding Eyes, Blot out each bright idea of the Skies. Take back thatGrace, thofeSorrows, and those Tears, Take back my fruitless Penitence and Pray'rs, Snatch me, juft mounting, from the Bleft above, Affift the Fiends and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me! far as Pole from Pole ; Rife Alps between us! and whole Oceans roll!

Ah