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Part of the NINTH ODE
Of the FOURTH BOOK.
should think that verse shall die, Which founds the Silver Thames along, Taught, on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;
Tho' daring Milton fits sublime,
In Spencer native Muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.
Sages and Chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam’d; These rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,
And Those, new Heav'ns and Systems fram'd,
Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride !
They had no Poet, and they died.
They had no Poet, and are dead.
E PIST LE
TO ROBERT Earl of Oxford
and Earl MORTIMER.
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet sung,
'Till Death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld, and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentleft arts adorn'd ! Bleft in each science, blest in ev'ry strain !
5 Dear to the Muse! to HARLEY dear-in vain!
For him, thou oft haft bid the World attend,
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
NOTES. Epift. to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epistle was sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr Parnelle's Poems published by our Author, after the said Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721. P.
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