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Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to fome neighb'ring ftar,
Thou roll'ft above us, in thy wand'ring race,
Or, in proceffion fix'd and regular,
Mov'd with the heaven's majestic pace;
Or, call'd to more fuperior blifs,

Thou tread'ft, with feraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,

Ceafe thy celeftial fong a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal mufe thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse


But fuch as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy firft fruits of Poefy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there:

While yet a young probationer,

And candidate of heaven:


If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the lefs to find
A foul fo charming from a flock fo good;
Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful ftrain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more, It did thro all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,

And was that Sappho laft, which once it was before.

If fo, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born


Thou haft no drofs to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy foul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame the left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.


May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,

New joy was fprung in heaven, as well as here on earth.

For fure the milder planets did combine

On thy aufpicious horoscope to shine,
And e'en the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the people of the sky

Might know a poetefs was born on earth,
And then, if ever, mortal ears

Had heard the mufic of the fpheres


And if no cluft'ring fwarm of bees

On thy fweet mouth diftill'd their golden dew,

'Twas that fuch vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leifure to renew:

For all thy bleft fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day



O gracious God! how far have we
Prophan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy ?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obfcene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love?
O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adult'rate

(Nay added fat pollutions of our own)
T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we fay t'excufe our fecond fall?
Let this thy veftal, heaven, atone for all :
Her Arethufian ftream remains unfoil'd,
Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd;

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a



Art she had none, yet wanted none; For nature did that want fupply: So rich in treafures of her own, She might our boafted ftores defy: Such noble vigor did her verfe adorn, That it feem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born. Her morals too were in her bosom bred,

By great examples daily fed,

What in the beft of books, her father's life, the read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each teft, and every light, her mufe will bear,
Tho Epictetus with his lamp were there.

E'en love (for love fometimes her mufe expreft)
Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her


Light as the vapors of a morning dream,

So cold herself, whilft fhe fuch warmth expreft, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.


Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
One would have thought, fhe fhould have been


To manage well that mighty government;
But what can young ambitious fouls confine?

To the next realm fhe ftretch'd her fway,
For Painture near adjoining lay,
A plenteous province, and alluring prey.

A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd.
(As conquerors will never want pretence,
When arm'd, to justify th' offence)

And the whole fief, in right of poetry, fhe claim'd.
The country open lay without defence:

For poets frequent inroads there had made,
And perfectly could reprefent

The shape, the face, with every lineament;

And all the large domains which the Dumb Sifter fway'd.

All bow'd beneath her government,

Receiv'd in triumph wherefoe'r she went.
Her pencil drew, whate'er her foul defign'd,
And oft the happy draught furpafs'd the image in
her mind.

The fylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
And fruitful plains and barren rocks,

Of fhallow brooks that flow'd fo clear,
The bottom did the top appear;

Of deeper too and ampler floods,
Which, as in mirrors, fhew'd the woods
Of lofty trees, with facred shades,
And perfpectives of pleasant glades,

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