“There strange Commotion, naturally shown, Speaks on regardless that she speaks alone, Nor minds if they to whom she talks be near, Nor cares if that to which she talks can hear. The warmth of Anger dares an absent Foe; The words of Pity speak to tears of Woe; The Love that hopes, on errands sends the breeze; And Love despairing moans to naked trees. "There stand the new Creations of the Muse, Poetic Persons, whom the Writers use Whene'er a cause magnificently great Would fix attention with peculiar weight. 'Tis hence that humble Provinces are seen Transform'd to Matrons with neglected mien, Who call their Warriors in a mournful sound, And shew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground, While over Urns reclining Rivers moan They should enrich a nation not their own. 'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd To be but rules of reason in the mind; The heavenly Forms start forth, appear to breathe, And in bright shapes converse with men beneath; And, as a God in combat Valor leads, In council Prudence as a Goddess aids. "There Exclamations all the voice employ In sudden flushes of Concern or Joy: Then seem the sluices, which the Passions bound, To burst asunder with a speechless sound; And then with tumult and surprize they roll, "There rising Sentences attempt to speak, Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break; But so the Part directs to find the rest, That what remains behind is more than guess'd. And I could dwell-but when would thought be free? And smooth Transition joins them hand in hand : " 'Tis here that, guided by the Muses' fire, And fill'd with sacred thought, her Friends retire, Unbent to care, and unconcern'd with noise, To taste repose and elevated joys, Which in a deep untroubled leisure meet, Serenely ravishing, politely sweet. From hence the Charms that most engage they choose, And, as they please, the glittering objects use; While to their Genius, more than Art, they trust, From hence they look, from this exalted show, They smooth its look to please and teach the mind; Or, if the Verses must inflame Desire, The thoughts are melted, and the words on fire : Hail, sacred Verse ye sacred Muses! hail! Could I your pleasures with your fire reveal, The world might then be taught to know your right, And court your rage, and envy my delight. But, whilst I follow where your pointed beams My course directing shoot in golden streams, The bright appearance dazzles Fancy's eyes, And weary'd-out the fix'd Attention lies; Enough, my Verses, have you work'd my breast, I'll seek the sacred Grove, and sink to rest." No longer now the ravish'd Poet sung, His voice in easy cadence left the tongue; Nor o'er the music did his fingers fly, The sounds ran tingling, and they seem'd to die. O, Bolingbroke! O Favourite of the skies, Sublime in eloquence, where loud applause She spake the Patriot overspread thy mind, Describe his business while he works the mine, And what fair visions oft we fancy nigh Or further pierce through Nature's maze to find Oh, what a sweet confusion! what surprize! Ye Sons of Glory, be my first appeal, If here the power of lines these lines reveal. When some great youth has with impetuous thought Read o'er achievements which another wrought, |