“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,
And shew the case important in the soul.

"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.
Thus fill'd with ease, yet left unfinish'd too,
The sense looks large within the Reader's view:
He freely gathers ail the Passion means,
And artful silence more than words explains.
Methinks a thousand Graces more I see,

And I could dwell-but when would thought be free?
Engaging Method ranges all the band,

And smooth Transition joins them hand in hand :
Around the music of my lays they throng,
Ah, too deserving objects of my song!
Live, wondrous Palace, live secure of time,
To Senses Harmony, to Souls sublime,
And just Proportion all, and great Design,
And lively Colors, and an Air divine.

" '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,
Yet Art acknowledges their labors just.

From hence they look, from this exalted show,
To choose their subject in the world below,
And where an Hero well deserves a name,
They consecrate his acts in song to Fame;
Or, if a Science unadorn'd they find,

They smooth its look to please and teach the mind;
And where a Friendship's generously strong,
They celebrate the knot of souls in song;

Or, if the Verses must inflame Desire,

The thoughts are melted, and the words on fire :
But, when the Temples deck'd with glory stand,
And hymns of Gratitude the Gods demand,
Their bosoms kindle with Celestial Love,
And then alone they cast their eyes above.

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,
O born to gifts by which the noblest rise,
Improv'd in arts by which the brightest please,
Intent to business, and polite for ease;

Sublime in eloquence, where loud applause
.Hath stil'd thee Patron of a nation's cause.
'Twas there the world perceiv'd and own'd thee great,
Thence Anna call'd thee to the reins of State;
"Go, said the greatest Queen, with Oxford go,
And still the tumults of the world below,
Exert thy powers, and prosper; he that knows
To move with Oxford, never should repose."

She spake the Patriot overspread thy mind,
And all thy days to public good resign'd.
Else might thy soul, so wonderfully wrought
For every depth and turn of curious thought,
To this the Poet's sweet recess retreat,
And thence report the pleasures of the seat,
Describe the raptures which a Writer knows,
When in his breast a vein of fancy glows,

Describe his business while he works the mine,
Describe his temper when he sees it shine,
Or say, when Readers easy verse insnares,
How much the Writer's mind can act on theirs:
Whence images, in charming numbers set,
Á sort of likeness in the soul beget,

And what fair visions oft we fancy nigh
By fond delusions of the swimming eye,

Or further pierce through Nature's maze to find
How passions drawn give passions to the mind.

Oh, what a sweet confusion! what surprize!
How quick the shifting views of pleasure rise!
While, lightly skimming, with a transient wing,
I touch the beauties which I wish to sing.
Is Verse a sovereign Regent of the soul,
And fitted all its motions to control?
Or are they sisters, tun'd at once above,
And shake like unisons if either move?
For, when the numbers sing an eager fight,
I've heard a soldier's voice express delight;
I've seen his eyes with crowding spirits shine,
And round his hilt his hand unthinking twine.
When from the shore the fickle Trojan flies,
And in sweet measures poor Eliza dies,
I've seen the book forsake the virgin's hand,
And in her eyes the tears but hardly stand.
I've known her blush at soft Corinna's name,
And in red characters confess a flame:
Or wish success had more adorn'd his arms,
Who gave the world for Cleopatra's charms.

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,