Then faints and angels shall agree In one eternal jubilee : All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine, The whole creation in a chorus join. CHORUS. Confecrate the place and day, To mufic and Cecilia. Let no rough winds approach, nor dare Nor rudely fhake the tuneful air, Nor spoil the fleeting founds. Nor mournful figh nor groan be heard, But gladness dwell on every tongue; Whilst all, with voice and ftrings prepar'd, Keep up the loud harmonious fong. And imitate the bleft above, In joy, and harmony, and love. INCE, deareft Harry, you will needs request A short account of all the Muse-possest, That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times, Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes; Without more preface, writ in formal length, To speak the undertaker's want of strength, I'll try to make their feveral beauties known, And fhow their verfes worth, though not my own. Long had our dull forefathers slept fupine, Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine; Till Chaucer firft, a merry bard, arofe, And many a story told in rhyme and profe. But age has rufted what the Poet writ, Worn out his language, and obscur'd his wit: In vain he jefts in his unpolifh'd ftrain, And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. Old Spenfer next, warm'd with poetic rage, In ancient tales amus'd a barbarous age; An An age that yet uncultivate and rude, Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote, O'erflows the heavens with one continued light; } Th' unnumber'd beauties of thy verfe with blame; But wit like thine in any fhape will please. D 2 Well Well-pleas'd in thee he foars with new delight, And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight. Bleft man! whose spotless life and charming lays But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, No vulgar hero can his Muse engage; Nor earth's wide fcene confine his hallow'd rage. What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, fcate, With fear my fpirits and blood retire, my To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire; But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise, What tongue, what words of rapture can exprefs Oh Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen, But now, my Muse, a softer strain rehearse, Turn every line with art, and smooth thy verse; The courtly Waller next commands thy lays : Mufe, tune thy verfe, with art, to Waller's praise. While tender airs and lovely dames infpire Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire : So long fhall Waller's ftrains our paffion move, And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love. Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flattering song, Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward ftrong. Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the ftorm that bore him hence. Oh had thy Mufe not come an age too foon, But feen great Nassau on the British throne! How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage! What scenes of death and horror had we view'd, And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood! Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse, In fmoother numbers and a fofter verfe; Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air, And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair. Nor muft Rofcommon pafs neglected by, That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry : |