wander far and near, and cross the Seas, An Ornament to Foreign Libraries.

    Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my Theme! O could I write so well as I esteem! From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise As a young Phoenix out of Ashes flies Above what France or Italy can shew, The Celebrated Tasso, or Boileau.

    Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind:   If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men, You love the Labour'd Travels of the Pen; Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time On Cowley, or on Dryden's useful Rhyme:   Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse, The Tragick, Lyrick, or Heroick Muse:   For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew In Charming Numbers, what is false, what true, And teach more good than Hobbs or Lock can do.

    Hail, ye Poetick Dead, who wander now In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate, Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! Whether Intomb'd with English Kings you sleep, Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:   There, on each Dawning of the tender Day, May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay! There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.

    While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear, Sing on; let Montague and Dorset hear. In Stately Verse let William's Praise be told, WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. No more of Richelieu's Worth: Forget not, Fame, To change Augustus for Great William's Name. Who, tho' like Homer's Jupiter, he sate, Musing on something eminently great And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate; Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years. Whether this Praise to Stepny's Muse belong, Or Prior claim it for Pindarick Song. The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd, And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd. The double Vertue of Nassovian Fire At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire. The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung, When Mars has Acted, or when Phoebus Sung.

    O cou'd my Muse reach Milton's tow'ring Flight, Or stretch her Wings to the Mæonian Height! Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse. The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame, And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb, Not weary'd with his 

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