What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare,
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my fpirits and my blood retire,
To see the feraphs sunk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise;
What tongue, what words of rapture can express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness !
Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deserv'd applause!
But now the language can't support the cause;
While the clean current, tho' serene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.

But now, my Muse, a softer strain rehearse,
Turn ev'ry line with art, and smooth thy verse;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays:
Muse, tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praifo.
While tender airs and lovely dames inspire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire:
So long shall Waller's strains our paffion move
And Sacchariffa's beauty kindle love.
Thy verse, harmonious bard, and flatt'ring song,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong,
Thy verfe can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the storm that bore him hence.

Oh

Oh had thy Muse not come an age too foon,
But seen 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 Boyn's wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a fofter verse;
Thy pen had well defcrib'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana wou'd have feem'd more fair.
Nor must Rofcommon pass neglected by,

That makes e'en rules a noble poetry;
Rules whose deep sense and heav'nly numbers show
The best of critics, and of poets too.

Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains,

While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring plains.
But fee where artful Dryden next appears
Grown old in rhime, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whose tuneful Muse affords
The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears.

If fatire or heroic strains she writes,

Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.

How

How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, shou'd decay with thee;
Did not the Muses other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preferve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive.

I'm tir'd with rhiming, and wou'd fain give o'er,

But justice still demands one labour more:

The noble Montague remains unnam'd,

For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Muse,

In numbers fuch as Dorfet's self might use.
How negligently careful he unreins

His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains;
How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,

And all the hero in full glory shines!
We fee his army set in just array,

And Boyn's dy'd waves run purple to the fea.

Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;

Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

Shall longer be the Poet's highest themes,

Tho' gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their streams. But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,

He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.

I've

I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The last poor present that my Mufe can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verse To them that practise them with more fuccess. Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell, And fo at once, dear friend and Muse, farewel.

LETTERA

LETTERA SCRITTA D'ITALIA

AL MOLTO ONORABILE

CARLO Conte HALIFAX.

Dal Signore GIUSEPPE ADDISON, l'Anno MDCCI. In Versi Inglesi.

E TRADOTTA IN VERSI TOSCANI. *

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, Sanctos aufus recludere fontes.

MENTRE, Signor, l'ombre villesche attragonvi,

E di Britannia dagli ufici toltovi

Non piu, ch' a fuoi ingrati figli piaccia
Per lor vantaggio, vostro ozio immolate;
Me in efteri regni il fato invia
Entro genti feconde in carmi eterni,
U la dolce stagion, e'l vago clima

Fanno, che vostra quiete in versi io turbi.

* By the Abbet Anton, Maria Salvini Greek profeffor at

Florence.

Ovunque