byss of their allotted Hell,
And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere
Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear
New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.
I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
_Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries,
_Despair of better state, and loss of Light
Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night
And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
And Register the Fate which we Sustain?
Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name
Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame
And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_.

O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?
Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.
Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose
Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.
Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we
Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.
Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay
In nether Night, and such a want of Day.
But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires
To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:
Like an unhooded _Hawk_, who, loose to Prey,
With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way.
There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place,
And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:
Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be
A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee,
There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,
And rowl with _Homer_ in the brightest Sphere;
To whom _Calliope_ has joyn'd thy Name,
And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.

[_Waller_.]

Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows
In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.
Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,
When room is granted to the Speech and Thought.
Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song
Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along.
Like _Waller's_ Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime,
Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.
His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown
In Numbers sweet and _Courtly_ as his Own.
Who no unmanly _Turns_ o