ve 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 _Maeonian_ 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