The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

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        And warmed thee to a more exalted rage!

        What scenes of death and horror had we view'd,

        And how had Boyne's wide current reeked in blood!

        Or, if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,

        In smoother numbers and a softer verse,

        Thy pen had well described her graceful air,

        And Gloriana would have seemed more fair.

           Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,

        That makes even rules a noble poetry:

        Rules, whose deep sense and heavenly 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 neighbouring plains.

           But see where artful Dryden next appears,

        Grown old in rhyme, but charming even 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 satire or heroic strains she writes,

        Her hero pleases and her satire bites.

        From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,

        She wears all dresses, and she charms in all.

        How might we fear our English poetry,

        That long has flourished, should 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 promised more.

        Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,

        And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive.

           I'm tired with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,

        But justice still demands one labour more:

        The noble Montague remains unnamed,

        For wit, for humour, and for judgment famed;

        To Dorset he directs his artful Muse,

        In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.

        How negligently graceful he unreins

        His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains!

        How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines,

        And all the hero in full glory shines!

        We see his army set in just array,

        And Boyne's dyed waves run purple to the sea.

        Nor Simois choked with men, and arms, and blood;

        Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

        Shall longer be the poet's highest themes,

        Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams.

        But now, to Nassau's secret councils raised,

        He aids the hero, whom before he praised.

           I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive

        The last poor present that my Muse can give.

        I leave the arts of poetry and verse

        To them that practise them with more success.

        Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,

        And so at once, dear friend and Muse, farewell.

      A LETTER FROM ITALY,

      TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN THE YEAR 1701

                      Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,

                      Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis

                      Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.