OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER. FAIR band! that can on virgin-paper write, Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white; Whose travel o'er that silver field does show Like track of leverets in moming snow. Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil, Without the help of colours or of oil! For though a painter boughs and leaves can make, 'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake; Whose breath salutes your new-created grove, Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you Can make the motion and the forest too.



As once the lion honey gave,

Out of the strong such sweetness came; A royal hero, no less brave,

Produc'd this sweet, this lovely dame.

To her the prince, that did oppose

Such mighty armies in the field, And Holland from prevailing foes

Could so well free, himself does yield.

Not Belgia's fleet (his high command)

Which triumphs where the sun does rise, Nor all the force he leads by land,

Could guard him from her conquering eyes.

Orange with youth experience has ;

In action young, in council old: Orange is what Augustus was,

Brave, wary, provident, and bold.

On that fair tree which bears his name,

Blossoms and fruit at once are found: In him we all admire the same,

His flowery youth with wisdom crown'd!

Empire and freedom reconcil'd

In Holland are by great Nassau :
Like those he sprung from just and mild,

To willing people he gives law.

Thrice-happy pair! so near allied

In royal blood, and virtue too! Now Love has you together tied,

May none this triple knot undo!

The church shall be the happy place

Where streams which from the same source rung Though divers lands awhile they grace,

Unite again, and are made one.

A thousand thanks the nation owes

To him that does protect us all, For while he thus his niece bestows,

About our isle he builds a wall;

A wall! like that which Athens had,

By the oracle's advice, of wood:
Had their's been such as Charles has made,

That miglity state till now had stood.


POETS may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain :
Both bound together live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line shall long
Last in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new envy prevails,
And as that dies our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in sand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should iminortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.

Verse, thus design’d, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as present love.




Rome was not better by her Horace taught,
Than we are here to coinprehend his thought:
The poet writ to noble Piso there;
A noble Piso does instruct us here;
Gives us a pattern in his flowing style,
And with rich precepts does oblige our isle :
Britain ! whose genius is in verse express’d,
Bold and sublime, but negligently dress'd.

Horace will our superfluous branches prune, Give us new rules, and set our harp in tune; Direct us how to back the winged horse, Favour his flight, and moderate his force.

Though poets may of inspiration boast, Their rage, ill govern’d, in the clouds is lost. He that proportion'd wonders can disclose, At once his fancy and his judgment shows...



Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence,
Neglect of which no wit can recompense.
The fountain which from Helicon proceeds,
That sacred stream! should never water weeds,
Nor make the crop of thorns and thistles grow,
Which envy or perverted nature sow.

Well-sounding verses are the charm we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse :
Things of deep sense we may in prose unfold,
But they move more in lofty numbers told.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.

The Muses' friend, nnto bimself severe,
With silent pity looks on all that err;
But where a brave, a public, action shines,
That he rewards with his immortal lines.
Whether it be in council or in fight,
His country's honour is his chief delight;
Praise of great acts he scatters as a seed
Which may tlie like in coming ages breed.

Here taught the fate of verses, (always priz'd
With admiration, or as much despis’d)
Men will be less indulgent to their faults,
And patience have to cultivate their thoughts.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got,
Could it be known wliat they discreetly blot,
Finding new words, that to the ravish'd ear
May like the language of the gods appear,
Such as of old, wise bards employ'd, to make
Unpolish'd men their wild retreats forsake :
Law-giving herves, fam'd for taming brutes,
And raising cities with their charming lutes :
For rudest minds with harmony were caught,
And civil life was by the Muses tanght.

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