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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.
OF THE LADY MARY,
PRINCESS OF ORANGE.
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 :
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:
That miglity state till now had stood.
OF ENGLISH VERSE.
POETS may boast, as safely vain,
But who can hope his line shall long
When architects have done their part,
Poets that lasting marble seek,
Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The beauties which adorn'd that age,
This was the generous poet's scope,
Verse, thus design’d, has no ill fate,
U PON THE
EARL OF ROSCOMMON'S TRANSLATION OF HORACE, DE ARTE POETICA ;
AND OF THE USE OF POETRY.
Rome was not better by her Horace taught,
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,
Well-sounding verses are the charm we use,
The Muses' friend, nnto bimself severe,
Here taught the fate of verses, (always priz'd