To the unknown AUTHOR of this excellent POEM. T AKE it as earneft of a Faith renew'd, Your Theme is vaft,-your Verfe divinely good: Where, tho' the Nine their beauteous ftroaks re peat, And the turn'd Lines on Golden Anvils beat, 'Tis what the World would be, but wants the Art; } Fil'd off the Ruft, and the right Party chose. But more the Charms of Charming Annabel; Of Annabel, than May's first Morn more bright, Chearful as Summer's Noon, and chaft as Winter's Night. Of Annabel the Mufes deareft Theme, Of Annabel the Angel of my Dream.. And to your Mafter-piece thefe Shadows fend. NAT, LEE I To the Unknown AUTHOR of this admirable POEM. Thought, forgive my Sin, the boafted fire Of Folly or of Madness did accufe The wretch that thought himself poffeft with Mufe; R. DUXE To the Conceal'd AUTHOR of this incomparable POEM. Hail Heav'n-born Mufe! hail ev'ry Sacred page! The Glory of our Ifle and of our Age. Th' infpiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh, The North at length teems with a work to vie With Homer's Flame and Virgil's Majefty. While Pindus lofty Heights our Poet fought, (His ravisht Mind with vaft Idea's fraught) Our Language fail'd beneath his rifing Thought; This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines He dreins of all their Gold, t'adorn his Lines: Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines. The Rock obey'd the pow'rful Hebrew Guide, Her flinty Breaft diffolv'd into a Tide: Thus on our ftubborn Language he prevails, And makes the Helicon in which he fails. The Dialect, as well as fenfe, invents, And, with his Poem, a new fpeech prefents. Hail then thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown, That give your Country Fame, yet fhun your own! In vain----for ev'ry where your Praise you find, And not to meet it you must shun Mankind. Your Loyal Theme each Loyal Reader draws, And ev'n the factious give your Verfe applause, Whose lightning ftrikes to ground their Idol cause. The Caufe for whofe dear fake they drank a Flood Of Civil Gore, nor fpar'd the Royal-blood: The Caufe whofe Growth to crush, our Prelates wrote In vain, almoft in vain our Hero's fought. Yet by one Stab of your keen Satyr dies: Before your Sacred Lines their fhatter'd Dagon lies, Oh! If unworthy we appear to know The Sire, to whom this lovely Birth we owe : (Deny'd our ready Homage to express, And can at beft but thankful be by guefs:) This hope remains,--May David's God-like Mind, (For him 'twas wrote) the unknown Author find : And, having found, fhow'r equal Favours down On Wit fo vaft as cou'd oblige a Crown. N. TATE ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL N pious Times, e'er Prieft-craft did Before Polygamy was made a Sin; his kind, E'er one to one was, curfedly, con- When Nature prompted, and no Law deny'd |