The Epick Poets fo divinely show,

And with juft Pride behold the reft below.
Heroick Poems have a just pretence

To be the utmost reach of human Sense,

A Work of fuch ineftimable Worth,

There are but two the World has yet brought

forth,

Homer, and Virgil: with what awful found
Do those meer words the Ears of Poets wound!
Just as a Changeling feems below the rest
Of Men, or rather as a two-legg'd Beast,
So thefe Gigantick Souls amaz'd we find
As much above the reft of human kind
Natures whole ftrength united! endless Fame,
And universal Shouts attend their Name.
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all things elle appear fo dull and poor,
Verfe will seem Profe, yet often on him look,
And you will hardly need another Book.

C 4

Had

Had * Boffu never writ, the World had till,

Like Indians, view'd this wondrous Piece of

Skill,

As fomething of Divine the Work admir'd,
Not hop'd to be Inftructed, but Inspir'd;
But he disclofing facred Myfteries,

Has fhewn where all the mighty Magick lies,
Defcrib'd the Seeds and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vaft proportion grown;
Sure from fome Angel he the Secret knew,

Who through this Labyrinth has given the

Clue!

But what, alas, avails it poor Mankind

Tofee this promis'd Land, yet ftay behind?

The Way is fhewn, but who has ftrength to go? Who can all Sciences exactly know?

Whole Fancy flies beyond weak Reason's Sight, And yet has Judgment to direct it right?

1

*

A late Author.

Whofe

just Discernment, Virgil-like, is fuch, to say too little, or too much?

ha Man begin without delay,

muft do much more than I can fay,

above Cowley, nay and Milton too pre

ail,

ed where great Torquato, and our greater Spencer fail.

THE

THE

TEMPLE

OF

DEATH.

By the Right Honourable the

MARQUIS of NORMANBY.

A Tranflation out of FRENCH.

N thofe cold Climates, where the Sun

IN

appears

Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a Defart Ifle,

On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.

There

There a thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves,
Whole Flooks of ill-prefaging Birds receives;
Poisons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Season there,
Millions of Graves cover the fpacious Field,
And fprings of Blood a thousand Rivers yield,
Whose ftreams oppreft with Carcafes and Bones,
Instead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.

Within this Vale a famous Temple stands, Old as the World it felf, which it commands; Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.

There come in Crouds, doom'd to one common

Grave,

The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the

Slave.

Old