to Sir Richard Blackmore, on his Poem, intitled The Creation.

Dress'd in the charms of wit and fancy, long
The muse has pleas'd us with her syren song;
But weak of reason, and deprav'd of mind,
Too oft on vile, ignoble themes we find
The wanton muse her sacred art debase,
Forgetful of her birth, and heavenly race;
Too oft her flatt'ring songs to sin intice,
And in false colours deck delusive vice;
Too oft she condescends, in servile lays,
The undeserving rich and great to praise.
These beaten paths, thy loftier strains refuse
With just disdain, and nobler subjects chuse:
Fir'd with sublimer thoughts, thy daring soul
Wings her aspiring flight from Pole to Pole,
Observes the foot-steps of a pow'r divine,
Which in each part of nature's system shine;
Surveys the wonders of this beauteous frame,
And sings the sacred source, whence all things came.

But Oh! what numbers shall I find to tell,
The mighty transports which my bosom swell,
Whilst, guided by thy tuneful voice, I stray
Thro' radiant worlds, and fields of native day,
Wasted from orb, to orb, unwearied fly
Thro' the blue regions of the yielding sky;
See how the spheres in stated courses roll,
And view the just composure of the whole!