To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd,
By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.
Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.

For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise
An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known
For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.

[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_]

Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day.
A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,