Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.
Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay,
Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.
In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung,
Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung.
If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall
Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_.
Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings
the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings
_Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main,
Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain,
Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair
With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care,
Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.
As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill
The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill;
So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such,
No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.
As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine,
The Substance precious, and the Work Divine:
So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase,
Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,
A mighty Value in a little Space.
So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old,
When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.
But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less,
Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.
O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast,
To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest?
To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove,