And sung, like _Philomel_ against a Thorn.

Here _Syren of sweet Poesy_, receive
That little praise my unknown Muse can give.
Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear
Tho' angry _B----more_ in Heroicks jeer.

A Bard, who seems to challenge _Virgil's_ Flame,
And would be next in Majesty and Name.
With lofty _Maro_ he at first may please;
The Righteous _Briton_ rises by degrees.
But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows,
And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,
The _Mantuan_ Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,
Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight.
Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song
Runs smooth as _Thames's_ River, and as strong.
Like his own _Neptune_ he the Waves confines,
While _Bl----re_ rumbles, like the King of Winds.
His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,
Jade out our Patience with excessive length.
While Readers, Yawning o'er his _Arthurs_ see
Whole Pages spun on one poor _Simile_.
We grant he labours with no want of Brains,
Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains,
One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat
Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat
A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.
It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise
The _World's_ _Imperial Poem_ in Six Days.