In this their antient _Edda_[1] seems to write,
_Mysterious Rhimes_, and _horrid_ to the _sight_:
Their _Runic Staves_ in this on _Rocks_ engrav'd, 470
Which long th' Assaults of _Time_ it self have brav'd.
In this our antient _British Bards_ delight; }
And, if I measure his _rough Numbers_ right, }
In this old _Taliessin_ us'd to Write[2]. }
This still _Possession_ keeps, few else we read,
And _Right_ as well as _Fact_ may justly plead;
Altho the _French Intruders_ oft pursue
Their _baffled Title_, and their _Claim_ renew;
Too oft _Impressions_ on our _Armies_ make,
Cut off our _Straglers_ and our _Out-Guards_ take, 480
Which lazily our Authors now admit,
And call th' _Excursions of Luxuriant Wit_;
With _Badger-Feet_ the two-top'd _Mount_ we climb,
And stalk from _Peak_ to _Peak_ on _Stilts of Rime_.
Sweet WALLER'S _Dimeter_ we most approve
For cheerful _Songs_ and _moving Tales of Love_,
Which for _Heroic Subjects_ wants of _Strength_,
Too _short_, as _Alexandrins_ err in _Length_.
Our _Ear's_ the Judge of _Cadence_; nicely weigh
What _Consonants_; rebel, and what obey; 490
What _Vowels_ mixt compose a pleasing _Sound_,
And what the tender _Organs_ grate and wound.
Nor at thy Reader's _Mercy_ chuse to lie,
Nor let _his Judgment_ want of _thine_ supply:
So _easie_ let thy _Verse_ so _smoothly_ fall,
They must be read _aright_ if read at all.
[Sidenote: _Numbers_.]