"Ye flaming Pow'rs, and _winged Warriors_ bright,
That erst with Musick and triumphant Song
Through the _soft Silence_ of the listning Night
_So sweetly sung_ your Joy the Clouds along.

All the Masters of Verse from _Chaucer_ to _Milton_, and from _Milton_
to this time, were sensible of this Art. _Dryden_ attends to it more
than any thing else.

"_Beneath_ the Shade which _Beechen Boughs_ diffuse,
_You Tityrus_ entertain _your_ Sylvan Muse:
_Round_ the _wide World_ in Banishment _we roam_,
_Forc'd from_ our pleasing _Fields_ and native Home.

Again,

_Arms and_ the Man I sing, who _forc'd_ by _Fate_
And _haughty_ Juno's unrelenting _Hate_,
_Expell'd_ and _Exil'd_, left the _Trojan_ Shore:
_Long Labours_, both by Sea and _Land_ he bore.

Mr. _Pope_ begins his Poems with this Delicacy.

"_First_ in these _Fields_ I try the _Sylvan Strains_,
Nor _blush_ to sport on _Windsor's blissful_ Plains.
_Fair_ Thames _flow_ gently _from_ thy _Sacred Spring_,
While on thy Banks _Sicilian_ Muses _Sing_;
Let Vernal Airs _thro' tre_mbling Osiers play,
And _Albion_'s Cliffs _resound_ the _rural_ Lay.