[Homer.]

    But Greece was honour’d with a Greater Name,
  Homer is Greece’s Glory and her Shame. 
  How could Learn’d Athens with contempt refuse,
  Th’ immortal labours of so vast a Muse? 
  Thee, Colophon, his angry Ghost upbraids,
  While his loud Numbers charm th’ Infernal Shades. 
  Ungrateful Cities!  Which could vainly strive
  For the Dead Homer, whom they scorn’d Alive. 
  So strangely wretched is the Poet’s Doom! 
  To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.

    Tho’ Virgil rising under happier Stars,
  Saw Rome succeed in Learning as in Wars. 
  When Pollio, like a smiling Planet, shone,
  And Caesar darted on him, like the Sun. 
  Nor did Mecaenas, gain a less repute,
  When Tuneful Flaccus touch’d the Roman Lute.

    But when, Mecaenas, will Thy Star appear
  In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere? 
  Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes
  Dissembled under DORSET’s fair Disguise? 
  If so; go on, Great Sackvile, to regard
  The Poet, and th’imploring Muse reward. 
  So to Thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,
  Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies. 
  For if a Verse Eternity can claim,
  Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name. 
  This Province all is Thine, o’er which in vain
  Octavius hover’d long, and sought to Reign. 
  This Sun prevail’d upon his Eagle’s sight,
  Glar’d in their Royal Eyes, and stop’d their flight. 
  Let him his Title to such Glory bring,
  You give as freely, and more nobly sing. 
  Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,
  He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.
  Horace and He are in Thy Nature joyn’d,
  The Patron’s Bounty with the Poet’s Mind.

    O Light of England, and her highest Grace! 
  Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race! 
  Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine
  (For ’tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line,
  While to the World, unprejudic’d, I tell
  The noblest Poets, and who most excel. 
  Thee with the Foremost thro’ the Globe I send,
  Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.

  But ’twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse
  The meaner Croud, undignify’d for Verse
  On barren ground who drag th’unwilling Plough,
  And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. 
  A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
  May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
  Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

    Some stuff’d in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme
  Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. 
  Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
  To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. 
  Who (when they’ve murder’d so much costly time,