The life of our blessed Lord & Saviour, Jesus Christ an heroic poem, dedicated to Her Most Sacred Majesty : in ten books / attempted by Samuel Wesley ... ; each book illustrated by necessary notes ... also a prefatory discourse concerning heroic poetry ; with sixty copper plates.

To Mr. SAMUEL WESLEY, on his Poem of the Life of CHRIST.

BLest are the Bards who, fill'd with Godlike Fire, Dare, like its Flames, to native Heav'n aspire, Commence here Angels, and, in equal Lays, Praise him alone whom Saints and Seraphs praise: On sacred Themes a sacred Rage they use, Advance their Art, and deifie their Muse. These, Poets are! Thou, Wesley, than art blest; No mortal Beauty fires thy glowing Breast; Thy Heart, thy Soul with the whole God possest. No Spurious God, such as at Delphos spoke, And dubious Answers sold for impious Smoke. But that bright infant Sun whose dawning Ray Drove Shades, and Sprights, and Gods of Night away; Who his true Godhead at his Birth display'd, And crush'd, at once, Hell's dreadful Serpent's head; Who bears, with ease, this pond'rous Fabric's load, Makes conscious Nature tremble at his Nod, And Heav'n, and Earth, and Hell confess the God. Who out of Nothing swarms of Worlds cou'd bring, Of Light invisible th' unfathomable Spring; Sole, first, and last, still round himself he rouls In th' undivided Triple-stream, above the reach of Souls. Hold, headstrong Muse, nor, in thy scanty Verse, Attempt his boundless Wonders to rehearse; Nor, off'ring Incense with unhallow'd Fire, Like Nadab in revenging Flames expire. The Right, the Pow'r of chanting such a Song To none but consecrated Bards belong. None but Apelles Alexander drew; A nobler Draught to nobler Hands is due. So, Wesley, when we thought, with pious Awe, No Pencil fit thy suff'ring God to draw, Perform'd by thine the mighty Task we see; Or he, thy Lord, has done the Work by thee.

Thy Choice, like pious Mary's, is the best, While Others live with Martha's Cares opprest; When once engag'd, unknowing to go back, Yet doom'd each Hour their wearied Minds to rack, To sooth a dull, ungrateful, impious Age; Th' eternal Drudges of the Press and Stage. Baffled this Moment, thoughtless of the past, Still rich in Hopes, and wretched to the last; Witty by Fits, but oft'ner dull than wise, And fond of Fame, which yet they sacrifice. Ah! cruel Fortune! Tyrant of my Life, To Fools so kind, with Poets still at strife, Thou may'st constrain thy Slave to lose his Right To dear-bought Fame, the Poet's best Delight; But never, never shall my Honor be, Thou Prostitute, a Prostitute to thee. Nor will I use a Spark of heav'nly Fire Chast Flames to quench, and kindle loose Desire; Or, to mean Flatt'ry and worse Falshoods bent, Poison the Weak, and stab the Innocent. Ah! must I never, in bold Numbers, sing Britain's great Rulers and Heav'n's greater King! Ev'n our wing'd Brother-Poets of the Grove Strive here below to Rival those above. Each Morning they their warbling Voices raise, Inspir'd by Nature Nature's God to praise. The lab'ring Hind by them beguiles his Cares, Yet by his Arts their callow Brood ensnares. Then blinded, taught t' unlearn their native Strain, And cag'd for Life, the Wretches sing for Grain. So 'tis with us: Alike by Nature free, Our lays were Sacred as our Deity; But by a selfish World enslav'd, while young, Blinded by Vice, we're taught a meaner Song; Kept close and bare, we ne'er enjoy the Spring, The Town our Cage, where we must starve or sing. Much happier Wesley! wiser grown betimes, Thou left'st its Hurry, for more peaceful Climes; Nor, while thy Mind a short Repose enjoy'd, Was thy chast Muse on trifling Themes employ'd:

Tales of an angry Warrior's sullen Grief, The tedious Voyage of a crafty Chief, Troy, which a Horse could conquer in a Night, Or a false Wand'rer's fatal Loves and Flight: These ne'er could pay the Poet's Cares and Toils, The costly Seeds were lost in barren Soils. Nobler thy Choice, and happier thy Essay, Modest yet bold, Majestic and yet gay; As Autumn ripe, yet flourishing as May. But here, my Friend, thou check'st my zealous Muse, And bid'st me for thy God my Incense use; Thou shun'st the Praise which thy own Virtue draws, And can'st deserve, but can'st not hear Applause. Know, 'tis beneath thy Friend to make thee vain; I praise thee not: Yet must I praise thy Strain, I may — Since Men, when they applaud thy Lays, The Prophets great Inspirer only praise. Yet tho to God alone the Praise belong, With him and thee we share the pleasing Song. Thus Aaron Incense on its Altar laid, And, while attending Israel bow'd and pray'd; The balmy Steams, for Heav'n alone prepar'd, The Priest, the People, and the Godhead shar'd.

Peter Motteux.