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 my Ingenious Friend Mr. SAMUEL WESLEY, on his Poem the Life of CHRIST.

CHrist's Life! And sung in English Poesie! Who of our Bards durst e'er essay't till thee! Their Pens are idly busie for the Stage, To humour there the Genius of the Age; Their cheif design is still to please the Pit, And there expose the Folly of their Wit; But every Theme that's Noble and Divine, With awkward Modesty they still decline: About the sacred Ark they trembling stand, But dare not touch with their unhallow'd Hand; They plead, alas! They 've too prophane a Muse, And urge their very Crimes for their excuse. Dryden alone, swoll'n with a nobler Pride, Out of the common road once step'd aside; Bravely went on where Milton broke the Ice, And sweetly mourn'd the loss of Paradise; Richly embroyder'd his old fashion'd Ground, And still refin'd the golden Oar he found; Each Comliness up to a Beauty wrought, Polish'd each Line and heighten'd every Thought; What Mortal cou'd have been with him compar'd, As he began had he but Persever'd! Cowley indeed (his Works sufficient proof) For this great Theme — At once was Poet and was Saint enough. Had he the blessed Iesus made his choice, He'd Heav'nly Skill to sing, and Heav'nly Voice; But on his Type he rather chose to write, His shadow, yet himself a glorious Light; David, that mighty Man, employ'd his pains, He David sung, and sung with David's strains; Scarce cou'd the Musick of his charming Lyre Of whom he sang, more please, or more inspire:

But ah! While he too nigh to Heav'n did soar, The Angels caught his Soul o'th' Wing, and bore To their blest Quire, whence he return'd no more: Around him strait the wond'ring Seraph's throng, And beg from him a more Seraphick Song; He sang, their high tun'd Harps they higher raise, And strive to play a Consort to his Lays; But such high Notes immortal Cowley sings, As stretch'd their lowd, their everlasting Strings; So his great Hero's drawn but to the Wast, And but the Scheme of what shou'd follow cast! Yet all must needs admire, when it they view, Both what he did, and what he meant to do. O that some happy Muse wou'd yet go on, And finish what so nobly is begun! But Davideis must (I fear) remain, Wish'd to be finish'd, but ne'er underta'en: Yet thou from Cowley hast this Honour won, He sang but David, thou his greater Son: A bold Attempt, yet manag'd so by you, We must your Courage praise, and Conduct too; So great the Theme, and yet so sweet the Song, The God thou sing'st doth sure inspire thy Tongue: Thou open'st all the Treasuries above, And shew'st the Wonders of Almighty Love: How the eternal Father made a Child, With awful sweetness in the Manger Smil'd; The various hazards which his Nonage ran, Until the Infant God grew up to Man; Then drawing o'er his radiant Head a Cloud, To shew the Man, a while the God you shrou'd; And to a Scene of Sorrow guid'st our Eye, The mournful Glories of sad Calvary; They raise him to the Cross, and there deride; The Holy Jesus pitty'd them, and Dy'd. Then how the World its Makers death bemoan'd, Heav'n wept, Winds sigh'd, Earth quak'd, whole Nature groan'd; Next how that Death our Sins did Expiate, How great the Purchase! But how dear the Rate! This, and much more thy Muse, great Wesley, sings,

Thy Flow'rs are more, and sweeter than the Springs; Which with fresh beauties ev'ry Verse adorn, Sprightly as Light, and fragrant as the Morn; Thy lofty Wit's by solid Iudgment fix'd; Thy fruitful Fancy with deep Learning mix'd: Their mingled Glories sparkle in each Line, Each Word both speaks thee Poet and Divine, Go on, great Bard, still let thy tuneful Lyre Strike Envy dumb, and teach her to admire.

Thomas Taylor.