Poems on several occasions. Humbly dedicated to the right honourable the Marchioness of Tavestock. By the author.

On Mr. John Milton. To a Friend, who flatteringly desir'd me to send him some Verses on a propos'd Subject.

IF with a Poet's Fate, Heaven would but give The Poet's Spirit too, by which they live; Could feed on Thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious Numbers, free from fumes of Love:

I'd then no longer lazy Fortune Court, (Fortune should be my Fool to make me Sport) I'd leave her Service, and her Play-things here, And in the Muses Livery appear, Wing'd with their Plumes, if by their Vigor led: But Oh the Muses Great Elijah's fled, Wrapt in a Chariot drawn by fiery Steeds, And none yet worthy in his place succeeds! Whence may One Sacred Ordination get? His pow'rful Mantle's sought in vain for yet; The Holy Vest is with the Prophet flown, For him 'twas only fit, and made for him alone. Not Jordan he, but Chaos, with it smote, Hither and thither, and went through a Foot. Her hidden Chambers open'd to his Eye, And brought their Secrets to his Scrutiny;

Whence his collecting Mind observ'd their use, And what their teeming Virtues would produce. And as he sung, we find it come to pass, This World is the Confusion, then that was. Idea's strait of every Being he wrought, And to perfection soon the Vision brought. Thus the Fair Train of Stars, and Heav'n, and Earth, In his Harmonious Volume had their Birth.

What need he then a Successor inspire, And further how bestow the Holy Fire? When all the Universal Scope he wrote, Beyond, Privation Gulphs attempting Thought.