Not if the fields of Agencourt had yawn’d Exposing horrible the gulf of fate; Or roaring Danube spread his arms abroad, And overwhelm’d their legions with his floods. But let the wand’ring muse at length return; Nor yet, angelick genius of the sun, In worthy lays her high-attempting song Has blazon’d forth thy venerated name. Then let her sweep the loud-resounding lyre Again, again o’er each melodious string Teach harmony to tremble with thy praise. And still thine ear O favourable grant, And she shall tell thee, that whatever charms, Whatever beauties bloom on nature’s face, Proceed from thy all-influencing light. That when arising with tempestuous rage, The North impetuous rides upon the clouds Dispersing round the heav’ns obstructive gloom, And with his dreaded prohibition stays The kind effusion of thy genial beams; Pale are the rubies on ~AURORA’S~ lips, No more the roses blush upon her cheeks, Black are Peneus’ streams and golden sands In Tempe’s vale dull melancholy sits, And every flower reclines its languid head. By what high name shall I invoke thee, say, Thou life-infusing deity, on thee I call, and look propitious from on high, While now to thee I offer up my prayer. O had great ~NEWTON~, as he found the cause, By which sound rouls thro’ th’ undulating air, O had he, baffling times resistless power, Discover’d what that subtle spirit is, Or whatsoe’er diffusive else is spread Over the wide-extended universe, Which causes bodies to reflect the light, And from their straight direction to divert The rapid beams, that through their surface pierce. But since embrac’d by th’ icy arms of age, And his quick thought by times cold hand congeal’d, Ev’n ~NEWTON~ left unknown this hidden power; Thou from the race of human kind select Some other worthy of an angel’s care, With inspiration animate his breast, And him instruct in these thy secret laws. O let not ~NEWTON~, to whose spacious view, Now unobstructed, all th’ extensive scenes Of the ethereal ruler’s works arise; When he beholds this earth he late adorn’d, Let him not see philosophy in tears, Like a fond mother solitary sit, Lamenting him her dear, and only child. But as the wise ~PYTHAGORAS~, and he, Whose birth with pride the fam’d Abdera boasts, With expectation having long survey’d This spot their ancient seat, with joy beheld Divine philosophy at length appear In all her charms majestically fair, Conducted by immortal ~NEWTON’S~ hand. So may he see another sage arise, That shall maintain her empire: then no more Imperious ignorance with haughty sway Shall stalk rapacious o’er the ravag’d globe: Then thou, O ~NEWTON~, shalt protect these lines. The humble tribute of the grateful muse; Ne’er shall the sacrilegious hand despoil Her laurel’d temples, whom his name preserves: And were she equal to the mighty theme, Futurity should wonder at her song;