In this their antient _Edda_[1] seems to write, _Mysterious Rhimes_, and _horrid_ to the _sight_: Their _Runic Staves_ in this on _Rocks_ engrav'd, 470 Which long th' Assaults of _Time_ it self have brav'd. In this our antient _British Bards_ delight; } And, if I measure his _rough Numbers_ right, } In this old _Taliessin_ us'd to Write[2]. } This still _Possession_ keeps, few else we read, And _Right_ as well as _Fact_ may justly plead; Altho the _French Intruders_ oft pursue Their _baffled Title_, and their _Claim_ renew; Too oft _Impressions_ on our _Armies_ make, Cut off our _Straglers_ and our _Out-Guards_ take, 480 Which lazily our Authors now admit, And call th' _Excursions of Luxuriant Wit_; With _Badger-Feet_ the two-top'd _Mount_ we climb, And stalk from _Peak_ to _Peak_ on _Stilts of Rime_. Sweet WALLER'S _Dimeter_ we most approve For cheerful _Songs_ and _moving Tales of Love_, Which for _Heroic Subjects_ wants of _Strength_, Too _short_, as _Alexandrins_ err in _Length_. Our _Ear's_ the Judge of _Cadence_; nicely weigh What _Consonants_; rebel, and what obey; 490 What _Vowels_ mixt compose a pleasing _Sound_, And what the tender _Organs_ grate and wound. Nor at thy Reader's _Mercy_ chuse to lie, Nor let _his Judgment_ want of _thine_ supply: So _easie_ let thy _Verse_ so _smoothly_ fall, They must be read _aright_ if read at all. [Sidenote: _Numbers_.] Nor _equal Numbers_ will for all suffice, The _Sock_ creeps low, the _Tragic Bushkins_ rife; None knew this _Art_ so well, so well did use As did the _Mantuan Shepherd's_ Heav'nly Muse: 500 He marry'd _Sound and Sense_, at odds before, We hear his _Scylla bark, Charybdis roar_; And when in Fields his _Fiery Coursers_ meet The _hollow Ground_ shakes underneath their feet: Yet nicer _Ears_ can taste a _Diff'rence_ when Of _Flocks_ and _Fields_ he _sings_ or _Arms_ and _Men_. If I our _English Numbers_ taste aright, We in the grave _Iambic_ most delight: Each _second_ Syllable the Voice should _rest_, _Spondees_ may serve, but still th' _Iambic's_ best: 510 Th' unpleasing _Trochee_ always makes a _Blot_, And lames the _Numbers_; or, if this forgot, A strong _Spondaic_ should the _next_ succeed, The feeble _Wall_ will a good _Buttress_ need: Long _Writing, Observation, Art_ and _Pain_ Must here unite if you the _Prize_ would gain. [Sidenote: _Pauses_.] _Pause_ is the _Rest_ of _Voice_, the poor _Remains_ Of _antient Song_ that still our _Verse_ retains: The _second Foot_ or _third's_ our usual _Rest_, Tho more of _Art's_ in _varying_ oft exprest. 520 At ev'ry Word the _Pause_ is sometimes[3] made, And wond'rous _Beauty_ every where displaid: