In numbers such as Dorset's self might use. How negligently graceful he unreins His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains! How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines, _140 And all the hero in full glory shines! We see his army set in just array, And Boyne's dyed waves run purple to the sea. Nor Simois choked with men, and arms, and blood; Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood, Shall longer be the poet's highest themes, Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams. But now, to Nassau's secret councils raised, He aids the hero, whom before he praised. I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive _150 The last poor present that my Muse can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verse To them that practise them with more success. Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell, And so at once, dear friend and Muse, farewell. A LETTER FROM ITALY, TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN THE YEAR 1701. Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus, Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes. VIRG., Geor. ii. While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia's public posts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease; Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme. For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, _10 Poetic fields encompass me around And still I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung, Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. How am I pleased to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods! To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source, _20 To see the Mincio draw his watery store Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, And hoary Albula's infected tide O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. Fired with a thousand raptures I survey Eridanus[5] through flowery meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. _30 Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng I look for streams immortalised in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,) Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill, And in the smooth description murmur still. Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the famed river's empty shores admire, That, destitute of strength, derives its course