As there is music uninformed by art In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart, The birds in unfrequented shades express, Who, better taught at home, yet please us less; So in your verse a native sweetness dwells, Which shames composure,[2] and its art excells. Singing no more can your soft numbers grace, Than paint adds charms unto a beauteous face.[3] Yet as when mighty rivers gently creep, Their even calmness does suppose them deep, Such is your muse: no metaphor swelled high With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky: Those mounting fancies, when they fall again, Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain. So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet, Did never but in Sampson's riddle meet. 'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear, And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear. Either your art hides art, as stoics feign Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see What hidden springs within the engine be: Or 'tis some happiness, that still pursues Each act and motion of your graceful muse. Or is it fortune's work, that in your head The curious net that is for fancies spread,[4] Lets through its meshes every meaner thought, While rich ideas there are only caught? Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair To be the child of chance, and not of care. No atoms, casually together hurled, Could e'er produce so beautiful a world; Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit, As would destroy the providence of wit. 'Tis your strong genius, then, which does not feel Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel. To carry weight, and run so lightly too, Is what alone your Pegasus can do. Great Hercules himself could ne'er do more, Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. Your easier odes, which for delight were penned, Yet our instruction make their second end; We're both enriched and pleased, like them that woo At once a beauty, and a fortune too. Of moral knowledge poesy was queen, And still she might, had wanton wits not been; Who, like ill guardians, lived themselves at large, And, not content with that, debauched their charge. Like some brave captain, your successful pen Restores the exiled to her crown again; And gives us hope, that having seen the days When nothing flourished but fanatic bays, All will at length in this opinion rest,-- "A sober prince's government is best." This is not all; your art the way has found To make improvement of the richest ground; That soil which those immortal laurels bore, That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.[5] Eliza's griefs are so expressed by you, They are too eloquent to have been true. Had she so spoke, Æneas had obeyed What Dido, rather than what Jove, had said. If funeral rites can give a ghost repose, Your muse so justly has discharged those, Eliza's shade may now its wandering cease,