Take it as earnest of a faith renewed, Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good: Where, though the Nine their beauteous stroaks repeat, } And the turned lines on golden anvils beat, } It looks as if they strook them at a heat. } So all serenely great, so just refined, } Like angels love to humane seed enclined, } It starts a giant, and exalts the kind. } 'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms roul, So brightly fierce, each syllable's a soul. 'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart; 'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art; To whom even the Phanatics altars raise, Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise. As if a Milton from the dead arose, Filed off the rust, and the right party chose. Nor, Sir, be shocked at what the gloomy say, Turn not your feet too inward, nor too splay. 'Tis gracious all, and great; push on your theme, Lean your grieved head on David's diadem. David, that rebel Israel's envy moved, David, by God and all good men beloved. The beauties of your Absalom excell; But more the charms of charming Annabel; Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright, Chearfull as summer's noon, and chast as winter's night. Of Annabel the muses dearest theme, Of Annabel the angel of my dream. Thus let a broken eloquence attend, And to your master-piece these shadows send. TO THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR OF THIS ADMIRABLE POEM. I thought,--forgive my sin,--the boasted fire Of poets' souls did long ago expire; Of folly or of madness did accuse The wretch that thought himself possest with muse; Laughed at the God within, that did inspire With more than human thoughts the tuneful quire; But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dream Of rhimers slumbring by the muses stream. Some livelier spark of heaven, and more refined From earthly dross, fills the great poet's mind. Witness these mighty and immortal lines, Through each of which th' informing genius shines. Scarce a diviner flame inspired the king, Of whom thy muse does so sublimely sing. Not David's self could in a nobler verse His gloriously offending son rehearse, Though in his breast the prophet's fury met The father's fondness, and the poet's wit. Here all consent in wonder and in praise, And to the unknown poet altars raise. Which thou must needs accept with equal joy, As when Ænæas heard the wars of Troy, Wrapt up himself in darkness and unseen, Extolled with wonder by the Tyrian Queen. Sure thou already art secure of fame, Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name; What father else would have refused to own So great a son as god-like Absalon? R. D. TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR OF THIS INCOMPARABLE POEM.