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Part of the NINTH ODE
Of the FOURTH BOOK.
should think that verse shall die, Which sounds the Silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;
Tho' daring Milton fits sublime,
In Spencer native Muses play ; Nor yet
shall Waller yield to time, Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay—
Sages and Chiefs long since had birth
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd; Those rais'd new Empires o'er the Earth,
And These, new Heav'ns and Systems fram’d.
Vain was the Chief's, the Sage's pride!
They had no Poet, and they dy'd.
They had no Poet, and are dead.
E PIST L E
ROBERT Earl of OXFORD,
and Earl of MORTIMER.
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet
fung, 'Till Death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongue. Oh just beheld, and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain! Dear to the Muse! to HARLEY dear-in vain !
For him, thou oft has bid the World attend, Fond to forget the Statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despis’d the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit, And pleas’d to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.
NO TE s. Epistle to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epistle was sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnelle's Poems published by our Author, after the said Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721,