_I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the_ Strophe _and_ Antistrophe; _neither do I think it necessary; besides I had rather err with Mr._ Cowley, _who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in the right with others._
_Mr._ Congreve, _an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the last Olympic has two_ Monostrophicks _of different Measure, and Number of Lines._
_The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You may expect the rest on the_ Pindaric Style. _In the mean time I beg leave to subscribe myself,_
_Sir, Your ever Obedient and Obliged Servant,_
1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement.
Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast Design'd a Creature to command the rest, Of all th' _Erected Progeny of Clay_ His Noblest Labour was his _First Essay_. There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind. The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien. Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught, With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing, And be at once the Poet and the King. Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew, And saw the Depth of Nature at a View; Or, new descending from th' Angelick race, Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place.
Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame, Which lodg'd his _Fiery Guest_[1], and like the same Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense, His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence. Whene're He spoke, from his _Seraphick_ Tongue Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young, With new _Calliopes_ and _Clio's_ sprung. No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind, Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd. Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain.
[1] The Soul according to the Platonists. So _Virgil_: _Aurai simplicis ig, nem._
But when He yielded to deluding Charms, Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms. The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd, But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd. Yet here and there _Celestial Seeds_ She threw, And rain'd _melodious Blessings_ as She flew. Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd. Who, of a _Species_ more sublime, can tame The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame. When in their breasts th'impetuous _Numen_ rowls, And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls.