то

THE RIGHT HON. JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

HIS MAJESTY's PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE.

I

DEAR SIR,

CANNOT wish that any of my writings fhould laft longer than the memory of our friendship and, therefore, I thus publicly bequeath them to you, in return for the many valuable inftances of your affection.

That they may come to you with as little difadvantage as poffible, I have left the care of them to one*, whom, by the experience of fome years, I know well qualified to anfwer my intentions. He has already the honour and happiness of being under your protection; and, as he will very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better, than that he may continue to deferve the favour and countenance of fuch a patron.

I have no time to lay out in forming fuch compliments, as would but ill fuit that familiarity between us, which was once my greatest pleasure, and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept of my hearty wishes, that the great reputation you have acquired fo early, may increase more and more: and that you may long ferve your country with thofe excellent talents,

and unblemished integrity, which have fo powerfully recommended you to the most gracious and amiable Monarch that ever filled a throne. May the franknefs and generofity of your spirit continue to foften and fubdue your enemies, and gain you many friends, if poffible, as fincere as yourself. When you have found fuch, they cannot wish you more true happinefs than I, who am, with the greatest zeal,

Dear SIR,

Your most entirely affectionate friend,

and faithful obedient fervant,

June 4, 1719.

J. ADDISON.

P

O E

M S

BY

M'R. ADDISON.

H

то MR. DRY DEN.

WOW long, great Poet, fhall thy facred lays

Provoke our wonder, and tranfcend our praise?

Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?

Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote,

Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rifing thought!
Penfive and fad, his drooping Mufe betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.

Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffeft,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast;
Thou mak'it the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our isle
In fmoother numbers, and a clearer style;
And Juvenal, inftructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And still out-fhines the bright original.

Now Ovid boafts th' advantage of thy song,

And tells his story in the British tongue;

Thy charming verfe, and fair translations, fhow
How thy own laurel first began to grow :

How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,

And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods. O may'st thou still the noble task prolong,

Nor age, nor fick nefs, interrupt thy fong:
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams
Of thofe rich fruits that on the fertile mold
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,

Have liv'd a second life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.

Magd. College, Oxon.

June 2, 1693.

The Author's age 22.

A POEM