A crew, that scandalize the nation more
Than all their treason-canting priests before!
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as even from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to the heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise ;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.

TO

THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR*

OF THE FOLLOWING POEM,

AND THAT OF

ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL

Tuus pious ignorance, with dubious praise,
Altars of old, to gods unknown, did raise:
They knew not the loved Deity, they knew
Divine effects a cause divine did shew:

Nor can we doubt, when such these numbers are,
Such is their cause, though the worst muse shall dare

Their sacred worth in humble verse declare.

As gentle Thames, charmed with thy tuneful song,
Glides in a peaceful majesty along;

No rebel stone, no lofty bank, does brave
The easy passage of his silent wave;
So, sacred poet, so thy numbers flow,
Sinewy, yet mild, as happy lovers woo;
Strong, yet harmonious too, as planets move,

Yet soft as down upon the wings of love.
How sweet does virtue in your dress appear!

How much more charming, when much less severe !
Whilst you our senses harmlessly beguile,
With all the allurements of your happy style;

*There seems to have been some uncertainty, both among Tories and Whigs, concerning the author of "The Medal." Settle, himself, did not recognize the hand of Dryden; for he thus expresses himself :—“ I am not of opinion, that the author of " The Medal," and that of" Absalom and Achitophel," is one person, since the style and painting is far different, and their satires are of a different hue, the one being a much more slovenly beast than the other; yet, since they desire to be thought so, let the one bear the reproaches of the other."-Preface to Medal Reversed.

You insinuate loyalty with kind deceit,
And into sense the unthinking many cheat:

So the sweet Thracian, with his charming lyre,
Into rude nature virtue did inspire;

So he the savage herd to reason drew,
Yet scarce so sweet, so charmingly, as you.

Oh that you would, with some such powerful charm,
Enervate Albion to just valour warm!

Whether much-suffering Charles shall theme afford,
Or the great deeds of god-like James's sword;
Again fair Gallia might be ours, again
Another fleet might pass the subject main;
Another Edward lead the Britains on,
Or such an Ossory as you did moan:
While in such numbers you, in such a strain,
Inflame their courage, and reward their pain.
Let false Achitophel the rout engage,
Talk easy Absalom to rebel rage;
Let frugal Shimei curse in holy zeal,
Or modest Corah more new plots reveal;
Whilst constant to himself, secure of fate,
Good David still maintains the royal state;
Though each in vain such various ills employs,
Firmly he stands, and even those ills enjoys;
Firm as fair Albion midst the raging main,
Surveys encircling danger with disdain.

In vain the waves assault the unmoved shore,

In vain the winds with mingled fury roar,

Fair Albion's beauteous cliffs shine whiter than before.

Nor shalt thou move, though hell thy fall conspire,
Though the worse rage of zeal's fanatic fire,
Thou best, thou greatest of the British race,
Thou only fit to fill great Charles his place.
Ah wretched Britons! ah too stubborn isle!

Ah stiff-necked Israel on blest Canaan's soil!

Are those dear proofs of heaven's indulgence vain,
Restoring David and his gentle reign?

Is it in vain thou all the goods dost know,

Auspicious stars on mortals shed below,

While all thy streams with milk, thy lands with honey flow?

No more, fond isle! no more thyself engaged,

In civil fury, and intestine rage,

No rebel zeal thy duteous land molest,

But a smooth calm sooth every peaceful breast,
While in such charming notes divinely sings
The best of poets, of the best of kings.

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