To the unknown AUTHOR of this excellent POEM. AKE it as earnest of a Faith renew'd,' good: Where, tho' the Nine their beauteous ftroaks re peat, } And the turn'd Lines on Golden Anvils beat, Fil'd off the Ruft, and the right Party chofe. But more the Charms of Charming Annabel; Of Annabel, than May's firft Morn more bright, Night. Of Annabel the Mufes dearest Theme, Of Annabel the Angel of my Dream. And to your Master-piece these Shadows fend. NAT, LEE, To the unknown AUTHOR of this admirable POEM. Thought, forgive my Sin, the boafted fire I. Of lots fouls did long ago expire; Of Folly or of Madness did accufe The wretch that thought himself poffeft with Mufe; To the Conceal'd AUTHOR of this incomparable POEM. HA www "Ail Heav'n born Muse! hail ev'ry Sacred page! The Glory of our Ifle and of our Age. Th' inspiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh, The North at length teems with a work to vie With Homer's Flame and Virgil's Majesty. While Pindus lofty Heights our Poet fought, (His ravisht Mind with vaft Idea's fraught) Our Language fail'd beneath his rifing Thought; This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines He dreins of all their Gold, t'adorn his Lines : Through each of which the Mantuan Genius fhines. The Rock obey'd the pow'rful Hebrew Guide, Her flinty Breaft diffolv'd into a Tide: Thus on our stubborn Language he prevails, And makes the Helicon in which he fails. The Dialect, as well as Senfe, invents, And, with his Poem, a new fpeech prefents. Hail then thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown, That give your Country Fame, yet fhun your own! In vain----for ev'ry where your Praife you find, And not to meet it you must shun Mankind. Your Loyal Theme each Loyal Reader draws, And ev'n the factious give your Verfe applause, Whofe lightning ftrikes to ground their Idol cause. The Caufe for whofe dear fake they drank a Flood Of Civil Gore, norfpar'd the Royal-blood: The Cause whofe Growth to crufh, our Prelates wrote In vain, almost in vain oar Hero's fought. Yet by one Stab of your keen Satyr dies: Before your Sacred Lines their shatter'd Dagon lies. Oh! If unworthy we appear to know The Sire, to whom this lovely Birth we owe : (Deny'd our ready Homage to exprefs, And can at best but thankful be by guefs :) This hope remains,---May David's God-like Mind, (For him 'twas wrote) the unknown Author find: And, having found, fhow'r equal Favours down On Wit so vaft as cou'd oblige a Crown. N. TATE ! ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL I IN pious Times, e'er Prieft-craft did begin, Before Polygamy was made a Sin; his kind, E'er one to one was, curfedly, con- When Nature prompted, and no Law deny'd To Wives and Slaves: and, wide as his Command, |