"How form'd for sway!
Who look, obey;
They read the monarch in his port:
Their love and awe
Supply the law;
And his own lustre makes the court:"

On yonder height,
What golden light
Triumphant shines? and shines alone?
Unrivall'd blaze!
The nations gaze!
'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

Our monarch, there,
Rear'd high in air,
Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;
Like British oak,
Derides the stroke;
His blooming honours far extend!

Beneath them lies,
With lifted eyes,
Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;
While interest wings
Bold foreign kings
To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud foot
The sea, pour'd out,
Immortal nourishment supplies;
Thence wealth and state,
And power and fate,
Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

From what we view,
We take the clue,
Which leads from great to greater thing
Men doubt no more,
But gods adore,
When such resemblance shines in kings.

On Lyric Poetry.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak
a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at
least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged;
and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration
for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we
undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as
also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in
speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad
poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most
vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But
poetry in its own nature is certainly

Non hos quaesitum munus in usus.

--VIRG.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in
it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little
degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly
by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to
himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with
which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in ot