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And all the Statues of the Palace live.
And jocund Echos dally with the sound,
"Here, as on circumstance Narrations dwell, And tell what moves, and hardly seem to tell, The toil of Heroes on the dusty plains, Or on the green the merriment of Swains, Reflection speaks: then all the Forms that rose In life's inchanted scene themselves compose; Whilst the grave voice, controling all the spells, With solemn utterance, thus the Moral tells: 'So Public Worth its enemies destroys, • Or Private Innocence itself enjoys.'
"Here all the Passions, for their greater sway, In all the power of words themselves array; And hence the soft Pathetic gently charms, And hence the bolder fills the breast with arms. Sweet Love in numbers finds a world of darts,
And with Desirings wounds the tender hearts.
"Pass further through the Dome, another view
"There modest Metaphors in order sit, With unaffected, undisguising Wit,
That leave their own, and seek another's place,
Not forc'd, but changing with an easy pace,
To deck a notion faintly seen before,
And Truth preserves her shape, and shines the more.
(6 By these the beauteous Similies reside,
"There Repetitions one another meet, Expressly strong, or languishingly sweet, And raise the sort of sentiment they please, And urge the sort of sentiment they raise.
"There close in order are the Questions plac'd, Which march with art conceal'd in shows of haste, And work the Reader till his mind be brought To make its answers in the Writer's thought. For thus the moving Passions seem to throng, And with their quickness force the soul along ; And thus the soul grows fond they should prevail, When every Question seems a fair appeal; And if by just degrees of strength they soar, In steps as equal each affects the more.
"There strange Commotion, naturally shown, Speaks on regardless that she speaks alone, Nor minds if they to whom she talks be near, Nor cares if that to which she talks can hear. The warmth of Anger dares an absent Foe; The words of Pity speak to tears of Woe; The Love that hopes, on errands sends the breeze; And Love despairing moans to naked trees.
"There stand the new Creations of the Muse,, Poetic Persons, whom the Writers use Whene'er a cause magnificently great Would fix attention with peculiar weight. 'Tis hence that humble Provinces are seen Transform'd to Matrons with neglected mien, Who call their Warriors in a mournful sound, And shew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground, While over Urns reclining Rivers moan
They should enrich a nation not their own.
'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd
In council Prudence as a Goddess aids.
"There Exclamations all the voice employ In sudden flushes of Concern or Joy:
Then seem the sluices, which the Passions bound, To burst asunder with a speechless sound;
And then with tumult and surprize they roll,
"There rising Sentences attempt to speak, Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break; But so the Part directs to find the rest,
That what remains behind is more than guess'd.
And smooth Transition joins them hand in hand:
"'Tis here that, guided by the Muses' fire, And fill'd with sacred thought, her Friends retire, Unbent to care, and unconcern'd with noise, To taste repose and elevated joys,
Which in a deep untroubled leisure meet,.
From hence the Charms that most engage they choose,