Classic Poem

Summon'd by Fame (brave Dover ) I can now
Tell what it was old Poets meant to show
In the feign'd stories of their Pegasus ,
Muses and Mount , which they have left to us.
Nor need we wonder such a flow of years
Should roul away, when yet no light appears.
Since Prophesies and Fates predictions
Come to be known, and are fulfill'd at once.
So Delphos spake, and in a mystick fold
Hid that, at once which acted was and told.
What then was typ'd by Pegasus , but that
Proud Troup of fiery Coursers, muster'd at
Thy Cotswold ? where like rapid spheres they hurld
Strain for a salt, the seasoning of the world.
Then the sagacious Hound, at losses mute
Alone, shews Natures Logick in pursuit.
But at thy other meeting, he is blind
That cannot Muses and their musick find:
Shewing that pleasure would be cold and dye,
Without converse and noble harmony.
The Ladies Muses are, there may you chuse
A Patronesse, each Mistresse is a Muse.
Nor does Apollo's Harp e'r sound more high,
Than when 'tis vigour'd from a Ladies eye.
Now to complete the story, I do see
How future times will learn to title thee
That Youth'd Apollo: So Mount Helicon
Will Cotswold prove, which shall be fam'd alone,
And sacred all unto thy happy Name,
That long shall dwell in the fair voice of Fame.
For great thou must be: and as first, have prize,
Or else, as th' Exit of old Prophesies.