Thy Trumpet sounds, the Dead are rais'd to Light,
Never to die, and take to Heav'n their Flight,
Deckt in thy Verse, as clad with Rays they shine,
All Glorify'd, Immortal, and Divine.
As Britain in rich Soil abounding wide,
Furnish'd for Use, for Luxury, and Pride,
Yet spreads her wanton Sails on ev'ry Shore
For foreign Wealth, impatient still of more;
To her own Wooll the Silks of Asia joins,
And to her plenteous Harvests, Indian Mines:
So Dryden, not contented with the Fame
Of his own Works, tho' an immortal Name,
To Lands remote sends forth his learned Muse,
The noblest Seeds of foreign Wit to chuse:
Feasting our Sense so many various Ways,
Say, Is't thy Bounty? or thy Thirst of Praise?
That by comparing Others, All might see
Who most excell, are yet excell'd by Thee.
