Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre

Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields infpire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy beft to dwell

Amidst the rural joys, you fing fo well.

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime."
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main !

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Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,

And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;

Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,

And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

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Thence let me view the venerable scene,

The awful dome, the groves eternal green :

Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Mufes to the fylvan feat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the bieffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windsor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fang, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addifon infpir'd.

Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

бо

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Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;

Led by thy Mufe, from fport to fport I run,

Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun. 75 Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy

On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie?

His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varics there.

Nor can I país the gen'rous courfer by,
Fut while the prancing fleed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lofe the course,
Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horfe.
Ch could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the fport, and eager for the chace,
Ledena's murmurs ftop me in the race.

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Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

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The Tale be told, when shades forfake her fhore,

The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more. Nor fhall thy forg, old Thames! forbear to fhine, At once the fubject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more 95 Than all their fhouts for Victory before.

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur, and enrich the isle;
A while diftin&t thro' many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lofe their long diftinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

FR. KNAP.

To Mr. POPE.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

WHEN

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habus, and the nine harmonious maids Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse: Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse ? He anfwer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth that Envy bids me not conceal: "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale, "Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praife, 15 "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; "Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The world will think his English Iliad mine."

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E. FENTON.

To Mr. P O PE.

TO praife, and ftill with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preferve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour, muft the lines require?
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?

O might thy Genius in my bofom shine;
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.

Horace himfelf would own thou doft excell

In candid arts to play the Critic well,
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Lame
Whom Windfor-Foreft fees a gliding ftream:
On filver feet with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.

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How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
Made by the Mufe the envy of the Fair?
Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princes wore,
Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds;
Belles war with Beaux, and Whims defcend for Gods.
The new machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The Graces ftand in fight; a Satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits;

And fits in measures such as Virgil's Muse
Te place thee near him might be fond to chufe.

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How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;

While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife,
Thinks he deferves, and thou deserv'st the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurfe of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whifper o'er my head:
Still flide thy waters, foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye vallies, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.
5 Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the Majefty of Greek retir'd,

Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd ;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only fay, The mines were here:
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

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How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns! 65 How ev'ry Mufic varies in thy lines!