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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 !
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!



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Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic shores, And fhelter 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. 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 store, And made that Mufic which was noife before. There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days, Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife, Enjoy'd the bieflings that his reign beftow'd, Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode. The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day: They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison infpir'd. Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring: Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing? Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain, I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;





Led by thy Mufe, from sport 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 varies 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.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;
The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
Ner fhall thy forg, old Thames! forbear to shine,
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 lose their long distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.



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To Mr. POPE.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOME R.


HEN habus, and the nine harmonious maids Of old affembled in the Thespian shades ; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit thefe 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 verfe? 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 treasur'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 Translator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The world will think his English Iliad mine.”





To Mr. POPE.

TO praife, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preserve 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 bosom shine;
Thou should't 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 Came
Whom Windfor-Forest fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.

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 fcene.
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.







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 deferv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse 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 whisper 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 fhines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a diftant throne ;
In all the Majesty 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 ftand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein ;
The mines detected flame with gold again.





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

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