Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when fummer dress'd the days,
While Wind for lent us tuneful hours of eafe,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela fweeteft o'er the reft:
The fhades refound with fong-O foftly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head
This to my Friend and when a friend infpires, 75
My filent harp its master's hand requires.
Shakes off the duft, and makes these rocks refound;
For Fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground :
Far from the joys that with my foul agree,
From wit, from learning very far from thee.
Here mofs-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a fheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever fleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned Eafe,
A Friend delight me, and an Author please;
Ey'n here I fing, when Pore fapplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame.
T.PARNELL.
ET vulgar fouls triumphal arches raife,"
Or fpeaking marbles, to record their praise;
And picture (to the voice of Fame unknown)
The mimic Feature on the breathing ftone;
Mere mortals; fubject to death's total fway,
Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!
'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise, A monument which Worth alone can raise : Sure to furvive, when time fhall whelm in duft The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft: Nor till the volumes of th' expanded ky Blaze in one flame, fhalt thou and Homer die : Then fink together in the world's laft fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires. If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, 15 With human tranfport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightness fhines; Juft to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully publifh'd what Lucretius wrote; Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.
Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades,
And the bold figure from the canvass fades,
A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part
Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Transported we furvey the dubious ftrife,
While each fair image ftarts again to life.
How long, untun'd, had Homer's facred lyre
Jarr'd grating difcord, all extinct his fire?
This you beheld; and, taught by heav'n to fing,
Call'd the loud mufic from the founding ftring.
Now wak'd from flumbers of three thousand years,
Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,
Tours o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,
Keen flash his arms, and all the Hero burns;
With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,
He ftrides along, and meets the Gods in fight:
Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors,,
Start at the din that rends th' infernal fhores,
Tremble the tow'rs of Heav'n, earth rocks her coasts,
And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghofts.
To ev'ry theme refponds thy various lay;
Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play;
Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise,
Tofs the wild waves, and thunder in the skies;
Or fofter than a yielding virgin's figh,
The gentle breezes breathe away and die.
Thus, like the radiant God who sheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;
And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies,
Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.
Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string,
Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing.
How long that Hero", by unskilful hands,
Strip'd of his robes, a beggar trod our lands?
Such as he wander'd o'er his native coast,
Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior loft:
O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread;
Old age difgrac'd the honours of his head;
Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shin'd
The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.
But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold
With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;
Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves 65 With grace divine, and like a God he moves.
Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Mufes' train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain ;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you infpire:
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:
Like theirs, our Friendship! and I- boast my name
To thine united - for thy Friendship's Fame.
This labour paft, of heav'nly fubjects fing,
While hov'ring angels liften on the wing.
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rife,
As, when they fing, suspended hold the skies :
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's caufe,
From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws:
Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend:
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,
And men, more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay, Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
To Mr. POPE,
On the publishing his WORKS.
HE comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare
The fong of triumph, and attend his Car.
Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads,
First gives the Palm fhe fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earneft of a God.
But hark, what shoots, what gath'ring crouds rejoice! Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice, Such as the Ambitious vainly think their due, When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue. And fee the Chief! before him laurels born; Trophies from undeferving temples torn ; Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.
But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem,
As he that met his likeness in the ftream:
The GRACES these; and fee how they contend,
Who moft fhall praife, who beft shall recommend.
The Chariot now the painful steep afcends,
The Paans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands,
Its profpect an unbounded view commands:
'Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse,
What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Mufe?
Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his shrine,
Tho' ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine,
(From the proud Epic, down to those that shade
The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid)
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies." 40
SIMON HARCOURT.
Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After fo many ftars extinct in night,
The dark'ned ages last remaining light!
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