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Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre
Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
60 And made that Music which was noise before. There with illustrious Bards I spent my days, Not free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguild the tedious day: They sung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd. Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string : 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing ?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander thro' the field or plain; Led by thy Mufe, from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretch'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?
Nor can I pais the gen’rous courser by,
Ncr fhall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
To Mr. P O P E.
In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.
HEN "bæbus, and the nine harmonious maids
of old assembled in the Thifpian shades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; “ Your loftieít notes employ, 5 “ Tosing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse : Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'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, unobserv'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 praise, 15 “ From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays.
“ But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, ri Proud with celestial spoils to grace
her name ; “ Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, " And the white Ie with female pow'r is bleft ; “ Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, ” And the Translator's Palm to me transfer. “ With less regret my claim I now decline, " The world will think his English Iliad mine."
To Mr. P O P E.
To praise, and fill with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
5 What Music tune them, what Affedion fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine ;
Horace himself would own thou doft excell
15 She runs for ever thro’ Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by the Muse the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princes wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. Here courtly trifles set the world at odds; Belles war with Beaux, and Whims descend 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,
2 The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart. The Graces stand 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 sacred Virgil fits ;
30 And fits in measures such as Virgil's Muse Te place thee near him might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
How vaft, how copious, are thy new designs! 65 How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines !