Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing.

a

How long that Hero, by unskilful hands,

Stripp'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 fkin a bark of wrinkles fpread;
Old age difgrac'd the honours of his head;
Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball fhin'd

The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.
But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold

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бо

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 Maeonian lyre,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire:
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 such heart-felt raptures rise,
As, when they fing, fufpended hold the Skies:
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's caufe,

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From thy own life tranfcribe th' unerring laws: So

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Odyssey, lib. xvi.

Teach

Teach a bad world beneath her fway 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.

W. BROOME.

H'

TO MR. POPE,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare

The fong of triumph, and attend his Car.
Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp the leads,

First gives the Palm she 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.

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But hark, what fhouts, what gath'ring crouds rejoice!

Unftain'd their praife by any venal Voice,
Such as th' 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;

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VER. 83.-when Orpheus] Thefe three laft verfes are trite and feeble enough!

Here

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 sacred page?
Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem,

As he that met his likeness in the stream:

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The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, 25
Who moft fhall praise, who beft fhall recommend.
The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends,
The Paeans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple ftands,
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 fhrine,
Tho' ev'ry Laurel through the dome be thine,
(From the proud Epic, down to thofe that fhade 35
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 through the earth thy dear remembrance flies, "Sweet to the World, and grateful to the fkies." 40 SIMON HARCOURT.

TO MR. POPE,

From Rome, 1730,

I'

MMORTAL Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more;

After fo many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's laft remaining light!

To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

For now no more thefe climes their influence boaft,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost:

From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.

Nor Baiae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,

And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.

So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the

Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd ftate
Has felt the worst severity of Fate;

grove.

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Not

Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,

And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

Her Cities defert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

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That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious Names! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe Chiefs fublimely prais'd! 36
Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your ashes vifit, and your urns adore;

Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife:
Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Master bear:
"Great Bard! whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,

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