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Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer! still Ulysses fing. How long that Hero, by unskilful hands, 55 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 lost: O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread; Old age disgrac'd the honours of his head; бо 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 meanest of the Muses' train, Inflam’d by thee, attempt a nobler strain; Advent'rous waken the Maeonian lyre, Tun’d by your hand, and sing as you inspire: 70 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 past, of heav'nly subjects fing, 75 While hov'ring angels listen on the wing, To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise, As, when they fing, suspended hold the Skies: Or nobly rising in fair Virtue's cause, From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80
* Odyssey, lib. xvi.
Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend ;
TO MR. POPE,
ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.
E comes, he comes ! bid ev'ry Bard prepare H Н
The song of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads, And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads, First gives the Palm lhe fir’d him to obtain, 5 Crowns his gay brow, and shews 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 earnest of a God. But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds
rejoice! Unstain'd their praise by any venal Voice, Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due, When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue. And see the Chief! before him laurels born; 15 Trophies from undeserving temples torn;
Ver. 83.-when Orpheus] These three last verses are trite and feeble enough!
Here Rage enchain’d reluctant raves, and there
But what are they that turn the sacred page ?
The Chariot now the painful steep ascends, The Paeans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands, Its prospect an unbounded view commands : 30 Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse, What laureld Arch for thy triumphant Muse? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his fhrine, Tho' ev'ry Laurel through the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade 35 The gentler brow of the soft 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 skies.” 40
SIMON HARCOURT, TO MR. POPE.
From Rome, 1730. MMORTAL Bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th’ Aonian grove ; Preserv'd, our drooping Genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night,
5 The darken'd age's last remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, Inspir'd by memory of ancient Wit : For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost : From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly, Daughters of Reason 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, 15 And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where chear'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain : Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign, No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love, But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state Has felt the worst severity of Fate:
Not that Barbarian hands her Fasces broke, 25
Illustrious Names! that once in Latium shin'd,
40 Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my
bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my
eyes 45 Beheld the Poet's awful Form arise: Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his Master bear : 50
“ Great Bard! whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,