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Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near Ale and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner fatire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy noble bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor when each foft engaging muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praife,
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Route has lost;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.

Such was the theme for whidS my lyre I strung,

Such was the people whose exploits I fung;

Brave, yet resin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,

With different bays by Mars and Phabus crown'd,

Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,

But pleas'd, a mild Augustus to obey.
If these commands submissive thou receive,

Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;

Envy to black Cacytus shall retire,

And howl with suries in tormenting sire;

Approving time shall conlecrate thy lays,

And join the patriot's to the poet's praife.

The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr. Pope to Mr. Addison; and the extravagant passion which sume people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

From Mr. Pope to Mr, Addison. Occasioned by his dialogue on Medals.

See the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own fad sepulchre appears:
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanilh like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd:
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a .distant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride survey,
Statues of Men, scarce less alive than they!
Some selt the silent stroke of mould'ring age,
Some hostile sury, fome religious rage;
Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
And papal piety, and gothic sire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
That name the learn'd with sierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespafians due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust:
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crouded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judæa weeps i
Is'ow scantier limits the proud arch consine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithsul to its charge of fame,
Thro' climes and sges bears «ach form and name:
In one soort view subjected to our eye
Gods, erop'rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie.
With iharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred rust of twice ten hundred years J
To gain Prcfiennhis one -employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in estatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, Jong, with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Their's is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by {hy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods, and god-like heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.

Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim',
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquilh'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There warriors frowning in historic brass:
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;

Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,

A Virgil there, and here an Adtiison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)

On the cast ore, another Pollio shine;

With aspect open shall erect his head,

And round the orb in lasting notes be read,

M Statesman, yet friend to truth! of foul sincere,

"In action faithsul, and in honour clear;

« Who broke no promife, serv'd no private end,

"Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;

«* Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

« Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he Ibv'd.

The following letter from Mr. Philips to the earl of Dorset is entirely descriptive i but is one of those descriptions which will be ever read with delight.

Mr. Philips to the Earl of Dorset.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the muse to Dorset bring, Or how, fo near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightsul woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. G?

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing: The ships, unmov'd, the boiil'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day; The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There folid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disurder rife.

And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear. ,

'E're yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow.
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow.
At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn difclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguife,
And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes:
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'iy blade of grafs,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns mow,
W'nile through the ice the crimsun berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watry marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile sield.
The stag in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees chrystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther mine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arife,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,
The crackling woods beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a fouthern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journies fad beneath the dropping trees:

Like fome deluded peafant, Merlin leads

Through fragrant bow'rs, and through delicious meads;

While here inchanted gardens to him rife, •

And "airy fabricks there attract his eyes,

His wandring seet the magick paths pursue,

And while he thinks the fair illusion true,

The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,

And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,

A tedious road the weary wretch returns,

And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

We have already observed that the essential, and indeed the true characteristic of epistolary writing is ease; and on this account, as well as others, the following letter from Mr Pope to Mils Mount is to be admired.

From Mr. Pope to Miss Blount, on her leaving tbtToixH after the Coronation.

As fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesume country air;
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling slie must sever,
Yet takes one kifs before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zepbalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew:
Not that their pleasures caus'd her difcontent,
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play,
To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her folitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon 3
Divert her eyes with pictures in the sire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is wiiifc, whole treat's a toast in fack;

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