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for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.
From Mr. Pope to Mr. App Ison. Occasioned by his dialogue
See the wild waste of all-devouring years ! ow Rome her own fad fepulchre appears: ith nodding arches, broken temples spread ! "o very tombs now vanish like their dead ! "Perial wonders rais'd on nations fpoil'd, * here mix'd with flaves 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 furvey,
Statues of Men, fcarce less alive than they !
Some felt the filent stroke of mould'ring age,
Some hostile fury, fome religious rage ;
Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
And papal piety, and gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name ;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Wespastan's due.
Ambition figh’d: She found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whose fhadow stretch'd from shore to fhore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more !
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast defign,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crouded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judæa weeps ;
Now fcantier límits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are feen the prostrate Nile or Rhine ;
A small Euphrates thro’ the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name :
In one short view subjećted to our eye
Gods, emp’rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore,
Th’ infcription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundređ years !
To gain Prestennius one employs his schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in estatic dreams.
Poor Wadius, long, with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure fince his fhield was fcour'd :
And Curio, restless by the fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglećts his bride.
Their's is the vanity, the learning thine :
Touch’d by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine ;
Her gods, and god-like heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom a-new.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage ;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage ;
The verse and fculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflećted images to art.
Oh when fhall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame ?
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish’d realms supply recording gold ?
Here, rifing bold, the patriot's honest face ;
There warriors frowning in historic brafs:
Then future ages with delight shall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree ;
Orin fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then shall thy CRAoos (and let me call him mine)
Qn the cast ore, another Pollio fhine ;
With aspect open shall ere& his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
“ Statesman, yet friend to truth ! of foul fincere,
“ In action faithful, and in honour clear;
“ Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
“ Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend ;
“ Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
“ Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd. |
No gentle breathing breeze prepares the fpring, No birds within the defert region fing : The ships, unmov'd, the boisi’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 fea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. . O'er many a fhining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glafiy plain : There folid billows of enormous fize, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rife. .
And yet but lately have I feen, ev’n here,
The winter in a , dress appear. r
’E’re yet the clouds let fall the treafur'd snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At ev’ning a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unfully'd froze.
Soon as the filent fhades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd ev'ry objećt to my eyes :
For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grafs,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass ;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watry marshes yield,
Seem'd polish’d lances in a hostile field.
The stag in limpid currents, with furprise,
Sees chrystal branches on his forehead rife :
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow’ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther fhine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant fun.
When if a sudden gust of wind arife,
The brittle foreft into atoms flies,
The crackling woods beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospećt ends :
Or, if a fouthern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country fees,
And journies fad beneath the dropping trees :
Like fome deluded peasant, Merlin leads -
Through fragrant bow’rs, and through delicious meads ;
While here inchanted gardens to him rife, *
And airy fabricks there attraćt his eyes, * *
His wandring feet the magick paths pursue,
And while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The tracklefs scenes difperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the tranfient vision mourns.
We have already'observed that the effential, 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 Miss Blount is to be admired.
From Mr. Pope to Miß BlouNt, on her leaving the Town * after the Coronation.
As fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholefome 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 she must fever,
Yet takes one kifs before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew :
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She figh’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, aflembly, 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 flow clock, and dine exact at noon ;
Divert her eyes with pićtures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire ;
Up to her godly garret after feven,
There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack ;
Whose game is whisk, v treat's a toast in fack ;