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To Mr. P O P E,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE Countess of WINCHELL SE A.

THE Mufe

, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,
And in each verfe he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)

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Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age,
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit,
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit :
But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who strive for you, as Greece for Homer strove.
Whilft he who best your Poetry asserts,

15 Afferts his own, by sympathy of parts. Me Panegyric verse does not inspire, Who never well can praise what I admire, Nor in those lofty trials dare appear, But gently drop this counsel in your ear. Go on, to gain applauses by defert; Inform the head, whilft you diffolve the heart: Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage, Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage :

Allure,

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Allure, with tender verse, the Female race,
And give their darling passion, courtly grace.
Describe the Forest fill in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part display;
Nor let the Critic there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each different taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then, Tould the verse of every artful hand
Before

your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribbler might in spight declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But Envy could not against you succeed :
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Censure or Praise must from ourselves proceed.

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To Mr. POPE.

By Miss Jud. Cowper, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.

O

Pope, by what commanding wondrous art,

Dost thou each passion to each breast impart ?
Our beating Hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless Love!
Th’elated mind's impetuous starts control,

5 Or gently sooth to peace the troubled foul !

Graces

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Graces till now that singly met our view, And singly charm’d, unite at once in you : A style polite, from affectation free, Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty! Soft Waller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought, And Spenser's bold luxuriancy of thought. In each bright page, Strength, Beauty, Genius shine, While nervous Judgment guides each flowing Line. 15 No borrow'd Tinsel glitters o'er these Lays, And to the Mind a false Delight conveys : Throughout the whole with blended power is found, The Weight of Sense and Elegance of Sound. A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Force, and Fire, Graces each motion of th' immortal Lyre. The matchless strains our ravish'd senses charm : How great the thought ! the images how warm ! How beautifully just the turns appear ; The language how majestically clear!

25 divine each period fwells, And all the Bard th’ inspiring God reveals. Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn, Where Thames leans hoary o’er his ample urn; Where his rich waves fair Windsor's towers surround, And bounteous rush amid poetic ground. O Windsor! sacred to thy blissful seats, Thy sylvan shades, the Muses’ lov'd retreats, Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods, Thy sunny glades, and celebrated floods !

35 But chief Lodona's silver tides, that flow Cold and unsullied as the mountain snow; VOL. I.

b

Whore

With energy

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Whose virgin name no time nor change can hide, Though ev'n her spotless waves should cease to glide : In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,

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Still shall the grace and range the verdant plains;
By him selected for the Muses' theme,
Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid stream.

Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art,
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The spring and test of verse unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Sooth with thy wonted ease and power divine,
Our souls, and our degenerate tastes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies sit,

50 And soften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rise worthy of their sacred source;

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His spirit heighten'd, yet his sense intire,
As Gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O, for a Muse like thine, while I rehearse,
Th’immortal beauties of thy various verse !
Now light as air th’ inlivening numbers move, 60
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,
Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal Mirrours flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war, Joins the fleet coursers to the whirling car; When the warm hero, with celestial might, Augments the terror of the raging fight,

From

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From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes; 70
In each loud strain the fiery onset glows;
With strength redoubled here Achilles shines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand, Can cities, streams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

75 Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous scene, There the wide landscape smiles with livelier green, The floating glafs reflects the distant sky, And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly; Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade ;

80 The ripen’d harvest crowns the level glade. But when the artist does a work design, Where bolder rage informs each breathing line ; When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke receives, And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives; When Art like lavish Nature's self supplies, Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the Eyes ; When ev’n the passions of the mind are seen, And the Soul speaks in the exalted Mein; When all is juft, and regular, and great, We own the mighty Master's skill, as boundless as

complete.

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