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To Mr. P O P E,
By the Right Honourable
ANNE Countess of WINCHELL SE A.
, of every heavenly gift allow'd
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, with tender verse, the Female race,
your numbers eminently stand;
To Mr. POPE.
By Miss Jud. Cowper, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.
Pope, by what commanding wondrous art,
Dost thou each passion to each breast impart ?
5 Or gently sooth to peace the troubled foul !
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.
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,
Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art,
50 And soften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.
Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
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 his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream
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