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"Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,

And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat;

Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the classic store, 60

And made that music which was noise before.

There with illustrious bards I spent my days,

Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,

Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd,

Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. 6s

The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,

And tuneful bards beguil'd the tedious day:

They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd

That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.

Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string: 70

Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?

Rous'd from these dreams by the commanding
I rise and wander through the field or plain; [strain,
Led by the Muse, from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy 76

On the cold earth the fiutt'ring pheasant lye!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather shines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by, 8j

But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.
Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 8i

He'd view a courser that might match his own!

F

Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,

Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.

Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?

The soft complaint shall over time prevail; 90

The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,

The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.

Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine.
Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for victory before. 96

Ohl could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a difT'rent tide, ioa

Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,
At once they murmur, and enrich the isle;
A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; r
There joy to lose their long distinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

Fit. Knapp.

TO MR. POPE.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.

Vv Nen Phcebus and the Nine harmonious Maids
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd.-what high immortal air,
Befits these harps to sound, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; " Your loftiest notes employ, 5
"To sing young Pebus, and the fall of Troy."

The wondrous song with rapture they rehearse;

Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?

He answer'd with a frown; " I now reveal

"A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal: 10

"Retiring frequent to this laureat vale,

"I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,

"Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind,

"Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;

"And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,

'' From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays. 16

"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my arts shall triumph in the West, "And the white isle with female power is blest; 2« "Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, "And the Translator's palm to me transfer. "With less regret my claim I now decline, "The world will think his English Iliad mine."

E. Femton.

TO MR. POPE.

To praise, and still with just respect to praise

A bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,

Yet still preserve the province of the friend;

What life, what vigour, must the lines require! 5

What music tune them, what affection fire!

O might thy genius in my bosom shine,
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;

The brightest Ancients might at once agree

To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 1

Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts to play the critic well. Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream; On silver feet, with annual osier crbwn'd, .1

She runs for ever through poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by the Muse the envy of the fair!
Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 1

Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;
Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods.
The new machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave frenzy of the chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, 2
The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The graces stand in sight; a satyr-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits, Inshrin'd on high the sacred Virgil sits;;

And sits in measures such as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse:
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnishe;
While some old Damon-, o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.

Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail! 40

Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,

Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head;

Still slide thy waters, soft among the trees

Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!

Smile, all ye vallies, in eternal spring, 45

Be hush'd ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing. v

In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50

Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retir'd,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light. 56
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden ore,
When chok'd by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, " The mines were here:"
Should some rich youth (if Nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein,
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65
How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.

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