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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
On the cold earth the fiutt'ring pheasant lye!
Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by, 8j
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
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,
Ohl could Britannia imitate thy stream,
Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,
TO MR. POPE.
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.
Vv Nen Phcebus and the Nine harmonious Maids
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."
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,
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,
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;
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
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,
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65