Mr. PHILIPS to the Earl of DORSET..
The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.
Copenhagen, March 9, 1709..
ROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of fnow,
From ftreams that northern winds forbid to flow; What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, fo near the Pole, attempt to fing? The hoary winter here conceals from fight All pleafing objects that to verfe invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,. The flow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods, By fnow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And, with one dazzling waste, fatigue the eye.
No gentle breathing breeze prepares the fpring, No birds within the defart region fing. 'The fhips, unmov'd, the boift'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vaft Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day, The ftarving wolves along the main fea prowl, And to the moon in icy vallies howl.
For many a fhining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glaffy plain:
There folid billows, of enormous fize,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.
And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear..
yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd fnow,
Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow,
At ev❜ning a keen eastern breeze arose;
And the defcending rain unfullied 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 object to my eyes:
For ev'ry fhrub, and every blade of grafs,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass,
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns fhow,
While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-fprung reeds the wat❜ry marshes yield,
Seem polish'd lances in a hoftile field.
The ftag, in limpid currents, with furprize,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rife..
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches fun,
That wave and glitter in the distant fun.
When, if a fudden guft of wind arise,
The brittle foreft into atoms flies:
The crackling wood beneath the tempeft bends,
And in a spangled fhow'r the prospect ends;
Or, if a southern 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 peafant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads;
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wondring feet the magic paths purfue;
And, while he thinks the fair illufion true,
The tracklefs fcenes difperfe in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.
A LETTER FROM ITALY,
To the Right Honourable
Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a train of political thinking that was, at that time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to that of Pope's verfification, it would be inconteftibly the finest poem in our language; but there is a drynefs in the numbers which greatly leffens the pleasure excited both by the poet's judgement and imagination.
WHILE
HILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public pofts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repose with rhime.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded fcenes and fhining prospects rife,
Poetic fields incompass me around,
And still I feem to tread on Claffic ground;
For here the Mufe fo oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verse each fhady thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to fearch the hills and woods
For rifing fprings and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his fource;
To fee the Mincio draw his watry store
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures I furvey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows ftray,
The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,.
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry). Yet run for ever by the Mufe's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur ftill.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,,
That, deftitute of ftrength, derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
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