They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

70

Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding

ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy 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

On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

76

;

Nor can I pass the generous courfer by,
But while the prancing fteed 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 fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer 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 foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

80

85

90

Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to fhine, At once the subject and the song divine.

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons moré Than all their shouts for Victory before.

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,

The World fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle;
A while diftin&t through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.

96

100

104

FR. KNAPP.

TO MR. POPE.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.

WHEN

HEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades;

What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."

VER. 1. When Phoebus] By far the most elegant and best turned compliment of all addressed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greek epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and moft gracefully applied;

Ἤειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν, ἔχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Ὅμηρος.

Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau alfo imitated this epigram.

The

10

The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then ask who wrought that miracle of verfe? He anfwer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth, that envy bids me not conceal: "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, "Which, unobferv'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, ufurp'd the bays. 16 "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."

E. FENTON.

TO MR. POPE.

o praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The Learn'd to show, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preserve the Province of the Friend ;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?

C 4

5

O might

O might thy Genius in

my

bofom shine;

Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;

The brightest Ancients might at once agree

To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excell

In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Forest fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever through Poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair?
Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's Princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds;

Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule,

Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.

But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, 25 The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart. The Graces ftand in fight; a Satire-train

30

Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits;
And fits in measures fuch 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 Daphnis he;

While

While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife, Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize? Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains, And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains. Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!

Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:
Still flide thy waters, foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hufh'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,

Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And flames with every fenfe of great delight.
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.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before

Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And Shepherds only fay, The mines were here:
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)

35

40

45

50

бо

VER. 50. And flames] A very poor and unmeaning line, and unworthy the fenfible and elegant Parnell!

Here