ARGUS. WHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast To all his friends, and even his Queen unknown : The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew! PRAYER OF BRUTUS. FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH. GODDESS of woods, tremendous in the chase, On thy third reign look down; disclose our fate, AN INSCRIPTION UPON A PUNCH-BOWL, IN THE SOUTH SEA YEAR, FOR A CLUB, CHASED WITH JUPITER PLACING CALLISTO IN THE COME, fill the South Sea goblet full; And Jove with joy puts off the Bear. LINES ON A GROTTO, AT CRUX-EASTON, HANTS. HERE shunning idleness at once and praise, 1 Now first printed, from the handwriting of Dr. Birch on a fly leaf of the first volume of Warburton's Pope's Works, formerly belonging to Cracherode, in the British Museum. "This Epigram of Mr. Pope was communicated by the Revd. Dr. Warburton to Tho. Birch." 2 The Misses Lisle. The glittering emblem of each spotless dame, And such a polish as disgraces art; But fate dispos'd them in this humble sort, ON BENTLEY'S MILTON. DID Milton's prose, O Charles, thy death defend? While he but sought his author's fame to further, 1 LINES. ALL hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade, And gently press'd my hand, and said, Be ours. At court thou mayst be lik'd, but nothing gain: Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose; And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain. TO ERINNA.1 THOUGH Sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, A softer wonder my pleas'd soul surveys, So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight, All mild appears the moon's more sober light; Serene, in virgin majesty she shines, And, unobserv'd, the glaring sun declines. ADRIANI MORIENTIS AD ANIMAM, TRANSLATED. Ан, fleeting spirit! wandering fire, That long hast warm'd my tender breast, Must thou no more this frame inspire; No more a pleasing cheerful guest? Whither, ah whither art thou flying, To what dark undiscover'd shore? Thou seem'st all trembling, shivering, dying, And wit and humour are no more! 1 See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lxx A DIALOGUE. POPE. SINCE my old friend is grown so great, I'm told, but 'tis not true I hope, CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, Το grow the worse for growing greater; ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN, THE MAN MOUNTAIN,1 BY TITTY TIT, POET LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. INTO ENGLISH. TRANSLATED IN amaze Can our eyes May my lays Swell with praise, 1 This Ode, and the three following pieces, were produced by Pope on reading Gulliver's Travels. |