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Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!.
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45
Amidst the rural joys, you sing so well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime."
O joyless flood ! O rough tempestuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!

Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

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Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green:
Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the fylvan feat,
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, Not free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguild the tedious day: They sung, nor fung 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 ?

Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander thro' the field or plain; Led by thy Mufe, from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun. 75 Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the flutt’ring Pheasant lie?

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Tiis gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather hines and varies there.

Nor can I pais the gen’rous courser by,
l'ut while the francing feed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fy
O’er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Ncr can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Ch could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Ledina's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can rerufe Lodona's melting tale?
'The soft complaint shall over time prevail ;
The Tale be told, when shades forsake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

Ncr fhall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine.
Peace, sung by thee, Mall please ev'n Britons more 95
Than all their houts for Victory before.
Oh! 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 diff'rent tide,

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

FR. KNAP

To Mr. P O P E.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

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HEN "bæbus, and the nine harmonious maids

of old assembled in the Thifpian shades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; “ Your loftieít notes employ, 5 Tosing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong 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 : " 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, 15 “ From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays.

“ But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, ri Proud with celestial spoils to grace

her name ; Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, " And the white Ie with female pow'r is bleft ; “ 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. FENTON.

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To Mr. P O P E.

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To praise, and fill 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, muft the lines require ?

5 What Music tune them, what Affedion 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 fing within my lays, and sing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well,
Ovid himself might with to sing the Came
Whom Windfor-Foreft fees a gliding stream:
On silver feet with annual Ofier crown'd,

15 She runs for ever thro’ Poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by the Muse the envy of the Fair? Less thone the treffes Ægypt's princes wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 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 phrenzy 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 fight; a Satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits Infrin'd on high the sacred Virgil fits ;

30 And fits in measures such as Virgil's Muse Te place thee near him might be fond to chuse.

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How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he ;
While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35
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 trains.
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 Nide thy waters, soft among

the

trees,
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye vallies, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And Aames with ev'ry sense of great delight.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a diftant 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: 60
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 vaft, how copious, are thy new designs! 65 How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines !

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