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Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear;
Nor Po so swells the fabling Poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes;
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods;
Nor all his stars above a lustre show
Like thy bright beauties on the banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passions still,-
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill
Happy the man whom this bright Court
approves,

His sov'reign favors, and his country loves:
Happy next him, who to these shades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse
inspires;

Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Successive study, exercise, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the forests yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields;
With chemic arts exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic souls of flow'rs:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
Of antient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead and lives past ages o'er:
Or, wand'ring thoughtful in the silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
Tobserve a mean, but to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;

'Tis yours, iny Lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the Muses to their antient seats;
To paint anew the flow'ry sylvan scenes, -
To crown the forests with immortal greens,
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honors you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.
Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance
In the same shades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the same notes of love, and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh would'st thou sing what heroes Windsor
bore,

What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore;
Or raise old warriors, whose ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains;
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age;
Draw monarchs chain'd,and Cressi'sgloriousfield,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colors fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the Martyr King the marble weeps,

Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes, And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps:

Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd;
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus, retir'd.

Ye sacred nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless.
Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd scenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall
I seem thro' consecrated walks to rove, [flow)
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam froin shade to shade,
By godlike poets venerable made:*

Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
tongue.

O early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks were led!
Hisdrooping swans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'dtheir heavenly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley

strung

His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rinds!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville sings?

Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites: where e'en the great find rest,
And blended lie th' oppressor and th' opprest.

Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known
(Obscure the place, and uninscrib'd the stone),
Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion shed!
Heavens! what new wounds! and how her old

have blod!

She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,
Her sacred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
In glorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said- Let discord cease!'
She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!
In that blest moment from his cozy bed
Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head;
His tresses droop'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figur'd streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold;
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood;
First, the fam'd authors of his antient name,
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whose clear streams his flow'ry islands lave
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:

The

The blue, transparent Vandalis appears ;
The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.
High in the midst, upon his urn reclin'd,
His sea-green mantle waving with the wind,
The god appear'd he turn'd his azure eyes
Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets rise!
Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.
Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long expected days,
That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!
Tho' Tybers' streamis immortal Rome behold,
Tho' foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From Heaven itself tho' seven-fold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
These now no more shall be the Muses' themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
Let barb'rous Ganges arm a servile train;
Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign!
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood but in the sylvan chace;
Thetrumpets sleepwhile cheerful horns areblown,
And arms employed on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! th' ascending villas on any side
Project long shadows o'er the chrystal tide.
Behold! Augusta's glitt'ring spires increase,

And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our color, and our strange attire!
Oh stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to
shore,

Till Conquest cease, and Slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in the native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exil'd by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb'rous Discord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, palé Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition shall attend her there;
There purple Vengeance bath'd in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires!
There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And grasping furies thirst for blood in vain.

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair faine of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of op'ning fate to light:
My humble Muse, in unambitions strains,
Paints the green forests and the flow'ry plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing:
Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the list'ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.

And temples rise, the beauteous works of peace. § 6. Two Choruses to the Tragedy of Brutus◄;

I see, I see, where two fair cities bend

Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
Their mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.
Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their
woods,

And half thy forests rush into my floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rising day:
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales:
For me the balm shall bleed, the amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow:
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the rip'ning ore to gold,
The time shall come when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind;
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side;

YE

Pope.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught,
Where heavenly visions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood,
War, horrid war, your thoughtless walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.

ANTISTROPHE 1.

O heaven-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and Mystic Song!
To what new elime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens sinks by fàtes unjust,
When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cease to blush with stranger's gore;

•Altered from Shakspeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose desire these two Choruses were composed, to supply as many wanting in his Play. They were set many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-House.

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Oh, source of ev'ry social tie,

United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye,
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and lore.

CHORUS.

Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Hence false tears, deceit, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine
Purest love's unwasting treasure,

Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of case and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

§ 7. Ode on Solitude*. Pope.
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound;
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away:
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day:

Sound sleep by night, study and ease
Together nix'd; sweet recreation!
And innocence which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

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VITAL spark of heavenly flame!

Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, foud Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears.
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! Ifly!
O Grave where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting!

§ 9. An Essay on Criticism. Pope. 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence Appear in writing, or in judging ill; To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this; Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss. A fool might once himself alone expose; Now one in verse makes many more in prose. "Tis without judgements, as our watches; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

*This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old.

In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgement too?
Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgement in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn

right.

}

But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill-coloring but the more disgrac'd;
So by false learning is good sense defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meantbutfools.
in search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are whojudge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fool at last,
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass;
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd writings, num'rous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal:

To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require;
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.

But you, who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a Critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, And mark that point where sense and dullness Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, [mcet. And wisely curb proud man's pretending wit: As on the land while here the ocean gains; In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away, One science only will a genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confin'd to single parts. Like Kings, we lose the conquest gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more: Each might his servile province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand. First follow Nature, and your judgement frame By her just standard, which is still the same; Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart ; At once the source, and end, and test of Art.

Art from that fund each just supply provides;
Works without show, and without poinp resides:
In some fair body thus th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effect remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse,
Want as much more to turn it to its use;
For wit and judgement often are at strife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed:
The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
Showsmuchtruemettle whenyoucheckbiscourse.
Those rules of old discover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd.
Nature, like monarchy, is but restrain'd
By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules

indites,

When to repress, and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod :
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
Just precepts thus from great examples given,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from
heaven,

The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
Todress her charms, and make her more belov❜d:
But following wits from that intention stray'd;
Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;
Against the Poets their own arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate most the men from whom they
So modern 'Pothecaries taught the art [learn'd
By Doctors bills to play the Doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of antient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they:
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poets may be made.
These leave the sense, their learning to display;
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then whose judgement the right course
would steer,

Know well each Antient's proper character:
His fable, subject, scope, in ev'ry page:
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all these at once before your eyes;
Cavil you may, but never criticise.

Be Homer's works your study and delight;
Read them by day, and meditate by night:
Thence form your judgement, thence your
maxims bring,

And trace the Muses upwards to their spring.
Still with itself compar'd his text peruse;
Or let your comment be the Mantua's Muse.

When first young Maro in his boundless mind
A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the Critics law,
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
P 2
But

But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design;
And rules as strict his labor'd work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for antient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.

Sonie beauties yet no precepts can declare ; For there's a happiness as well as care: Music resembles Poetry; in each

}

Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a master-hand alone can teach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Some lucky Licence answer to the full
Th'intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend;
From vulgár bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art;
Which, without passing through thejudgement,
The heart, and all its end at once attains. [gains
In prospects thus, some objects please oureyes
Which out of nature's common order rise,
The shapeless rock or common precipice.
But tho' the Antients thus their rules invade,
Askings dispense with lawsthemselves havemade,
Moderns, beware! or, if you must offend
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end;
Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need;
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.`
The Critic else proceeds without reinorse,
Seises your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whose presumptuous
thoughts

grace.

Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.
Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
Consider'd singly, or beheld too near ;
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and
A prudent chief not always must display
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array;
But with th' occasion and the place comply,
Conceal his force, nay seem soinetimes to fly.
Those oft are stratagems where errors seem;
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
Still green with bays each antient altar stands,
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands;
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,
Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
See from each clime the learn'd theirincensebring!
Hear, in all tongues consenting Pans ring!
In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.
Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of universal praise!
Whose honors with increase of ages grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
O may some spark of your celestial fire
The last, the meanest, of your sons inspire

(That on weak, wings, from far, pursues your flights;

Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes), To teach vain Wits a science little known; Tadmire superior sense, and doubt their own!

Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgement, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever Nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful Pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls we find [wind: What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe. A little learning is a dang rous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first sight, with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights or Arts, While froin the bounded level of our mind Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But, more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and secin to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last. But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthen'd way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

A perfect judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ; Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find, Wherenaturemoves&and rapturewarmsthemind, Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit. But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low; That shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep. In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus whenweview somewell-proportion'ddome, The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome, No single parts unequally surprise; All comes united to th' admiring eyes: No monstrous height, or breadth, or length

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