Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST.
HAIL! facred Bard! a mufe unknown before
Salutes the from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the glofsy fragments lay,
And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted
Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast [bay.
A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive
More lafting glories than the Eaft can give.

Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watʼry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living fcene is in the Mufe's glafs.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing forefts cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades,
And give us harmony as well as fhades:

10

15

20

25

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the mufic too.

With vast variety thy pages shine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light, 35
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!

C 2

And

40

And fee! the deferts caft a pleating gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom;
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields in-
Thrice happy you! and worthy belt to dwell [fpire!
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.

I in a cold and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main !
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!
Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windior's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

46

50

55

Thence let me view the venerable fcene,

The awful dome, the grove's eternal green;

60

65

Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Mufes to the fylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claffic store,
And made that mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious bards I spent my days,
Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fimoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd,
That Maro taught, or Addifon infpir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by the Muse, from sport to sport I run;
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the Autt'ring pheafant ly!

70

76

His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pafs the gen'rous courser by,
But while the prancing teed allures my eye,
Hè ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the courfe,
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 fport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

80

85

90

The tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore;
The nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

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

Peace, fung by thee, fhall pleafe ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings 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 diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

TO MR. POPE.

96

100

105

Fr. Knapp.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer.
WHEN Phoebus and the Nine harmonous Maids
Of old affembled in the Thefpian fhades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit thefe harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ,
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse;
Then afk who wrought that miracle of verse?

5

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,

10

16

"Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind,. "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; "And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white ifle with female power is bleft; "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."

TO MR. POPE.

20

E. Fenton.

To praife, and still with just respect to praise
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn'd to fhow, the fenfible commend,
Yet ftill preferve the province of the friend;
What life, what vigour, muft the lines require!
What music tune them, what affection fire!

O might thy genius in my bofom shine,
Thou fhouldft 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 excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.
Ovid him elf might wish to fing the dame
Whom Windfor Foreft 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 the Mufe the envy of the fair!
Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's princess wore,
Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds;

5

10

15

20

Belles war with beaus, and whims defcend for gods.

The new machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave frenzy of the chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The fylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The graces ftand in fight; a fatyr-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldeft wits,
Infrin'd on high, the facred Virgil fits;
And fits in measures fuch as Virgil's mufe
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe:
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee !
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
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 fhepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurfe of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at eafe 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 vallies, in eternal fpring,
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 fparkling on a diftant throne;
In all the majefty of Greek retir'd;

Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recals the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before

Fed the large
realms around with golden ore,
When chok'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And Shepherds only fay,

25

30

35

40

45

50

56

"The mines were here;" 60

Should fome rich youth (if Nature warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)

Here

« ПредишнаНапред »