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TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST. HAIL! facred Bard! a muse unknown before Salutes the from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own. The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, 5 And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, And China's earth was cast on common fand : Toss’d up and down the glossy fragments lay, And dressd the rocky shelves, 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 Forest we receive More lasting glories than the East can give. 15
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous
scenes our busy thoughts engage!
scenes in all their pride appear,
you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine ;
And see! the deserts cait a pleating gloom,
Happy the man, who itrings his tunetul lyre
Snatch me, ye gods! from the e Atlantic shores,
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain; Led by the Mufe, 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 lpy
76 On the cold earth the flutt’ring pheasant ly!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by, 80
Nor fall thy fong, old Thames ! forbear to thine, At once the subject and the long divine. Peace, sung by thee, fhall pleale
ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts 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, Murmur along their crooked banks a while; At once they murmur, and enrich the isle: A while distinct through 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. Knapp TO MR. POPE. In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer. When Phoebus and the Nine harmonous Maids Of old assembled in the Thespian fhades ; What theme, they cry’d, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; “ Your loftieft notes employ, 5 “ To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous long 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, unobferv’d, a wand'ring Greek and blind, . « Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; " And, fir’d with thirst ot more than mortal praise, “ From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays. 16
“ But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, " Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; “ Yet when my arts thall triumph in the West, " And the white ifle with female power is bleft; “ Fame, I foresee, will make repriials there, “ and the trantlator's palm to me transfer. “ with less regret my claim I now decline, “ The world will think his English Iliad mine."
TO MR. POPE.
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
O might thy genius in my bosom ihine,
Horace himself would own thou doft excel
15 She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by the Muse the envy of the fair! Less thone the tresses Egypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus to súng before. Here courtly trifles set the world at odds; Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods.
The new machines, in names of ridicule,
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldiest wits,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deservist the prize!
45 Be hush'd ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all sublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He shines in council, thunders in the fight, And flames with every sense of great delight. 50 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, recals the work to light. So wealthy mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden ore, When chok'd by linking banks, no more appear, And Shepherds only tay, “ The mines were here;" 60 Should foine richi youth (if Nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand inform d with art)