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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!
The
pompous

scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows
The fylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wond'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat’ry plains;
Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse’s glass.

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Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens and op’ning glades,
And give us harmony as well as shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove,

but

you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the music too.

With vast variety thy pages shine ;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary delerts mix'd with painted plains !

And

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And see! the deserts cait a pleating gloom,
And thrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom; 40
Whilit fruitful crops rise by their barren tide,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.

Happy the man, who itrings his tunetul lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields in-
Thrice happy you! and worthy bet tu dwell [fpire!
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 rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.
O joyless fiood! O rough tempestuous main! 50
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obscene!

Snatch me, ye gods! from the e Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much-lov’d Ilis' walks 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 grove's eternal green;
Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the sylvan leat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the classic store, 60
And made that imusic which was noise before.
There with illustrious bards I spent my days,
Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful bards beguild the tedious day:
They sung, nor lung 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 fing?

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!

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

Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by, 80
But while the prancing íteed allures my eye,
Hè starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
Fir’d with the fport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can refute Lodona's melting tale?
The soft complaint shall over time prevail; 90
The tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore;
The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.

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?

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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."

E. Fenton.

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TO MR. POPE.

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To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn'd to show, the tensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend;
What life, what vigour, must the lines require! 5
What music tune them, what affection fire!

O might thy genius in my bosom ihine,
Thou shouldīt not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.
Ovid himlelf might wish to sing the dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream ;
On silver feet, with annual ofier crown'd,

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.

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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, 25
The tylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The graces stand in fight; a fatyr-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldiest wits,
Inshrin'd on high, the sacred Virgil fits;

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And lits in measures such as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse:
How might he tune th’alternate reed with thee !
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he ;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35

Thinks he deserves, and thou deservist the prize!
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulger.t nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!

4.0
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:
Still slide thy waters, soft among the trees
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye vallies, in eternal spring,

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)

Here

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