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Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein,
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns!
How ev'ry mufic varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle, bleft,
And Philomela fweeteft, o'er the reft:
The fhades refound with fong--- O foftly tread,
While a whole feafon warbles round my head.

This to my friend - - - and when a friend inspires,
My filent harp its mafter's hand requires,

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Shakes off the duft, and makes thefe rocks refound;
For Fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my foul agree,

From wit, from learning--- very far from thee.
Here mofs grown trees expand the fmalleft leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a fheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempeft meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes, unconfcious of a flood,
Whofe dull brown Naïads ever fleep in mud:
Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,
A friend delight me, and an author please;
Ev'n here I fing, when Pope fupplies the theme;
Show my own flove, though not increase his fame.

TO MR. POPE.

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T. Parnell.

LET vulgar fouls triumphal arches raise,
Or fpeaking marbles, to record their praife;
And picture (to the voice of Fame unknown)
The mimic feature on the breathing stone;
Mere mortals, fubject to death's total sway,
Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!

'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,
A monument which worth alone can raife;
Sure to furvive, when time fhall whelm in duft
The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft:

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Nor, till the volumes of th' expanded sky
Blaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die :
Then fink together in the world's last fires,
What Heav'n created, and what Heav'n infpires.
If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, 15
With human transport touch the mighty dead,
Shakespeare rejoice! his hand thy page refines;
Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;
Juft to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought:
So Tully publifh'd what Lucretius wrote:
Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,
And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.

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Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades, A rival hand recals from ev'ry part Some latent grace, and equals art with art: Tranfported we furvey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life.

How long, untun'd, had Homer's facred lyre Jarr'd grating difcord, all extin&t his fire? This you beheld; and, taught by Heav'n to fing, Call'd the loud mufic from the founding ftring. Now wak'd from flumbers of three thousand years, Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears, Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns, Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns; With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He ftrides along, and meets the gods in fight: Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th' infernal fhores, Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coafts,

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And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.
To ev'ry theme refponds thy various lay;

Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play;
Sonorous as the ftorm thy numbers rife,
Tofs the wild waves, and thunder in the skies;
Or, fofter than a yielding virgin's figh,
The gentle breezes breathe away and die.
Thus, like the radiant god who sheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;

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And

And while with ev'ry theme the verfe complies,
Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.
Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious ftring;
Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing.

How long that hero *, by unskilful hands,
Stripp'd of his robes, a beggar trod our lands?
Such as he wander'd o'er his native coaft,
Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior loft:
O'er his finooth fkin a bark of wrinkles fpread,
Old age difgrac'd the honours of his head,
Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball fhin'd

The glance divine, forth beaming from the mind.
But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold

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With royal robes, and bid him thine in gold:
Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves 65
With grace divine, and like a god he moves.
Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Mufes train,

Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire:

So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:

Like theirs, our friendship! and I boast my name
To thine united-for thy friendship's fame.
This labour paft, of heav'nly fubjects fing,

While hov'ring angels liften on the wing,
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rife,
As, when they fing, suspended hold the skies:
Or, nobly rifing in fair Virtue's caufe,
From thy own life tranfcribe th' unerring laws:
Teach a bad world beneath her fway to bend ;
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,

And men, more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

TO MR. POPE.

On the publishing his Works.

༡༠

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W. Broome.

He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepare The song of triumph, and attend his car.

Odyffey, lib. 16.

Great

Great Sheffield's mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp the leads;
Firft gives the palm the fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a god.

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But hark! what shouts, what gath'ring crowds re-
Unstain❜d their praise by any venal voice,
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,
When prostitutes or needy flatt'rers fue.
And fee the chief! before him laurels borne,
Trophies from undeferving temples torn:
Here rage enchain'd reluctant raves ; and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth the bends her loathing eye,
Weak to fupport the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely virgins, and of equal age:
Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem,
As he that met his likenefs in the ftream:
The Graces thefe; and fee how they contend,
Who moft fhall praife, who beft fhall recommend.

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The chariot now the painful fteep afcends; The pæans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple ftands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands. Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt, thou chufe, What laurell'd arch for thy triumphant muse? Though each great Ancient court thee to his fhrine, Though ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine, (From the proud epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid,) Go to the good and just, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the fane: While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies, "Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies." 40 Simon Harcourt.

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TO MR. POPE. From Rome, 1730.
IMMORTAL Bard! for whom each mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Additon and Congreve are no more;
After fo many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verie is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit:

For now no more thefe climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft:
From tyrants, and from priefts, the Mules fly,

Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.

Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the fhades, where, cheer'd with fummer rays,
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's inaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd ftate
Has felt the wort feverity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;

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Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

Her cities deiert, and her fields unfown;

But that her ancient fpirit is decay'd,

That facred wifdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of fcience flows no more,

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Whence its rich streams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious names! that once in Latium thin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, 35
And poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft the traces you have left explore,

Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;

Oft

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