TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ESSAY ON MAN. WHEN Love's * great goddess, anxious for her fon, Beheld him wand'ring on a coaft unknown, Thus vainly, Pope, unfeen you would dispense And, heav'nly taught, explain the angels' feng, Applaufe, which juftly fo much worth pursues, TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR OF THE ESSAY ON MAN. 14 Conceal'd! but YES, friend! thou art conceal'd. Dost thou, fatiric, vice and folly brand, Doft thou thy wit at once and courage fhow, [how? 10 Thy hand is known; nor needs thy work a name, 15 I fee, my friend! O, facred Poet, hail! VOL. I. T Write Write thou, and let the world the writing view; The world will know, and will pronounce it you. 20 Dark in thy grove, or in thy closet fit, We fee thy wisdom, harmony, and wit: Forth breaks the blaze, aftonishing our fight; Enfhrin'd in clouds, we fee, we fee thee write. So the fweet warbler of the fpring, alone, Sings darkling, but unfeen her note is known; And fo the lark, inhabiting the skies, Thrills unconceal'd, tho' wrapt from mortal eyes. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ESSAY ON MAN. As when some student firft with curious eye 25 J. R. Storms, tempefts, earthquakes, virtue in distress, 5 Storms, tempefts, earthquakes, Virtue's ragged plight, And the whole scheme acknowledg'd all divine. 15 20 My pride would fain have laid the fault on you. 25 28 R. D. TO MR. POPE. BY A LADY. my FATHER of verfe! indulge an artless Mufe, Just to the warmth thy envy'd lays infuse. Rais'd by the foul that breathes in ev'ry line, (My Phoebus thou, thy awful works fhrine !) Grateful I bow, thy mighty genius own, And hail thee feated on thy natal throne: Stung by thy fame, tho' aided by thy light, See bards, till now unknown, eflay to write : Rous'd by thy heat, unnumber'd warms arife, As infects live beneath autumnal skies; While Envy pines, with unappeas'd defire, And each mean breaft betrays th' invidious fire. Yet thou, great Leader of the facred train! (Whofe Parthian fhaft ne'er took its flight in vain,) Go on, like Juvenal, arraign the age, Let wholefome Satire loofe thro' ev'ry page; Born for the task, whom no mean views inflame, Who lance to cure, and fcourge but to reclaim. Yet not on Satire all your hours bestow; 10 Oft from your lyre let gentle numbers flow; 20 Such ftrains as breath'd thro' Windfor's lov'd retreats, "And call'd the Muses to their ancient feats." Thy manly force, and genius uncontin❜d, Shall mould to future fame the growing mind; 25 And while you touch the fenfe correct the heart: Gilds the afpiring dome and mean retreat; 39 And draws infectious vapours from the earth. 34 AN ODE TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, IN ALLUSION TO HORACE. Pindarum quifquis, &c. 6 10 FOR me how vain to urge my vent'rous flight, Where only Pope's strong pinion can afpire! Horace, great fource of true poetic light, Would melt my waxen wings before his fire. As Thames clear stream thro' flow'ry margins flows, At first the humbler treasure of the plain, Tili with each fpring the fwelling current grows, And rolls his pow'r and commerce o'er the main; So foft defcending from the Muses' hill Pope's fpreading genius paffes ev'ry bound, Big with experience, knowledge, tafte, and skill, And flows uncheck'd o'er all poetic ground. Fresh wreaths on ev'ry fide await his head, Whether in Fancy's wilds*he youthful stray, In Humour's + frolic round new measures tread, Or boldly follow Pindar's pathlefs way. Religious he maintains the Mufes' truft; Pure in his breaft he guards the facred fire; To his progreffive genius ftrictly juft, Its ufe dilating as its pow'rs afpire. Whether from antique ruft, with pious toil, He polish'd Britain's ancient poets' || praise, Or planting careful in his better foil, 15 1 20 25 29 Preferve more green the Greek and Roman bays.§ Paftorals, and Windfor Foreft. Rape of the Lock. The Dunciad. Chaucer and Donne. Homer, Horace, Ovid. **Epitaphs. 34 + Odes. tt Epiules. While on the humble banks, far, far below! Or (tho' each bard in rev'rence mute should wait) Him haughty Gallia's dread they fhall proclaim; 55 From him the Turk and Tartar wait their doom. Fate never gave a king fo great before; A king fo good no nation fhall behold; For him the grateful realm fhall Heav'n adore, 60 65 70 76 |