« ПредишнаНапред »
'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave tiry praise, A monument which Worth alone can raife; Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in duit The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust: 10 Nor’till the volumes of th’ expanded sky Blaze in one fame, shalt thou and Homer die : Then sink together in the world's last fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.
If aught on earth, when once this breath is Aed, With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines; Just to thy Fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote; Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow. Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael ! time in
vades, And the bold figure from the canvass fades, A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part
25 Some latent grace, and equals art with art; Transported we survey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life.
How long, untun’d, had Homer's facred lyre Jarr'd grating discord, all extinct his fire?
3° This you beheld ; and taught by heav'n to fing, Call'd the loud music from the founding string. Now wak'd from slumbers of three thousand years, Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears, Tow'rs o'er the field of death ; as fierce he turns, Keen flash his arms, and all the Hero burns ; 36
With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He strides along, and meets the Gods in vight:
Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th' infernal shores,
40 Tremble the tow’rs of Hear’n, earth rocks her coasts, And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts. To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay; Here rolls a torrent, there Meander's play ; Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise, Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies
i 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; -50 And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies, Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.
Proceed, greatBard! awake th' harmonious stringa Be ours all Homer! still Ulysses sing. How long * that Hero, by unskilful hands,
55 Strip'd of his robes, a Beggar tred our lands? Such as he wander'd o'er his native coast, Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior loft: O’er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread; Old age disgrac'd the honours of his head ;
60 Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shin'd The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind. But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold; Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves With grace divine, and like a God he moves,
* Odydiy, lib. xvi.
Ev'n I, the meanest of the Muse's train, Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain ; Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre, Tun’d by your hand, and sing as you inspire : So arı'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 past, of heav'nly subjects fing, 75 While hov’ring angels listen on the wing, To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise, As, when they sing, suspended hold the skies: Or nobly rising in fair Virtue's cause, From thy own life transcribe th’ unerring laws: 80 Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend; To verse like thine fierce favages attend, And men more fierce : when Orpheus tunes the lay, Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
To Mr. P O PE,
E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare
The song of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads, And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads, First gives the Palm The fir'd him to obtain, 5 Crowns his gay brow, and shew's him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
But what are they that turn the sacred page?
The Chariot now the painful steep ascends,
Go to the Good and Just, an awful train,
To Mr. P O P E.
From Rome, 1730. Mmortal Bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th’Aonian Grove; Preferv’d, our drooping Genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night, The darken’d Age's last remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, Inspir'd by memory of ancient Wit; For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall’n is their Glory, and their Virtue lost; From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly, Daughters of Reason and of Liberty. Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love, Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove; To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, 15 And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where chear'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,