That, fond the griefs of the diftrefs'd to heal,
Can pity frailties it could never feel;

That, when Misfortune fu'd, ne'er fought to know
What fect, what party, whether friend or foe ;

That, fix'd on equal Virtue's temp'rate laws,

Defpifes calumny, and fhuns applaufe;

That, to its own perfections fingly blind,

Would for another think this praise defign'd.

IM

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove ;
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more.
After fo many ftars extinct in night,,
The darken'd age's laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by mem'ry of ancient wit;

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft;

From Tyrants and from Priests the Mufes fly,

Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty :

4

Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincius 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 unaufpicious 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 worft feverity of fate :

Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,

And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yokė;
Not that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious names; that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe Chiefs fublimely prais'd;
Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;

Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'er-grown ;

Thofe

Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
While with th' inspiring Muse my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravifh'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise;

Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid.
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Mafter bear :-

Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of Wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to fit,
No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleafing way;
Nor when each foft engaging Mufe is thine,
Addrefs the leaft attractive of the Nine.

Of the more worthy were the task, to raise
A lafting column to thy Country's praise;

To fing the land, which yet alone can boast
That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft;

Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid,
And plants her Palm befide the Olive's fhade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I ftrung,
Such was the people whofe exploits I fung;

Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phœbus crown'd;
Dauntless oppofers of tyrannic fway,

But pleas'd a mild Auguftus to obey.

If these commands fubmiffive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name fhall live;
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,

And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time fhall confecrate thy lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's praife.'

To my LORD

In the Year 1730,

From WORCESTERSHIRE. By the Same.

Strenua nos exercet Inertia : Navibus atque
Quadrigis petimus bene Vivere: quod petis hic eft;
Eft Ulubris, Animus fi te non deficit æquus.

F

AV'RITE of Venus and the tuneful Nine,
Pollio, by nature form'd in courts to shine,
Wilt thou once more a kind attention lend
To thy long abfent and forgotten friend:
Who after feas and mountains wander'd o'er,
Return'd at length to his own native shore,

HOB.

From all that's gay retir'd, and all that's great,
Beneath the fhades of his paternal feat

Has found that Happiness he fought in vain.
On the fam❜d banks of Tiber and of Seine ?

'Tis not to view the well-proportion'd pile,
The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's ftile;
At foft Italian founds to melt away ;
Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle ftray;
That lulls the tumults of the foul to reft,
Or makes the fond poffeffor truly bleft.
In our own breafts the fource of Pleafure lies
Still open, and ftill flowing to the wife;
Not forc'd by toilsome art and wild defire
Beyond the bounds of nature to aspire,
But in its proper channels gliding fair;
A common benefit, which all may share.
Yet half mankind this eafy good difdain,
Nor relish happiness unbought by pain;

Falfe is their taste of bliss, and thence their fearch is vain.
So idle, yet fo reftlefs are our minds,

We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds,
Through various toils to feek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were our's at home:
For not the ceafelefs change of fhifted place
Can from the heart a fettled grief erase:
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the diftemper'd mind of aching care.