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Yet still unchang’d the form and mode remain,
Live and enjoy their spite! normourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv’d, on Virgil wait; 'Whose Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight; So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, 50 Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Forest. L AIL, facred Bard! a Muse unknown before 11 Salutes thee 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
Where-c'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage! The pompous scenes in all their pride appear, Freih in the page, as in the grove they were. Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows 20 The sylvan 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. 25 Nor sweeter notes the echoing Forests chear, When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens aud op’ning glades,
With vast variety thy pages shine;
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
inspire ! Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45 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 rhyme, Here on the Western beach attempt to chime. S
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! 50 Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye Gods ! from these 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. 55. Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves eternal green: Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat, Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Classic store, 60 And made that Music 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 Windsor in the soft abode. 65 The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguild the tedious day : They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir’d That Maro taught, or Addison inspir’d. Ev’n I effay'd to touch the trembling string: 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing ? Rouz’d from these dreams by thy commanding
strain, I rise and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run,
Nor can I pass the gen’rous courser by, 70)
Nor shall thy song, old Thames ! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the song divine. Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for Victory before. 96 Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream, The World should tremble at her awful name: