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From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide, 100
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle ;
A while distinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one ;
Therejoy to lose their long-distinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.


To Mr. POPE.
In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.


H EN Phæbus, and the nine harmonious


Of old assembled in the Thespian (hades ;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear ?
Reply'd the God; “ Your loftieft notes employ, 5
“ To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."?
The wondrous fong with rapture they rehearse ;
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse ? :
He answer'd with a frown; “ I now-reveal
“A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal: 10

" Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, “ I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, “ Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, “ Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; 14 “ And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, “ From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays.

" But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, “ Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; “ Yet when my Afts shall triumph in the West, “ And the white Ise with female pow'r is blest; “ Fame, I foresce, will make reprisals there, 21 " And the Translator's Palm to mę transfer. “ With less regret my claim I now decline, The World will thịnk bis Englis Iliad mine.”


To Mr. P O P E. T O praise, and fill with just respect to praise

1 A Bard triumphant in immortal bays, The Learn'd to show, the Sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the Friend; What life, what vigour must the lines require ? 5 What Mysiç tune them, what Affection fişe?

O might thy Genius in my bosom (hine; Thou should't not fail of numbers worthy thine ; The brightest Ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10

Horace himself would own thou dost excell In candid arts to play the Critic well. Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream: On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd, 15 She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, . Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair ? Less shone the tresses Ægypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. Here courtly trifles set the world at odds ; Belles war with Beaux,and Whims descend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool. But know, ye Fair, a point concealed with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart, The Graces stand in fight; a Satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene,

In Fame's fair Temple, o’er the boldest wits Inshrin'd on high the façręd Virgil sits; 30


And fits in measures such as Virgil's Muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th'alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the Prize ?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail! 40
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:
Still Slide thy waters, soft among the trees,
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring, 45
Be hush’d, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And Aames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the Majesty of Greek retir’d,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir’d;

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His language failing, wrapt him round with nights
Thine, rais’d by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before !
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only fay, The mines were here: 60
Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform’d with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vast, how copious, are thy new designs !
How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines !
Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when summer dress’d the days,
While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70.
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The shades resound with song ---O softly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my Friend --- and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires. Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound, For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground:

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