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From various springs divided waters glide,
To Mr. POPE.
H EN Phæbus, and the nine harmonious
Of old assembled in the Thespian (hades ;
" 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
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
His language failing, wrapt him round with nights
How vast, how copious, are thy new designs !
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: