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Oh, fact accurs'd! what tears 'has Albion shed,
In that bless'd moment from his oozy bed
High in the midst, upon his urn reclin'd, (His sea-green mantle waving with the wiod) The god appear'd: he turn’d his azure eyes Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets rise; Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore:
? Hail, sacred peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise ! Though Tyber's streams immortal Rone behold, Though foaming Hermas swells with tides of gold, From Heay'n itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the Muse's themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train, Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood : Safe on my shore each unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain ; The shady empire shall retain no trace Of war or blood, but in the silvan chase; The truinpet sleep, while cheerful horus are blown, And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone. Behold! the ascending villas on my side, Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide; Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase, And temples rise, the beauteous works of peace. I see, I see, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend ! There mighty nations shall inquire their doom, The world's great oracle in times to come: There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen Once more to bend before a British queen.
" Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their And half thy forests rush into the floods, (woods, Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days : The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite, And bring the scenes of opening fate to light. My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, Where Peace descending bids hier olives spring, And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing. Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days, Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise! Enough for me, that to the listening swains First in these fields I sùng the silvan strains.
RAPE OF THE LOCK.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1712.
TO MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR.
MADAM, It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since I dedicate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness, it was intended only to divert a few young ladies, who have good sense and good humour enough to laugh not only at their sex's little anguarded follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the air of a secret, it soon found its way into the world. An imperfect copy having been offered to a bookseller, you . had the good-nature, for my sake, to consent to the publication of one more correct: this I was forced to, before I had executed balf my design, for the machinery was entirely wanting to complete it.
The machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons, are made to act in a poem : for the ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies ; let an action be ever so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the utmost importance. These machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd foundation, the Rosi. crucian doctrine of spirits.
I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but it is so much the