نته

Nor sweeter notes the ecchoing Forests chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

Than when you fing the greens, and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades.

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

you

And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deserts caft a pleasing gloom;
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre,
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields infpire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime!
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!
Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy ftream
My fad example, or my wretched theme.
Like bombaft now thy raging billows roar,
And vainly dash themselves against the shore:
About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown,
And all extreams are in a moment shown.
Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic fhores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant Bow'rs;

Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay :
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green;
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore,
And made that Mufic which was noise before.
There with illustrious Bards I spent my days,
Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise;
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day.
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addison infpir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who cou'd hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,
I rise, and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gawdy robes in dazling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by,
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh cou'd thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!

Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;
The tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the fubject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britains more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.

Oh! cou'd Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name,
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Ifle;
A while distinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.

To Mr. P OPE,

In imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

W

HEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades ;

What Theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,

Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; Your loftieft notes employ,
To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy.
The wond'rous 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
Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale,
I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,
Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek, and blind,
Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,
From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays.

But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,
Proud with celeftial spoils to grace her name;
Yet when my arts fhall triumph in the West,
And the white Isle with female pow'r is bleft;
Fame, I foresee, will make reprizals there,
And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer.
With lefs regret my claim I now decline,
The World will think his English Iliad mine.

E. Fenton.

Το

T

To Mr. POPE

O praife, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The Learn'd to show, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preserve the province of the Friend,
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Mufic tune them, what affection fire?

O might thy Genius in my bofom shine!
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest Ancients might at once agree,
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himself wou'd own thou doft excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame,
Whom Windfor-Forest fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
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 fhone the treffes Egypt's Princess wore,
Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before.

Here courtly trifles fets the world at odds;

Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods.

The new Machines, in names of ridicule,

Mock the grave frenzy of the Chimick fool.
But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The Graces ftand in fight; a Satyr-train,

Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.