Unlike thofe Wits, whofe numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong: Laboriously enervate they appear,

15

And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at beft moft mufically dull :
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
As fmootheft fpeech is moft deceitful found,
The fmootheft numbers oft are empty found.
But Wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too :
Your ftrains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected cafe,
With proper thoughts, and lively images;
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Although difgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear. 25
Some, in a polifh'd style write Paftoral;
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.
Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe
Should wear thofe flowers her native fields pro-
duce;

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30

35

And the true measure of the shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be ter the Country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought;
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks the fhepherd, and the thepherdefs;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely raffet of the fwain.
Your rural Mule appears to jufti y
The long-loft graces of fit
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence :
Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
Till by men's Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits eduftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they muft efteem. 45
Live, and enjoy their fpite! nor mourn that
fate,

Simplicity:

Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;

40

A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The Pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, 10
And drefs'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the
painted bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive
More lasting glories than the Eaft can give.
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,

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What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were :
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watery plains;
The jufter lays the lucid wave furpass,
The living fcene is in the Mufe's glass,
Nor iweeter notes the echoing Foreft chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you fing the greens and opening
glades,

25

And give us Harmony as well as Shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you 30
Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too.
With vaft variety thy pages fine;

A new creation ftarts in every line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade andlight, 35
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleating gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom; 40
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren f.de,
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 beft to dwell 45
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and ba ren as my rhyme,
Here on the Weitern beach attempt to chime.

light;

Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight: So larks, which firft from lowly fields arife, Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the skies.

50

ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST. AIL! facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own. The Eaftern pomp had juft bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here;

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65

70

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 ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe, from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering
gun.

Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy

On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

75

Nor can I pafs the generous courfer by; 80 But while the prancing fteed allures my eye, He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse. Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85 He'd view a courfer that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chaee, Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race. Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale? The foft complaint fhall over Time prevail; The Tale be told when fhades forfake her store, The Nymph be fung when the can flow no more. Nor fhall the fong, old Thames! forbear to fhine,

90

At once the fubject and the fong divine.
Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'a Britons

more

Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name;
From various springs divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the ifle;
A while diftint through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;

95

100

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But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer ftrove;
Whilst he who beft your Poetry alerts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praife what I admire,
Nor in thofe lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applauses by defert;
Inform the head, whilst you diffolve the heart:
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race; 25
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Defcribe the Foreft ftill in rural firains,
With vernal fweets fresh-breathing from the
plains:

Your Tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the (ritic there his fill unfold,
For Boccace thus and haucer tales have told
Sooth, as you only can, each different taste,
And for the future charm us in the paft.
Then, fould the verfe of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently ftand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, fince ort in beauty of your own,
Some envious feribbler might in fpite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But Envy could not against you fucceed:
is not from friends that write, or foes that
read;

Cenfure or Praise must from ourselves proceed.

TO MR. POPE.

BY MISS JUD. COWPER, AFTERWARDS

MRS MADAN.

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And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

TO MR. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.. THE Mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd To be the chict, is public, though not proud.

Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,
And in each verfe he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

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To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:

ᏩᎪ .

The powers of language, harmony, and grace;
How Nature's felf with living luftre fhines,
How judgment ftrengthens, and how art refines;
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;
How to grow bold with confcious fenfe of fame,
To charm us more through negligence than pain,
And give ev'n life and action to the ftrains:
Led by fome law, whose powerful impulse guides
Each happy ftroke, and in the foul prefides;
Some fairer image of perfection giv'n

T' inspire mankind, itself deriv'd from heaven.
O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praise,
Bleft in thy life, and bleft in all thy lays!
Add that the Sifters every thought refine,
Or ev❜n thy life be faultlefs as thy line;
Yet Envy ftill with fiercer rage pursues,
Obfcures the virtue, and defames the Mufe.
A foul like thine, in pains, in grief refign'd,
Views with vain fcorn the malice of mankind:
Not critics, but their planets, prove unjuft;
And are they blam'd who fin because they muft?
Yet fure not fo muft all perufe thy lays:

I cannot rival-and yet dare to praife.
A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage;
Sappho's foft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's ftudious care,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.

And curious pains, and strength, and sweetness
So feems fome picture where exact def gn,
join;

Where the free thought its pleasing grace bestows,
And each warm ftroke with living colour glows;
Soft without weaknefs, without labour fair,
Wrought up at once with happiness and care!
How bleft the man that from the world re-
moves,

To joys that Mordaunt, or his Pope, approves;
Whofe tafte exact each author can explore,
And live the prefent and past ages o'er;
Moves calmly forward to the verge of life:
Who, free from pride, from penitence, or ftrife,
Such be my days, and fuch my fortunes be,
To live by reafon, and to write by thee!

*Earl of Peterborough, conqueror of Valencia, D

Q ૧

Nor deem this verfe, though humble, a difgrace:

All are not born the glory of their race:
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.
The Mufe, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays:
A Mufe as yet unhonour'd, but unflair'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd;
Unbiafs'd or to cenfure or commend,
Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend:
Perhaps too fond to make thofe virtues known,
And fix her fame immortal on thy own.

TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.

DAPHNIS.

plains:

Fair Thames, flow gently from thy facred fpring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Mufes fing;
Let vernal airs through trembling ofers play,
And Albion's cliffs refound the rural lay.

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You that, too wife for pride, too good for

power,

Enjoy the glory to he great no more,
And, carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illuftriously are loft!

Of culom fee in Congreve's Poems, vol. v.

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