Not Neptune's felf from all her ftreams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas lo rich, fo gay no banks appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no fpring fo clear;
Nor Po fo fwells the fabling Poet's lays,
While led along the fkies his current strays,
As thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the manfion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars above a luftre fhew
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, fubdued by mortal paflion ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright Court ap-
proves,

His fov reign favours, and his country loves:
Happy, next him, who to thefe fhades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Mufe
infpires;

Whom humbler joys of home-felt quict pleafe,
Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and cafe.
He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragrant phyfic fpoils the fields;
With chemic arts exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic fouls of flow'rs:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;,
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Confults the dead, and lives paft ages o'er:
Or, wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood,
Attends the duties of the wife and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred ftars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confefs her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd;
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus, retir'd.

Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs, Whofe raptures file me, and whofe vifions blefs, Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd scenes, The bow'ry mazes, and furrounding greens; To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill, Or where y■ Muses sport on Cooper's Hill (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths fhall grow, While lalts the mountain, or while Thames fhali I feem thro' confecrated walks to rove, [How). I hear foft mufic die along the grove: Led by the found, I roam from hade to fhade, By godlike poets venerable made : Here his first lays majestic Denham fung; There the laft numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.

O early lot what tears the river fhed,
When the fad pomp along his banks were led !
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.

Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley
ftrung

His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the foreft rings!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville fings?

'Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs our foft retreats,
And call the Mufes to their ancient feats;
To paint anew the flow'ry fylvan scenes,
To crown the forefts with immortal greens,
Make Windfor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing thofe honours you deferve to wear,
And add new luftre to her filver ftar.
Here noble Surrey felt the facred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchlefs his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lifts, and graceful in the dance :
In the fame fhades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the fame notes, of love, and foft defire :
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh wouldst thou fing what heroes Windfor
bore,

What kings firft breath'd upon her winding fhore;
Or raife old warriors, whofe ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains ;
With Edward's acts adorn the thining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age;
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal fhield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy fong thould vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.

Let fofter ftrains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the Martyr King the marble weeps,
And, faft befide him, once-fear'd Edward fleeps:
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find reft,
And blended lie th' oppreffor and th' oppreft!

Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obfcure the place, and uninfcrib'd the fione). Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion fhed Heavens! what new wounds! and how her old have bled!

She faw her fous with purple deaths expire,
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful ferics of inteftine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and difhoneft fears.
At length great Anna faid-Let difcord ceafe!'
She faid, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that bleft moment from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head,
His treffes dropp'd with dews, and o'er the fiream
His thining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His fwelling waters and alternate tides;
The figur'd ftreams in waves of filver roll'd,
And on their banks Augufta rofe in gold;
Around his throne the fea-born brothers food,
Who fwell with tributary urns his flood;
Fift, the fam'd authors of his ancient name,
The winding Ifis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet fwift, for filver eels renown'd;
The Loddon flow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whofe clear ftreams his flow'ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:

The

The blue, tranfparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his fedgy treffes rears;
And fullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And filent Darent, ftain'd with Danish blood,

And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our fpeech, our colour, and our ftrange attire !
Oh ftretch thy reign, fair Peace! from fhore to
fhore,

Till Conqueft ceafe, and Slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their fable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exil'd by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb'rous Difcord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pałe Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition fhall attend her there;
There purple Vengeance bath'd in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hateful Envy her own fnakes fhall feel,
And Perfecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gafping furies thirst for blood in vain.

Here ceafe 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 fcenes of op'ning fate to light:
My humble Mufe, in unambitious ftrains,
Paints the green forefts and the flow'ry plains,
Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
And fcatters bleffings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more fweetly pafs my careless days,
Pleas'd in the filent fhade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the lift'ning fwains
First in thefe fields I fung the fylvan strains.

High in the midft, upon his urn reclin'd, His fea-green mantle waving with the wind, The God appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windfor domes and pompous turrets rife! Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hufh'd waves glide foftly to the fhore. Hail, facred Peace! hail, long expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars fhall raise! Tho' Tyber's ftreams immortal Rome behold, Tho' foaming Hermus fwells with tides of gold, From Heaven itself tho' seven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; Thefe now no more fhall be the Mufes' themes, Loft in my fame, as in the fea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron fquadrons fhine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barb'rous Ganges arm a fervile train; Be mine the bleffings of a peaceful reign! No more my fons fhall dye with British blood Red Iber's fands, or Ifter's foaming flood: Safe on my fhore each unmolefted fwain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; The fhady empire fhall retain no trace Of war or blood but in the fylvan chace; The trumpet fleep while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employed on birds and beafts alone. Behold! th' afcending villas on my fide Project long fhadows o'er the cryftal tide. Behold! Augufta's glitt'ring fpires increase, And temples rife, the beauteous works of peace. I fee, I fee, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall afcend! There mighty nations fhall enquire their doom, The world's great oracle in times to come; There kings fhall fue, and fuppliant ftates be feen Once more to bend before a British queen.

Thy trees, fair Windfor! now shall leave their woods,

;

And half thy forefts rush into my floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her crofs difplay,
To the bright regions of the rifing day :
Tempt icy feas, where fcarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole
Or under fouthern fkies exalt their fails,
Led by new ftars, and borne by spicy gales:
For me the balm fhall bleed, the amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow:
The pearly fhell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the rip'ning ore to gold.
The time fhall come when, free as feas or wind,
Unbounded Thames fhall flow for all mankind;
Whole nations enter with each fwelling tide,
And feas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's diftant ends our glory fhall behold,
And the new world launch forth to feek the old.
Then fhips of uncouth form fhall ftem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy fide;

§ 6. Two Chorufes to the Tragedy of Brutus POFE.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
STROPHE I.

YE fhades, where facred truth is fought
Groves, where immortal Sages taught,
Where heavenly vifions Plato fir`d,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltlefs laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtless walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Mufes' fhades.

ANTIS TROPHE 1.

Oh heaven-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song!

To what new clime, what diftant sky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic thore
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft shore
Shall ceafe to bluth with strangers' gare;

§ 9. An Efay on Criticifm. POPE.
TIS hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging, ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fenie,
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himself alone expofe;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

In

But as the flightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more difgrac'd;
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fenfe,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's fpite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpite,
There are who judge ftill worfe than he can write.

Some have at firft for Wits, then Poets pafs'd,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at laft.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pafs;
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor afs.
Thofe half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal:
To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require;
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.

But you, who feck to give and merit fame, And justly bear a Critic's noble name, Be fure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, tafte, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet, And mark that point where fenfe and dulnefs meet.

Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit: As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains; Thus in the foul while memory prevails, The folid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's foft figures melt away. One fcience only will one genius fit; So vaft is art, fo nariow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confin'd to fingle parts. Like Kings, we tofe the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more : Each might his fervile province well command, Would all but ftoup to what they understand.

Firft follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the fame : Unerring Nature, ftill divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light, Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart ; At once the fource, and end, and test of Art.

Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profufe,
Want as much more, to turn it to its ufe;
For wit and judgment often are at ftrife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than fpur the Mufe's steed;
Reftrain his fury, than provoke his speed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horfe,
Shews moft true mettle when you check his courfe.
Thofe rules of old difcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature ftill, but Nature methodiz'd.
Nature, like monarchy, is but reftrain'd
By the fame laws which first herself ordain'd.

Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,

When to reprefs, and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnaffus' top her fons the fhew'd,
And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod;
Field from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rife.
Juft precepts thus from great examples given,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from

heaven.

The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reafon to admire.
Then Criticism the Mufe's hand-maid prov'd,
To dref's her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention ftray'd;
Who could not win the miftrefs, woo'd the maid;
Against the Poets their own arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate moft the men from whom they
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art [learn'd.
By Doctors' bills to play the Doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of iniftaken rules,
Prefcribe, apply, and call their mafters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths c'er spoil'd fo much as they
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how pocts may be made.
Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to difplay;
And thofe explain the meaning quite away.

You then whofe judgment the right courfe would fteer,

Know well each Ancient's proper character:
His fable, fubject, fcope in ev'ry page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.
Be Homer's works your study and delight;
Read them by day, and meditate by night:
Thence form your judgment, thence your max-
ims bring,

And trace the Mufes upward to their spring.
Still with itself compar'd his text perufe;
Or let your comment be the Mantuan Mufe.

When first young Maro in his boundless mind
A work t'outlaft immortal Rome defign'd,
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains fcorn'd to draw:
But