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 fylvan feat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days,
Not 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 fmoothly 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 inspir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain,
I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe, from sport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. 75
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheasant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the generous courfer by;
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, 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,
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the fport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The Tale be told, when shades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the fong divine.
Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more 95 Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur, and enrich the isle;
A while distinct through 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.
ANNE Countess of WINCHELLSEA.
THE Mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, 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,
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:
But let their pens, to
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer strove.
Whilft he who beft your Poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verse does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel 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,
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace.
Defcribe the Foreft ftill in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the Critic there his fkill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each different tafte,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then, should the verse of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently ftand;
In you no vanity could thence be fhown,
Unless, fince fhort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in fpight declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But Envy could not against you fucceed:
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Cenfure or Praise muft from ourselves proceed.
By Mifs JUD. CowPER, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.
POPE, by what commanding wondrous art,
Doft thou each paffion to each breaft impart?
Our beating Hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless Love!
Th' elated mind's impetuous starts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul !
Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctnefs, Homer's majesty!
Soft Waller's cafe, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, Strength, Beauty, Genius fhine,
While nervous Judgment guides each flowing Line. 15
No borrow'd Tinfel glitters o'er these Lays,
And to the Mind a falfe Delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The Weight of Senfe and Elegance of Sound.
A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Force, and Fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal Lyre.
The matchlefs ftrains our ravish'd fenfes charm :
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully just the turns appear;
The language how majeftically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,
And all the Bard th' inspiring God reveals.
Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,
Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn;
Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers furround,
And bounteous rush amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blifsful feats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the Mufes' lov'd retreats,
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods !
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;
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