Whofe virgin name no time nor change can hide, Still shall she grace and range the verdant plains; Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid stream. 40 Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art, Rule each emotion of the various heart; 45 The spring and teft of verse unrival'd reign, And the full honours of thy youth maintain; Sooth with thy wonted ease and power divine, 50 And foften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit. Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand, And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand; His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force, In thee rife worthy of their facred source; 55 His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe intire, As Gold runs purer from the trying fire. But, when Achilles, panting for the war, 60 65 From From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream 70 So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand, Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command; Here fpreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene, And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly; Where bolder rage informs each breathing line; 75 80 90 We own the mighty Mafter's kill, as boundless as complete. b z Lord Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE. I' On reading Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the English Poets. F all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine 5 In Addison's majestic numbers shine, Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics tell, Remain unfung, who fings himself so well? Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire With Waller's foftness, or with Milton's fire; Whilft I, the meanest of the Mufes' throng, To thy just praises tune th' adventurous fong. How am I fill'd with rapture and delight When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight! Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains, Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoaking plains. What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms, And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms! Doth not the reader with like dread furvey The wounded gods repuls'd with foul dismay? But when some fair-one guides your fofter verfe, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm. 20 When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before; 15 Poor Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day, 23 While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound. 30 In words fmooth flowing from his tuneful tongue, 35 Ravish'd they gaze, and ftruck with wonder say, That the kind Mufes thus propitious fmile 40 Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, fwains?— 'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns. But hold, my Muse! whose aukward verse betrays Thy want of skill, nor fhew the poet's praise; Cease then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell How Pope in every strain can write, in every strain excell, 45 To H To Mr. POPE. On the publishing his WORKS. Bard every prepare E comes, he comes! bid Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads, 5 10 15 But hark, what shouts, what gathering crouds rejoice Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice, Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due, When Prostitutes, or needy Flatterers fue. And fee the Chief! before him laurels borne ; Trophies from undeferving temples torn ; Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there Pale Envy dumb, and sick'ning with despair, Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye, Weak to support the blaze of majesty. 20 But what are they that turn the facred page? 25 The |