Here, fhort of feet, depriv'd the pow'r to fly,
There, without hands, upon the field they lie.
Wrench'd from their holds, and scatter'd all around,
The bending lances heap the cumber'd ground.
Helpless amazment, fear pursuing fear,
And mad confufion thro' their host appear:
O'er the wild waste with headlong flight they go,
Or creep conceal'd in vaulted holes below.
But down Olympus to the western seas
Far-fhooting Phoebus drove with fainter rays;
And a whole war (fo Jove ordain'd) begun,
Was fought, and ceas'd, in one revolving fun,
O praife, yet ftill with due refpect to praise, A Bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to fhow, the fenfible commend, Yet still 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 bosom 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 Foreft 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 the Mufe the envy of the fair;
Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's princefs wore,
Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifies fet the world at odds,
Belles war with Beaux, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new machines in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chymic 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
Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits,
And fits in measures, fuch as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he,
While fome old Damon o'er the vulgar wife
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize.
Rapt with the thought my Fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains.
Indulgent nurse of evr'y tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I fpread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head,
Still flide thy waters foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze,
Smile all thy vallies in eternal Spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his antient heat,
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs fparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retir'd,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd,
His langauage failing, wrap'd him round with night,
Thine raif'd by thee, recals the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden oar,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And fhepherds only fay, the mines were here:
Shou'd fome rich youth (if natnre warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.
How vaft, how copious are thy new defigns!
How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!
Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when Summer drefs'd the days,
When Windfor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the Lark, the Thrush, the Turtle bleft,
d Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The fhades refound with fong- O foftly tread!
While a whole season warbles round my head.
This to my friend-and when a friend inspires
My filent harp its mafter's hand requires,
Shakes off the duft, and makes these rocks refound,
For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my
From wit, from learning,far, oh far from thee!
Here mofs-grown trees expand the smallest leaf,
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf,
Here hills with naked heads the tempeft meet,'
Rocks at their fide, and torrents at their feet,
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whofe dull brown Naiads ever fleep in mud.
Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,
A friend delight me, and an author pleafe,
Ev'n here I fing, while Pope fupplies the theme,
Show my own love, tho' not increase his fame.
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