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(Bcasts, urg'd by us, their fellow beasts pursue, Not half fo swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade, Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid. [vain;
Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd, No lake fo gentle, and no spring so clcar; And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor thade; Nor Po ro livells the fabling poet's lays, Here was the seen o'er airy wastes to rove, While led along the skies his current strays, Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove; As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes, Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn, To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods: Her buskin'd virgins trac'd the dewy lawn. Nor all his stars above a lustre thow,
Above the rest a rural nymph was famid, Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; Thy otfspring, Thames ! the fair Lodona nam’d; Whcre Jove, subdu'd by mortal paifion ftill, (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast, Llaft.) Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. The Mufe Thall fing, and what the sings shall Happy the man whom this bright court apScarce could the Goddess from her Nymph be proves, known,
His sov'reign favours, and his country loves : But by the crescent, and the golden zone. Happy next him, who to these fhades retires, She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care; Whom nature charms, and whom the Muse inA belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; A pointed quiver on her shouider sounds, Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. Successive study, exercise, and cafe. Ir chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: Pin law and lov'd; ar., burning with desire, With chemic arts exalts thc min'ral pow'rs, Perlu'd her Hight; her fight increas'd his fire. And draws the aromatic rouls of flow'rs : Not half fo fivift the trembling doe can Ay, Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid lky; O'er figurd worlds now travels with his eye ;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, Confults the dead, and lives past ages o'er : Or wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood, Attends the duties of the wife and good, T'obferve a mean, be to himfelf a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end;
Still in thy fong fhould vanquifh'd France appear, And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.
Let fofter strains 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:
Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes, Whom not th'extended Albion could contain,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs,
His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obfcure the place, and uninfcrib'd the stone): Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion fhed! Heav'ns, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She faw her fons with purple deaths expire,
In that bleft moment, from his oozy bed,
Then bow'd and fpoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide foftly to the fhore.
Hail, facred Peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the ftars thall raife! Tho' Tyber's ftreams immortal Rome behold, Tho' foaming Hermus fwells with tides of gold, From heav'n itself tho' feven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; Thefe now no more fhall be the Mufe's themes, Loft in my fame, as in the fea their ftreams. Let Volga's banks with iron fquadrons shine, 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 bloo 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;
Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
§ 3. Two Charuffes to the Tragedy of Brutus*. POPE
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
In vain your guiltless laurels ftood
And fteel now glitters in the Mules fhades.
Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!
To what new clime, what diftant fky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
When Athens finks by fates unjuft, When wild Barbarians spurn her duft; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft fhore Shall ccafe to blush with ftranger's gore; See Arts her favage fons controul, And Athens rifing near the pole ! Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madnefs tears them from the land.
Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball!
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
OH, Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wildom and Wit in vain reclaim, And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
The thady empire fhall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the fylvan chace; [blown,
Thy trees, fair Windfor! now fhall leave their
And half thy forefts rush into thy floods,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole:
Or under fouthern fkies exalt their fails,
Til Conquest ceafe, and Slav'ry be no more;
Here ceafe thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
* Altered from Shakespear by the Duke of Buckingham, at whofe defire thefe two Choruffes were com pofed, to fupply as many wanting in his play. They were fet, many years afterwards, by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.
Sound fleep by night; study and cafe,
Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
The Dying Chriftian to his Soul. POPE.
VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame!
Hark! they whifper; angels fay,
§ 6. An Efay on Criticifm. POPE. 'TIS hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind.
Love, foft intruder, enters here;
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Love's purer flames the Gods approve ;
Oh, fource of ev'ry focial tye,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend !
What tender paflions take their turns!
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
Hence, guilty joys, diftaftes, furmifes;
Fires that fccrch, yet dare not fhine:
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
§ 4. Ode on Solitude*. POPE.
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and
*This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old.
In fearch of wit these lofe their common sense,
To tell 'ein would a hundred tongues require,
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 show'd, And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, th'immortal prize, And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rifc. Juft precepts thus from great examples giv❜n, She drew from them what they deriv'd from The gen'rousCritic fann'd the Poet'sfire,[Heav'n. And taught the world with reafon to admire. Then Criticilin the Mute's hand-maid provid, Todrefs 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 learn'd. So modern 'Pothecaries taught the art, 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 months e'er fpoil'd fo much as they: Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to difplay; Ard thofe explain the meaning quite away.
You then whofe judgment the right courfe would fteer,
Know well each Antient's proper character:
Be Homer's works your study and delight;
And trace the Mufes upward to their fpring.
When firft young Maro in his boundlefs mind,
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare; For there's a happinefs as well as care. Mufic refembles Poetry; in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a mafter-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky Licence anfier to the full Th'intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule. Thus Pegafus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Great Wits fometimes may gloriously offend, And rife to faults true Critics dare not mend;