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:

Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars 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,
Whole raptures fire me, and whofe vifions blefs,
Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd fcenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and furrounding greens;
To Thames's banks with fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's Hill.
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths fhall grow,
While lafts the mountain, or while Thames fhall
I fcem thro' confecrated walks to rove, [flow.)
I hear foft mufic die along the grove:
Led by the found, I roam from fhade to fhade,
By god-like poets venerable made:
Here his firft lays majestic Denham fung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
Oearly loft! what tears the river shed
[tongue.
When the fad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since Fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly voice,
No more the forefts 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 thefe 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 rife,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing those honours you deserve to wear,
And add new luftre to her filver star.
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 heav'nly Mira now.
Oh! would't thou fing what heroes Windfor
bore,

What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore,
Or raife old warriors, whofe ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the fhining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age.
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious
The lilies blazing on the regal thield: [field,
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,

From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find reft,
And blended lie tir'oppreffor and th'oppreft!

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,
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series 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 stream
His fhining 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 her banks Augufta role in gold;
Around his throne the fea-born brothers stood,
Who fwell'd with tributary urns his flood!
First, 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 dark streams his flow'ry iflands lave;
And chalkey Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
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.
High in the inidft, 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 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;

The

Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
And featters bleffings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more fweetly pafs my careless days,
Pleas'd in the filent fhade with empty praife;
Enough for me, that to the lift'ning fwains
Firit in thefe fields I fung the fylvan ftrains.

§ 3. Two Charuffes to the Tragedy of Brutus*. POPE

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE 1.

E fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught:
Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.

And fteel now glitters in the Mules fhades.
War, horrid war, your thoughtlefs walks invades,

ANTISTROPHE 1.

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

To what new clime, what diftant fky,

Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?

Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

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.

ANTISTROPHE 11.

Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!
Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMICHORUS.

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.

Sound fleep by night; study and cafe,
Together mix'd; fweet recreation!
And innocence, which moft does please
With meditation."

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

The Dying Chriftian to his Soul. POPE.
ODE..

VITAL fpark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whifper; angels fay,
Sifter Spirit come away!
What is this abforbs me quite?
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

§ 6. 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 fenfe.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himfelf alone expose;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets, as true Genius is but rare,
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare -
Both inuft alike from Heav'n derive their light,
Thefe born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let fuch teach others who themfelves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind.
Yet, if we look more clofely, we fhall find
Nature affords at leaft a glimm'ring light;
The lines,tho'touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the flightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by falfe learning is good fente defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made cox combs Nature meant but fools.

In

In fearch of wit these lofe their common sense,
And then turn Critic, in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's fpite.
Ail fools have ftill an itching to deride,
And tain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpight,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have first for Wits, then Poets paft,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at laft.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics país;
As heavy mules are neither horie nor ais.
Thele half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our ile,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinith'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal :

To tell 'ein would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you who feek 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,
Andinark 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 beans of warm imagination play,
The memory's foft figures melt away.
One fcience only will one genius fit;
So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts.
Like kings, we lofe the conquefts gain'd before,
By vain ambition ftill to make them more:
Each might his fervile province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.
Firft follow Nature, and your judginent 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.
Art from that fund each juft fupply provides;
Works without how, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th'informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftains;
Itfelf unfeen, but in th'effects remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n 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 spur the Mufe's fteed;
Roftrain his fury, than provoke his fpeed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horse,
Shows 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 liberty, is but reftrain'd

By the fame laws which first herself ordain'd.