Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves 65
With grace divine, and like a god he moves.
Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Mufe's train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler ftrain;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you infpire:
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles right:
Like theirs, our friendship! and I boat my name.
To thine united-for thy friendship's fame..

LAURY

fer

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This labour paft, of heav'nly fubjects fing,
While hov'ring angels liften on the wing.
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rife,
As, when they fing, fufpended hold the Ikies:
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's caufe,
From thy own life tranfcribe th' unerring laws;
Teach a bad world beneath her fway to bend
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,
And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

W. BROOME.

To Mr. POPE,

On the publishing his WORKS.

HE comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepare
The fong of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads,
Firft gives the palm fhe fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brów, and fhews him how to reign.

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Thus

Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earneft of a god.

IO

But hark, what fhouts, what gath'ring crouds rejoice! Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice, Such as the ambitious vainly think their due, When prostitutes, or needy flatt'rers 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 fick'ning with despair, Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye, Weak to fupport the blaze of majefty.

30

But what are they that turn the sacred Three lovely virgins, and of equal age'; Intent they read, and all enamour'd feem, As he that met his likeness in the ftream: The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, 25 Who moft shall praife, who beft shall recommend. The chariot now the painful steep afcends, The Peans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple ftands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands: Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou chufe, What laurel'd arch for thy triumphant Mufe? Tho' each great ancient court thee to his fhrine, Tho' ev'ry laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade The gentler Brow of the foft Lefbian maid) Go to the good and juft, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the fane': While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies, "Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies."

SIMON HARCOURT.

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To

From Rome, 1730

MMORTAL bard! for whom each Mufe has wove The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove; cnt Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore, When Addifon and Congreve are no more; After fo many stars extinct in night, The dark'ned ages laft remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ, Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit; For now no more thefe climes their influence boaft, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft; From tyrants, and from priefts, the Mufes fly, Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.. Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love, Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove; › To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, And kindle in thy breaft the Roman fire. So in the fhades, when chear'd with fummer rays Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,

17 / *** 7.2

Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain

Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious, reign,

No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd ftate

Has felt the worst feverity of fate:

Not that barbarian hands her fafces broke,

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And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;

Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

Her cities defert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient fpirit is decay'd,

That facred wifdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of fcience flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.

Illuftrious

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Illuftrious names! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

1

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravifh'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise :
Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his master bear:
Great bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,

Near me and Homer thou afpire to fit,
No more let meaner fatire dim the rays
That flow majeftic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus ftray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each soft engaging Muse is thine,
Addrefs the leaft attractive of the Nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lafting column to thy country's praise,
To fing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has loft;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's fhade.
Such was the theme' for which my lyre I ftrung,
Such was the people whofe exploits I fung;

Brave

"..

1

> .)

1. A

Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, li
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, 70
Dauntless oppofers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas'd, a mild: AUGUSTUS to obey.
If these commands fubmiffive thou receive, in0
Immortal and unblai'd thy name fhall live;efe
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time fhall confecrate thy lays,

t

And join the patriot's to the poet's praises 45 dla mit?

La

f.

GEORGE LYTTELTON.

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PASTORALS,