To Mr. POPE, on his PASTORALS.
1
N those more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A Muse fincere, that never Flattery knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found
Art strengthening Nature, Sense improv'd by Sound.
Unlike those Wits, whose numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song:
Laborioufly enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull :
So purling streams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into fleep.
As fmoothest speech is most deceitful found,
The smoothest numbers oft are empty found.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too :
Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images :
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Although disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear,
Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall.
Like some fair Shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse
Should wear those flowers her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought,
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks the shepherd, and the shepherdess;
Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify
The long-loft graces of fimplicity :
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modesty those charms conceal'd;
Till by men's Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits industrious to their trouble seem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait ;
Whose Muse did once, like thine, in plains delight,
Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight;
So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
To Mr. POPE, on his WINDSOR-FOREST.
AIL! facred Bard! a Muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.
To our dark world thy shining page is shown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various spoil adorn'd our naked land,
The Pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the glossy fragments lay,
And dress'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows
The fylvan state that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watery plains :
The juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the echoing Forests chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you fing the greens and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades :
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;
A new creation starts in every line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd, with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts cast a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom :
Whilft fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire! Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell Amidst the rural joys, you sing so well. I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main !
Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Isis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green:
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the fylvan feat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store,
And made that Music which was noise before.
There with illustrious Bards I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the soft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day :
They sung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.
Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain; Led by thy Muse, from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. 75 Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the fluttering pheasant lie! His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear, And every feather shines and varies there. Nor can I pass the generous courser by; But while the prancing steed allures my eye, He starts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horfe.
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