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To Mr. POPE, on his WINDSOR-FOREST.

HAIL: facred Bard! a Muse unknown before

Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.

To our dark world thy fhining 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 Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was cast on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,

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And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted

bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boast

A nobler cargo on our barren coast:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive

More lafting glories than the East can give.
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous
fcenes our busy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows

The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her watery plains:
The jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.

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Nor fweeter notes the echoing Forefts chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

Than when you fing the greens and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades:

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A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;
A new creation starts in every
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 fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd, with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields infpire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys, you fing fo 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 folitudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.

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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 Mufes to the fylvan feat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addifon inspir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?

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Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe, from fport to sport I run,

Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. 75
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy

On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the generous courfer 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 lofe the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horfe.

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Oh

Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?

The foft complaint shall over Time prevail;
The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when fhe can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur, and enrich the isle;
A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

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FR. KNAP.

Το

To Mr. P OPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE Countess of WINCHELLSEA.

THE Mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.

Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,

Some commendations to themselves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age,
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:
But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer ftrove.
Whilst he who beft your Poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verfe does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;

Inform the head, whilst you diffolve the heart:
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:

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Allure,

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