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Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race,
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace.
Defcribe the Forest still in rural strains,

With vernal fweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part display;
Nor let the Critic there his fkill unfold,

For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each different tafte,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then, should the verse of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently ftand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in fpight declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.

But Envy could not against you fucceed :

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'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Cenfure or Praise must from ourselves proceed.

To Mr. POPE.

By Mifs JUD. CowPER, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.

POPE, by what commanding wondrous art,
Doft thou each paffion to each breast impart?

Our beating Hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless Love!
Th' elated mind's impetuous starts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul !

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Graces

Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,

Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty!

Soft Waller's cafe, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.

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In each bright page, Strength, Beauty, Genius fhine,
While nervous Judgment guides each flowing Line. 15
No borrow'd Tinfel glitters o'er these Lays,
And to the Mind a falfe Delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The Weight of Senfe and Elegance of Sound.
A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Force, and Fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal Lyre.

The matchless strains our ravish'd fenfes charm:
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully just the turns appear;
The language how majestically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,

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And all the Bard th' inspiring God reveals.
Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,

Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn; Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers furround, And bounteous rush amid poetic ground.

O Windfor! facred to thy blissful feats,

Thy fylvan fhades, the Mufes' lov'd retreats,

Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,

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Whose virgin name no time nor change can hide, Though ev'n her spotless waves should cease to glide : In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,

Still fhall fhe grace and range

the verdant plains;

By him felected for the Mufes' theme,

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Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid stream.
Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art,

Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The spring and test of verse unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Sooth with thy wonted ease and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate tastes refine ;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.

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Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;

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His fpirit heighten'd, yet his sense intire,
As Gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O, for a Mufe like thine, while I rehearse,
Th' immortal beauties of thy various verfe!
Now light as air th' inlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,
Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal Mirrours flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,

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From

From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes;
In each loud ftrain the fiery onset glows;
With ftrength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

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So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand, Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous scene,
There the wide landscape smiles with livelier green,
The floating glafs reflects the distant sky,

And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;
The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,

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Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke receives,

And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;
When Art like lavish Nature's self supplies,
Grace to the limbs, and fpirit to the Eyes;
When ev'n the paffions of the mind are seen,
And the Soul speaks in the exalted Mein;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

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We own the mighty Master's skill, as boundless as

complete.

Lord

Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE.

On reading Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the
English Poets.

F all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine

IF

In Addison's majestic numbers shine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself so well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftness, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meaneft of the Muses' throng,
To thy juft praises tune th' adventurous fong.
How am I fill'd with rapture and delight
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoaking plains.
What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms,
And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul dismay?
But when fome fair-one guides your fofter verse,
Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse;
See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm,

ΤΟ

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And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm. zo
When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage,
Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page.
Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er,
For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

Poor

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