Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day, 25 Now turn, my Mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes, In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue, That the kind Mufes thus propitious smile 35 Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, fwains? 'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns. But hold, my Muse! whose aukward verfe betrays Thy want of skill, nor fhew the poet's praise; Cease then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell 40 45 How Pope in every strain can write, in every strain excell. To H To Mr. P O PE. On the publishing his WORKS. Bard every prepare E comes, he comes! bid 15 But hark, what shouts, what gathering crouds rejoice But what are they that turn the facred page? As he that met his likeness in the stream: 20 25 The The Chariot now the painful steep afcends, The Peans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands: Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse, What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Muse? Though each great Ancient court thee to his shrine, Though every Laurel through the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid) Go to the Good and Just, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane: While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies, "Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies." 30 35 40 SIMON HARCOURT. [The verses to Mr. Pope, by the Duke of Buckingham, Dr. Parnell, Mr. Broome, Mr. Fenton, and Lord Lyttelton, are inferted among the Poems of their refpective Authors.] PRE |