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Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day,
While Grubstreet alleys own his lawful sway.

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Now turn, my Mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay fcenes and opening prospects rise.
Hark! how his ruftic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound. 30
The liftening beasts stand fearless as he fings,
And birds attentive close their useless wings.
The swains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun

In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and ftruck with wonder say,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er sung so sweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the isle,

That the kind Mufes thus propitious smile

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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

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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
The fong of triumph, and attend his Car.
Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp she leads,
First gives the Palm she fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shews him how to reign.
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 earnest of a God.

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But hark, what shouts, what gathering crouds rejoice
Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice,
Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatterers sue.
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 support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age;
İntent they read, and all enamour'd seem,

As he that met his likeness in the stream:
The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend,
Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.

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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."

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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.]

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