Whofe Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight,
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight;
So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the skies.

50

W. WYCHERLEY.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST.

HAIL,
AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

5

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 fpoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand, And China's Earth was caft on common fand: Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, 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 Eaft can give.
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our bufy, thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.

ΙΟ

15

Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows

The fylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wand'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her wat❜ry plains;
Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Mufe's glass.

Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

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

2105

25

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.

With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light, 35
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.

40

Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields

infpire!

Thrice happy thou! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
c 3

45

I in

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic fhores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much lov'd Ifis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry 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 seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store,
And made that Mufic which was noise before.
There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days,
Nor 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 Addison infpir'd.

}

50

55

бо

65

70

Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding

ftrain,

་

I rife and wander through the field or plain;

Led

Led by thy Mufe from sport to fport I run,

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

On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the gen'rous 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 lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
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 ftop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

80

The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

76

85

90

Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the fubject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for Victory before.

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The World fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Ifle;

C 4

96

100

A while

A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.

104

FR. KNAPP.

TO MR. POPE,

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.

WH

HEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5 "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy.” The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth, that envy bids me not conceal : "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,

10

VER. 1. When Phoebus,] By far the moft elegant and beft turned compliment of all addreffed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greek epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and moft gracefully applied;

Ἤειδον μὲν Εγὼν ἔχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Ὅμηρος.

Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau also imitated this epigram,

WARTON.

« Which,