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"Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. 16 "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With less regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."

E. FENTON.

TO MR. POPE.

To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Music tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bofom fhine;
Thou should'ft not fail of numbers worthy thine:
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excel

In candid arts to play the Critic well.

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Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Forest fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever through Poetic ground.

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How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's Princess wore, Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds; Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule,

Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.

But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art,

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The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The Graces stand in fight; a Satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits ;
And fits in measures fuch as Virgil's Mufe

To place thee near him might be fond to chufe.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife,

Thinks he deferves, and thou deserv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains.
Indulgent nurfe of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!

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Here

Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:
Still flide thy waters, foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal fpring,
Be hufh'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;

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He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight,

And flames with ev'ry fenfe of great delight.

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Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a diftant throne';
In all the Majesty of Greek retir'd;
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;

His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only fay, The mines were here:
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

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How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns! 65 How ev'ry Mufic varies in thy lines!

VER. 50. And flames] A very poor unmeaning line, and unworthy the fenfible and elegant Parnell!

WARTON.

Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of eafe,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The shades refound with fong-O foftly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my Friend—and when a friend inspires,

My filent harp its master's hand requires ;

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Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks refound; For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground;

Far from the joys that with my foul agree,

From wit, from learning-very far from thee.
Here mofs-grown trees expand the fmallest leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempeft meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned Eafe,
A Friend delight me, and an Author please;
Ev'n here I fing, when POPE fupplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame.

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T. PARNELL.

TO MR. POPE.

LET vulgar fouls triumphal arches raise,

Or fpeaking marbles, to record their praise;
And picture (to the voice of Fame unknown)
The mimic Feature on the breathing stone;
Mere mortals; fubject to death's total sway,
Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!

'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,
A monument which Worth alone can raife:
Sure to furvive, when time fhall whelm in duft
The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft:
Nor till the volumes of th' expanded sky
Blaze in one flame, fhalt thou and Homer die:
Then fink together in the world's last fires,
What heav'n created, and what heav'n infpires.

If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled,
With human transport touch the mighty dead,
Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines;
Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;
Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;
So Tully publifh'd what Lucretius wrote;
Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,
And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.

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Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades,

VER. 17.-thy page] This was a compliment our author could not take much pleasure in reading; for he could not value himfelf on his edition of Shakespear.

WARTON.

A rival

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