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O joyless flood! Orough tempestuous main! 50
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 sylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store, 60
And made that Mufic which was noife 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 Windsor in the soft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly 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 Addifon infpir'd.


Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string: 79 Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding Atrain,

I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;



Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd Line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather shines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by, 7
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, 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, 85
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 refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint shall over time prevail ;
The Tale be told, when shades forfake her shore,


The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,

At once the subject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev❜n Britons more Than all their shouts for Victory before.


Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,

The World should tremble at her awful name:

From various springs 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;
A while diftinct thro' many channels run,


But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.


To Mr. POPE.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

HEN Phœbus, and the nine harmonious



Of old affembled in the Thefpian shades;
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 anfwer'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, "Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; 14 "And fir'd with thirft of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays.

"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, 21 "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With less regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."



To Mr. POPE.

O praise, and still with juft refpect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The Learn'd to show, the Senfible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend ;
What life, what vigour must the lines require? 5
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?

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O might thy Genius in my bofom shine; 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 dost excell

In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding stream :
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.



How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds; Belles war with Beaux, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool. But know, yeFair, a point concealed with art, 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 Inshrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits 5

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