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And fits in measures fuch as Virgil's Mufe
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse,
How might he tune th'alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;

While fome old Damon, o'er the yulgar wise, 35
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!


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; He shines in Council, thunders in the Fight, And flames with ev'ry fenfe of great delight. 50 Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like Monarchs fparkling on a distant throne; In all the Majefty 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: 60
Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vaft, how copious, are thy new designs!
How ev'ry Mufic varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of eafe, 70
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela fweetest o'er the reft:
The shades refound with fong--- O foftly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my Friend --- and when a friend infpires,
My filent harp its master's hand requires.
Shakes off the duft, 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. 80
Here mofs-grown trees expand the smallest leaf; ·
Here half an acre's corn is half a fheaf;


Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever fleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned Ease,
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. 90


To Mr. POPE.

ET vulgar fouls triumphal arches raise,

Or speaking 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 fway, Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!

'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise, A monument which Worth alone can raise:


Sure to furvive, when time shall whelm in duft
The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft:
Nor 'till the volumes of th'expanded sky

Blaze in one flame, shalt 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 fhines;
Juft to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;
So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote;
Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,
And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.
Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time


And the bold figure from the canvass fades,
A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part

Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Transported we furvey the dubious ftrife,
While each fair image starts again to life.



How long, untun'd, had Homer's facred lyre Farr'd grating difcord, all extinct his fire?


This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to fing,
Call'd the loud mufic from the founding ftring.
Now wak'd from flumbers of three thoufand years,
Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,
Tow'rs o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,
Keen flash his arms, and all the Hero burns; 36
With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,
He ftrides along, and meets the Gods in fight:
Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors,
Start at the din that rends th'infernal fhores, 40
Tremble the tow'rs of Heav'n,earth rocks her coafts,
And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.
To ev'ry theme refponds thy various lay;
Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play;

Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rife,


Tofs the wild waves, and thunder in the fkies; Or fofter than a yielding virgin's figh,


The gentle breezes breathe away and die.
Thus, like the radiant God who fheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;
And while with ev'ry theme the verfe complies,
Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.
Proceed,great Bard! awake th'harmonious string,
Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing.

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