Strong fuits of armour round their bodies close, Which, like thick anvils, blunt the force of blows; In wheeling marches turn'd oblique they go; These, mortal wits to call the Crabs, agrec, The Gods have other names for things than we. There, without hands, upon the field they lie. Wrench'd from their holds, and fcatter'd all arround, The bended lances heap the cumber'd ground. Help Helpless amazement, fear pursuing fear, And mad confufion thro' their hoft appear: O'er the wild wafte with headlong flight they go, But down Olympus to the western seas ΤΟ To Mr. POPE. O praife, yet ftill with due refpect to praise, A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to fhow, the fenfible commend, What mufic tune them? what affection fire? Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame She runs for ever thro' poetic ground. How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by thy mufe the envy of the Fair; Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly treffes 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 chimic fool. But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart : The Graces ftand in fight; a Satyr train Peep o'er their heads, and laugh 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 muse Rapt Rapt with the thought my fancy feeks the plains, Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale, Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, Be hufh'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil fing, Thy HOMER warms with all his ancient heat, And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight, Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd, His language failing, wrap'd him round with night, Thine rais'd by thee, recals the work to light. |