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;
With harpy claws their limbs divide below;
Fell fheers the paffage to their mouth command ;
From out the flesh their bones by nature ftand ;
Broad spread their backs,their fhining fhoulders rife
Unnumber'd joints distort their lengthen'd thighs;
With nervous cords their hands are firmly brac'd;
Their round black eye-balls in their bofom plac'd;
On eight long feet the wond'rous warriors tread;
And either end alike fupplies a head.

These, mortal wits to call the Crabs, agrec,

The Gods have other names for things than we.
Now where the jointures from their loins depend,
The heroes tails with fev'ring grafps they rend.
Here, fhort of feet, depriv'd the powe'r to fly,

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,
Or creap conceal'd in vaulted holes below.

But down Olympus to the western seas
Far-fhooting Phoebus brove with fainter rays ;
And a whole war (fo Jove ordain'd) begun,
Was fought, and ceas'd, in one revolving fun.

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,
Yet ftill preserve the province of the friend,
What life, what vigour, muft the lines require?

What mufic tune them? what affection fire?
O might thy genius in my bofom shine!
Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine,
The brightest antients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himself wou'd own thou doft excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.

Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame
Whom Wind for 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 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
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thòu, a Daphnis he,
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulger wife,
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the prize.

Rapt

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 flow'rets, 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 soft among the trees;
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze,
Smile all thy vallies in eternal spring,

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 sense of great delight,
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retir'd,

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.