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Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle feats,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feafons lavish all their pride:
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise,
And the whole year in gay confufion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand paffions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties 1 defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public fhows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb:
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies :
And here the proud triumphal arches rife,
Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forfake the fields below,

And wond'ring at their heighth through airy channels flow.
Still to new scenes my wand'ring mufe retires;

And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires
Where the smooth chisel all its force has fhown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone,

In folemn filence, a majeftic band,

Heroes, and gods, and Roman confuls ftand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,

And emperors in Parian marble frown;

;

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly fu'd,
Still fhow the charms that their proud hearts fubdu'd.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show th' immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled strength of shade and light,
A new creation rifes to my fight,

Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with fecret pleasure toft,
Amidst the foft variety I'm loft:

Here pleafing airs my ravish'd foul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of found;

Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my n:ufe.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land,
And scatter'd bleffings with a wasteful hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,

Her blooming mountains, and her funny fhores,
With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart,
The fmiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppreffion in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny ufurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The red'ning Orange and the fwelling grain :
Joylefs he fees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant fhade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curft,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright,
Profufe of blifs, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy prefence reign,
And fmiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eas'd of her load fubjection grows more light,
And poverty looks chearful in thy fight;
Thou mak'ft the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'ft beauty to the fun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddefs, thee, Britannia's ifle adores;
How has the oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy prefence fought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ¡
On foreign mountains may the fun refine
The grapes foft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant foil,
And the fat olive fwell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarfenefs of our heav'n repine,
Tho' o'er our heads the frozen pleiads shine:

'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains fmile. Others with tow'riug piles may please the fight,

And in their proud afpiring domes delight;

A nicer touch to the ftretcht canvas give,

Or teach their animated rocks to live:

Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold prefumptuous kings with war,
And answer her afflicted neighbour's Pray'r.
The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms,
Blefs the wife conduct of her pious arms:
Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease,
And all the northern world lies hufh'd in peace.
Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with fecret dread
Her thunder aim'd at his afpiring head,
And fain her godlike tons wou'd disunite
By foreign gold, or by domeftic spite;
But ftrives in vain to conquer or divide,
Whom Nassau's arms defend and counfels guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I fo oft have found
The distant climes and diff'rent tongues refound,
I bridle in my struggling mufe with pain,
That longs to lanch into a bolder strain,
But I've already troubled you too long,
Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous fong,
My humble verse demands a fofter theme,
A painted meadow, or a purling stream;
Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays,
And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, thou'd praise.

There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, display'd in the following letter from lord Lyttleton to Mr. Pope; and the meflage from the fhade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and juftly preceptive, may prove an useful leffon to future bards.

A Letter from the Right Honourable the Lord LYTTLETON to Mr. POPE.

From Rome, 1730.

Immortal bard! for whom each mufe has wove

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extin&t in night,
The darken'd ages laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit;

G

For now no more these climes their influence boaft,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft;
From tyrants, and from priefts, the mufes fly,
Daughters of reafon and of liberty.

Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the
grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd state

Has felt the worft severity of fate :
Not that barbarian hands her fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defert, and her fields unfown ;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,

That facred wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of fcience flows no more,
Whence its rich freams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious names! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd !
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore ;

Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'er-grown ;
Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th' infpiring mufe my bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes, Beheld the poet's awful form arise:

Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his mafter bear.

Great bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near Me and Homer thou afpire to fit,
No more let meaner fatire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy noble bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus ftray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleafing way;
Nor when each soft engaging mufe is thine,
Addrefs the leaft attractive of the nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lafting column to thy country's praise,
To fing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has loft;
Where science in the arms of peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's fhade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I ftrung,
Such was the people whofe exploits I fung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd,
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phabus crown'd,
Dauntless oppofers of tyrannic fway,

But pleas'd, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.

If these commands fubmiffive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,

And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving time thall confecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.

The great use of medals is properly defcribed in the enfuing elegant epiftle from Mr. Pope to Mr. Addifon; and the extravagant paffion which fome people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very juftly ridiculed.

From Mr. POPE to Mr. ADDISON. Occafioned by his dialogue on MEDALS.

See the wild wafte of all-devouring years! How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears: With nodding arches, broken temples spread ! The very tombs now vanish like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations fpoil'd,

Where mix'd with flaves the groaning martyr toil'd:

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