Such as by Nature to the Ancients shewn,

Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own: men's fashions to be follow'd are,

For great

Altho' disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polish'd style write Paftoral,

Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall;

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Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the Shepherd's wit

Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought

More nicely than the common swains be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players dress,
In filks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdefs;

Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify

The long loft graces of Simplicity:

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So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.

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Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd, "Till by men's Envy to the world reveal'd; For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,

And needs will envy what they must esteem.

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Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;

VER. 28. Sylvan Mufe] From Boileau's Art of Poetry, Chant, 2. 1. 1.

Whofe Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight;
So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

W. WYCHERLEY.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST.

HAIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

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Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own. The Eaftern pomp had just bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand, And China's Earth was cast on common fand: Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted bay. Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boast

A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive
More lafting glories than the Eaft can give.
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.

ΙΟ

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Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows

The fylvan state that on her border grows,
While fhe the wand'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watʼry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,

The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

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Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades, And give us Harmony as well as Shades:

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too.

With vast variety thy pages fhine ;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light, 35

And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deserts caft a pleafing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.

s}

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Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields

inspire!

Thrice happy thou! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
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I in

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
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 fylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store,
And made that Mufic which was noise before,
There with illustrious 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 foft abode.

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бо

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The golden minutes fmoothly 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:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

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Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

Irife and wander through the field or plain;

Led

Led by thy Mufe from fport to fport 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 dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pafs the gen'rous courfer by,
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, 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,
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 fhall over time prevail;

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The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

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Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to fhine, At once the fubject 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 stream,

The World fhould tremble at her awful name:

From various fprings 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 Isle;

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A while