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 feat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious 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.
The golden minutes smoothly 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 efflay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
I rife and wander through the field or plain;
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 fpy
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 pass 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;
The Tale be told, when shades forfake her shore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the fubject and the fong divine.
Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev❜n Britons more Than all their fhouts 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 Ifle;
A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.
WHEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old affembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?,
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse;
Then afk who wrought that miracle of verfe?
He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal
"A truth, that envy bids me not conceal:
Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,
VIR. I. When Phoebus,] By far the most elegant and beft turned compliment of all addreffed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greck epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and most gracefully applied;
ειδον μὲν Εγὼν ἔχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Ομηρος.
Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau alfo imitated this epigram.
"Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. 16 "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celestial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Music tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bofom shine;
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine:
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou doft excel
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Forest fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever through Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's Princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles set the world at odds; Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The Graces stand in fight; a Satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs 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 Mufe
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife,
Thinks he deferves, and thou deserv'st the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
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