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RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS PASTORALS.

In thofe more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A mufe fincere, that never flattery knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verfe are found,
Art strengthening nature, fense improv'd by found.
Unlike those wits, whofe numbers glide along
So ímooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,

And write not to the head, but to the car:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull : ·
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into fleep.
As fmootheft fpeech is most deceitful found,
The fmootheft numbers oft are empty found.
But wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age confummate too :
Your ftrains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected cafe,
With proper thoughts, and lively images;
Such as by nature to the ancients fhewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Although difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some, in a polish'd ftyle, write paftoral:
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.
Like om fair fhepherdefs, the Sylvan mufe
Should wear thofe flowers her native fields pro-
duce;

And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought;
So, with becoming art, the players drefs
In fiks the shepherd, and the fhepherdess;
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-lost graces of fimplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence :
Yet long her modefty those charms conceal'd,
Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;

For wits induftrious to their trouble seem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whofe mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight:
So larks, which firft from lowly fields arife,
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
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is fhewn,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The eastern pomp had juft bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,
And drefs'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the paint-
ed bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boaft
A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:
From thy luxuriant forest we receive
More lasting glories than the caft can give.

Where'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous fcenes our busy thoughts engage The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear, Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were: Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhews The fylvan state that on her border grows, While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains With a new Windfor in her watery plains; The jufter lays the lucid wave surpass, The living scene is in the mufe's glass. Nor fweeter notes the echoing forefts cheer, When Philomela fits and warbles there, Than when you fing the greens and opening glades, And give us harmony as well as fhades: A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you Can paint the grove, and add the music too,

With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in every line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom;
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who firings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
infpire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren to my rhyme,
Here on the wellern beach attempt to chime,
O joyless flood: O rough tempestuous main !
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye gods from thefe Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery 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 mufes to the fylvan feat;
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claffic ftore,
And made that mufic which was noife before.
There, with illuftrious bards, I fpent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise :
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
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 cffay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rous'd from thele dreams by thy commanding
strain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy mufe, from fport to fport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

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Nor can I pafs the generous courfer by; But while the prancing fteed allures my eye, He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the course, Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horse. Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down, He'd view a courier 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 fhades forfake her fhore, The nymph be fung when the can flow no more. Nor fhall the fong, old Thames. forbear to thine,

At once the fubject and the fong divine.

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Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name;
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the isle;
A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftingafh'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAP.

TO MR. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.

THE mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extenfive is the poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron or a friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer ftrove;
Whilft he who beft your poetry asserts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in thofe lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;
Inform the head, whilft you diffolve the heart;
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Defcribe the forest still in rural strains,

With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains:
Your tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the poet in that part display;
Nor let the critic there his fkill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told:
Soothe, as you only can, each different taste,
And for the future charm us in the past.
Then, fhould the verfe of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be fhewn,
Unless, fince fhort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.

But envy could not against you fucceed:

'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Cenfure or praife muft from ourselves proceed.

TO MR. POPE,

BY MISS JUD. COWPER, AFTERWARDSMRS. MADAN.

O POPE by what commanding wondrous art Doft thou each paffion to each breaft impart? Our beating hearts with sprightly measures move, Or melt us with a tale of hapless love! Th' elated mind's impetuous ftarts control, Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul! Graces till now that fingly met our view, And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you: A ftyle polite, from affectation free, Virgil's correctneís, Homer's majesty! Soft Waller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought, And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought. In each bright page, strength, beauty, genius fhine, While nervous judgment guides each flowing line. No borrow'd tinfel glitters o'er these lays, And to the mind a falfe delight conveys: Throughout the whole with blended power is found, The weight of fenfe, and elegance of found : A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire, Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre. The matchless strains our ravish'd fenfes charm: How great the thought! the images how warm! How beautifully just the turns appear! The language how majestically clear! With energy divine each period fwells, And all the bard th' inspiring God reveals. Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes 1 turn, Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn; Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers fur

round,

And bounteous rufh amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blissful feats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the mufes' lov'd retreats;
Thy rising hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods!
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;
Whole virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her fpotlefs waves fhould ceafe to
glide:

In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,
Sull fall the grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the mufes' theme, [ftream.
Still fhine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid
Go on, and, with thy rare refistless art,
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The fpring and teft of verfe unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Soothe, with thy wonted eafe and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate taftes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
Ard foften Wifdom's harsh reproofs to wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;
Has fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe entire,
As gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O. for a mufe like thine, while I rehearse
an' amortal beauties of thy various verfe!

Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled love,
Gay as the freaks that ftain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,
From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarfe verfe we fee th' embattled foes;
In each loud train the fiery onfet glows;
With ftrength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright magic of the painter's hand Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

Here fpreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene,

There the wide landfcape fmiles with livelier green;
The floating glafs reflects the distant sky,
And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;
The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,
Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the ftretch'd cloth a rougher stroke receives,
And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;
When art like lavish nature's self supplies,
Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the eyes;
When ev'n the paffions of the mind are seen,
And the foul fpeaks in the exalted mien;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

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We own the mighty Master's skill, as boundless as complete.

LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE,
On reading Mr. Addison's Account of the Englifo Poets.

Ir all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
In Addison's majestic numbers thine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself fo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftness, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meanest of the mufes throng,
To thy juft praifes tune th' adventurous fong.

How am I fill'd with rapture and delight,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoking plains.
What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms,
And highett Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul difmay?

But when fome fair one guides your softer verfe, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in fmoother numbers charm! When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great hard, your fruitlefs toil give o'er, For fill king Tibbald fcribbles as before; A j

Poor Shakspeare fuffers by his pen each day,
While Grub-street alleys own his lawful fway.
Now turn, my mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay fcenes and opening profpects rife.
Hark! how his ruftic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound!
The liftening beasts stand fearless as he fings,
And birds attentive close their useless wings.
The fwains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun
In words fmooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder fay,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er fung so sweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the ifle,
That the kind muíes thus propitious fmile-
Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, fwains?
'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns.

But hold, my mufe! whofe awkward verfe betrays
Thy want of skill, nor fhews the poet's praise;
Cease then, and leave some fitter bard to tell
How Pope in every strain can write, in every
ftrain excel.

TO MR. POPE,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.

He comes, he comes! bid every bard prepare
The song of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp she leads;
First gives the palm fhe fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
'Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a God.

But hark! what shouts, what gathering crowds
rejoice!

Unftain'd their praise by any venial voice,
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,
When prostitutes, or needy flatterers fue.
And fee the chief! before him laurels borne;
Trophies from undeserving temples torn :
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves; and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her lothing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem,
As he that met his likeness in the stream:
The Graces thefe; and see how they contend,
Who most shall praife, who beft fhall recommend.
The chariot now the painful fleep afcends,
The Paans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple stands,
Its profpect an unbounded view commands:
Say, wondrous youth, what column wilt thou
choose,

What laurel'd arch for thy triumphant mufe? Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine, Though every laurel through the dome be thine,

(From the proud epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid) Go to the good and just, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the fane: While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,

"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies." SIMON HARCOURT.

TO MR. POPE,

BY MR. HARTE.

To move the springs of nature as we please;
To think with fpirit, but to write with ease;
With living words to warm the conscious heart,
Or please the foul with nicer charms of art;
For this the Grecian foar'd in epic strains,
And fofter Maro left the Mantuan plains:
Melodious Spenfer felt the lover's fire,
And awful Milton ftrung his heavenly lyre.

'Tis yours, like thefe, with curious toil to trace
The powers of language, harmony, and grace;
How Nature's felf with living luftre shines,
How judgment ftrengthens, and how art refines;
How to grow bold with confcious fenfe of fame,
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;
To charm us more through negligence than pains,
And give ev'n life and action to the strains:
Led by fome law, whofe powerful impulfe guides
Each happy stroke, and in the foul prefides;
Some fairer image of perfection given

T' infpire mankind, itself deriv'd from heaven.
O ever orthy, ever crown'd with praile,
Bleft in thy life, and bleft in all thy lays!
Add that the Sitters every thought refine,
Or ev❜n thy life be faultlefs as thy line;
Yet Envy ftill with fiercer rage pursues,
Obfcures the virtue, and defames the muse.
A foul like thine, in pains, in grief refign'd,
Views with vain fcorn the malice of mankind:
Not critics, but their planets, prove unjust;
And are they blam'd who fin because they must?
Yet fure not fo muft all perufe thy lays :

I cannot riyal-and yet dare to praise.

A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage;
Sappho's foft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's ftudious ca e,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's cafier air.

So feems fome picture, where exact design, And curious pains, and strength, and sweetness join; Where the free thought its pieafing grace bestowe, And each warm ftroke with living colour glows; Soft without weakness, without labour fair, Wrought up at once with happiness and care!

How bleft the man that from the world removes, To joys that Merdaunt, or his Pope, approves ; Whose tafte exact each author can explore, And live the present and past ages o'er ; Who, free from pride, from penitence, or ftrife, Moves calmly forward to the verge of life:

*Earl of Peterborough.

Such be my days, and fuch my fortunes be,
To live by reason, and to write by thee!

Nor deem this verfe, though humble, a disgrace:
All are not born the glory of their race :
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.
The mufe, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays :
A mufe as yet unhonour'd, but unftain'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd;
Unbials'd or to cenfure or commend,
Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend;
Perhaps too fond to make thofe virtues known,
And fix her fame immortal on thy own.

THE TRIUMVIRATE OF POETS,

BY MRS. TOLLET.

BRITAIN with Greece and Rome contended long
For lofty genius and poetic fong,

Till this Auguftan age with Three was bleft,
To fix the prize, and finish the contest.
In Addison, immortal Virgil reigns;
So pure his numbers, fo refin'd his strains:
Of nature full, with more impetuous heat,
In Prior Horace fhines, fublimely great.
Thy country, Homer! we dispute no more
For Pope has fix'd it to his native shore.
A iiij

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