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N those more dull, as more censorious days,
Where few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
25 Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral, Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall. Like some fair shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce; And the true measure of the shepherd's wit
30 Should, like his garb, be for the country fit : Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought More nicely than the common swain's be wrought. So, with becoming art, the players dress In filks the shepherd, and the shepherders;
Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
40 With virgin charms, and native excellence. Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd, 'Till by men's envy to the world reveald; For wits industrions to their trouble seem, And needs will envy what they must esteem.
45 Live and enjoy their spite ! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv’d, on Virgil wait; Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight, Thine shall, like his, foon take a higher flight; So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
50 Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
To Mr. POPE, on his WINDSOR-FOREST.
AIL! sacred bard ! a muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own. The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
5 And India pour'd her gawdy treasures here : A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, And China's earth was cast on common sand : Tofs'd up and down the glofly fragments lay, And dress’d the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted bay.
Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coast : From thy luxuriant Forest we receive More lasting glories than the East can give. 15
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
With vaft variety thy pages shine ; A new creation starts in ev'ry line. How sudden trees rise to the reader's fight, And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35 And give at once the day, at once the night! And here again what sweet confusion reigns, In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains ! And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom : 40 Whilst fruitful crops rife by their barren fide, And bearded groves display their annual pride,
Happy the man who strings his tuneful lyre Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire ! Thrice happy you ! and worthy beft to dwell
45 Amidst the rural joys, you sing so well. I in a cold, and in a barren clime, Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, Here on the western beach attempt to chime. O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! 59 Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much-lov'd Isis' walk convey,
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain,
The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,
Nor shall thy song, old Thames ! forbear to shine,
100 Murinur along their crooked banks a while, At once they murmur, and enrich the isle; A while distinct thro' many channels run, But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names, 105 And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
To Mr. P O P E.
· In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.
W HEN Phæbus, and the nine harmonious maids
W Of old assembled in the Thespian shades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear? Reply'd the god; “ Your loftiest notes employ, 5 " To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse : Then ask who'wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'd with a frown; “ I now reveal " A truth that Envy bids me not conceal: 6 Retiring frequent to this laureat vale, - 1 warbled to the lyre that fav’rite tale,