One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed
Can all defert in Sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at fome mens ways, But a much greater to give Merit praife.
To Mr. POPE on his Paftorals.
N these more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A Mufe fincere, that never Flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verfe are found
Art ftrength'ning Nature, Senfe improv'd by Sound.
Unlike thofe Wits, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at beft moft mufically dull:
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hufh the heavy hearers into sleep.
As fimootheft fpeech is moft deceitful found,
The smootheft 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 eafe
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Antients fhewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great mens fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polish'd ftyle write Paftoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;
Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe,
Should wear thofe 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 must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwains be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players drefs
In filks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdess;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain.
Your rural Mufe appears to justify
The long loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
'Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
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 Muse did once, like thine, in plains defight; Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight; So Larks, which firft from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the skies. W. WYCHERLEY.
To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft. HAIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is fhown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eaftern pomp had juft befpoke 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 sand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,
And drefs'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 coaft:
From thy luxuriant Forest 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 scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While fhe the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her wat❜ry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave furpass,
The living scene is in the Mufe's glafs.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing forefts cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
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 Music too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;
A new creation ftarts 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 pleasing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom :
Whilft 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 in-
spire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy beft 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 as my rhyme,
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 thefe Atlantic fhores,
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 Mufes to the fylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic flore,
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 beftow'd,
Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode.
The golden minutes fimoothly 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 Addison infpir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,
I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'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 ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by,
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He farts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lofe the courfe,
Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horfe.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
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