Each Mufe for thee with kind contention strove,
For thee the Graces left th' IDALIAN grove:
With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung,
Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue.
Next, to her bard majestick Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the heav'nly flame :
With tafte superior scorn'd the venal tribe,
Whom fear can fway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At fancy's call who rear the wanton fail,
Sport with the ftream, and trifle in the gale:
Sublimer views thy daring spirit bound;
Thy mighty voyage was creation's round;
Intent new worlds of wifdom to explore,
And bless mankind with Virtue's facred ftore;
A nobler joy than wit can give, impart;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastick wit fhoots momentary fires,
And like a meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the fulph'rous breath of Vice,
Like the blue lightning, while it fhines, destroys:
But genius, fir'd by truth's eternal ray,
Burns clear and constant, like the fource of day:
Like this, its beam prolifick and refin'd
Feeds, warms, infpirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly difpels each wint'ry paffion's gloom,
And opens all the virtues into bloom.
This praise, immortal POPE, to thee be giv❜n:
Thy genius was indeed a gift from heav'n.
Hail, bard unequall'd, in whofe deathlefs line
Reason and wit with strength collected shine :
Where matchless wit but wins the fecond praise,
Loft, nobly loft, in truth's fuperior blaze.
Did FRIENDSHIP e'er mislead thy wand'ring Muse?
That friendship fure may plead the great excufe:
That facred friendship which infpir'd thy fong,
Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.
Error like this ev'n truth can scarce reprove;
"Tis almost virtue when it flows from love.
Ye deathless names, ye fons of endless praise,
By Virtue crown'd with never-fading bays!
Say, shall an artless Muse, if you inspire,
Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire?
Or if, O WARBURTON, infpir'd by You,
The daring Mufe a nobler path pursue,
By You infpir'd, on trembling pinion foar,
The facred founts of focial blifs explore,
In her bold numbers chain the tyrant's rage,
And bid her country's glory fire her page :
If fuch her fate, do thou, fair Truth, defcend,
And watchful guard her in an honeft end:
Kindly fevere, inftruct her equal line
To court no friend, nor own a foe but thine.
But if her giddy eye fhould vainly quit
Thy facred paths, to run the maze of wit;
If her apoftate heart fhou'd e'er incline
To offer incenfe at Corruption's fhrine;
Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound,
And dash the smoaking cenfer to the ground.
Thus aw'd to fear, inflructed bards may
That guilt is doom'd to fink in infamy.
A Character of Mr. POPE'S WRITINGS.
An Episode from the Poem call'd SICKNESS, Book II.
By the Rev. Mr. THOMPSON.
(So heav'n has will'd) together with their fnows,
The everlafting hills fhall melt away:
This folid globe diffolve, as ductile wax
Before the breath of Vulcan; like a scroll
Shrivel th' unfolded curtains of the sky;
Thy planets, NEWTON, tumble from their spheres ;
The moon be perish'd from her bloody orb;
The fun himself, in liquid rain, rufh
And deluge with deftroying flames the globe-
Peace then, my foul, nor grieve that POPE is dead.
If e'er the tuneful spirit, sweetly firong,
Spontaneous numbers, teeming in my breast,
Enkindle; O, at that exalting name,
Be favourable, be propitious now,
While, in the gratitude of praise, I fing
The works and wonders of this man divine.
I tremble while I write
Surmounts the loftieft efforts of my age.
What wonder? when an infant, he apply'd
The loud Papinian trumpet to his lips,
Fir'd by à facred fury, and infpir'd
With all the god, in founding numbers fung
"Fraternal rage, and guilty Thebes' alarms."
Sure at his birth (things not unknown of old)
The Graces round his cradle wove the dance,
And led the maze of harmony: the Nine
Prophetick of his future honours, pour'd
Plenteous, upon his lips, Caftalian dews;
And Attick bees their golden ftore distill'd.
The foul of HOMER, fliding from its star,
Where, radiant, over the poetick world
It rules and sheds its influence, for joy
Shouted, and bless'd the birth: the facred choir
Of poets, born in elder, better times,
Enraptur'd, catch'd the elevating found,
And roll'd the gladd'ning news from sphere to sphere.
Imperial Windfor! raise thy brow auguft,
Superbly gay exalt thy tow'ry head;
Tranflation of the First Book of Statius's Thebais. ↳ Windfor Foreft: Mr. POPE born there.
And bid thy forests dance, and nodding, wave
A verdant teftimony of thy joy:
A native ORPHEUS warbling in thy fhades.
O liften to ALEXIS' tender plaint!
How gently rural! without coarseness, plain;
How fimple in his elegance of grief!
A fhepherd, but no clown. His every lay
Sweet as the early pipe along the dale,
When hawthorns bud, or on the thymy brow
When all the mountains bleat, and vallies fing.
Soft as the nightingale's harmonious woe,
In dewy even-tide, when cowflips drop
Their fleepy heads, and languish in the breeze.
Next in the critick-chair furvey him thron'd,
Imperial in his art, prescribing laws
Clear from the knitted brow, and squinted fneer;
Learn'd without pedantry; correctly bold,
And regularly easy. Gentle, now,
As rifing incenfe, or defcending dews,
The variegated echo of his theme:
Now, animated flame commands the foul
To glow with facred wonder. Pointed wit
And keen difcernment form the certain page.
Juft, as the STAGYRITE; as HORACE, free;
As FABIAN, clear; and as PETRONIUS, gay.
e Paftorals.
Effay on Criticifm.
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