"With less regret my claim I now decline, "The world will think his English Iliad mine.” E. FENTON. TO MR. POPE. TO praise, and still with just respect to praise O might thy genius in my bosom shine, 5 To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10 Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts to play the critic well. How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore, Here courtly trifles set the world at odds; Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods. The new machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave frenzy of the chemic fool. But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, 25 Peeps o'er their heads, and laughs behind the scene. In fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits, To place thee near him might be fond to chuse : 30 35 Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail! 40 Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, Smile, all ye vallies, in eternal spring, 45 In English lays, and all sublimely great, 50 Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd; Fed the large realms around with golden ore, How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65 And rise in raptures by another's heat. Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days, 70 The shades resound with song....O softly tread, This to my friend....and when a friend inspires, My silent harp its master's hand requires, 76 Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground; Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning....very far from thee. 80 85 Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, T. PARNELL. c 2 TO MR. POPE. LET vulgar souls triumphal arches raise, Or speaking marbles, to record their praise; And picture (to the voice of fame unknown) The mimic feature on the breathing stone; Mere mortals, subject to death's total sway, Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day! 5 10 'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise, A monument which worth alone can raise ; Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dust The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust: Nor, 'till the volumes of th' expanded sky Blaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die : Then sink together in the world's last fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires. If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, 15 With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakspeare rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines; Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought: So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote: Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow. 20 Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades, |