Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous scenes our busy 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 wand'ring fhepherd entertains With a new Windfor in her wat❜ry plains; Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,

The living scene is in the Mufe's glass.

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25

Nor sweeter notes the echoing forest 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 Mufic too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

34

And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light,
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 deferts caft a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom: 40

VER. 16. Where-e'er we dip] There are feveral lines in this copy of verses, which would not be endured in a common monthly magazine. So much is the public ear, and public taste improved!

1

Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.

Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!

Thrice happy thou! 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 rhime,
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.

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50

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 store,
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 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:

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6.

65

They

They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

70

Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding

ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,

Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy

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On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;

His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the generous courfer by,
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer 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 refuse Lodona's melting tale?

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The foft complaint shall over time prevail;

The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her shore, The Nymph be fung, when fhe can flow no more.

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Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to fhine, At once the subject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,

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The World should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Ifle;
A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAPP.

104

TO MR. POPE.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.

WE

HEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old affembled in the Thespian shades ; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5 "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."

VER. 1. When Phoebus] By far the most elegant and beft turned compliment of all addressed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greek epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and most gracefully applied;

Ἤειδον μὲν Εγὼν, ἔχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Ομηρος.

Fenton was the best Greek fcholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau alfo imitated this epigram.

The

10

The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then ask who wrought that miracle of verfe? He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal “A truth, that envy bids me not conceal: "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, "Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. 16 "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With less regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."

E. FENTON.

T

TO MR. POPE.

o praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preserve the Province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require ?
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?

C 4

5

O might