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T Stowe in Buckinghamshire, the feat of Earl Temple, is a building called The Temple of British Worthies, defigned by Kent. One of the niches has a buft of Pope, with the following inscription:

ALEXANDER POPE,

Who uniting the correctness of judgment to the fire of Genius, by the melody and power of his numbers,

gave sweetness to sense, and grace to philofophy.

He employed the pointed brilliancy of wit to chastise the vices, and the eloquence of poetry to exalt the virtues of human nature; and being without a rival in his own age, imitated and tranflated, with a spirit equal to the originals, the best poets of Antiquity.

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TO MR. POPE.

o move the springs of nature as we please,

To think with spirit, but to write with ease:
With living words to warm the conscious heart,
Or please the foul with nicer charms of art,
For this the Grecian foar'd in Epic strains,
And fofter Maro left the Mantuan plains:
Melodious Spencer felt the lover's fire,
And awful Milton ftrung his heav'nly lyre.

'Tis yours, like these, with curious toil to trace The pow'rs of language, harmony, and grace,

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How

How nature's felf with living luftre shines ;
How judgment strengthens, and how art refines;
How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame,
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame :
To charm us more thro' negligence than pains,
And give ev'n life and action to the strains:
Led by fome law, whofe pow'rful impulse guides
Each happy stroke, and in the foul prefides:
Some fairer image of perfection, giv'n
T' infpire mankind, itself deriv'd from heav'n.

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O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praise;
Blest in thy life, and bleft in all thy lays!
Add that the Sifters ev'ry thought refine;
Or ev❜n thy life be faultlefs as thy line;
Yet envy
ftill with fiercer rage pursues,
Obfcures the virtue, and defames the muse.
A foul like thine, in pains, in grief refign'd,
Views with vain scorn the malice of mankind:
Not critics, but their planets prove unjust:
And are they blam'd who fin because they must? 30
Yet fure not fo must all perufe thy lays;

I cannot rival- -and yet dare to praise,
A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage,
Sappho's foft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's ftudious care,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.

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So feems fome Picture, where exact defign, And curious pains, and strength and sweetness join:

Where

Where the free thought its pleafing grace bestows, And each warm ftroke with living colour glows: 40 Soft without weakness, without labour fair;

Wrought up at once with happiness and care!

How bleft the man that from the world removes To joys that MORDAUNT, or his POPE approves; Whose taste exact each author can explore, And live the prefent and past ages o'er: Who free from pride, from penitence, or strife, Move calmly forward to the verge of life: Such be my days, and fuch my fortunes be, To live by reason, and to write by thee!

Nor deem this verfe, tho' humble, thy difgrace;

All are not born the glory of their race:
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.

The Muse who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays:
A Muse as yet unhonour'd, but unstain'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd:
Unbyafs'd, or to cenfure or commend,

Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend;
Perhaps too fond to make thofe virtues known,

And fix her fame immortal on thy own.

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WALTER HARTE.