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Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Muse's train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,

Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire : 70
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:

Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boaft my name
To thine united for thy Friendship's Fame.

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This labour paft, of heav'nly fubjects fing,
While hov'ring angels liften on the wing,
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rise,
As, when they fing, fufpended hold the skies;
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's cause,

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From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80
Teach a bad world beneath her fway to bend ;
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,

And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

W. BROOME,

To Mr. P O PE,

On the publishing his WORKS..

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare

HE

The fong of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads, And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads, First gives the Palm fhe fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.

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Thus

Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the carneft of a God.

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But hark what fhouts, what gath'ring crouds
rejoice!

Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice,
Such as th'Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeferving temples torn ;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with defpair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

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But what are they that turn the facred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age; Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likeness in the stream: The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend. The Chariot now the painful steep afcends, The Peans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands: Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe, What laurell'd Arch for thy triumphant Muse? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his shrine, Though ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the foft Lefbian maid)

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Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies."
SIMON HARCOURT.

To Mr. P OPE.

From Rome, 1730.

Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The faireft garlands of th'Aonian Grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd Age's laft remaining light!

To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

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For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their Glory, and their Virtue loft;
From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.

Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,

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No

No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd state

Has felt the worft severity of Fate:

Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,

And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defart, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

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That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, That there the fource of Science flows no more, Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.

Illuftrious Names! that once in Latium fhin'd, Born to inftruct, and to command Mankind; Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, And Poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd! Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your ashes vifit, and your urns adore;
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown ;
Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

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As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife: Stranger, he said, whofe pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive fhade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this meffage from his Mafter bear:

Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,

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If

If high exalted on the Throne of Wit,
Near Me and Homer thou afpire to fit,
No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
That flow majeftic from thy nobler Bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleafing way;
Nor, when each foft engaging Mufe is thine,
Addrefs the leaft attractive of the Nine.

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Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise A lafting Column to thy Country's Praise, To fing the Land, which yet alone can boaft That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft; Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, And plants her Palm beneath the Olive's fhade. Such was the Theme for which my lyre I ftrung, Such was the People whofe exploits I fung; Brave, yet refin'd, for Arms and Arts renown'd, With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless oppofers of Tyrannic Sway,

But pleas'd, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.

If these commands fubmiffive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name fhall live;
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,

And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time fhall confecrate thy Lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's Praise.

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GEORGE LYTTELTON,

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