To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rise, As, when they fing, fufpended hold the Skies: Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's caufc,

From thy own life tranfcribe th' unerringlaws: 80 Teach a bad world beneath her sway 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. BROO ME.

To Mr. P O PE,

On the publishing his WORK s.

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

HE

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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 she fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign. 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 earneft of a God.

3

ΙΟ

But hark, what shouts, 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 Flattʼrers sue.
And see the Chief! before him laurels born; 15
Trophies from undeferving temples torn;

Here rage
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to fupport the blaze of majesty.

enchain'd reluctant raves, and there

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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, 25 Whomost shall praise, who best shall recommend.

The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends, The Pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands, Its prospect an unbounded view commands: 30 Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe,

What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Muse ?

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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 Lesbian maid)
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."

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SIMON HARCOURT.

To Mr. P O PE..

From Rome, 1730.

Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove

IM

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After fo
many stars extinct in night,

The darken'd age's last remaining light!

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

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost : 19

From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.

Nor Baie 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.

15

So in the shades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the

grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state

Has felt the worst severity of Fate:

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Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke, 25
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

Her Cities desert, and her fields unfown ;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world be-
fore.

Illuftrious Names! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command Mankind;

Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was

rais'd,

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And Poets, who those 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 stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown ;

Those 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 strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bofom glow'd,

ravish'd eyes

Crown'd with eternal bays my
Beheld the Poet's awful Form arise :

45

Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Master bear: 50
"Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
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 majestic from thy nobler Bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;

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