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IN those more dull, as more censorious days,

Where few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A mufe sincere, that never flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendfhip and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found 5
Art strength’ning nature, sense improv'd by found.
Unlike those wits, whose numbers glide along
So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song :
Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best moft mufically dull :
So purling streams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
As smootheft fpeech is most deceitful found,

The finootheft numbers oft' are empty found.
But wit and judgment joily at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too :
Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images :
Such as by nature to the ancients Thewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own :
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear.

Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall.
Like some fair shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the shepherd's wit

Should, like his garb, be for the country fit :
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common swain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the players dress
In filks the shepherd, and the shepherdess;




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Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely rufset of the swain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify
The long-loft graces of simplicity :
So rural beauties captivate our sense

40 With virgin charms, and native excellence. Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd, 'Till by men's envy to the world reveald; For wits industrions to their trouble seem, And needs will envy what they must esteem.

45 Live and enjoy their spite ! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv’d, on Virgil wait; Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight, Thine shall, like his, foon take a higher flight; So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,

50 Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.




AIL! sacred bard ! a muse unknown before

Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own. The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,

5 And India pour'd her gawdy treasures here : A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, And China's earth was cast on common sand : Tofs'd up and down the glofly fragments lay, And dress’d the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coast : From thy luxuriant Forest we receive More lasting glories than the East can give. 15




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Where'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 so true the fair Lodona shows
The fylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wond'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat'ry plains ;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.

Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you sing 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 music too.

With vaft variety thy pages shine ; A new creation starts in ev'ry line. How sudden trees rise to the reader's fight, And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35 And give at once the day, at once the night! And here again what sweet confusion reigns, In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains ! And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom : 40 Whilst fruitful crops rife by their barren fide, And bearded groves display their annual pride,

Happy the man who strings his tuneful lyre Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire ! Thrice happy you ! and worthy beft to dwell

45 Amidst the rural joys, you sing so well. I in a cold, and in a barren clime, Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, Here on the western beach attempt to chime. O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! 59 Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obscene!

Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;





Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,

' And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

55 Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves eternal green: Where sacred Hough, long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat, Reform'd the wits, unlock’d the classic store, 60 And made that music which was noise before. There with illustrious bards I spent my days, Not free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful bards beguild the tedious day: They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison inspir’d. Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling ftring : 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing ?

Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rife and wander thro' the field or plain ; Led by thy Muse, from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun. 75 Ah ! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie? His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear, And ev'ry feather shines and varies there. Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by,

80 But while the prancing steed allures my eye, He starts, he's gone! and now I fee 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 courser that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace, Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race. Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale? The soft complaint shall over time prevail ;

90 The 66 Which

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The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,
The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.

Nor shall thy song, old Thames ! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine.
Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more 95
Than all their thouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world should tremble at her awful name :
Froin various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murinur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur, and enrich the ifle ;
A while distinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,

105 And make one glorious and immortal Thames.


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· In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.
WHEN Phæbus, and the nine harmonious maids

Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear ?
Reply'd the god; “ Your loftieft notes employ, 5
To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy.
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse :
Then ask who'wrought that miracle of verse?
He answer'd with a frown; “I now reveal

a ;
" A truth that Envy bids me not conceal:

Retiring frequent to this laureat vale, “I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,


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