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In Fame's fair Temple o'er the boldest wits,
Infhrin'd on high, the facred Virgil fits,
And fits in measures, fuch as Virgil's Mufe,
To place thee near him, might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deferv'st the Prize.
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy Poplars whisper o'er my head!
Still flide thy waters foft among the trees,
Thy Afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in Council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with ev'ry fenfe of great delight.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retir'd,

Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Oar,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And fhepherds only fay, The mines were here:
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)



Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vaft, how copious are thy new designs!
How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,

And rife in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
When Windfor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft, -
And Philomela sweetest o'er the reft:

The shades refound with fong-O foftly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.
This to my friend-

friend—and when a friend inspires, My filent harp its master's hand requires,

Shakes off the duft, and makes these rocks refound;
For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground.
Far from the joys that with my foul agree,
From wit, from learning very far from thee.
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;
Here half an Acre's corn is half a fheaf;

Here hills with naked heads the tempeft meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood,
Whofe dull, brown Naiads ever fleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned ease,
A Friend delight me, and an Author please;
Ev'n here I fing, when Pope supplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame..

T. Parnell.


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To Mr. POPE, on the publishing

his WORKS.

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare
The song of triumph, and attend his Car.


Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads,

And throws a luftre o'er the pomp she leads,
First gives the Palm she fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shows 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.

But hark what shouts, what gath'ring crowds 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 see the Chief: before him laurels born,

Trophies from undeserving temples torn;

Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy, dumb, and fickning with despair;
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

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 moft fhall praife, who beft fhall recommend?

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The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends;
The Poeans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands,
Its prospect an unbounded view commands:

Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse,
What laurell❜d Arch for thy triumphant Muse?
Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his shrine,
Tho' 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 fuft, 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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