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Nor fweeter notes the echoing Forests chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

Than when you fing the greens and opening glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades:

A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.

With vast variety thy pages shine;

A new creation starts in every line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,




And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd, with painted plains!
And fee! the deserts caft a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields infpire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys, you fing fo 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 tempeftuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay,



55 Thence

Thence let me view the venerable scene,
'The awful dome, the groves eternal green:
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Mufes to the fylvan feat,

Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addifon infpir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?




Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe, from fport to fport I run,

Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. 75
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy

On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.
Nor can I pafs the generous courfer by;
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lofe the courfe,
Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horfe.




Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,

He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the fport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?

The foft complaint shall over Time prevail;

The Tale be told, when shades forfake her shore,
The Nymph be fung, when the can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the fubject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur, and enrich the isle;
A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lofe their long-diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.








To Mr. P OPE,

By the Right Honourable


THE Mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd

To be the chief, is public, though not proud.

Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,

And in each, verfe he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themfelves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age,
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:
But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who strive for you, as Greece for Homer strove.
Whilft he who beft your Poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verfe does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;

Inform the head, whilst you diffolve the heart:
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:

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Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race,
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace.
Defcribe the Forest still in rural strains,

With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the Critic there his fkill unfold,



For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each different tafte,

And for the future charm as in the past.
Then, fhould the verse of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, fince short in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in spight declare,

That for comparison you plac'd them there.

But Envy could not against you fucceed:



'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Cenfure or Praife muft from ourselves proceed.

To Mr. POPE.

By Mifs JUD. CowPER, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.

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POPE, by what commanding wondrous art,

Doft thou each paffion to each breast impart?

Our beating Hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless Love!
Th' elated mind's impetuous ftarts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled soul !



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