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To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft.

AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

HAL

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Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own:
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various spoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,
And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the paint-
ed bay,

Thy treasures next arriv'd, and now we boast
A nobler cargo on our barren coast:

From thy luxuriant Forest we receive

More lafting glories than the East can give.
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous scenes our bufy thoughts engage !
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While fhe the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat❜ry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,

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The living scene is in the Mufc's glafs.

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

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Than when you fing the greens and op'ning 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 fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade 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:

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Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy beft 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!

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Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic fhores, And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much lov'd fis' walks convey,

And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

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Thence let me view the venerable scene,

The awful dome, the groves eternal green:

Where

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Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,"
And brought the Muses to the fylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic store,
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I fpent my days,
Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign beftow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Mare taught, or Addison inspir'd.

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Even I cflay'd to touch the trembling string : 70
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
. ftrain,:

I rife, and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by the Mufe from fport to fport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy

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On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheafant lie;

His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

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Nor can I país the gen'rous courfer by,
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse..
Oh cou'd 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,
Lodina's murmurs ftop me in the race.

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Who

Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

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The tale be told, when shades forfake her shore, The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.^

Nor fhall, thy fang, old Thames! forbear to fhine, At once the subject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for Victory before.

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Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde,
Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,
At once they murmur and enrich the Ifle,
A while diftinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names, 105'
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

FR. KNAPP.

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To Mr. P OP E,

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOME R.

THEN Phrbus, and the nine harmonious maids,

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Of old affembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy "

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The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse Then afk who wrought that miracle of verfe? He anfwer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal: "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, "Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays.

"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine." E. FENTON.

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To Mr. P O PE.

O praife, and ftill with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

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The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preserve the province of the Friend ;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine;
Thou should'ft not fail of numbers worthy thine;

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