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A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our ftrand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy 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 lafting glories than the East can give.
Where e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes 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 shows
The fylvan ftate that on her border
While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat'ry plains:
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,


The living scene is in the Mufe's glass.


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

Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too.

With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation ftarts in ev'ry line.
How sudden 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!

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And here again what sweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom:
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves display 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 rhime,
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 fhores,

And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,


The awful dome, the groves eternal
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,


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And made that Mufic which was Noise before.
There with illuftrious Bards I fpent my days,
Nor 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 cou'd 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 thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,

Mark the ftretch'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 dazling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by,
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, 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 purfue the flying horse.
Oh cou'd 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 ftop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;
The Tale be told, when fhades forfake her shore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
Nor shall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the fubject and the song divine.
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Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! cou'd Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle,
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,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.





To Mr. POPE,

In imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.


THEN Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades;

What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit thefe harps to found, and thee to hear?



Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy. The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse? 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 treasur'd in his mind; “And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, 15 "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the West, And the White Ifle with female pow'r is beft; Fame, I foresee, will make reprizals there, And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. With less regret my claim I now decline, The World will think his English Iliad mine.




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