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 ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain;
I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe, from fport to fport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. 75
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every
Nor can I pass the generous courfer by;
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.
feather fhines and varies there.
Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He 'd view a courfer 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 the can flow no more.
Nor fhall the fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the fong divine.
Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more 95
Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name;
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Marmur 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 sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.
◄HE Muse, 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 verse he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
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 ftrove;
Whilft he who beft your Poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel 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:
VOL. XLV.
Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Defcribe the Foreft ftill 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 display;
Nor let the Critic there his fkill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told:
Sooth, as you only can, each different taite,
And for the future charm us 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 fhort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in fpite 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 Praise muft from ourselves proceed.
ΤΟ MR. POPE,
By Mifs JUD. CowPER, afterwards Mrs. MADAN.
POPE! by what commanding wondrous art
Doft thou each paffion to each breaft 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 foul!
Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty!
Soft Waller's eafe, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, Strength, Beauty, Genius fhine,
While nervous Judgment guides each flowing Line. 15
No borrow'd Tinfel glitters o'er these Lays,
And to the Mind a falfe Delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The Weight of Senfe, and Elegance of Sound:
A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Force, and Fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal Lyre.
The matchlefs ftrains our ravifh'd fenfes charm:
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully juft the turns appear!
The language how majeftically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,
And all the Bard th' infpiring God reveals.
Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,
Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn; Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers furround, And bounteous rush amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blifsful feats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the Mufes' lov'd retreats;
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods!
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain (now;
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