O might thy Genius in my bofom fhine;
Thou fhould't not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou doft excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding ftream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever through l'oetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
Made by thy Mufe the envy of the Fair?
Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's Princess wore,
Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds;
Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, 25
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart.
The Graces stand in fight; a Satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the fcene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits;
And fits in meafures fuch as Virgil's Mufe
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife,
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains.
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 aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hufh'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
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 every fenfe of great delight.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs fparkling on a distant throne;
In all the Majesty of Greek retir'd,
Himfelf 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 Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And Shepherds only fay, The mines were here:
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)
VER. 50. And flames] A very poor and unmeaning line, and unworthy the fenfible and elegant Parnell!
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.
How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns! 65
How ev'ry Mufic varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of eafe,
70
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The fhades refound with fong-O foftly tread,
While a whole feafon warbles round my head.
This to my Friend—and when a friend inspires, My filent harp its master's hand requires ; 76 Shakes off the duft, and makes thefe 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 mofs-grown trees expand the fmalleft leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
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 fupplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame.
ET vulgar fouls triumphal arches raife,
Or fpeaking marbles, to record their praise ;
And picture (to the voice of Fame unknown)
The mimic Feature on the breathing ftone;
Mere mortals; fubject to death's total fway,
Reptiles of earth, and beings of a
day!
'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,
A monument which Worth alone can raife:
Sure to furvive, when time fhall whelm in duft
The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft:
Nor till the volumes of th' expanded fky
Blaze in one flame, fhalt thou and Homer die:
Then fink together in the world's laft fires,
What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.
If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled,
With human transport touch the mighty dead,
Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines;
Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;
Juft to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;
So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote;
Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,
And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.
Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades,
VER. 17.-thy page] This was a compliment our author could not take much pleasure in reading; for he could not value himself on his edition of Shakespeare.
A rival hand recalls from every part
Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Tranfported we furvey the dubious ftrife,
While each fair image ftarts again to life.
- How long, untun'd, had Homer's facred lyre
Jarr'd grating difcord, all extinct his fire?
This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to fing,
Call'd the loud mufic from the founding ftring.
Now wak'd from flumbers of three thoufand years,
Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,
Tow'rs o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,
Keen flash his arms, and all the Hero burns;
With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,
He ftrides along, and meets the Gods in fight:
Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors,
Start at the din that rends th' infernal fhores,
Tremble the tow'rs of Heav'n, earth rocks her coafts,
And gloomy Pluto fhakes with all his ghofts.
To ev'ry theme refponds thy various lay;
Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play;
Sonorous as the ftorm thy numbers rife,
Tofs the wild waves, and thunder in the fkies;
Or fofter than a yielding virgin's figh,
The gentle breezes breathe away and die.
Thus, like the radiant God who fheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;
And while with ev'ry theme the verfe complies,
Sink without grov'ling, without rafhness rife.
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