From various fprings divided waters glide, But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; FR. KNAPP. To Mr. POPE. In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER. W HEN Phabus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades; 10 ' Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, her name; Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; 14 "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 fpoils to grace "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; "Fame, I forefce, will make reprifals there, 21 "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. T To Mr. POPE. O praife, and still with juft refpect to praise The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend, O might thy Genius in my bofom shine; Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine Horace himself would own thou doft excell In candid arts to play the Critic well, Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame 10 15 How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Mufe the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds; Belles war with Beaux, 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 concealed with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart, The Graces ftand in fight; a Satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene. In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits 30 And fits in measures 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 wise, 35 Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail! Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head: the trees, 40 Still flide thy waters, soft among 45 In English lays, and all fublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He fhines in Council, thunders in the Fight, And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50 Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne; In all the Majesty of Greek retir'd, Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd; His language failing, wrapt him round with night; How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns! Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days, This to my Friend --- and when a friend infpires, |