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Helpless amazement, fear pursuing fear,
And mad confusion thro' their hoft appear :
O’er the wild waste with headlong flight they go,
Or creep conceal'd in vaulted holes below.

But down Olympus to the western seas
Far-fhooting Phoebus drove with fainter rays ;
And a whole war (lo Jove ordain'd) begun,
Was fought, and ceas’d, in one revolving sun.

TO

To Mr. POPE.

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O praise, yet still with due respect to praise,

A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the friend, What life, what vigour, must the lines require ? What music tune them ? what affection fire ?

O might thy genius in my bosom shine! Thou shouldīt not fail of numbers worthy thine, The brightest antients might at once agree To fing within my lays, and sing of thee. Horace himself wou'd own thou dost excel In candid arts to play the critic well. Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windfor forest sees a gliding stream, On silver feet, with annual ofier crown'd, She runs for ever thro' poetic ground.

How

How Aame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by thy muse the envy of the Fair ;
Less Ihone the treffes Ægypt's princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before,
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds,
Belles war with Beaux, and whims descend for Gods.
The new machines in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the chimic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceald with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart:
The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train
Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits
Inshrin'd on high the sacred Virgil fits,
And fits in measures, such as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he,
While some old Damon o'er the vulgar wise
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize.

Rapt

the trees ;

Rapt with the thought my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
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 slide thy waters soft among
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze,
Smile all thy vallies in eternal spring,
Be hushid, ye winds ! while Pope and Virgil fing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy HOMER warms with all his antient heat,
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And fames with ev'ry sense of great delight,
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, wrap'd him round with night,
Thine rais'd by thee, recals the work to light.

So

So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden oar,
When choak’d by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, The mines were here:
Shou'd some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform’d with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected, Aame with gold again.

How vast, how copious are thy new designs !
How ev'ry music varies in thy lines !
Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.'
Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days,
When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest :
The shades resound with long softly tread!
While a whole season warbles round my head,

This to my friend—and when a friend inspires My silent harp its master's hand requires,

Shakes

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