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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 shakes with all his ghofts.
To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay;
Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play;
Sonorous as the storm 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 sheds the day,
You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;
And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies,
Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.
Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string,
Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing.
How long that Hero, by unfkilful hands,
Strip'd of his robes, a Beggar trod our lands ?
Such as he wander'd o'er his native coaft,
Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior loft:
O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread;
Old age difgrâc'd the honours of his head;
Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shin'd
The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.
But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold
With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;
Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves
With grace divine, and like a God he moves.
Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Muse's train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain ;
Advent❜rous waken the Mæonian lyre,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire : 70
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:
Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boaft my name
To thine united for thy Friendship's Fame.
This labour paft, of heav'nly fubjects fing,
While hov'ring angels liften on the wing,
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rife,
As, when they fing, fufpended hold the skies:
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's cause,
From thy own life tranfcribe th' unerring laws: 80
Teach a bad world beneath her fway to bend ;
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,
And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
To Mr. P O PE,
On the publishing his WORKS.
E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare
The fong of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads, And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads, Firit gives the Palm fhe fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a God.
But hark what fhouts, what gath'ring crouds rejoice!
Unftain'd their praife by any venal voice,
Such as th'Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And see the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeferving temples torn ;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.
But what are they that turn the facred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age; Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likeness in the stream : The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, Who most shall praife, who beft shall recommend. The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends, The Peans cease; thy glorious labour ends, Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands: Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe, What laurell'd Arch for thy triumphant Muse? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his fhrine, Though ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to thofe that fhade The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid)
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies."
Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The faireft garlands of th'Aonian Grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more;
After fo many ftars extinct in night,
The darken'd Age's laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;
For now no more thefe climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their Glory, and their Virtue loft;
From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the fhades, where chear'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd ftate
Has felt the worft severity of Fate :
Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defart, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,
That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious Names! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftru&t, and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown ;
Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife: Stranger, he faid, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy, happy native air, To Pope this message from his Master bear : Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself infpire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,