The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boast From thy luxuriant Forest we receive grows, The fylvan ftate that on her border 20 25 Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades, And give us Harmony as well as Shades: A new creation ftarts in ev'ry line. How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight, And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom : 40 Whilft fruitful crops rise by their barren fide, And bearded groves display their annual pride. Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields. inspire! Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well. I in a cold, and in a barren clime, Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, Here on the Western beach attempt to chime. 50 O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main! The awful dome, the groves eternal 65 Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string: 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing? Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding ftrain, I rife and wander through the field or plain; 3 Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run, On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie; 76 Nor can I pass the generous courfer by, 80 But while the prancing steed allures my eye, He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse. Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85 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 refuse Lodona's melting tale? The foft complaint shall over time prevail; 90 The Tale be told, when shades forfake her shore, The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more. Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the fubject and the fong divine. Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more Than all their fhouts for Victory before. 96 Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream, The World should tremble at her awful name : τόσ From various springs divided waters glide, To Mr. POPE. In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER. WHE HEN Phæbus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, ́Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5 "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth, that envy bids me not conceal : |