Whofe virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her spotless waves should cease to glide :
In mighty Pope's immortalizing ftrains,

Still fhall fhe grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the Mufes' theme,

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Still fhine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid stream.

Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art, Rule each emotion of the various heart;

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The spring and test of verse unrival'd reign,

And the full honours of thy youth maintain;

Sooth with thy wonted ease and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate tastes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,

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And soften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,

And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,

In thee rife worthy of their facred source;

His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe intire,

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As Gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O, for a Mufe like thine, while I rehearse,
Th' immortal beauties of thy various verse !
Now light as air th' inlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,
Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal Mirrours flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,

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From

From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes;
In each loud ftrain the fiery onset glows;
With ftrength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

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So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand, Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

Here fpreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene,
There the wide landscape smiles with livelier green,
The floating glafs reflects the diftant sky,

And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;

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The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,

Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the stretch'd cloth a rougher ftroke receives,

And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;

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When Art like lavish Nature's felf supplies,
Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the Eyes;
When ev'n the paffions of the mind are seen,
And the Soul speaks in the exalted Mein;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

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We own the mighty Mafter's skill, as boundless as

complete.

Lord

b 2

Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE.

I

On reading Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the English Poets.

F all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine

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In Addison's majestic numbers shine, Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics tell, Remain unfung, who fings himself so well? Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire With Waller's softness, or with Milton's fire; Whilft I, the meaneft of the Muses' throng, To thy juft praises tune th' adventurous fong. How am I fill'd with rapture and delight When gods and mortals, mix'd, sustain the fight! Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains, Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoaking plains. What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms, And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms! Doth not the reader with like dread survey The wounded gods repuls'd with foul dismay ? But when fome fair-one guides your softer verse, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm. 20 When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

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Poor

Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day,
While Grubstreet alleys own his lawful sway.

Now turn, my Mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay fcenes and opening profpects rife.
Hark! how his ruftic numbers charm around,

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While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound. 30
The listening beasts stand fearless as he fings,

And birds attentive close their useless wings.
The swains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun

In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder fay,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er sung so sweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the isle,

That the kind Mufes thus propitious smile

Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, swains?— 'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns.

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But hold, my Muse! whose aukward verse betrays Thy want of fkill, nor fhew the poet's praise; Cease then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell How Pope in every strain can write, in every strain excell.

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To

To Mr. P O PE.

On the publishing his WORKS.

E comes, he comes! bid every Bard prepare

The fong of triumph, and attend his Car.
Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads,
First gives the Palm she fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shews 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 earneft of a God.

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ΙΟ

But hark, what shouts, what gathering crouds rejoice Unftain'd their praise by any venal voice,

Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatterers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels borne;
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 feem,
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.

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The