Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'dLine, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the generous courfer by, 80
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I fee 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 fhall 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 subject and the fong divine.
Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The World should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle;
A while distinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; 104
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAPP.
In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.
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: 10
VOL. I.
D
"Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, "Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ringGreek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirft of more than mortal
"From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays.
"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the West, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."
To praife, and ftill with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend, Yet ftill preserve the province of the Friend; What life, what vigour muft the lines require? 5 What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine ; Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brightest Ancients might at once agree To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding ftream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Mufe the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt'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 conceal'd with art, 25
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The graces stand 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;
And fits in measures such 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 wife, 35
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize? Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains. 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 flide thy waters, foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines 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;
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