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For great mens fashions to be followed are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polish'd ftyle write Paftoral,
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall;
Like fome fair Shepherdefs, the Sylvan Mufe,
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought


More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought. So, with becoming art, the Players dress

In filks the fhepherd, and the shepherdess;


Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,

Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain.
Your rural Mufe appears to justify
The long loft graces of Simplicity:

So rural beauties captivate our fenfe


With virgin charms, and native excellence.

Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
'Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.


Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whofe Mufe did once, like thine, in 'plains delight; Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight; So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the skies.




To Mr. POPE, on his Windsor-Foreft.

AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before



Salutes the from the bleak Atlantic fhore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own: The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand, And China's Earth was caft on common fand: Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted bay,

Thy treasures next arriv'd, and now we boast

A nobler cargo on our barren coast:

From thy luxuriant Forest we receive



More lafting glories than the East can give. 15
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our busy thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her watʼry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave furpass,


The living fcene is in the Mufe's glass.


Nor fweeter notes the echoing Forests chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

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Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades:

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom :
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren side,
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 so 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.
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main ! 50
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic fhores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much lov'd fis' walks convey,
And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable feene,"
The awful dome, the groves eternal green :


.: Where

Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Mufes to the fylvan seat,


Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore, 60
And made that Mufic which was noife before.
There with illuftrious Bards I fpent my days,
Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addifon infpir'd.
Even leffay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding



I rife, and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by the Mufe from sport to sport I run,
Mark the fretelr'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun,
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheafant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.


Nor can I pass the gen'rous courfer by, But while the prancing fteed allures my eye, He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fy O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horfe. Oh cou'd thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85 He'd view a courfer that might match his own! Fir'd with the fport, and eager for the chace, Lodina's murmurs ftop me in the race.


Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail ;


The tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
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.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,



The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde,
Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle,
A while diftinct thro' many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lofe their long-diftinguifh'd names, 105
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.


To Mr. P O PE,

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOME R.

THEN Phebus, and the nine harmonious maids,


Of old assembled 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."


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