For great mens fashions to be followed are,
Altho' disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear. 25
Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;
Like some fair Shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse,
Should wear thofe flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the shepherd's wit 30
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common swain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks the shepherd, and the shepherdess; 35
Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify
The long lost graces of Simplicity :
So rural beauties captivate our sense

40 With virgin charms, and native excellence. Yet long her Modefty those charms conceal'd, 'Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd; For Wits industrious to their trouble seem, And needs will envy what they must esteem. 45

Live and enjoy their spite ! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whose Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine shall, like his, foon take a higher flight ; So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, 50 Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

W. WYCHERLEY,

To

To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Forest.

HI

AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

Salutes the from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own. The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, 5 And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, The pride of Persia glitter'd on our ftrand, And China's Earth was cast on common fand : Toft'd up and down the glofly fragments lay, And dress’d the rocky shelves, and pav'd the paint

}

ed bay,

Thy treasures next arriv'd, and now we boast
A nobl r cargo on our larren coast:
From thy luxuriant Forest we receive
More lasting 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 scenes in all their pride appear,

: Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were. Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows

20 The fylvan state that on her border grows, While she the wond'ring fhepherd entertains With a new Windsor in her '

wat'ry plains ; Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass, The living scene is in the Muse’s glass.

25 Nor sweeter notes te echoing Forests chear, When Philomela fits and warbles there, +

Than

a

}

Than when you sing 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.

31
With vast variety thy pages shine;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains !
And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom : 40
Whilft fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride:

Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields in

spire! Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45 Amidst the rural joys you sing 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 tempestuous main ! 50 Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!

Snatch me, ye Gods ! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bów’rs ;. Or to my much lov'd Ifis? walks convey, And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

55 Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves' eternal green:

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Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Classic store, : 60
And made that Music which was noise before.
There with illustrious Bards I spent my days,
Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy’d the bleflings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode.

65
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguild the tedious day :
They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.
Even I essay'd to touch the trembling string : 70
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing ?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding

strain, I rise, and wander thro’ the field or plain ; « Led by the Muse from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretel'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun. Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy 76 On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie; His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear, And every feather shines and varies there. Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by,

80 But while the prancing steed allures my eye, He starts, he's gone! and now I see him Ay O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse. Oh cou'd thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85 He'd view a courser that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace, Lodina's murmurs stop me in the race.

Who

a

Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The soft complaint shall over time prevail; 90
The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,
The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

Nor shall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine.
Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their shouts for Victory before.

56 Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream, The world should treinble at her awful name: From various springs divided waters glide, In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde,

100 Murmur along their crooked banks awhile, At once they murmurand enrich the Isle, A while distinct thro' many channels run, But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;' There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names, 105 And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

FR. KNAPP.

To Mr. P OPE,
In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

WHE

HEN Ph.ebus, and the nine harmonious

maids, Of old assembled in the Thespian shades; What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear ? Reply'd the God; “ Your loftieft notes employ, 5

" « Tosing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."

The