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The wondrous 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
“ Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale,
“I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,
“ Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind,
“ Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
“ And fir’d with thirst of more than mortal praise,
“From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays.

« But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,
« Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;
" Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West,
« And the white Isle with female pow'r is blest;
« Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
« And the Translator's Palm to me transfer.
“ With less regret my claim I now decline,
« The World will think his English Iliad mine.”

E. FENTON.

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To Mr. P O P E.

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10 praise, and still with just respect to praise

A Bard triumphant in immortal bays, The Learn'd to show, the Sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the Friend ; What life, what vigour must the lines require ?

5 What Music tune them, what Affection fire?

O might thy Genius in my bosom shine ;
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine ;

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The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10

Horace himself would own thou doft excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream:
On silver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd, 15
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Muse the Envy of the Fair? Less shone the tresses Ægypt's Princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 20 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds ; Belles war with Beaux, and Whims descend 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, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart. The Graces stand in sight; a Satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits Inshrin'd on high the sacred Virgil fits; And fits in measures such as Virgil's Muse To place thee near him, might be fond to chuse. How might he tune th' alternate reed with thec, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he; While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife, 35 Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the Prize, Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains, And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains. Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale, Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail !

40 Here

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Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head :
Still fide thy waters, soft among the trees,
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,

45 Be hulh’d, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.

In English lays, and all sublimely 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;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais’d by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only fay, The mines were here :
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform’d with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein ;
The mines detected Aame with gold again

How vaft, how copious, are thy new designs !
How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines !
Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when summer dress’d the days, .
While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:

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The shades resound with song - softly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my Friend--and when a friend inspires,
My filent harp its master's hand requires,
Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;
.For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground:
Far from the joys that with my soul agree,
From wit, from learning-very far from thee. 8
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned Ease,
A Friend delight me, and an Author please;
Ev'n here I fing, when Pope supplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho’not increase his fame. 98

T. PARNELL,

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To Mr. POPE.

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ET vulgar souls triumphal arches raife,

Or speaking marbles, to record their praise ; And picture (to the voice of Fame unknown) The mimic Feature on the breathing stone; Mere mortals; subject to death's total sway, 5 Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day! VOL. I. b

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'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praile, A monument which Worth alone can raise; Sure to survive, when time fhall whelm in dust The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust: IO Nor 'till the volumes of th' expanded sky Blaze in one fiame, shalt thou and Homer die : Then sink together in the world's last fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.

If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightnefs thines; Just to thy Fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote; Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow. Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time in

vades, And the bold figure from the canvass fades, A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part

25 Some latent grace, and equals art with art; Transported we survey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life.

How long, untun'd, had Homer's sacred lyre Jarr'd grating discord, all extinct his fire?

30 This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to fing, Call’d the loud music from the founding string. Now wak'd from slumbers of three thousand years, Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears, Tow'rs o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns, Keen flath his arms, and all the Hero burns ; 36.

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