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With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He strides along, and meets the Gods in fight: Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th’infernal shores,

4 Tremble the tow'rs of Heav'n, earth rocks her coafts, And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts. To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay ; Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play; Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise,

45 Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies ; Or softer than a yielding virgin's figh, The gentle breezes breathe away and die. Thus, like the radiant God who sheds the day, You paint the vale, or gild the azure way ; 50 And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies, Sink without groveling, without rashness rise.

Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulysses fing. How long * that Hero, by unskilful hands,

55 Strip'd of his robes, a Beggar trod our lands? Such as he wander'd o'er his native coast, Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost: O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread; Old age disgråc'd the honours of his head; 60 Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball thin'd The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind. But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold With royal robes, and bid him shine in gold; Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves With grace divine, and like a God he moves.

Oddiy, lib. xvi.

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Ev'n

Ev'n I, the meanest of the Muse's train, Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler strain; Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre, Tun’d by your hand, and sing as you inspire : 70 So arm’d by great Achilles for the fight, Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right: Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boast my name To thine united -- for thy Friendship's Fame.

This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing, 75 While hov'ring angels listen on the wing, To hear from earth such beart-felt raptures rise, As, when they fing, suspended hold the skies : Or nobly rising in fair Virtue's cause, From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80 Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend To verse like thine fierce savages attend, And men more fierce : when Orpheus tunes the lay, Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

W. BROOME.

To Mr. POPE,
On the publishing his WORKS.

H

E comes, he comes ! bid ev'ry Bard prepare

The song of triumph, and attend his Car. Gréat Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads, And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads, Firit gives the Palm The fir'd him to obtain, 5 Crowns his gay brow, and thews him how to reign.

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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 earneit of a God.
But hark what shouts, what gath’ring crouds

rejoice!
Unstain'd their praise by any venal voice,
Such as th’Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And see the Chief ! before him laurels born; 15
Trophies from undeserving temples torn ;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and sick’ning with despair,
Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the sacred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age ; Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likeness in the stream: The Graces these ; and see how they contend, Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.

The Chariot now the painful steep ascends, The Pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends, Here fix’d, the bright eternal temple stands, Its prospect an unbounded view commands:

30 Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse, What laurelld Arch for thy triumphant Muse? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his shrine, Though ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid) 36

Go

Go to the Good and Just, an awful train,
Thy soul's delight, and glory of the Fane :
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
“ Swect to the World, and grateful to the skies."

SIMON HARCOURT,

To Mr. P O P E.

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From Rome, 1730 Minortal Bard ! for whom each Muse has wove

The fairest garlands of th’Aonian Grove; Preserv’d, our drooping Genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night, The darken’d Age's last remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, Inspir’d by memory of ancient Wit; For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their Glory, and their Virtue lost; From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly, Daughters of Reason and of Liberty. Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love, Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove; To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,

15 And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where chear’d with summer rays Melodious linncts warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,

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No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of Fate :
Not that Barbarian'hands her Fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desart, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,
That sacred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30
That there the source of Science Aows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious Names ! that once in Latium fhin'd, Born to inttruct, and to command Mankind; Chiefs, by whose Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, And Poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais d ! Oft I the traces you have left explore, Your ashes visit, and your urns adore; Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould’ring stone, With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;

40 Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow’rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, , Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes 45 Beheld the Poet's awful Form arise: Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his Master bear : 50

Great Bard, whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,

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