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TO MR. POPE,
TO MR. POPE.
ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST.
Hail! sacred bard! a Muse unknown before When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. A Muse sincere, that never fattery knew,
To our dark world thy shining page is shown, Pays what to friendship and desert is due.
And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own. Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found,
The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, Art strengthening Nature, sense improv'd by sound. And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: Unlike those wits, whose numbers glide along
A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song ;
The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, Laboriously enervate they appear,
And China's earth was cast on common sand: And write not to the head, but to the ear :
Toss'd up and down the glossy fragments lay, (bay. Our minds unmov'd and unconcern’d they lull,
And dress'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted And are at best most musically dull :
Thy treasures next arriv'd : and now we boast So purling streams with even murmurs creep,
A nobler cargo on our barren cuast : And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
From thy luxuriant forest we receive As smoothest speech is inost deceitful found,
More lasting glories than the East can give. The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound.
Where'er we dip in thy delightful page, But wit and judgment join at once in you,
What pompous scenes our busy thonghts engage! Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too:
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear, Your strains are regularly bold, and please
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were: With unforc'd care, and unaffected case,
Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows With proper thoughts, and lively images;
The sylvan state that on ber border grows, Such as by Nature to the ancients shown,
While she the wondering shepherd entertains Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own :
With a new Windsor in her watery plaius;
The juster lays the lucid wave surpass, great men's fashions to be follow'd are, Although disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear.
The living scene is in the Muse's glass. Some, in a polish'd style write pastoral ;
Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela sits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens and opening glades, Should wear those flowers her native fields produce; And give us harmony as well as shades :
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you And the true measure of the shepherd's wit Should, like his garb, be for the country tit:'
Can paint the grove, and add the music too.
With vast variety thy pagest shine ;
A new creation starts in every line.
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In drcary deserts mix'd with painted plains !
And see the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloon ;
Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride. Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;
Happy the man who strings his tuneful lyre For wits industrious to their trouble seem,
Where wouls, and brooks, and breathing ticids inAnd needs will envy what they must esteem.
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell (spire! Live, and enjoy their spite! 'nor inourn that fate, Amidst the rural joys you sing so well. Which would, if Virgil liv’d, on Virgil wait ;
I in a cold, and in a barren clime, Whose Muse did once, like thine, in planus delight; Here on the Western beach attempt to chine,
Culel as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight: So larks, which first froin lowly fields arise,
O joyless food ! () rough tempestuous main !
Burder' with weeds, and solitudes obscene! Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
Snatch me, ye gouls! from these Atlantic shores, W. WYCHERLEY.
And shelter ini in Windsor's fragraut wuwers;
Or to my much-lov'd Isis' walk convey,
Then let us find in your foregoing page; And on her flowery banks for ever lay.
The celebrating poems of the age; Thence let me view the venerable scene,
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit, The awful dome, the groves eternal green, To hide their judgments who applaud your wit : Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove, And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat; Who strive for you, as Greece for Homer strove; Reformd the wits, unlock'd the classic store, Whilst he who best your poetry asserts, And made that music which was noise before. Ass rts his own, by sympathy of parts. Thers with illustrious bards I spent my days, Me panegyric verse do s not inspire, Not free from censure, nor unknown to praise; Who never well can praise what I admire, Enjoy d the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor in those lofty trials dare appear, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode.
But gently drop this counsel in your ear: The golden minutos arnothly danc'd away, Go on, to gain applauses by desert; And tuncful bards beguild the tedious day: Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage, That Maro taught, or Addison inspir d.
Elate the young, and gravely warın the sage : Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string : Allure, with tender veise, the female race ; Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing? And give their darling passion, courtly grace a
Rous d fro'n these dreams by thy commanding Describe the forest still in rural strains, I rise an ? wander through the fieidor plain; (strain, With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plainst Led by thy Muse, from sport to sport I run,
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay, Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. Nor all the poet in that part displav; Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
Nor let the critic there his skill unfoid, On the cold earth the futtering pheasant lie! For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales hare told . His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
Sooth, as you only can, each different taste, And every feather shines and varies there,
And for the future charm us in the past.
Some envious scribbler night in spite declare,
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceeds
TO MR, POPE,
BY MISS JUD, COWPER, AFTERWARDS MRS. MADAN,
O Pope! by what commanding wondrous art Oh! could Pritannia iwitate thy stream,
Dost thou each passion to each breast impart? The world should tremble at her awful name; Our beating hearts with sprightly measures move, From various springs divided waters glide,
Os melt us with a tale of hapless love!
Th'elated mind's impetuous starts controul,
And singly charmd, uite at once in you:
A style polite, from affectation free, There joy to lose their long distinguishid names, Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty! And make one glorious and immortal Thames. Soft Haller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought,
FR, KNAP. And Spencer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, strength, beanty, genius shine,
No borrow'd tinsel glitters a'er these lays,
And to the mind a fal-e delight conveys :
Throughout the whole ith blended power is found, BY THE RICIT HONOURABLE
The weight of sense, and elegance of sound: ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA,
A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre. The Muse, of every heavenly gift allow'd
The matchless strains our ravish'd senses charm : To be the chief, is public, though not proud. How great the thought! the images how warm! Widely extensive is the poet's aim,
How beautifully just the turus appear ! And in each verse he draws a bill on Fame.
The language how majestically clear ! For none have wit (whatever they pretend) With energy divine each period swells, Singly to raise a patron or a friend;
And all the bard th' inspiring god reveals. But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Lost in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn, Some cainmendations to themselves foresee. Where Thames Jeans bgary o'er his ample urn 3
Where his rich waves fair Windsor's towers surround,
LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE. And bounteous rush amid poetic ground.
ON READING MR. ADDISON'S ACCOUNT OF THE ENGLISH O Windsor! sacred to thy blissful seats, Thy sylsan shades, the Muses' lov'd retreats; Thy rising hills, low vales, and waving woods, Ir all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine, Thy sunny glades, and celebrated foods!
In Addison's majestic numbers shine, But chief Lodona's silver tidi's, that flow
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell, Cold and unsullied as the mountain snow;
Lemain unsung, who sings himneii' so woll? Whose virgin name no time nor ch?"ge can hide, Hear then, grezt bard, who can alike inspire Though ev'n ber spotless waves should cease to With Waller's softness, or with Milion's tire; glide:
Whilst I, the meanest of the Muse's' thrung, In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,
To thy just praises tune th' advent'rous song. Still shall she grace and range the verdant plains; How am I tilld with rapture anl delight, By him selected for the Muses' theme,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, sustain in: right! Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid Like Vilton, then, though in more polish'd strains, stream.
Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoking plains. Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art, What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms, Rule each emotion of the various heart;
And highest Heaven resounds with dire alarins ! The spring and test of verse unrivall’d reign, Doth not the reader with like read survey And the full honours of thy youth maintain ; The wounded gols repuls'd with foul dismay? Sooth, with thy wonted ease and power divine, But when some fair-one guides your softer verse, Our souls, and our degenerate tastes refine: Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; In judgement o'er our favourite follies sit,
See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm And soften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.
And Waller's thoughts in smoother nunbers charm! Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand, When fools provoke, and dunees urge thy rage, And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand ; Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force, Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, In thee rise worthy of their sacred source ;
For still king Tibbald scribbles as before ; His spirit heighten'd, yet his sense entire,
Poor Shakespeare suffers by his pen each day, As gold runs purer from the trying fire.
While Grub-street alleys own his lawful sway. O, for a Muse like thine, while I rehearse
Now turn, my Muse, thy quick, poetic eyes, Th' immortal beauties of thy various verse ! And view gay scenes and opening prospects rise. Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move, Hark! how his rustic numbers charm around, Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,
While groves to grores, and hills to bills resound I Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,
The listening beasts stand fearless as he sings, Sinooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.
And birds attentive close their useless wings. But, when Achilles, panting for the war, The swains and satyrs trip it o'er the plain, Joins the feet coursers to the whirling car ; And think old Spencer is reviv'd again. When the warın hero, with celestial might, But when once more the godlike man begun Augments the terrour of the raging fight,
In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder say, (As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
Sure Spenser's self nc'er sung so sweet a lay: In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes;
Sure once again Eliza glads the Isle, In each loud strain the fiery onset glows;
That the kind Muses thus propitious smile With strength redoubled here Achilles shines,
Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, swains ?. And all the battle thunders in thy lines.
'Tis Pope that sings, anıl Carolina reigns. So the bright magic of the painter's hand
But hold, my Muse! whose aukward verse betrays, Can cities, streams, tall towers, and far stretch'd | Thy want of skill, nor shows the poet's praise ; plains command;
Cease then, and leave some fitter bard to tell Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous Ilow Pope in every strain can write, in every strain scene,
excel, There the wide landscape smiles with livelier
TO MR. POPE,
ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.
He comes, he comes ! bid every bard prepare Where bolder rage informs each breathing line ;
The song of triumph, and attend his car. When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke re
Great Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads, ceives,
And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads ; And Cæsar awful in the canvas lives;
First gives the plan she fir'd him to obtain, When Art like lavish'd Nature's self supplies
Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign. Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the eyes ;
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught, When ev'n the passions of the mind are seen,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought: And the soul speaks in the exalted mien;
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Plcas'd to behold the earnest of a God. When all is just, and regular, and great,
(joice! We own the mighty master's skill, as boundless as
But hark! what shouts, what gathering crouds re
Unstaju'd their praise by any venal voice, complete.
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their duc, Yet Envy still with fiercer rage pursnes,
Obscures the virtue, and defaines the Muse.
Views with vain scorn the malice of inankind : Here Rage enchain'd reluctant rares; and there Not critics, but their planets, prove unjust; Pale Envy dumb, and sick’ning with despair, And are they blam'd who sin because they must? Prone to the Earth she bends her loathing eye, Yet sure not so must all peruse thy lays : Weak to support the blaze of majesty.
I cannot rival--and yet dare to praise. But what are they that turn the sacred page? A thousand charins at once my thoughts engage ; Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;
Sappho's soft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage, Intent they read, and all enamourd seem, Statjus' free rigour, Kirgil's studious care, As he that met his likeness in the stream:
And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air. The Graces these; and see how they contend, So seems some picture, where exact design, Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend. And curious pains, and strength, and sweetness join; The chariot now the painful steep ascends,
Where the free thought its pleasing grace bestows, The pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends. And each warm stroke with living colour glows; Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple stands, Soft without weakness, without labour fair, Its prospect an unbounded view commands : Wrought up at once with happiness and care ! Say, wondrous youth, what column wilt thou chuse, How blest the man that from the world removes, What laurel'd arch for thy triumphant Muse? To joys that Mordaunt', or his Pope, approves; Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine, Whose taste exact each author can explore, Though every laurel through the dome be thine, And live the present and past ages o'er; (From the proud epic, down to those that shade Who, free from pride, from penitence, or strife, The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid) Moves calmly forward to the verge of life : Go to the good and just, and awful train,
Such be my days, and such my fortunes be,
Yet all are born t'adore the great man's name,
The Muse, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays:
A Muse as yet unhonour'd, but unstain'd, To move the springs of nature as we please;
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd; To think with spirit, but to write with case ;
Unbiass'd or to censure or commend, With living words to warm the conscious heart,
Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend; Or please the soul with nicer charnis of art;
Perhaps too fond to make those virtues known, For this the Grecian soar'd in epic strains,
And fix her fame immortal on thy own.
TIE TRIUMVIRATE OF POETS. "Tis yours, like these, with curious toil to trace The powers of language, harmony, and grace;
BY MRS. TOLLET?.
Britals with Rome and Greece contended long How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame,
For lofty genins and poctic song,
In Prior florace shines, sublimely great.
O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praise, For Pope has fix'd it to his native shore.
'Earl of Peterborough, conqueror of Valencia. D. Or ev'n thy life be faultless as thy line;
? Of whom see in Congreve's Poems, vol. X.
BY MR. HARTE.
Horace avec Boileau ;
Voltaire, au Roi de Prusses
I Am inclined to think, that both the writers of books and the readers of them are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations. The first seem to fancy that the world must approve of whatever they produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. Methinks, as, on the one hand, no single man is born with a right of controling the opinions of all the rest ; so, on the other, the world bas no title to demand, that the whole care and time of any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertaiment. Therefore I cannot but believe, that writers and readers are under equal obligations, for as much fame, or pleasure, as each affords the other.
Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection in any work of man: and yet one would think the contrary was taken for granted, by the judgment connonly passed upon poems. A critic supposes he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expression, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be wondered at, if the poets, in general, seem resolved not to own themselves in any errour? For as long as one side will make no allowances, the other will be brought to no acknowlegements'.
In the former editions it was thus" for as long as one side despres a well-meant endeavour, the other will not be satisfied with a moderate approbation.”-- But the author altered it, as these words were rather a consequence from the conclusion be would draw, than the conclusion itself, which be bas now inserted.