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For great mens fashions to be followed are,
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.
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
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
The living fcene is in the Mufe's glass.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing Forests chear,
Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades,
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,
Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic fhores,
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
I rife, and wander thro' the field or plain;
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 tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
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."