The whole poetical works of Alexander Pope, Esq., including his translations ...

405

fay 465 [vey? To the chafte Queen, fhall we the news conOr hears the, and with bleffings leads the day?, Difiifs that care, fr to the royal bride, Already is it known (the king reply'd, And itraight refum'd his feat) while round him bows

He faints, he finks, with mighty joys opprefs'd: | Who knows thy blefs'd, thy wish'd return! Oh,
Ulyffes clafps him to his eager breast.
Soon as returning life regains its feat,
And his breath lengthens, and his pulfes be it;
Yes, I believe (he cries) almighty Jove!
Heaven rules us yet, and Gods there are above.
'Tis fo the fuitors for their wrongs have paid-
But what fhall guard us, if the town invade? 412
If, while the news through every city flies,
All Ithaca and Cephalenia rife?

420

425

To this Ulyffes: As the Gods fhall pleafe 415
Be all the reft; and fet thy foul at eafe.
Hafte to the cottage by this orchard fide,
And take the banquet which our cares provide:
There wait thy faithful band of rural friends,
And there the young Telemachus attends.
Thus having faid, they trac'd the garden o'er,
And ftooping enter'd at a lowly door.
The fwains and young Telemachus they found,
The victim portion'd, and the goblet crown'd.
The hoary king, his old Scicilian maid
Perfum'd and wash'd, and gorgeously array'd.
Pallas attending gives his frame to thine
With awful port, and majefty divine;
His gazing fon adinires the godlike grace,
And air celeftial dawning o'er his face,
What God, he cry'd, my father's form improves?
How high he treads, and how enlarg'd he moves!
Oh! would to all the deathlefs Powers on high,
Pallas and Jove, and him who gilds the sky!
(Reply'd the king elated with his praise)
My strength were ftill, as once in better days:
When the bold Cephalens the leaguer form'd,
And proud Nericus trembled as I ftorm'd.
Such were I now, not absent from your deed
When the laft fun beheld the fuitors bleed,
This arm had aided yours; this hand beftrown
Our floors with death, and pufh'd the flaughter

430

435

440

Nor had the fire been feparate from the fon.
They commun'd thus; while homeward bent
their way

449

The fwains, fatigu'd with labours of the day; 445
Dolius the firft, the venerable man;
And next his fons, a long fucceeding train.
For due refection to the bower they came,
Call'd by the careful old Sicilian dame,
Who nurs'd the children, and now tends the fire;
They fee their lord, they gaze, and they admire.
On chairs and beds in order feated round,
They fhare the gladiome board; the roofs re-
found.

While thus Ulyffes to his ancient friend:
"Forbear your wonder, and the feaft attend; 455
"The rites have waited long." The chief com-

469

Each taithful youth, and breathes out ardent

VOWS:

flies,

495

Or facred Elis, to procure fupplies;
Arife (or ye for ever fall) arife!
Shame to this age, and all that fall fucceed!
If unreveng'd your fons and brothers bleed.
Prove that we live, by vengeance on his head, 500
Or fink at once forgotten with the dead.

Here ceas'd he, but indignant tears let fall Spoke when he ceas'd: dumb forrow touch'd them all.

When from the palace to the wondering throng
Sage Medon came, and Phemius came along 505
(Reftlefs and early feep's foft bands they broke);
And Medon frft th' affembled chiefs befpoke:

510

Hear me, ye peers and elders of the land,
Who deem this act the work of mort d band;
As o'er the heaps of death Ulyffes ftrode,
Thefe eyes, thefe eyes beheld a prefent God,
Who now before him, now befide him flood,
Fought as he fought, and mark'd his with
blood:

way

In vain old Mentor's form the God bely'd;
'Twas Heaven that ftruck, and Heaven was on his
fde.

515

A fudden horror all th' affembly fhook,
When, flewly rifng, Halitherfes fpoke:
(Reverend and wife, whofe comprehenfive view
At once the prefent and the future knew)
Me too, ye fathers, hear! from you proceed 520
The ills ye mourn; your own the guilty deed;

535

They part, and join him; but the number ftay'd.
They ftorm, they fhout, with hafty plarenzy fir'd,
And fecond all Eupithes rage infpir'd.
They cafe their limbs in brafs; to arms they run;
The broad effulgence blazes in the fun.
Before the city, and in ample plain,
They meet: Eupithes heads the frantic train,
Fierce for his fon, he breathes his threats in air;
Fate hears them not, and Death attends him
there.

This pafs'd on earth, while in the realms

above

Minerva thus to cloud-compelling Jove:
May I prefume to Search thy fecret foul?
O Power fupreme! O Ruler of the whole!
Say, baft thou doom'd to this divided ftate
Or peaceful amity, or stern debate?
Declare thy purpofe; for thy will is Fate.

540

545

Is not thy thought my own? (the God replies Who rolls the thunder o'er the vaulted skies) Hath not long fince thy knowing foul decreed, The chief's return fhould make the guilty bleed?

550

The fuffering hero felt his patient breast
Swell with new joy, and thus his fon addrefs'd;
Behold, Telemachus! (nor fear the fight)
The brave embattled; the grim front of fight!
The valiant with the valiant muft contend:
Shame not the line whence glorious you defcend,
Wide o'er the world their martial fame was
spread;

Regard thyfelf, the living, and the dead.

Thy eyes, great father! on this battle caft, 590 Shall learn from me Penelope was chafte.

602

So fpoke Telemachus! the gallant boy
Good old Laertes heard with panting joy; [cries,
And, Blefs'd! thrice blefs'd this happy day! he
The day that shows me, ere I close my eyes, 595
A fon and grandson of th' Arcefian name
Strive for fair virtue, and contèft for fame!
Then thus Minerva in Laertes' ear:
Son of Arcefius, reverend warrior, hear!.
Jove and Jove's Daughter firft implore in prayer,
Then, whirling high, difcharge thy lance in air,
She faid, infaling courage with the word:
Jove and Jove's Daughter then the chief implor'd,
And, whirling high, difmifs'd the lance in air,
Full at Eupithes drove the deathful fpear;
The brafs-cheek'd helmet opens to the wound;
He falls, earth thunders, and his arms refound,
Before the father and the conquering fon 608
Heaps rush on heaps; they fight, they drop, they
Now by the fword, and now the javelin, fall [run.
The rebel race, and death had swallow'd all;
But from on high the blue-ey'd virgin cry'd;
Her aw'ul voice detain'd the headlong tide. 613
"Forbear, ye nations! your mad hands forbear
"From mutual flaughter: Peace defcends to
"fpare."

Fear fhook the nations: at the voice divine,
They drop their javelins, and their rage refign.
All fcatter'd round their glittering weapons lie;
Some fall to earth, and fome confus'dly fly. 620
With dreadful fhouts Ulyffes pour'd'along,
Swift as an eagle, as an eagle ftrong.
But Jove's red arm the burning thunder aims;
Before Minerva fhot the livid flames:
Blazing they fell, and at her feet expir'd:
Then ftopp'd the Goddefs, trembled, and retir'd.
Defcended from the Gods! Ulyffes, cease;
565 Offend not Jove: obey and give the peace.

'Tis done, and at thy will the Fates fucceed,
Yet hear the iffue: fince Ulyffes' hand
Has flain the fuitors, Heaven fhall blefs the land,
None now the kindred of th' unjust shall own;
Forgot the flaughter'd brother, and the fon: 555
Each future day increafe of wealth fhall bring,
And o'er the past, Oblivion ftretch her wing.
Long fhall Ulyffes in his empire reft,
His people blefing, by his people blefs'd.
Let all be peace-He faid, and gave the nod 560
That binds the Fates; the fanction of the God:
And, prompt to execute th' eternal will,
Defcended Pallas from th' Olympian hill.
Now fat Ulyffes at the rural feat,
The rage of hunger and of thirft reprefs'd:
To watch the foe a trufty spy he fent;
A fon of Dolius on the meflage went,
Stood in the way, and at a glance beheld
The foe approach, embattled on the field.
With backward ftep he liftens to the bower, $70
And tells the news. They arm with all their

625

So Pallas fpoke: the mandate from above
The king obey'd. The Virgin-feed of Jove, 630
In Mentor's form, confirm'd the full accord,
"And willing nations knew their lawful lord."

RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS PASTORALS.

'N thofe more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praife,
A Mufe fincere, that never Flattery knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.

Unlike thofe Wite, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the foug:
Laborious y enervate they appear,

And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Cur minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at beft moft mufically dull:
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And huff the heavy hearers into f.eep.

As finootheft fpeech is molt deceitful found,
The fmootheft numbers oft are empty found.
But Wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too:
Your ftrains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images;
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's faftions to be follow'd are,
Although difgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear. 25
Some, in a polifh'd style write Paftoral;
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.
Like fome fair Shepherdets, the Sylvan Mufe
Should wear thofe flowers her native fields pro-
duce;

And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet ruft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought;
So, with becoming art, the Players drefs
In filks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdess;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
'Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the Twain.
Your rural Mufe appears to juftily
The long-loft graces of fimplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence :
Yet long her Modeity those charins conceal'd,
To by men's Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live, and enjoy their fpite nor mourn that
fate,

ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST. TAIL! facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The Pride of Perfa glitter'd on our firand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the glofly fragments lay, to
And dref 'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the
painted bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boaft A nobler cargo ou our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive

More lasting glories than the Eaft can give. 15 Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,

What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were:
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watery plains;
The jufter lays the lucid wave furpa's,
The living scene is in the Mufe's glass.
Nor tweeter notes the echoing Foreft chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you fing the greens and opening
glades,

And give us Harmony as well as Shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you 30
Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too.
With vast variety thy pages fine;
A new creation ftarts in every line.
How fudder trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light, 35
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufon reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts cart a pleaing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom; 40
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.

Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre Where woods, and brooks, and breathing telds infpire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy beft to dwell 45
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and ba ren as my rhyme,
Here on the Weitern beach attempt to chime.
O joy lefs floed! O rough tempeftuous main! 50
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic
fhores,

And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.

Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the grove's eternal green, Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Mufes to the fylvan feat; Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic flore, 60 And made that Mufic which was noife before. There with illuftrious Bards I fpent my days,

Halutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore. Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife;

To our dark world thy fhining page is shown, And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own. The Faftorn pomp had just bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:

Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.

5 The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil❜d the tedious day :

Ab! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fines and varies there.

Nor can I pass the generous courfer by; 80
But while the prancing iteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the course,
Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horfe.
Oh, could 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,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fall over Time prevail;
The Tale be told when fades forfake her fore,
The Nymph be fung when the can flow no more.
Nor fhall the fong, old Thames! forbear to
fine,

At once the fubject and the fong divine

But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer frove;
Whilst he who beft your Poetry alerts,
Afterts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me Panegyric verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praife what I admire,
Nor in thofe lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;
Inform the head, whilt you diffolve the heart:
Infame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the Female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace :
Defcribe the Foreft fill in rural ftrains,
With vernal fweets frefl-breathing from the
plains:

Your Tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the Critic there his kill unfold, -
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told :
Sooth, as you only can, each diferent taste,
And for the future charm us in the paft.
Then, fould the verfe of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unlefs, fince fort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in fpite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But Envy could not against you fucceed:

Peace, fung by thee, fall pleafe ev'n Britons 'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.

THE Mufe, of every heavenly gift allow'd
Turtle
To be the chief, is public, though not
proud.

Widely extenfive is the Poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on Fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or obiect be,
Some commendations to themfelves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

read;

Cenfure or Praise must from ourselves proceed.

TO MR. POPE.

BY MISS JUD. COWPER, AFTERWARDS

MRS. MADAN.

༢༨

The Weight of Senfe, and Elegance of Sound:
A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Fores, and Fire,

Tohide their judgments who applaud your wit: Graces each mation of th' immortal Lyre.

In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,
Still hall the grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the Mufes' there,

Still fine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid
ftream.

Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The fpring and test of verse unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Sooth, with thy wonted eafe and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate taftes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foften Wifdom's harth reproofs to Wit.
Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;
His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe intire,
As Gold runs purer from the trying fre.
O, for a Mufe like thine, while I rehearse
Th' immortal beauties of thy various verfe!

F all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
In Addifon's majestic numbers frine,
Why then fhould Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself fo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftnefs, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meaneft of the Mufes' throng,
To thy just praifes tune th' adventurous fong.

How am I fillet with rapture and delight,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, sustain the fight! 10
Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoaking plains.
What though archangel 'gainft archangel arms,
55 And higheit Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul difmay?
But when fome fair-one- guides your fofter
verfe,

Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move, 60 Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearfe;

Soft as the doway plumes of fabled Love,
Gay as the freaks that ftain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's cryftal mirrours flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warin hero, with celeftial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,
From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarfe verfe we fee th'embattled foes; 70
In each loud ftrain the fiery onfent glows;
With ftrength redoubled here Achilles fines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand
Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd
plain, command;

Here reading woods embrown the beauteous

See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm!

When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy
rage,

Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page.
Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er,
For ftill king Theobald fcribbles as before;
Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day, 25
While Grub-treet alleys own his lawful sway.

Now turn, my Mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay feeres and opening profpects rife.
Hark! how his ruftic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound!
The liftening beafts ftand fearlefs as he fings, 31
And birds attentive clofe their ufelefs wings.
The fwains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun 35
In words fmooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and ftruck with wonder fay,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er fung so sweet a lay:

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