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Sure once again Eliza glads the ifle,

That the kind Mufes thus propitious fmileWhy gaze you thus? Why all this wonder, fwains?

'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns.

But hold, my Mufe! whofe aukward verfe
betrays

Thy want of fkill, nor fhows the Poet's praife;
Ceale then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell 45
How Pope in every ftrain can write, in every
strain excel.

ΤΟ

Mr. POPE,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.

HE

While through the earth thy dear remembrance
Alies,

"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies."
SIMON HARCOURT.

TO MR. POPE,

BY MR. HARTE.`

To write

move the fprings of nature as we please;

E comes, he comes! bid every Bard pre-
pare

The fong of triumph, and attend his Car.
Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads;
Firft gives the palm the fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and fhows him how to
reign.

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 earnest of a God.

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But hark! what fouts, what gathering crowds
rejoice!

Unftain'd their praife by any venal voice,
Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Proftitutes, or needy Flatterers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels borne ; 15
Trophies from undeferving temples torn:
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves; and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth the bends her loathing eye,
Weak to fupport the blaze of majesty.

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But what are they that turn the facred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age; latent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likenefs in the stream: The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, Who moft fhall praile, who beft fhall recom mend.

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The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends,
The Peans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands,
Its profpect an unbounded view commands: 30
Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou
chufe,

What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Mufe?
Though each great Ancient court thee to his

fhrine,

Though every Laurel through the dome be thine,
(From the proud Epic down to thofe that shade
The gentler brow of the foft Lefian maid)
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:

Vel. VI.

55

With living words to warm the conscious heart,
Or please the foul with nicer charms of art:
For this the Grecian foar'd in Epic strains,
And fofter Maro left the Mantuan plains:
Melodious Spenfer felt the lover's fire,
And awful Milton ftrung his heavenly lyre.
'Tis yours, like thefe, with curious toil to

trace

The powers of language, harmony, and grace;
How Nature's felf with living luftre fhines,
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;
How judgment ftrengthens, and how art refines;
How to grow bold with confcious fenfe of fame,
To charm us more through negligence than paine,
And give ev'n life and action to the trains:
Led by fome law, whofe powerful impulfe guides
Each happy ftroke, and in the foul prefides;
Some fairer image of perfection giv'n

T' infpire mankind, itfelf deriv'd from heaven.
O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praife,
Add that the Sifters every thought refine,
Bleft in thy life, and bleft in all thy lays!
Or ev❜n thy life be faultlefs as thy line;
Yet Envy ftill with fiercer rage pursues,
Obfcures the virtue, and defames the Mufe.
Views with vain fcorn the malice of mankind:
A foul like thine, in pains, in grief refign'd,
Not critics, but their planets, prove unjust;
And are they blam'd who fin because they must?
Yet fure not fo muft all peruse thy lays:

I cannot rival-and yet dare to praife.
A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage;
Sappho's foft fweetnefs, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's ftudious care,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's eafer air.

So feems fome picture where exa&t defgn,
And curious pains, and ftrength, and fweetnefs
join;
Where the free thought its pleafing grace beftows,
And each warm ftroke with living colour glows;
Soft without weaknefs, without labour fair,
Wrought up at once with happiness and care!

How bleft the man that from the world re-
moves,

To joys that Mordaunt *, or his Pope, approves;
And live the prefent and paft ages o'er;
Whofe tafte exact each author can explore,
Moves calmly forward to the verge of life:
Who, free from pride, from penitence, or ftrife,
To live by reafon, and to write by thee!
Such be my days, and fuch my fortunes be,

*Earl of Peterborough, conquerer of Valencia, D

૨૧

Nor deem this verfe, though humble, a dif- O let my Mufe her flender reed inspire,

grace:

All are not born the glory of their race :
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.
The Mufe, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays :
A Mufe as yet unhonour'd, but unftain'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd;
Unbiafs'd or to cenfure or commend,
Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend:
Perhaps too fond to make those virtues known,
And fix her fame immortal on thy own.

THE

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Hear how the birds, on every bloomy spray, With joyous mufic wake the dawning day! Why it we mute, when early linnets fing, When warbling Philomel falutes the spring?

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TRIUMVIRATE OF POETS. Why fit we fad, when Phofphor fhines fo clear,

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And lavish Nature paints the purple year?

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SUMMER.

THE

SECOND PASTORAL.

OR

ALEXIS.

TO DR. GARTH.

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A Shepherd's Boy (he feeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the filver Thame,
Whore dancing fun-beams on the waters play'd,
And verdant Alders form'd a quivering fhade,
Soft as he mourn'd, the ftreams forgot to flow, 5
The flocks around a dumb compaffion fhow,
The Naiads wept in every watery bower,
And Jove confented in a filent shower.
Accept, O Garth the Mufe's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;
Hear what from Love unpractis'd hearts endure,
From Love, the fole difeafe thou canst not cure.
Ye fhady beeches, and ye cooling ftreams,
Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid beams,
To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I fing,
The woods fhall anfwer, and their echo ring.
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating freep with my complaints agree,
They parch'd with heat, and Iinflam'd by thee. 20
The fultry Sirius burns the thirty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.

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Where ftray ye, Mufes, in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In thofe fair fields where facred Ins glides, Or elfe where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the cryftal fpring I view my face, Fresh rifing blufhes paint the watery glass ; But fince thofe graces pleafé thy eyes no more, I fhun the fountains which I fought before. 30 Once I was fill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched fhepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! Let other fwains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer: But high yon' mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death: He faid; Alexis, t ke this pipe, the fame That taught the groves my Rofalinda's name: But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder tree, For ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee. O! were I made by fome transforming power 45 The captive bird that fngs within thy bower! Then might my voice thy liftening cars employ, And I thofe kiffes he receives enjoy.

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And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the fong: The Nymphs, forfaking every cave and fpring, Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring!

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This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the ferpent Love abides,
Here bees from blo Toms fip the rofy dew,
But your Alexis knows no fweets but you.
Oh deign to visit our forfaken feats,
The moly fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales fhall fan the glade;
Trees, where you fit, fhall croud into a frade:
Where'er you tread, the blufhing flowers fhall
rife,

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And all things flourish where you turn your eyes,
Oh! how I long with you to pafs my days,
Invoke the Muses, and refound your praife!
Your praise the birds fhall chart in every grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the powers above. 80
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' ftrain,
The wondering forefts foon thould dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong ftreams hang listening in their fall!
But fe, the shepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To clofer ades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for Love?
But foon the fun with milder rays defcends
To cool the ocean, where his journey ends:
On me Love's fiercer ames for ever prey,
By night he fcorches, as he burns by day.

AUTUMN, MN,

THE

THIRD PASTORAL,

OR

HYLAS AND GON.

TO MR. WYCHERLY.

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When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountain groan.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As fome fad Turtle his loft love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores;

Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn. Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

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Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along! For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong: For her the limes their pleafing fades deny; 2; For her the lillies hang their heads and die. Ye flowers that droop, forfaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by fummer, ceafe to ing, Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove, Say, is not abfence death to thofe who love? sa

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! Curs'd be the fields that caufe my Delia's ftay; Fade every bloffom, wither every tree, Die every flower, and perifh all but the. What have I faid? Where'er my Delia flies, 35 Let fpring attend, and fudden flowers arife! Let opening rofes knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along! The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong, The winds to breathe, the waving woods to

move,

And ftreams to murmur, ere I ceafe to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirty fwain, Not balmy fleep to labourers faint with pain, Not fhowers to larks, or fun-thine to the bee, Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.

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Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia found Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. 5 Ye powers, what pleafing frenzy fooths my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes!-Now ceafe my lay, And ceafe, ye gales, to bear my 1ghs away!

Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd;

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Relearfe, ye Mufes, what yourfelves infpir'd
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain ;

ENEATH the fhade a spreading beech dif- Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain;

BE

plays,

Hylas and Agon fung their rural lays :

This mourn'd a faithlefs, that an absent love; And Delia's Lame and Doris' fill'd the grove.

Here, where the mountains, leffening as they rife, Lofe the low vales, and fteal into the skies; While labouring oxen, fpent with toil and heat, In their loofe traces from the field retreat;

While curling fmoaks from village tops are feen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon' poplar oft we pafs'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,

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While the with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away?
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay. 70
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful ftrain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove; 75
Juft Gods! frall all things yield returns but love!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
The fhepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey."
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart while I preferv'd fheep?
Pan came, and atk'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move!
And is there magic but what dwells in love? 84
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flowery plains.
From fhepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forfake mankind, and all the world-but love!
I know thee, Love on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee fuck, and favage tigers fed.
Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff fhall end my pains;
No more, ye hills, no more refound my ftrains!
Thus fung the fhepherds till th' approach of night,
The kies yet blufhing with departing light,
When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd every fhade, 100

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HYRSIS, the mufic of that murmuring fpring Is not fo mournful as the ftrains you fing; Nor rivers winding through the vales below, So fweetly warble, or fo fmoothly flow. Now fleeping flocks on their foft fleeces lie, The moon, ferene in glory mounts the fky, While filent birds forget their tuneful lays,

Ofing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praife!

THYRSIS.

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Ye gentle Mufes, leave your cryftal spring, Let Nymphs and Sylvans cyprefs garlands bring; Ye weeping Loves, the ftream with myrtles hide, And break your bows as when Adonis dy'd; And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Infcribe a verfe on this relenting stone : 26 "Let nature change, let heaven and earth de"plore,

"Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!"
'Tis done, and nature's various charms decay
See gloomy clouds obfcure the chearful day! 30
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
Their faded honours fcatter'd on her bier.
See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie;
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah, what avail the beauties nature wore?
Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more!

For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers fhun the gliding flood;
The filver fwans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more fad than when they fng their own;
In hollow caves fweet Echo filent lies,
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Silent, or only to her name replies;
Her name with pleasure once he taught the
fhore,

Now Daphne's dead, and pleafure is no more!

No grateful dews defcend from evening skies, Nor morning odours from the flowers arife; 46 No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field, Nor fragrant herbs their native incenfe yield. The balmy Zephyrs, filent fince her death, Lament the ceafing of a fweeter breath; Th' induftrious bees neglect their golden ftore; Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetnefs is no more! No more the mounting larks, while Daphne fings,

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Shall, liftening in mid air, fufpend their wings; No more the birds fhall imitate her lays, Or, huth'd with wonder, hearken from the fprays: No more the ftreams their murmurs fhall forbear, A fweeter mufc than their own to hear; But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal fhore, Fair Daphne's dead, and Mufic is no more! 60 Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, And told in fighs to all the trembling trees; The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, 5 Her fate remurmur to the ilver flood: The flyer flood, fo lately calm, appears Swell'd with new paflion, and o'erflows with

Behold the groves that fhine with filver froft, Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure loft. 10 Here fhall I try the fweet Alexis' ftrain, That call'd the liftening Dryads to the plain?

tears;

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