MR. POPE AND HIS POEMS,

BY HIS GRACE

JOHN SHEFFIELD,

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

WITH age decay'd, with courts and bus'nefs tir'd,
Caring for nothing but what eafe requir'd;
Too dully ferious for the Mufe's sport,
And from the critics fafe arriv'd in port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidft advent'rous rovers of the pen;
And after fo much undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at laft to make it lefs.

Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itfelf a fubject for fatiric rhime;
Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and e'en Homer blam'd!
But to this genius, join'd with so much art,
Such various learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applaufe to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wonderful, fublime a thing,
As the great Iliad, scarce could make me fing;
Except I juftly could at once commend
A good companion and as firm a friend.
One moral, or a mere well natur'd deed,
Can all defert in fciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at fome mens' ways, But a much greater to give merit praise.

TO MR. POPE, ON HIS PASTORALS.
IN thefe more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praife,
A Mufe fincere, that never flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verfe are found
Art ftrength ning Nature, fenfe improv'd by found;
Unlike thofe wits, whofe numbers glide along
So frooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,

And write not to the head, but to the ear:
VOL. I.

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Our

Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best moft musically dull:
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
As fmootheft fpeech is most deceitful found,
The finootheft numbers oft are empty found:
But wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age confummate too:
Your trains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected eafe,
With proper thoughts and lively images.
Such as by Nature to the Ancients fhewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own :
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polifh'd ftyle write Paftoral;
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.

Like fome fair fhepherdefs, the fylvan Muse

Should wear thofe flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit

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Should, like his garb, be for the country fit:

Yet muft his pure aud unaffected thought

More nicely than the commen fwain's be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the players drefs

In filks the shepherd, and the fhepherdess;

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Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain, .

Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural Mufe appears to juftify
The long loft graces of fimplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms and native excellence.
Yet long her modesty thofe charins conceal'd,
'Till by mens' envy to the world reveal'd;
For wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.

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Live and enjoy their fpite! 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 arife, Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

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W. Wycherley.

TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST.
HAIL! 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 fpoil 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 glossy fragments lay,

And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the painted
Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast [bay.
A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive
More lafting glories than the Eaft can give.
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 watʼry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing forefts cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades,
And give us harmony as well as fhades:

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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 fhine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,

And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!

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And

And fee! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom;
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 fields in-
Thrice happy you! and worthy belt to dwell [fpire!
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.

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I in a cold and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhime,

Here on the Weftern beach attempt to chime.

O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

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And fhelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs;

Snatch me, ye gods! from the e Atlantic fhores,

Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walks convey,

And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

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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,

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Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claffic store,
And made that music which was noife before.
There with illuftrious bards I spent my days,
Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praife,
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.
The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd,
That Maro taught, or Addison infpir'd.
Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by the Mufe, from fport to sport I run;

Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant ly!

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His

His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather thines and varies there.

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 fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the courfe,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
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 fhall over time prevail;

The tale be told, when fhades forfake her fhore;
The nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.

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Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine,

At once the fubject and the fong divine.

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Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name:
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while;
At once they murmur, and enrich the iíle:
A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long diftinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
Fr. Knapp.

TO MR. POPE.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer.
WHEN Phoebus and the Nine harmonous Maids
Of old affembled in the Thefpian fhades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit thefe harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ,
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy.'
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse;
Then afk who wrought that miracle of verse?