1731. He might have rose like other men; And pitied those who meant the wound; But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of humankind, Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. FROM ON POETRY Harmonious Cibber entertains The court with annual birthday strains; In garrets high or under ground; And when they join their pericranies, A fox with geese his belly crams; 1739. 120 5 ΙΟ 15 20 A wolf destroys a thousand lambs. You rarely bite, are always bit; 1733. 25 Their foes superior by an inch: Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em; Thus ev'ry poet, in his kind, Is bit by him that comes behind; Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen. ALEXANDER POPE ODE ON SOLITUDE Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground: Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire: Blest who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, 10 5 Sound sleep by night, study and ease Together mixed, sweet recreation, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone 1700? FROM PASTORALS SPRING First in these fields I try the sylvan strains, 15 20 Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains: Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play, 5 And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay. You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And, carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost, ΙΟ O let my Muse her slender reed inspire, 15 Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the Muse, Poured o'er the whit'ning vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn and as the season fair. 20 The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied. Daphnis. Hear how the birds, on ev'ry bloomy spray, With joyous music wake the dawning day! Why sit we mute when early linnets sing, 25 When warbling Philomel salutes the spring? Why sit we sad when Phosphor shines so clear, And lavish Nature paints the purple year? Strephon. Sing, then, and Damon shall attend the strain, While yon slow oxen turn the furrowed plain. Here the bright crocus and blue vi'let glow, 30 Here western winds on breathing roses blow. I'll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays, And from the brink his dancing shade surveys. Daphnis. And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines, 35 And what is that, which binds the radiant sky, 40 Strephon. Inspire me, Phœbus, in my Delia's praise, 45 Daphnis. O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes! 50 No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart. Strephon. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; 55 Daphnis. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green; 60 Daphnis. Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves; 65 Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves: If Windsor shades delight the matchless maid, If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring, The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing. Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor shade. Strephon. All Nature mourns, the skies relent in show'rs, Hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flow'rs; 70 Daphnis. All Nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair, The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore, 75 And vanquished Nature seems to charm no more. Strephon. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, 80 Daphnis. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May; More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day: But, blest with her, 't is spring throughout the year. Strephon. Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears 85 A wondrous tree, that sacred monarchs bears? Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes. Daphnis. Nay, tell me, first, in what more happy fields The Thistle springs, to which the Lily yields; And then a nobler prize I will resign, For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine. 90 Damon. Cease to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee. Blest swains, whose nymphs in ev'ry grace excel; 95 Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well! 100 1709. FROM WINDSOR FOREST The groves of Eden, vanished now so long, |