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Satire must interferè, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let short breathe Epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line:
Translations Should throughout the work be fowns
And Homer's goldlike Muse be made our own:
Horace in useful numbers should be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue;
Let Ovid

tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the list’ning car with tales of love.
Let ev'ry classic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to the great design:
Thro various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence ftill fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live:
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings:
Anacreon lives, they cry: th' harmonious Twain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain;
'Tis he! Our loft Anacreon lives again.
But when th' illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Muse he takes a loftier Aight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's sight.

If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the

And of all others be reputed beft,


Let Congreve teach the lift’ning groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.


Let Prior's Muse with soft'ning accents

Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love;
Or let his fancy chule fome jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream:
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour , and with Spenser's


Waller in Granville lives: when Mira sings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the founding strings;
With Sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly sense adorns his easy lines.

On Addison's sweet lays Attention waits,
And Silence guards the place while he repeats;
His Muse alike on ev'ry subject charms,
Whether she paints the god of Love or Arms:
In him pathetic Ovid sings again,
And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.

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Whenever Garth shall raise , his sprightly

Sense flows in eafy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned son we see,
Alike in physic as in poetry.

When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure


Amidst the plains, the murm'ring streams and gro

Attentive Echo pleas'd to hear his fongs.
Thro' the glad shade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgment far outshoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.



From these successful bards collect thy strains,
And praise with profit shall reward thy pains:
Then, while calves'-leather binding bears the sway,
And sheep-skin to its sleeker gloss gives way,
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Then Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter,
While print-admirers careful Aldus chule
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news,
So long shall live thy praise in books of Fame,
And Tenson yield to Lintott's lofty name.

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Lord Lyttelton. Lord Lyttet


co George Lord Lyttelton, geb. 17091 gest. 1773. erwarb fich zwar als Dichter nicht so ausgezeichnetes Unsehen, als durch die Ehrenstellen, die er bekleidete, und durch seine Ges schichte beinrichs II. Seine Gedichte verdienen indeß ims mer noch Aufmerksamkeit; und in den darunter befindlichen Episteln herrscht, wie Dr. Johnson sich ausdrückte, eine ges wisse sanfte Gleichmäthigkeit, die nicht fehr ermüden kann, weil sie kurz sind, wenn gleich der Geist des Lesers retten das durch erhoben oder überrascht wird.


From Rome, 1730.

Immortal Bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The faireft garlands of th’ Aonian grove,
Preserv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more,
After so many stars'extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit:
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants and from priests the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Bajae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades where cheer'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's inauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence saddens all the grove.



for8 Lyttelo Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd ftate

Has felt the worst leverity of Fate.
Not that barbarian hands her falces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath her yoke,
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities defert, and her fields unfown;
Rut that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred wisdom from her bounds is filed,
That there the fource of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious Names, that once in Latium fhin d,
Born to instruct and to command mankind,
Chiefs, by whose virtues mighty Rome was rais’d,
And Poets, who those chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft' I the traces, you have left, explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore,
Oft' kils with lips devout some mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown,
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd,
While with th' inspiring Mule my bosom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravis h'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise:

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„Stranger!” he said, whose pious hand has

These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this mesage from his master bear:“

Great Bard! whole numbers I myself inspire,
, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
„If high exalted on the throne of Wit
„Near me and Homer thou aspire to fit,

No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
„That flow majestic fro:n thy nobler bays;
,,In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleasing way;


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