In fage and folemn tunes have fung;
Of turnies and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trick'd and frounc'd as fhe was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,'
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffing leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me goddels bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There, in clofe covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garifh eye,
While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;

And let fome ftrange myfterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd
Softly on my eyelids laid.

And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath
Sent by fome fpirit to mortals good
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,

Milton.

And

Milton. And love the high emboved roof,
With antic pillars mally proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into ecftafies,

And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at laft my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every ftar that heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will chufe to live.

Pope.

Auch er schrieb sein schönes mahlerisches Gedicht, Windfor-Forest, in seiner Jugend; und überhaupt ist wohl, wie Dr. Warton bemerkt, Beschreibung der äußern Naturs schönheiten gewöhnlich der erste Versuch des jungen Dichs ters, ehe er Sitten und Leidenschaften studirt hat. Eben dieser geschmackvolle Kunstrichter beurtheilt im zweiten Abs schnitte seines trefflichen Versuchs über Pope's Genie den Werth dieses Gedichts umständlich, und hält es nicht für eis ne der glücklichsten Arbeiten dieses Dichters, deffen glänzend ftes Talent die beschreibende Poesie gewiß nicht war. Wes nige von den hier vorkommenden Bildern sind dem Gegens ftande so eigenthümlich, daß sie nicht eben so irgendwo ans ders stehen könnten. Auch ist es mehr eine Schilderung ländlicher Schönheiten überhaupt, als derer, die dem Gehöls ze bey Windsor eigen find. Eine der schönsten Stellen ist die folgende, worin die Erzählung vor Lodona's Verwandlung, in vvidischer Manier, wo nicht glücklich angebracht, doch sehr einnehmend erzählt, und die Schilderung eines tus gendhaften und weisen Mannes, der in gelehrter Eingezos genheit lebt, meisterhaft ausgeführt ist.

WINDSOR - FOREST,
V. 147-258.

Now, Cancer glows with Phoebus fiery car!
The youth rufh eager to the fylvan war,
Swarm o'er the lands, the foreft walks furround,
Roufe the fleet hart, and cheer the op'ning hound.
Th' impatient courfer pants in ev'ry vein,
And pawing, feems to beat the diftant plain :
Hills, vales, and floods, appear already croft,
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are loft.
See the bold youth ftrain up the threat'ning steep
Rufh through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,

Hang

pope. Hang o'er their courfers heads with eager speed, And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed. Let old Arcadia boaft her ample plain,

Th' immortal huntress, and her virgin-train;
Nor envy, Windfor! Since thy fhades have feen
As bright a goddefs, and as chaste a QUEEN;
Whofe care, like hers, protects the fylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and empress of the main,
Here too, 'tis fung, of old Diana ftray'd
And Cynthus' top forfook for Windfor fhade;
Here was fhe feen o'er airy waftes to rove
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathlefs grove;
Here arm'd with filver bows, in early dawn
Her bufkin'd virgins trac'd the wy lawn.

Above the reft a rural nymph was fam'd
Thy offfpring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd;
(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,

The Mufe fhall fing, and what fhe fings fhall laft)
Scarce could theigoddefs from her nymph be known,
But by the crefcent and the golden Zone;
She fcorn'd the praife of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waift, a fillet binds her hair;

A painted quiver on her shoulder founds,
And with her dart the flying deer She wounds.
It chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the foreft's verdant limits ftray'd
Pan faw and lov'd, and burning with defire
Purfu'd her flight, her flight increas'd his fire
Not half fo fwift the trembling doves can fly
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid fky;
Not halt fo fwiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When thro' the clouds he drives the trembling do

ves;

As from the god fhe flew with furious pace,
Or as the god, more furious, urg'd the chace.
Now fainting, finking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his founding fteps fhe hears;
And now his fhadow reach'd her as fhe run,
His fhadow lengthen'd by the fetting fun;

And

d

And now his fhorter breath, with fultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames fhe calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid,

Faint, breathless, thus fhe pray'd, nor pray'd in vain : "Ah, Cyntia! ah-though banifh'd from thy train Let me, o let me, to the fhades repair

„My native fhades-there weep, and murmur there!
She said, and melting as in tears she lay
In a loft, filver Stream diffolv'd away,
The filver Stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore.
And bathes the foreft where fhe rang'd before.
In her chafte current oft the goddess laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glafs the mufing fhepherd fpies
The headlong mountains and the downward fkies,
The wat'ry landfcape of the pendent woods.
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen
And floating foreft paint the waves with green.
Through the fair fcene roll flow the ling'ring ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rufh into the Thames.

Thou too, great father of the British floods,
With joyful pride furvey'ft our lofty woods
Where tow'ring oaks their growing honours rear
And future navies on thy fhores appear.
Not Neptune's felf from all her ftreams receives
A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.
No feas fo rich, fo gay no banks appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no spring fo clear,
Nor Po fo fwells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the fkies his current ftrays
As thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes
To grace the manfion of our earthly gods:
Nor all his ftars above a luftre show
Like the bright beauties on thy blanks below.
Where Jove, fubdu'd by mortal passion still
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

pope:

Happy