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Gay. Satire must interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age;
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let fhort-breath'd Epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a fingle line:

Translations fhould throughout the work be fowns
And Homer's goldlike Mufe be made our own:
Horace in useful numbers fhould be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue;
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard difdain,

And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the lift'ning car with tales of love.
Let ev'ry claffic in the volume fhine,
And each contribute to the great defign:
Thro' various fubjects let the reader range,
And raife his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety's the fource 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 condefcend to give,
That honour'd piece to diftant times muft live:
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings:
Anacreon lives, they cry: th' harmonious fwain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted ftrain;
'Tis he! Our loft Anacreon lives again.
But when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The fportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Mufe he takes a loftier flight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's fight.

If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the teft,

1

And of all others be reputed beft,

Let

Gay.

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

Let Prior's Mufe with foft'ning accents

move,

Soft as the ftrains of conftant Emma's love;
Or let his fancy chufe fome jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream:
Prior th' admiring reader entertains

With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenfer's
ftrains.

Waller in Granville lives: when Mira fings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the founding ftrings;
With sprightly turns his noble genius fhines,
And manly fenfe adorns his eafy lines.

'On Addifon's fweet lays Attention waits,
And Silence guards the place while he repeats;
His Mufe alike on ev'ry fubject charms,
Whether fhe paints the god of Love or Arms:
In him pathetic Ovid fings again,

And Homer's Iliad fhines in his Campaign.

Whenever Garth fhall raife his sprightly
fong,

Senfe flows in eafy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned fon we fee,

Alike in phyfic as in poetry.

When Pope's harmonious Mufe with pleasure

roves

Amidst the plains, the murm'ring ftreams and gro

ves,

Attentive Echo pleas'd to hear his fongs.

Thro' the glad fhade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravifh'd ears,
His steady judgment far outshoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.

From

Gay.

From thefe fuccefsful bards collect thy ftrains,
And praife with profit fhall reward thy pains:
Then, while calves?-leather binding bears the fway,
And sheep-fkin to its fleeker glofs gives way,
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Then Pirate Hill's brown fheets and fcurvy letter,
While print-admirers careful Aldus chufe
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news,
So long fhall live thy praise in books of Fame,
And Tenfon yield to Lintott's lofty name.

Lord

Lord

Lyttelton.

Lord Lyttel

George Lord Lyttelton, geb. 1709; gest. 1773. erwarb fich zwar als Dichter nicht so ausgezeichnetes Ansehen, als durch die Ehrenstellen, die er bekleidete, und durch seine Ges schichte Heinrichs II. Seine Gedichte verdienen indeß im mer noch Aufmerksamkeit; und in den darunter befindlichen Episteln herrscht, wie Dr. Johnson sich ausdrückte, eine ges wiffe sanfte Gleichmüthigkeit, die nicht sehr ermüden kann, weil sie kurz sind, wenn gleich der Geist des Lesers felten das -durch erhoben oder überrascht wird.

TO MR. POPE.

From Rome, 1730.

ton.

Immortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove,
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more,
After fo many ftars extin&t in night,
The darken'd age's laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,

Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit:

For now no more these climes their influence boaft,

Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft;

From tyrants and from priefts the Mufes fly,

Daughters of Reafon 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 breaft the Roman fire.
So in the fhades where cheer'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's inaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.

Un

Ford Lyttel

ton.

Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd state

Has felt the worst leverity of Fate.

Not that barbarian hands her faíces 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;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,

That facred wifdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of fcience flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illuftrious Names, that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to inftruct and to command mankind,
Chiefs, by whofe virtues mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft' I the traces, you have left, explore,
Your ashes vifit, and your urns adore,
Oft' kils with lips devout fome mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown,
Thofe hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee,
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
While with th' infpiring Mule my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arife:

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„Stranger!" he said, whofe pious hand has paid

Thefe grateful rites to my attentive fhade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, "To Pope this meffage from his mafter bear:"

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Great Bard! whose 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 afpire to fit,

No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus ftray,

But fhun that thorny, that unpleafing way;

"Nof

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