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pen kept them for fome time in respect, yet on his death they rofe with unreftrained fury, in numerous coffee-houfe tales, and Grub-street libels. The plan of this admirable fatire was artfully contrived to fhew, that the follies and defects of a fashionable education naturally led to, and neceffarily ended in, freethinking; with defign to point out the only remedy adequate to fo fatal an evil. It was to advance the fame ends of virtue and religion, that the editor prevailed on him to alter every thing in his moral writings that might be fufpected of having the leaft glance towards fate, or naturalism; and to add what was proper to convince the world, that he was warmly on the fide of moral government, and a revealed will: and it would be injuftice to his memory, not to declare that he embraced thefe occafions with the most unfeigned pleafure.

The fixth volume confifts of Mr. Pope's Mifcellaneous Pieces, in verfe and profet. Among the verfe feveral fine poems make now their first appearance in his works: and of the profe, all that is good, and nothing but what is exquifitely fo, will be found in this edition.

+ The profe is not within the plan of this edition.

The seventh, eighth, and ninth volumes, confift entirely of his Letters; the more valuable, as they are the only true models which we, or perhaps any of our neighbours have, of familiar epiftles. This collection is now made more complete by the addition of feveral new pieces. Yet excepting a short explanatory letter to Col. M. and the letters to Mr. A. and Mr. W. (the latter of which are given to fhew the editor's inducements, and the engagements he was under, to intend the care of this edition), excepting thefe, I fay, the reft are all publifhed from the author's own printed, though not published, copies, delivered to the editor.

On the whole, the advantages of this edition, above the preceding, are thefe: That it is the first complete collection which has ever been made of his original writings; that all his principal poems, of early or later date, are here given to the public with his laft corrections and improvements; that a great number of his verses are here first printed from the manufcript copies of his principal poems of later date; that many new notes of the author's are here added to his poems; and, lastly, that feveral pieces, both in profe and verse, make now their first appearance before the public.

RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS PASTORALS.

Is thofe more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praife,
A mufe fincere, that never flattery knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found,
Art strengthening nature, fenfe improv'd by found.
Unlike those wits, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at beft moft mufically dull:
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep,
And hufh the heavy hearers into fleep.
As Imoothest speech is most deceitful found,
The smoothest 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 cafe,
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,
Although difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some, in a polifh'd ftyle, write paftoral:
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mail.
Like ome fair fhepherdefs, the Sylvan mufe
Should wear thofe flowers her native fields pro-
dice;

And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common swain's be wrought;
So, with becoming art, the players dress
In fi ks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdefs;
Yet fill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural mufe appears to justify
The long-loft graces of fimplicity:
Se rural beauties captivate our fenfe
With virgin charms, and native excellence :
Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd,
Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;

For wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whose mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight:
So larks, which firft from lowly fields arife,
Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the skies.
W. WYCHERLEY.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST.

HAIL! facred bard! a mufe unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is fhewn,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The caftern pomp had just befpoke 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 gloffy fragments lay,
And dreis'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the paint-

ed bay.

}

Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coast: From thy luxuriant foreft we receive More lafling glories than the caft can give.

Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engaged
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 fhews
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While fhe the wond'ring thepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watery plains;
The jufter lays the lucid wave furpass,
The living fcene 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 opening glades,
And give us harmony as well as fhades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you
Can paint the grove, and add the music too.

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With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in every line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light,
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!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom;
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre
Where woods. and brooks, and breathing fields
inipire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amid the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren to my rhyme,
Here on the wetlern beach attempt to chime,
O joyless flood: O rough tempestuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and fo itudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye gods from thefe Atlantic shores,
And fhelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green,
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the mufes to the fylvan feat;
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claffic ftore,
And made that mufic which was noife before.
There, with illuftrious bards, I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise:
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign beftow'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 Addifon infpir'd.
Ev'n leffay'd to touch the trembling ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
'Rous'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
frain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy mufe, from fport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the hundering gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

}

Nor can I pafs the generous courfer by ; But while the prancing fteed allures my eye, He ftarts, he's gone! and now I see him fly O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the course, Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horse. Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down, He'd view a courier that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace, Lodona's murmurs flop 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 he can flow no more. Nor fhall the fong, old Thames forbear to fhine,

Peace, fung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world thould tremble at her awful name;
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the isle;
A while diftinct through many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftingaish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAP.

TO MR. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.

THE muse, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extenfive is the poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on fame.

For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron or a friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer strove
Whilft he who beft your poetry asserts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verfe does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in thofe lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;
Inform the head, whilst you diffolve the heart;
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Defcribe the foreft ftill in rural strains,

With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains:
Your tales be eafy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the critic there his fkill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told :
Soothe, as you only can, each different taste,
And for the future charm us in the past.
Then, fhould the verse of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could therce be fhewn,
Uniefs, fince short in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But envy could not against you fucceed:
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;

TO MR. POPE,

BY MISS JUD. COWPEK, ÄFTERWARDS MES. MADÁN.

O POPE by what commanding wondrous art
Doft thou each paffion to each breast impart?
Our beating hearts with fprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless love!
Th' clated mind's impetuous ftarts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul!
Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you :
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty!
Soft Waller's cafe, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, strength, beauty, genius fhine,
While nervous judgment guides each flowing line.
No borrow'd tinfel glitters o'er these lays,
And to the mind a falfe delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The weight of sense, and elegance of found :
A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre.

The matchless strains our ravish'd senses charm :
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully just the turns appear!
The language how majestically clear!

With energy divine each period fwells,

And all the bard th' infpiring God reveals.

Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes 1 turn,

Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn;

Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers fur

round,

And bounteous rufh amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blifsful feats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the mufes' lov'd retreats;
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods!
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;
Whofe virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her spotless waves should cease to
glide:

In mighty Pope's immortalizing trains,
Still fhall fhe grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the mufes' theme, [ftream.
Still fhine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid
Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art,
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The fpring and test of verfe unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Soothe, with thy wonted eafe and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate taftes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foften Wisdom's harth reproofs to wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;
His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe entire,
As gold runs purer from the trying fire.
0, for a mufe like thine, while I rehearse
Th' immortal beauties of thy various verse !

Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled love,
Gay as the freaks that ftain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,
From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarfe verfe we fee th' embattled foes;
In each loud ftrain the fiery onfet glows;
With strength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright magic of the painter's hand Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene,

There the wide landscape fmiles with livelier green;
The floating glafs reflects the diftant sky,
And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;
The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work design,
Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke receives,
And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;

When art like lavish nature's felf fupplies,
Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the eyes;

When ev'n the paflions of the mind are seen,

And the foul fpeaks in the exalted mien ;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

We own the mighty Master's skill, as boundless as complete.

LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE,

On reading Mr. Addifon's Account of the Englifo Poets.

Ir all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
In Addifon's majeftic numbers fhine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself fo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftnefs, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meaneft of the mufes throng,
To thy juft prailes tune th' adventurous fong.

How am i fill'd with rapture and delight,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polifh'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoking plains.
What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms,
And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul difmay?

But when some fair one guides your softer verse, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts infmoother numbers charm! When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitlefs toil give o'er, For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

With vaft variety thy pages fhine;
A new creation ftarts in every line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light,
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!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleafing 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 strings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
inipire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amid the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren to my rhyme,
Here on the wetlern beach attempt to chime,
O joyless flood: O rough tempeftuous main!
Border'd with weeds, and fo itudes obfcene!

Snatch me, ye gods from thefe Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green,
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the mufes to the sylvan feat;
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claffic ftore,
And made that mufic which was noife before.
There, with illuftrious bards, I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise:
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign beftow'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 Addifon infpir'd.
Ev'n leffay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
'Rous'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy mufe, from sport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the chundering gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

}

Nor can I pafs the generous courfer by; But while the prancing fteed allures my eye, He starts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the course, Nor can the rapid fight purfue the flying horfe. 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 flop me in the race. Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale? The foft complaint fhall over time prevail; The tale be told when shades forfake her fhore, The nymph be fung when she can flow no more. Nor fhall the fong, old Thames forbear to fhine,

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world thould tremble at her awful name;
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the isle;
A while diftin&t thr ugh many channels run,
But meet at laft, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftingaifh'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAP.

TO MR. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA.

THE muse, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extenfive is the poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron or a friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves forefee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit-:
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer ftrove;
Whilft he who beft your poetry asserts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verfe does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;
Inform the head, whilft you diffolve the heart;
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Defcribe the foreft ftill in rural strains,

With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains:
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay,

Nor all the poet in that part difplay;
Nor let the critic there his fkill unfold,

For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told :
Soothe, as you only can, each different tafte,
And for the future charm us in the past.
Then, fhould the verse of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could therce be fhewn,
Uniefs, fince fhort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But envy could not against you fucceed:
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;

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