"Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praife,
A monument which Worth alone can raife;
Sure to furvive, when time fhall whelm in duft
The arch, the marble, and the mimic buft:
Nor 'till the volumes of th' expanded sky
Blaze in one flame, fhalt thou and Homer die :
Then fink together in the world's last fires,
What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.

If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry fcene with native brightness shines ; · Juft to thy Fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully publish'd what Lucretius wrote; Prun'd by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.

26

Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time in-
vades,

And the bold figure from the canvass fades,
A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part

Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Tranfported we furvey the dubious strife,
While each fair image ftarts again to life.
How long, untun'd, had Homer's facred lyre

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Jarr'd grating difcord, all extinét his fire?
This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to fing,
Call'd the loud mufic from the founding string.
Now wak'd from flumbers of three thousand years,
Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,
Tow'rs o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,
Keen flash his arms, and all the Hero burns;

36 With

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With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He ftrides along, and meets the Gods in fight: Then the pale Titans, chain'd on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th' infernal fhores, 40 Tremble the tow'rs of Heav'n, earth rocks her coafts, And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts. To ev'ry theme refponds thy various lay; Here rolls a torrent, there Meanders play; Sonorous as the form thy numbers rise, Tofs the wild waves, and thunder in the skies Or fofter than a yielding virgin's figh, The gentle breezes breathe away and die. Thus, like the radiant God who sheds the day, You paint the vale, or gild the azure way; And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies, Sink without groveling, without rashness rise. Proceed, great Bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer! ftill Ulyffes fing. How long that Hero, by unfkilful hands, Strip'd of his robes, a Beggar trod our lands? Such as he wander'd o'er his native coast, Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior loft: O'er his fmooth fkin a bark of wrinkles fpread; Old age difgrac'd the honours of his head; Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shin'd The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind. But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold With royal robes, and bid him fhine in gold; Touch'd by your hand, his manly frame improves With grace divine, and like a God he moves.

* Odyty, lib. xvi.

b 2

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Ev'n

Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Mufe's train,
Inflam'd by thee, attempt a nobler ftrain;
Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,

Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire : 70
So arm'd by great Achilles for the fight,
Patroclus conquer'd in Achilles' right:

Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boaft my name
To thine united for thy Friendship's Fame.

This labour paft, of heav'nly subjects fing, 75
While hov'ring angels liften on the wing,
To hear from earth fuch heart-felt raptures rise,
As, when they fing, fufpended hold the fkies:
Or nobly rifing in fair Virtue's cause,

From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80
Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend ;
To verfe like thine fierce favages attend,

And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.

W. BROOME,

To Mr. P O P E,

On the publishing his WORKS. ·

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare

HE

The fong of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads, And throws a luftre o'er the pomp she leads, Firft gives the Palm she fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.

5

6

Thus

Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the carneft of a God.

10

But hark what shouts, what gath'ring crouds
rejoice!

Unftain'd their praife by any venal voice,
Such as th'Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels born; 15
Trophies from undeserving temples torn ;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

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But what are they that turn the facred page? Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age; Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As he that met his likeness in the ftream: The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, Who moft fhall praife, who beft fhall recommend. The Chariot now the painful steep afcends, The Pæans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands: Say, wondrous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe, What laurell'd Arch for thy triumphant Mufe? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his fhrine, Though ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid)

30

36 Go

Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies."

SIMON HARCOURT,

To Mr. P O PE.

From Rome, 1730.

Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove

IM

The fairest garlands of th’Aonian Grove;

Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more;
After fo many ftars extinct in night,
The darken'd Age's laft remaining light!

To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their Glory, and their Virtue loft;

From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.
Nor Baiæ 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 fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,

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