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"Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praife,
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.
Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time in-
And the bold figure from the canvass fades,
Some latent grace, and equals art with art;
Jarr'd grating difcord, all extinét his fire?
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.
Ev'n I, the meaneft of the Mufe's train,
Tun'd by your hand, and fing as you inspire : 70
Like theirs, our Friendship! and I boaft my name
This labour paft, of heav'nly subjects fing, 75
From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80
And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,
To Mr. P O P E,
On the publishing his WORKS. ·
E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare
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.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
But hark what shouts, what gath'ring crouds
Unftain'd their praife by any venal voice,
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)
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
To Mr. P O PE.
From Rome, 1730.
Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th’Aonian Grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly,