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'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give merit praise.
TO MR. POPE,
ON HIS PASTORALS.
IN these more dull, as more censorious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
20 With proper thoughts, and lively images :
Such as by nature to the ancients shewn,
40 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 industrious to their trouble seem, And needs will envy what they must esteem. 45
Live and enjoy their spite ! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv’d, on Virgil wait ; Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight;
So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,
TO MR. POPE,
ON HIS WINDSOR-FOREST.
HAIL, sacred bard! a muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.
Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful pages
pompous scenes in all their pride appear, Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
15 Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows
20 The sylvan state that on her border grows, While she the wand'ring shepherd entertains With a new Windsor in her wat’ry plains ; Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass, The living scene is in the muse's glass.
25 Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer, When Philomela sits and warbles there, Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades, And give us harmony as well as shades : : A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine; A new creation starts in
line. How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight, And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35 And give at once the day, at once the night ! And here again what sweet confusion reigns, In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains ! And see the deserts cast a pleasing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom : 40 Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side, And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
inspire ! Thrice happy thou! and worthy best to dwell 45 Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.
eternal green :
I in a cold, and in a barren climé,
convey, And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.
55 Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the muses to the sylvan seat, Reform’d the wits, unlock'd the classic store, 60 And made that music which was noise before. There with illustrious bardę I spent my days, Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful bards beguild the tedious day : They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd. Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string : 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing ? Rous'd from these dreams by thy commanding
strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain ;