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Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
The long loft graces of Simplicity:
Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft.
AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,
Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, 5
Thy treafures next arriv'd: and now we boast
More lafting glories than the East can give. 15
The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
Than when you fing the greens aud op'ning glades,
With vast variety thy pages shine; A new creation starts in ev'ry line. How sudden trees rife to the reader's fight, And make a doubtful fcene of fhade and light, And give at once the day, at once the night! And here again what sweet confufion reigns, In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains! And fee! the deserts caft a pleasing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom: 40 Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide, And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main! 50 Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic hores, And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walks convey, And on her flow'ry 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, 60 And made that Mufic which was noise before. There with illuftrious Bards I fpent my days, Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor 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 I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring: 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing? Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding ftrain,
I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,
Nor can I pafs the gen'rous courfer by, 70 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 pursue the flying horse. Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85 He'd view a courfer that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace, Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race. Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale? 90 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 thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the fubject and the fong divine. Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,