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Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain.
Your rural Mufe appears to juftify

The long loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
"Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
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;
'Whofe 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, 50
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

W. WICHERLEY.

40

To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft.

HA

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
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various spoil 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, 10
And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the
painted bay.

Thy treafures next arriv'd: and now we boast
A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:
From thy luxuriant Foreft we receive

More lafting glories than the East can give. 15
Where-c'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous scenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows

The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring thepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her wat'ry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave furpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass.
Nor sweeter notes the echoing Forefts chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

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Than when you fing the greens aud op'ning glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you
Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too.

31

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

inspire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,
Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.

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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;

55.

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Led by thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd Line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.

76

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.

96

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The World should tremble at her awful name:

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