From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Ifle;
A while distinct thro' many channels run,

But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.

FR. KNAPP.

To Mr. POPE.

In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.

W

HEN Phabus, and the nine harmonious

maids,

Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse;
Then afk who wrought that miracle of verfe?
He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal
“A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal :

10

'

Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,

her name;

Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treafur'd in his mind; 14 "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; "Fame, I forefce, will make reprifals there, 21 "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine."

E. FENTON.

T

To Mr. POPE.

O praife, and still with juft refpect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,

The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet ftill preferve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour muft the lines require? 5
What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?

O might thy Genius in

my

bofom shine;

Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine
The brightest Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excell

In candid arts to play the Critic well,

Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.

10

15

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Mufe the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds; Belles war with Beaux, and Whims defcend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool. But know, ye Fair, a point concealed with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart, The Graces ftand in fight; a Satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene. In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits

30

And fits in measures fuch as Virgil's Mufe

To place thee near him might be fond to chufe. How might he tune th'alternate reed with thee, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;

While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,

Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,

Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my

head:

the trees,

40

Still flide thy waters, soft among
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing. breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hufh'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.

45

In English lays, and all fublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He fhines in Council, thunders in the Fight, And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50 Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne; In all the Majesty of Greek retir'd,

Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;

His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only fay, The mines were here: 60
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns!
How ev'ry Mufic varies in thy lines!
Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70.
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The shades refound with fong--- O softly tread,
While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my Friend --- and when a friend infpires,
My filent harp its master's hand requires.
Shakes off the duft, and makes these rocks refound;