But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds rejoice!
Unftain'd their praise by any venal Voice,
Such as th'Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Proftitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeferving temples torn;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majefty.
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 stream:
The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend,
Who most shall praife, who beft fhall recommend.
The Chariot now the painful fteep afcends, The Pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view commands : 30 Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe,
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) 36
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
"Sweet to the World, and grateful to the fkies."
SIMON HARCOURT.
From Rome, 1730.
I'
Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove The fairest garlands of th'Aonian grove; Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After fo many ftars extinct in night, The dark'ned ages laft remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;
For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From Tyrants, and from Priefts, the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the
grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of Fate:
Not that Barbarian hands her Fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her Cities defert, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,
2.5
That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30 That there the fource of Science flows no more, Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before. Illuftrious Names! that once in Latium shin'd Born to instruct, and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who those chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes vifit, and 'your urns adore;
40
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring stone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown ;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th'infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes 45 Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife:
50
Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Mafter bear:
Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the Throne of Wit,
Near Me and Homer thou afpire to fit,
No more let meaner Satire dim the
rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler Bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleafing way;
Nor, when each soft engaging Muse is thine,
Addrefs the least attractive of the Nine.
Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise A lasting Column to thy Country's Praise, To fing the Land, which yet alone can boast That Liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, 65 And plants her Palm beneath the Olive's shade. Such was the Theme for which my lyre I ftrung, Such was the People whofe exploits I fung; Brave, yet refin'd, for Arms and Arts renown'd, With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless oppofers of Tyrannic Sway,
But pleas'd, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.
If these commands fubmiffive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,
And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time fhall confecrate thy Lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's Praife.
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