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But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds
Unftain'd their praise by any venal Voice,
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
But what are they that turn the facred page?
As he that met his likeness in the stream:
Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his fhrine,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
To Mr. POPE.
From Rome, 1730.
Mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th'Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to restore,
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 Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Has felt the worst severity of Fate:
Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces 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;
That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30
Chiefs, by whose 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;
Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd, While with th'inspiring Muse my bofom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife: Stranger, he said, whofe 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 infpire, 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
Nor, when each foft engaging Muse is thine,
Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise A lafting Column to thy Country's Praise, To fing the Land, which yet alone can boast That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft; Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, 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,
And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;