The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half so true the fair Lodona shews
The sylvan state that on her border grows,
While she the wand'ring shepherd entertains
With a new Windsor in her wat❜ry plains;
Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living scene is in the Muse's glass,
Nor sweeter notes the echoing forest cheer,
When Philomela sits and warbles there,
Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades,
And give us Harmony as well as Shades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30
Can paint the grove, and add the Music too.
With vast variety thy pages shine;
A new creation starts in ev'ry line.
How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains!
And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:
Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.
Happy the man, who strings his túneful lyre,
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields,
inspire!
Thrice happy thou! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you sing so 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.
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! 50
Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores,
And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;
Or to my much lov'd Isis' 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 sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat,
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the classic store,
And made that Music which was noise before.
There with illustrious Bards I spent my days,
Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,
Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode.
The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day :
They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd.
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd.
Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?
Rous'd from these dreams by thy commanding
I rise and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather shines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the generous courser by,
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chase,
Lodona's murmers stop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The soft complaint shall over time prevail;
The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,
The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.
Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,
At once the subject and the song divine.
Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmer and enrich the Isle;
A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.
WHEN Phabus and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; "Your loftiest notes employ, 5
To sing young Peleus and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous song with rapture they rehearse;
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?
He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal
A truth, that envy bids me not conceal :
Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale,
I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,
Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind,
Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,
From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays.
"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, And the white Isle with female pow'r is blest; 20
Ver. 1. When Phœbus] By far the most elegant and best turned compliment of all addressed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greek epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and most gracefully applied;
Ἤειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν, ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Όμηρος.
Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau also imitated this epigram.
Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
And the Translator's Palm to me transfer.
With less regret my claim I now decline,
The World will think his English Iliad mine."
To praise, and still with just respect to praise A Bard triumphant in immortal bays, The Learn'd to shew, the Sensible commend, Yet still preserve the Province of the Friend; What life, what vigour, must the lines require? 5 What Music tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine; Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brightest Ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame
Whom Windsor-Forest sees a gliding stream:
On silver feet, with annual Osier crown'd,
She runs for ever through Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair?
Less shone the tresses Egypt's Princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;
Belles war with Beaux, and Whims descend for Gods.
|