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thould: nor indeed could they be concealed, if we were so minded; for they shine through his virtues, no man being more a dupe to the specious appearances of virtue in others. In a word, I mean not to be his panegyrist, but his historian. And may I, when envy and calumny take the same advantage of my absence, (for, while I live, I will freely trust it to my life to confute them) may I find a friend as careful of my lionest fame as I have been of his! Together with his works, he hath bequeathed me his Dunces; so that, as the property is transferred, I could wish they would now let his memory alone. The veil which death draws over the good is so sacred, that to throw dirt upon the shrine scandalizes even barbarians. And though Rome permitted her slaves to calumniate her best citizens on the day of triumph, yet the same petulancy at their funeral would have been rewarded with execration and a gibbet. The public may be malicious, but is rarely vindictive or ungenerous. It would abhor these insults on a writer dead, though it had borne with the ribaldry, or even set the ribalds on work, when he was alive. And in this there was no great harm ; for he must have a strange impotency of mind whom such miserable scribblers can ruffle. Of all that gross Baotian phalanx who have written scurrilously against me, I know not so much as one whom a writer of reputation would not wish to have his enemy, or whom a man of honour would not be ashamed to own for his friend. I am indeed but slightly conversant in their works, and know little of the particulars of their defamation. To my authorship they are heartily welcome: but if any of them have been so abandoned by truth as to attack my moral character in any instance whatsoever, to all and every one of these, and their abettors, I give the lye in form, and in the words of honest Father Valerian, Mentiris impudentissime.




Is those more dull, as more censorious (lays,

Hail! sacred bard! a Muse unknown before When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,

Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. A Muse'sincere, that never fattery knew,

To our dark world thy shining page is shown, Pays what to friendship and desert is due.

Ind Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own. Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found,

The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, Art strengthening Nature, sense improv'd by sound.

And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: Unlike those wits, whose numbers glide along

A various spoil adoru'd our naked land, So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song ;

The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, Laboriously enervate they appear,

And China's earth was cast on common sand: And write not to the head, but to the ear :

Toss'd up and down the glossy fragments lay, (bay. Our minds unmoy'd and unconcern'd they lull,

And dress'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted And are at best most musically dull :

Thy treasures next arriv'd : and now we boast

A nobler cargo on our barren cvast :
So purling streams with even murmurs creep,

From thy luxuriant forest we receive
And hush the heavy bearers into sleep.
As smoothest speech is inost deceitful found,

More lasting glories than the East can give.
The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound.

Where'er we dip in thy delightful page, But wit and judgment join at once in you,

What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage!

The pompous scenes in all their pride appear, Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too: Your strains are regularly bold, and please

Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were: With unforc'd care, and unaffected case,

Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows With proper thoughts, and lively images ;

The sylvan state that on ber border grows, Snch as by Nature to the ancients shown,

While she the wondering shepherd entertains

With a new Windsor in her watery plaius;
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own :

The juster lays the lucid wave surpass,
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Although disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear.

The living scene is in the Muse's glass.

Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer, Some, in a polish'd style write pastoral ;

When Philomela sits and warbles there, Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall.

Than when von sing the greens and opening olades. Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan Muse Should wear those flowers her native fields produce;

And give us harmony as well as shades : And the true measure of the shepherd's wit

A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you Should, like his garb, be for the country tit:

Can paint the grove, and add the music too. Yet must his pure and unaffected thought

With vast variety thy pages shine ; More nicely than the common swain's be wrought;

A new creation starts in every line. So, with becoming art, the players dress

How suilden trees rise to the reader's sight, In silks the shepherd, and the shepherdess;

And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,

And give at once the day, at once the night!

And here again what sweet confusion reigns,
Shap'd like the homely russet of the swain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify

In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains !

And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom, The long-lost graces of simplicity :

And shrub!y heaths rejoice in purple bloon ; So rural beauties captivate our sense

Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side, With virgin charms, and native excellence :

And bearded groves display their annual pride. Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd, Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;

Happy the man who strings his tuneful lyre For wits industrious to their trouble seem,

Where wouls, and brooks, and breathing ticids inAnd needs will envy what they must esteem.

Thrice happy you! and wori hy best to dwell (spire! Live, and enjoy their spite! nor inourn that fate,

Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.

I in a cold, and in a barren clime,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait ;
Whose Muse did once, like thine, in planis delight;

Coll as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight :

Here on the Western beach attempt to chiine, So larks, which first froin lowly fields arise,

( jovless food ! () rough tempestuous main !

Burder'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene! Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

Snatch me, ye gouls! from these Atlantic shores, W. WYCHERLEY.

FY. And shelter ini in Windsor's fragrant buwers;


- -

Or to my much-lov'd Isis' walk convey, : , Then let us find in your foregoing page,
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.

The celebrating poems of the age;
Thence let me view the venerable scene,

Nor by injurious scruples think it fit, The awtul dome, the groves eternal green,

To hide their judgments who applaud your wit :
Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove,
And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat;

Who strive for you, as Greece for Homer strove;
Reforın'd the wits, unlock'd the classic store, Whilst he who best your poetry asserts,
And made that music which was noise before. Ass rts his own, by sympathy of parts.
There with illustrious bards I spent my days, Me panegyric verse do s not inspire,
Not free from censure, nor unknown to praise; Who never well can praise what I admire,
Enjoy d the blessings that his reign bestowid, Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode.

But gently drop this counsel in your ear:
The golden minutes anothly danc'd away, Go on, to gain applauses by desert;
And tuncful bards beguild the tedious day: Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart
'They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage,
That Maro taught, or Addison inspir d.

Elate the young, and gravely warın the sage :
Fy'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string : Allure, with tender veise, the female race;
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing? And give their darling passion, courtly grace a

Rous d fro'n these dreams by thy commanding Describe the forest still in rural strains,
I rise ani wanderthrough the field or plain; (sırain, With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains
Led by thy Muse, from sport to sport I run, Your tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun. Nor all the poet in that part displav;
Ah ! how I melt with pity, when I spy

Nor let the critic there his skill unfoid,
On the cold earth the fluttering pheasant lie ! For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told •
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,

Sooth, as you only can, each different taste,
And every feather shines and varies there,

And for the future charm us in the past.
Nor can I pass the generous courser by;

Then, should the verse of every arıful hand
But while the prancing steed allures my eye, Before your numbers c:pinen ly stand,
He starts, h 's gone! and now I see him fly In yon no vanity could thence be shown,
O'er hils and dales; and now I lose the course, Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse, Some envious scribbler night in spite declare,
Oh, could thy Virgil froin bis orb lok down, That for comparison you plac'd them there.
He'd view a courser that might match his own! But Envy could not against you succeed :
Fir'd with the sport, and eag r for the chase, 'Tis not froin friends that write, or foes that read >
Lodona's murniurs stop me in the race.

Censure or praise must from ourselves proceeda
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 now no more.

Nor shall the song, old Thames! forbear to shine, I
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,

O Pope! by what commanding wondrous art
Oh! could Pritannia iwitate thy stream,

Dost thou each passion to each breast impart? The world should tremble at her awful name;

Our beating hearts with sprightly moasures move, From various springs divided waters glide,

Or melt us with a tale of hapless love! In differe t colours roll a different tide,

Th'elated mind's inpetuous starts controul,
Murinur along their crooked banks a while, Or gently south to peace the troubled soul !
At once they inurmur and enrich the isle;

Graces till now that singly met our view,
A while distinct through many channels run, And singly charm'd, unite at once in you:
But meet at last, and sveetly flow in one ; . A style polite, from affectation free,
There joy to lose their long distinguishid names, Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty!
And make one glorious and immortal Thames. Soft Haller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought,


| And Spencer's bold luxuriancy of thought.

In each bright page, strength, beauty, genius shine,
While nervous judgment guides each flowing line,

No borrow'd tinsel glitters a'er these lays,

And to the mind a fale delight conveys :

Throughout the whole ith blended power is found,

The weight of sense, and elegance of sound:

| A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire,

Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre. The Musc, of every heavenly gift allow'd

The matchless strains our ravish'd senses charm : To be the chief, is public, though not proud. How great the thought! the images how warm! Widely extensive is the poet's aim,

How beautifully just the turus appear ! And in each verse he draws a bill on Fame.

The language how majestically clear ! For none have wit (whatever they pretend) With energy divine each period swells, Singly to raise a patron or a friend ;

And all the bard th' inspiring god reveals.
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,

Lost in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,
Some cainmendations to themselves foresee. Where Thames leans boary o'er his ample urns

Where his rich waves fair Windsor's towers surround,

LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE. And bounteous rush amid poetic ground. O Windsor! sacred to thy blissful seats,


Thy sylvan shades, the Muses' lov'd retreats ;
Thy rising hills, low vales, and waving woods, | Ip all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
Tny suny glades, and celebrated foods!

In Addison's majestic numbers shine,
But chief Lodona's silver tids, that flow

Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye crities, tell, Cold and unsullied as the mountain snow;

Lemain unsung, who sings himself so woll? Whose virgin name no time nor ch?ge can hide, Hear then, grezt bard, who can alike inspire Though ev'n ber spotless waves should cease to | With Waller's softness, or with Milton's tire; glide: I

| Whilst I, the meanest of the Muse's' throng, In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,

| To thy just praises tune th' advent'ruus song. Still shall she grace and range the verdant plains ; ! How am I tilld with rapture anl delight, By him selected for the Muses' theme,

( When gods and mortals, mix'd, sustain in light! Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid Like Vilton, then, though in more polish'd strains, stream.

Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoking plains, Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art, What though archangel gainst archangel arms, Rule each emotion of the various heart;

And highest Heaven resounds with dire alarms! The spring and test of verse unrivall’d reign, Doth not the reader with like dread survey And the full honours of thy youth maintain ; The wounded gols repuls'd with foul dismay? Sooth, with thy wonted ease and power divine, But when some fair-one guides your softer verse, Our souls, and our degenerate tastes refine:

Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; In judgement o'er our favourite follies sit,

See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm. And soften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.

And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm! Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand, When fools provoke, and duces urge thy rage, And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand; Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,

Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, In thee rise worthy of their sacred source ;

For still king libbald scribbles as before ; His spirit heighten'd, yet his sense entire,

Poor Shakespeare suffers by his pen each day, As gold runs purer from the trying fire.

While Grub-street alleys own his la:ful sway. 0, for a Muse like thine, while I rehearse

Now turn, my Muse, thy quick, poetic eyes, Th' immortal beauties of thy various verse!

And view gay scenes and opening prospects rise. Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move,

Hark! how his rustic numbers charm around, Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,

While groves to groves, and hills to bills resound I Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,

The listening beasts stand fearless as he sings, Sinooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.

And birds attentive close their useless wings. But, when Achilles, panting for the war, The swains and satyrs trip it o'er the plain, Joins the fleet coursers to the whirling car ;

And think old Spencer is reviv'd again. When the warm hero, with celestial might,

But when once more the godlike man begun Augments the terrour of the raging fight,

In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings stream Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder say, (As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);

Sure Spenser's self nc'er sung so sweet a lay : In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes; Sure once again Eliza glads the Isle, In each loud strain the fiery onset glows;

That the kind Muses thus propitious smile With strength redoubled here Achilles shines,

Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, swains ? And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

'Tis Pope that sings, anıl Carolina reigns. So the bright magic of the painter's band

But hold, my Muse! whose aukward verse betrays, Can cities, streams, tall towers, and far stretch'd Thy want of skill, nor shows the poet's praise ; plains command;

Cease then, and leave some fitter bard to tell Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous | Ilow Pope in every strain can write, in every strain scene,

excel, There the wide landscape smiles with livelier

The foating glass reflects the distant sky,

And o'er the whole the glancing sun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;

The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.

| He comes, he comes! bid every bard prepare But when the artist does a work design, Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;

The song of triumph, and attend his car. When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke re

Great Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads, ceives,

And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads; And Cæsar awful in the canvas lives ;

First gives the plan she fir'd him to obtain, When Art like lavish'd Nature's self supplies

Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign. Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the eyes;

Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught, When ev'n the passions of the mind are seen,

Was form’d for all the miracles he wrought:

Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud, And the soul speaks in the exalted mien; When all is just, and regular, and great,

Plcas'd to behold the earnest of a God. (joice! We own the mighty master's skill, as boundless as But hark! what shouts, what gathering crouds recomplete.

| Unstaju'd their praise by any venal voice,

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