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Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctnefs, Homer's majefty!

Soft Waller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.

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In each bright page, Strength, Beauty, Genius shine,
While nervous Judgment guides each flowing Line. 15
No borrow'd Tinfel glitters o'er these Lays,
And to the Mind a falfe Delight conveys:

Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The Weight of Senfe and Elegance of Sound.
A lavish Fancy, Wit, and Force, and Fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal Lyre.

The matchlefs ftrains our ravish'd fenfes charm:

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How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully just the turns appear;
The language how majestically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,

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And all the Bard th' inspiring God reveals.

Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,

Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn;
Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers furround,
And bounteous rufh amid poetic ground.

O Windfor! facred to thy blissful feats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the Muses' lov'd retreats,
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods !
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;

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Whofe

Whose virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her spotless waves should cease to glide :
In mighty Pope's immortalizing ftrains,

Still shall she grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the Mufes' theme,

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Still shine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid stream.

Go on, and, with thy rare resistless art,

Rule each emotion of the various heart;

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The spring and test of verse unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Sooth with thy wonted ease and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate tastes refine
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to Wit.
Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,

In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;
His fpirit heighten'd, yet his sense intire,
As Gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O, for a Mufe like thine, while I rehearse,
Th' immortal beauties of thy various verse !
Now light as air th' inlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled Love,
Gay as the streaks that stain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal Mirrours flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,

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From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarse verse we see th' embattled foes;
In each loud ftrain the fiery onset glows;
With ftrength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

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So the bright Magic of the Painter's hand, Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-stretch'd plains, command;

Here spreading woods embrown the beauteous scene,
There the wide landscape fmiles with livelier green,
The floating glafs reflects the diftant sky,

And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;
The ripen'd harvest crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,

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And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;

Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the ftretch'd cloth a rougher ftroke receives,

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When Art like lavish Nature's self supplies,
Grace to the limbs, and spirit to the Eyes;
When ev'n the paffions of the mind are seen,
And the Soul fpeaks in the exalted Mein;
When all is just, and regular, and great,

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We own the mighty Mafter's fkill, as boundless as

complete.

Lord

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Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE.:

On reading Mr. ADDISON'S Account of the English Poets.

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IF all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine
In Addison's majestic numbers shine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself so well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftness, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meanest of the Muses' throng,
To thy juft praises tune th' adventurous fong.
How am I fill'd with rapture and delight
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polish'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the fmoaking plains.
What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms,
And highcft Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul dismay?
But when fome fair-one guides your fofter verfe,
Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse;
See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm,
And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm. 20
When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage,
Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page.
Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er,
For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

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Poor

Poor Shakespeare fuffers by his pen each day,
While Grubstreet alleys own his lawful fway.

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Now turn, my Mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay scenes and opening prospects rife.
Hark! how his ruftic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound. 39
The listening beasts stand fearless as he fings,

And birds attentive clofe their useless wings.
The fwains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun

In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and ftruck with wonder fay,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er fung so sweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the isle,

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That the kind Mufes thus propitious fmile

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Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, fwains?— 'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns.

But hold, my Mufe! whofe aukward verfe betrays Thy want of skill, nor fhew the poet's praife; Cease then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell How Pope in every strain can write, in every ftrain excell.

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