While fhe the wond'ring fhepherd entertains 25 Than when you fing the greens and op'ning glades, With vast variety thy pages fhine; 30 40 Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields infpire! Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45 Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well. I in a cold, and in a barren clime, Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, 55 Snatch me, ye Gods! from thefe Atlantic fhores, And shelter me in Windfor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' 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 facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Mufes to the sylvan feat, Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Claffic ftore, 60 And made that Mufic which was noife before. There with illuftrious Bards I spent my days, Nor free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode. The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day: They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison infpir'd. 65 70 Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring: 76 I rife and wander thro' the field or plain; 85 O'er h 90 Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the fubject and the fong divine. Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more Than all their fhouts for Victory before. Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream, 96 100 The World fhould tremble at her awful name: FR, KNAPP. tr Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades; What theme, they cry'd, what high inmortal air, Befit thefe harps to found, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then afk who wrought that miracle of verfe? He anfwer'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, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; And fir'd with thirft of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. 14 "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. With lets regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine." E. FENTON. To Mr. POPE. O praife, and ftill with juft refpect to praise Tard triumphant in immortal bays, The Learn'd to fhow, the Sensible commend, O might thy Genius in my bofom shine; Horace himfelf would own thou doft excell In candid arts to play the Critic well, How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, 25 In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits 30 |