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To Mr. PОРЕ,

On the publishing his WORKS.

H

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare The fong of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Muse the long proceffion heads, And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads, First gives the Palm she fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and shews him how to reign.

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Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a God.

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But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds re

joice!

Unstain'd their praise by any venal Voice,
Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers sue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeserving temples torn;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with defpair,
Prone to the eatth she bends her loathing eye,
Weak to fupport the blaze of majesty.

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But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem,
As he that met his likeness in the stream:

The GRACES these; and see how they contend, 25 Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.

The Chariot now the painful steep ascends, The Peans cease; thy glorious labour ends. Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple stands, Its profpect an unbounded view communands: Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chuse, What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Musfe? Tho' each great Ancient court thee to his thrine, Tho' ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine, (From the proud Epic, down to those that shade 35 The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid) Go to the Good and Just, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane: While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,

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„Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies.,,

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To Mr. POPE.

From Rome, 1730.

mmortal Bard! for whom each Muse has wove The faireft garlands of th' Aonian grove; Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to reftore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night,

The dark'ned ages last remaining light!

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To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft:
From Tyrants, and from Priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty.
Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove:

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To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain

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Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,

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But mournful filence faddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state

Has felt the worst severity of Fate:

Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;

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Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

Her Cities defert, and her fields unsown;

But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled, 30 That there the fource of Science flows no more, Whence its rich streains fupply'd the world before.

Illustrious Naines! that once in Latium shin'd, Born to inftruct, and to command Mankind; 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 visit, and your urns adore;

Oft kifs, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,

With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;

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Those ballow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee

Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife:

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Stranger, he faid, whose pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive shade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this message from his Master bear:
Great Bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
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 rays
That flow majestic from thy nobler Bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each foft engaging Muse is thine.
Address the least attractive of the Nine.

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Of thee more worthy were the tafk, to raise
A lasting Column to thy Country's Praife.
To fing the Land, which yet alone can boaft
That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft;

Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid,
And plants her Palm beneath the Olive's shade.

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Such was the Theme for which my lire I strung,

Such was the People whose exploits 1 sung;

Brave, yet refin'd, for Arins and Arts renown'd,
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phœbus crown'd,

Dauntless opposers of Tyrannic Sway.
But pleas'd, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.
If these commands fubmissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live;
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time shall confecrate thy Lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's Praife.

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GEORGE LYTTELTON.

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