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. Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught, But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crouds re joice! Unstain'd their praise by any venal Voice, 15 20 But what are they that turn the facred page? 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, 30 „Sweet to the World, and grateful to the skies.,, I 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! 5 To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, For now no more these climes their influence boast, 10 To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, 15 Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign, 20 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, 25 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; 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: 45 Stranger, he faid, whose pious hand has paid 50 55 60 Of thee more worthy were the tafk, to raise Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, 65 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, Dauntless opposers of Tyrannic Sway. 71 GEORGE LYTTELTON. |