Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit: Shap'd like the homely russet of the swain. Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate, FR. KNAPP. 40 45 50 THE following lines were addressed to Mr. Pope, from Killala, in the county of Mayo, in Ireland, (a circumstance which serves to explain the allusion at the commencement of them,) and were dated June 7, 1715. They were printed in the first edition of the works of Pope, where some lines appear which have been judiciously omitted in the subsequent editions. TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST. HAIL, sacred Bard! a Muse unknown before Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, 5 10 And dress'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted bay. Thy treasures next arriv'd: and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coast: From thy luxuriant Forest we receive 15 More lasting glories than the East can give. gage! The pompous scenes in all their pride appear, 20 25 Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer, When Philomela sits and warbles there, Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades, And give us Harmony as well as Shades: A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 Can paint the grove, and add the music too. With vast variety thy pages shine; A new creation starts in ev'ry line. How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight, And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35 And give at once the day, at once the night! And here again what sweet confusion reigns, 40 Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire! Thrice happy thou! and worthy best to dwell I in a cold, and in a barren clime, 45 Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, 50 And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay. 55 Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves' eternal green: Where sacred Hough long found his fam'd retreat, 60 65 They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd. Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string: 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing? Rous'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, On the cold earth the fluttering Pheasant lie; 80 85 90 The Tale be told, when shades forsake her shore, Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the song divine, Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream, 100 The World should tremble at her awful name: FR. KNAPP. ELIJAH FENTON. By far the most elegant and best turned compliment of all addressed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greek epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and most gracefully applied; Η ειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν, ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος ̔́Ομηρος. Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau also imitated this epigram.— Warton. TO MR. POPE. IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER. WHEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids, 66 Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, 66 Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; 5 10 "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, 15 "From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the bays. "But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West, "And the white Isle with female pow'r is blest; "Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, 66 66 And the Translator's Palm to me transfer. With less regret my claim I now decline, 'The World will think his English Iliad mine." E. FENTON. 20 |