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Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain, Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the swain. Your rural Mufe appears to juftify

40.

The long loft graces of Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
"Till by mens Envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem. 45

Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whofe Mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight;
So Larks, which firft from lowly fields arife, 50
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
W. WICHERLEY.

To Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Forest.

AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before

HA

Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore. To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,

Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.

The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, 5
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various fpoil adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's Earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay, 10
And drefs'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the
painted bay.

Thy treasures next arriv'd and now we boast
A nobler cargo on our barren coaft:

From thy luxuriant Forest we receive

More lafting glories than the East can give. 15
Where-c'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous scenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were.
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhows

The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While the the wond'ring thepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her wat'ry plains;
Thy jufter lays the lucid wave surpass,
The living fcene is in the Mufe's glafs.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing Forefts chear,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,

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Than when you fing the greens aud op'ning glades, And give us Harmony as well as Shades:

A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you Can paint the grove, and add the Mufic too. 31

With vast variety thy pages shine;

A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of fhade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deserts caft a pleasing gloom,
And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom: 40
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves display their annual pride.

Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire !

Thrice happy you! and worthy beft 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,

Here on the Western beach attempt to chime.

O joyless flood! O rough tempeftuous main! 50
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obscene!
Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic hores,
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 Muses to the sylvan seat,

55.

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 Addifon infpir'd.

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Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling string: 70 Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?

Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding ftrain,

I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;

(xx)

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Led by thy Mufe from sport to sport I run,
Mark the stretch'd Line, or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the flutt'ring Pheasant lie;
His gaudy robes in dazling lines appear,
And ev'ry feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I pafs the gen'rous courfer by, 70)
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?

The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;

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The Tale be told, when shades forfake her fhore,

The Nymph be fung, when she can flow no more.
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 shouts for Victory before.

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Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,

The World should tremble at her awful name:

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