TO MR. POPE.
92 lines✦
o praise, and still with just respect to praiseA bard triumphant in immortal bays,The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,Yet still preserve the province of the friend;What life, what vigour must the lines require? 5What music tune them, what affection fire?O might thy genius in my bosom shine,Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine:The brightest ancients might at once agreeTo sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10Horace himself would own thou dost excelIn candid arts to play the critic well.Ovid himself might wish to sing the dameWhom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;On silver feet, with annual osier crowned, 15She runs for ever through poetic ground.How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,Made by thy muse the envy of the fair!Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 20Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods.The new machines, in names of ridicule,Mock the grave phrenzy of the chomic fool.But know, ye fair, a point concealed with art, 25The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.The graces stand in sight; a satire-trainPeeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest witsInshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 30And sits in measures such as Virgil's museTo place thee near him might be fond to choose.How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail! 40Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze!Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring, 45Be hushed, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.In English lays, and all sublimely great,Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;He shines in council, thunders in the fight,And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50Long has that poet reigned, and long unknown,Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;In all the majesty of Greek retired;Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;His language failing wrapt him round with night; 55Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.So wealthy mines, that ages long beforeFed the large realms around with golden ore,When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:" 60Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,And all his projects stand informed with art)Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;The mines detected flame with gold again.How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,And rise in raptures by another's heat.Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days,While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:The shades resound with song--O softly tread,While a whole season warbles round my head.This to my friend--and when a friend inspires, 75My silent harp its master's hand requires;Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;Far from the joys that with my soul agree,From wit, from learning--very far from thee. 80Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;[14]Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet;Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood, 85Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud.Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,A friend delight me, and an author please;Ev'n here I sing, when POPE supplies the theme,Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90 THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT.[15] TO MR. POPE,
✦