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A while distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAPP.

TO MR. POPE,

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.

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WHEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old affembled in the Thespian fhades;

What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to found, and thee to hear?, Reply'd the God; "Your loftieft notes employ, 5 "To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy." The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse; Then afk who wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'd with a frown; "I now reveal "A truth, that envy bids me not conceal: "Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, "I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale,

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VIR. I. When Phoebus,] By far the most elegant and best turned compliment of all addreffed to our Author; happily borrowed from that fine Greck epigram in the Anthologia, p. 30, and most gracefully applied;

Ἤειδον μὲν Εγὼν ἔχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Ομηρος.

Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau also imitated this epigram. WARTON.

"Which,

Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; CH "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'd the bays. 16

"But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, "Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name; "Yet when my Arts fhall triumph in the Weft, "And the white Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With less regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine.” E. FENTON.

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TO MR. POPE.

To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to fhow, the Senfible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Mufic 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 agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.

Horace himself would own thou doft excel
In candid arts to play the Critic well.

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Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding stream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever through Poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair,
Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair?
Lefs fhone the treffes Egypt's Princefs wore,
Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before.
Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds;
Belles war with Beaus, and Whims defcend for Gods.
The new Machines, in names of ridicule,

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Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The Graces ftand in fight; a Satire-train

Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Infhrin'd on high the facred Virgil fits;

And fits in measures fuch as Virgil's Mufe
To place thee near him might be fond to chuse.
How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;
While fome old Damon, o'er the vulgar wife,
Thinks he deferves, and thou deferv'ft the Prize?
Rapt with the thought, my fancy feeks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!

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Here

Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head;
Still flide thy waters, foft among the trees,
Thy afpins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely 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.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs fparkling on a diftant throne;
In all the Majesty of Greek retir'd;
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night;
Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy Mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden Ore,
When choak'd by finking banks, no more appear,
And fhepherds only fay, The mines were here: бо
Should fome rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects ftand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein ;
The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vaft, how copious, are thy new defigns! 65 How ev'ry Music varies in thy lines!

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VER. 50. And flames] A very poor unmeaning line, and unworthy the fenfible and elegant Parnell!

WARTON.

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Still, as I read, I feel my bofom beat,
And rife in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when fummer drefs'd the days,
While Windfor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle bleft,
And Philomela fweetest o'er the rest:
The fhades refound with fong-O fostly tread,
While a whole feafon warbles round my head.

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This to my Friend-and when a friend inspires,
My filent harp its master's hand requires;
Shakes off the duft, and makes these rocks refound;
For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my foul agree,
From wit, from learning-very far from thee.
Here mofs-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempeft meet,
Rocks at their fides, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,
Whofe dull brown Naiads ever fleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and learned Ease,
A Friend delight me, and an Author please ;
Ev'n here I fing, when POPE fupplies the theme,
Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame.

T. PARNELL.

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