Ev'n I effay'd to touch the trembling ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rouz'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
ftrain,
I rife and wander thro' the field or plain;
Led by thy Mufe from sport to fport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd Line or hear the thund'ring gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I fpy
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,
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lofe the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
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 refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;
The Tale be told, when shades forfake her fhore,
The Nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.
Nor fhall thy fong, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the fong divine. Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy ftream,
The World fhould tremble at her awful name :
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a-while,
At once they murmur and enrich the Isle;
A-while diftin&t thro' many channels run,
But meet at laft, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftinguish'd names, 105
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on HOMER.
HEN Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old affembled in the Thespian shades ;
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, S
"To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous fong with rapture they rehearse;
Then ask 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,
"Which, unobferv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, "Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; 14 "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "From me, the God of Wit, ufurp'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 Ifle with female pow'r is bleft; 20 "Fame, I forefee, will make reprisals there, "And the Tranflator's Palm to me transfer. "With lefs regret my claim I now decline, "The World will think his English Iliad mine." E. FENTON.
O praise, and ftill with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to show, the Senfible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend;
What life, what vigour must the lines require ? 5 What Mufic tune them, what Affection fire?
O might thy Genius in my bosom shine; Thou should'ft not fail of numbers worthy thine; The brighteft Ancients might at once agree
To fing within my lays, and fing of thee.
Horace himfelf would own thou doft excell
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to fing the Dame
Whom Windfor Foreft fees a gliding ftream:
On filver feet, with annual Ofier crown'd,
She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's Hair, Made by thy Muse the envy of the Fair? Lefs fhone the treffes Ægypt's princefs wore, Which fweet Callimachus fo fung before. Here courtly trifles fet the world at odds Belles war with Beaux, and Whims descend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the Chemic fool.
But know, ye Fair, a point conceal'd with art, 25
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a Woman's heart.
The Graces stand 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 such as Virgil's Muse
To place thee near him might be fond to chufe,
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 fecks the plains,
And turns me fhepherd while I hear the ftrains.
Indulgent nurfe of ev'ry tender gale,
Parent of flowrets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at eafe I spread,
Here let thy poplars whifper 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 fpring,
Be hufh'd, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil fing.
In English lays, and all fublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He fhines in Council, thunders in the Fight,
And flames with ev'ry fenfe of great delight.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the Majefty of Greek retir'd,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd; 54
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:
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