The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day:
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:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?
Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding
I rise and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy Muse 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 dazzling lines appear,
And every feather shines and varies there.
Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by,
But while the prancing steed allures my eye,
He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly
O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,
Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.
Oh could thy Virgil from his orb look down, 85
He'd view a courser that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.
Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?
The soft complaint shall over time prevail;
The Tale be told, when shades forsake her shore, The Nymph be sung, when she can flow no more. 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
Than all their shouts for Victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The World should tremble at her awful name:
From various springs 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 distinct through many channels run,
But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names,
And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAPP.
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; Ηειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖος Όμηρος.
Fenton was the best Greek scholar of all our Author's poetical friends. Boileau also imitated this epigram. Warton.
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.
WHEN Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids,
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?
Reply'd the God; " Your loftiest notes employ, 5
"To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."
The wond'rous song 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, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind, Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; "And fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, "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; 20 Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
"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.
THE following lines were also a tribute to Pope from the Sister Kingdom. They are not equal upon the whole to what might have been expected from Parnell, on such an occasion; but the concluding verses are natural, touching, and elegant.
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A 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? 5 What 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 agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts to play the Critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the Dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;
On silver feet, with annual Osier 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?
Less shone the tresses Egypt's Princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.
Here 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 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 sight; a Satire-train
Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.
In Fame's fair Temple, o'er the boldest wits
Inshrin'd on high the sacred Virgil sits;
And sits in measures such as Virgil's Muse
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 some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35 Thinks 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!
Here 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 aspins quiver in a breathing breeze!
Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, 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.
Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant 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 sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, the mines were here: 60
Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected flame with gold again.
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