The eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, Thy treasures next arriv'd; and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coast: From thy luxuriant Forest we receive More lasting glories than the east can give. 10 15 20 The living scene is in the Muse's glass. 25 When Philomela sits and warbles there, Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades, A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you 30 With vast variety thy pages shine; A new creation starts in ev'ry line. How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight, 40 And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, 35 Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell I in a cold and in a barren clime, Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, 46 } Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much-lov'd Isis' walks convey, And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay. Thence let me view the venerable scene, 50 55 The awful dome, the grove's eternal green; 60 65 70 Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string : strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain; On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie! 80 76 } O'er hills and dales; and now I lose the course, 85 90 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: 96 100 A while distinct through many channels run, There joy to lose their long distinguish'd names, 105 And make one glorious and immortal Thames. FR. KNAPP. TO MR. POPE. In Imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer. WHEN Phoebus 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 10 "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. 16 "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 power is blest; 20 "Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, "And the translator's palm to me transfer. |