For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief, May foon fome other nymph inflict the pain, Though long you sported have with Cupid's dart, You may tettet In Answer to a LADY who advised RETIREMENT. By the Same. You little know the heart that you advife; I view this various fcene with equal eyes: In crowded courts I find myself alone, Well as I can my tedious part I bear, An Address of the STATUES at STOWE, to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens. F ROM every Muse and every art thy own, Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne! Fetter'd by duties and to forms enslav❜d, So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) refign'd his plume, O greatly blefs'd! whofe evening fweeteft fhines, Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled fky, Divides Divides life well: the largest part, long known Through the dark throng difcern huge flaves of pride And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame; And lop th' exub'rance of fome ftraggling spray; And from the bursting bubbles fhade thy fight. Yet where thou fhin'ft, like heav'n behind a cloud, Moving like light, all piercing, though not loud; The Muse shall find thee in thy bleft retreat, And breathe this honeft wish at Cobham's feet: Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow! And breezy like thy groves, thy paffions blow! Wide as thy fancy, be thy fpreading praise ! And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days! An L ET others hail the rifing fun, I bow to that whose course is run, Whofe rays benignant bless'd this isle, No bounty past provokes my praise, I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears, And join a nation's woe. POPE. See See -as you pass the crowded ftreet, You hear in every broken figh, If thus each Briton be alarm'd, The Hufband, Father, Friend! What! mute ye bards? no mournful verfe, No chaplets to adorn his hearfe, To crown the good and just? Your flowers in warmer regions bloom, No laurels from the dust. When pow'r departed with his breath, Such infects fwarm at noon. Not |