That, fond the griefs of the diftrefs'd to heal,
Can pity frailties it could never feel;

That, when Misfortune fu'd, ne'er fought to know
What fect, what party, whether friend or foes
That, fix'd on equal virtue's temp'rate laws,
Despises Calumny, and fhuns applause;
That, to its own perfections fingly blind,
Would for another think this praise design'd.

I'

An Epistle to Mr. POPE.

From Rome, 1730. [By the Same.]

Mmortal bard! for whom each Mufe has wove

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove ;
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in right
The darken'd age's laft remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft ;

From Tyrants, and from Priests the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty:

C 3

Nor

Nor Baix now, nor Umbria's plain thy love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincius rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breaft the Roman fire.

So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,-.
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the
grove.
Unhappy Italy whofe alter'd state

Has felt the worft feverity of fate:

Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke, A
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Not that hér palaces to earth are thrown,

Her cities defart, and her fields unfown;
But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

That facred Wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to Inftru&t and to Command mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe Chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,

Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;

Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,'
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown;

Thofe

Those hallow'd Ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
"While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the poet's awful form arise;

Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
These grateful rites to my attentive fhade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Master bear:
Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself infpire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou afpire to fit,"
No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
That flow majestick from thy nobler bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus ftray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleafing way;
Nor when each foft engaging Mufe is thine,
Addrefs the leaft attractive of the Nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lafting column to thy Country's praife;
To fing the land, which yet alone can boast
That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft;
Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid,
And plants her Palm befide the Olive's fhade.
Such was the theme for which my lyre I ftrung,
Such was the people whofe exploits I fung;

The Wretch by wild Impatience driv'n to Rove
Vex'd with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From pole to pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whofe rooted point his bleeding bofom tears,
With equal pain each diff'rent clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.

For how fhou'd ills, that from our paffions flow,
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Ruffia's fnow?
Or how can aught but pow'rful Reason cure,
What from unthinking Folly we endure ?
Happy is He, and He alone, who knows
His heart's uneafy difcord to compofe;
In gen'rous love of others Good to find
The sweetest pleasures of the focial mind;
To bound his wishes in their proper fphere;
To nourish pleafing hope, and conquer anxious fear.
This was the wifdom ancient Sages taught,
This was the fov'reign Good they justly fought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,

But the free native produce of the mind.

Nor think, my Lord, that Courts to you deny

The ufeful practice of Philofophy:

Horace, the wifeft of the tuneful choir,
Not always chofe from Greatness to retire,
But in the palace of Auguftus knew
The fame unerring maxims to pursue,
Which in the Sabine or the Velian fhade
His ftudy and his happiness he made.

May

May you, my friend, by his example taught,
View all the giddy scene with fober thought;
Undazzled ev'ry glitt'ring folly see,

And in the midst of flavish forms be free;
In its own center keep your fteddy mind;
Let Prudence guide you, but let Honour bind;
In fhow, in manners, act the Courtier's part,
But be a Country-gentleman at heart.

ADVICE to a LADY,

[By the Same. 1731.]

HE counfels of a friend, Belinda, hear,

TH

Too roughly kind to please a Lady's ear,
Unlike the flatt'ries of a lover's pen,

Such truths as women feldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I fhew
What female Vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine, to dare to be fincere,
But greater your's, fincerity to bear.

;

Hard is the fortune that your fex attends Women, like Princes, find few real friends: All who approach them their own ends pursue: Lovers and Minifters are feldom true.

Hence