A FRAGMENT.

What are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind!

So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart); There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

TO MR GAY,

WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE AND GARDENS.

'Ah, friend! 'tis true--this truth you lovers know-- In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens: Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.

'What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade, The morning bower, the evening colonnade, But soft recesses of uneasy minds, To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?

So the struck deer in some sequester'd part Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart, He, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day, Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.'

ARGUS.

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd, Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, To all his friends, and even his queen unknown: Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares, Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed, Forgot of all his own domestic crew; The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew: Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay; Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man, And longing to behold his ancient lord again.

Him when he saw he rose, and crawl'd to meet, ('Twas all he could) and fawn'd and kiss'd his feet, Seized with dumb joy: then falling by his side, Own'd his returning lord, look'd up, and died!

PRAYER OF BRUTUS.

FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH.

Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase, To mountain wolves and all the savage race, Wide o'er th' aerial vault extend thy sway, And o'er th' infernal regions void of day.

On thy third reign look down; disclose our fate, In what new station shall we fix our seat?

When shall we next thy hallow'd altars raise, And choirs of virgins celebrate thy praise?

LINES ON A GROTTO, AT CRUX-EASTON, HANTS.

Here shunning idleness at once and praise, This radiant pile nine rural sisters[130] raise; The glittering emblem of each spotless dame, Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame; Beauty which nature only can impart, And such a polish as disgraces art; But Fate disposed them in this humble sort, And hid in deserts what would charm a court.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER

DEO OPT. MAX.

1 Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

2 Thou great First Cause, least understood: Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind;

3 Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And, binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.[131]

4 What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun, That, more than heaven pursue.

5 What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives; T' enjoy is to obey.

6 Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think Thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round:

7 Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land, On each I judge Thy foe.

8 If I am right, Thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, oh teach my heart To find that better way!

9 Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At ought Thy wisdom has denied.

Or ought Thy goodness lent.[132]

10 Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.

11 Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quicken'd by Thy breath; Oh, lead me, wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death!

12 This day, be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not, And let Thy will be done.

13 To Thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!

One chorus let all being raise!

All Nature's incense rise!

THE DUNCIAD.

IN FOUR BOOKS.

A LETTER TO THE PUBLISHER,

OCCASIONED BY THE FIRST CORRECT EDITION OF THE DUNCIAD.

It is with pleasure I hear that you have procured a correct copy of 'The Dunciad,' which the many surreptitious ones have rendered so necessary; and it is yet with more, that I am informed it will be attended with a commentary; a work so requisite, that I cannot think the author himself would have omitted it, had he approved of the first appearance of this poem.

Such notes as have occurred to me I herewith send you: you will oblige me by inserting them amongst those which are, or will be, transmitted to you by others; since not only the author's friends but even strangers appear engaged by humanity, to take some care of an orphan of so much genius and spirit, which its parent seems to have abandoned from the very beginning, and suffered to step into the world naked, unguarded, and unattended.

It was upon reading some of the abusive papers lately published, that my great regard to a person, whose friendship I esteem as one of the chief honours of my life, and a much greater respect to truth, than to him or any man living, engaged me in inquiries, of which the enclosed notes are the fruit.

I perceived that most of these authors had been (doubtless very wisely) the first aggressors. They had tried till they were weary, what was to be got by railing at each other; nobody was either concerned or surprised, if this or that scribbler was proved a dunce. But every one was curious to read what could be said to prove Mr Pope one, and was ready to pay something for such a discovery; a stratagem which, would they fairly own it, might not only reconcile them to me, but screen them from the resentment of their lawful superiors, whom they daily abuse, only (as I charitably hope) to get that _by_ them, which they cannot get _from_ them.

I found this was not all. Ill success in that had transported them to personal abuse, either of himself, or (what I think he could less forgive) of his friends. They had called men of virtue and honour bad men, long before he had either leisure or inclination to call them bad writers; and some had been such old offenders, that he had quite forgotten their persons as well as their slanders, till they were pleased to revive them.