Πᾶσι μὲν τοῖς ἀρχετύποις ἐπιπρέπει χάρις, καὶ ὥρα.

αὐτοφυής τις Τοῖς δ ̓ ἀπὸ

και

τέτων κατεσκευασμένοις, κἂν ἐπ ̓ ἄκρον μιμήσεως ἔλθωσι, πρόσεςι τι ὅμως τὸ ἐπι]ε]ηδευμένον, καὶ ἐκ ἐκ φύσεως ὑπάρχον.

DIONYS. HALICARN. in Dinarcho.

A

MONO DY.

Sorrowing I catch the reed, and call the muse;

If yet a mufe on Britain's plain abide, Since rapt MusÆUS tun'd his parting ftrain:

With him they liv'd, with him perchance they dy'd.
For who e'er fince their virgin charms espy'd,

Or on the banks of Thames, or met their train,
Where Ifis fparkles to the funny ray?

Or have they deign'd to play,

Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale,
Feeding each blue bell pale, and daifie pied,

That fling their fragrance round his rushy fide?

NOTE.

* Mr. Pope died in the year 1744; this Poem was then written, and published first in the year 1747.

Yet ah! ye are not dead, Cœleftial Maids; Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:

Nor is it meet ye fly these penfive glades,

E'er round his laureat herfe ye heave the figh.

Stay then awhile, O ftay, ye fleeting fair;

Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,

Nor Thespia's grove; till with harmonious teen
Ye footh his fhade, and flowly-dittied air.
Such tribute pour'd, again ye may repair
To what lov'd haunt ye whilom did elect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair
Trim Mænalus, with piny verdure deckt.
But now it boots ye not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary, shade to chuse,

Or where mild Ladon's welling waters play.

Forego each vain excufe,

And hafte to Thames's fhores; for Thames shall join

Our fad fociety, and paffing mourn,

The tears fast-trickling o'er his filver urn.

And,

And, when the Poet's widow'd

grot

1

he laves,

His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,

His tide no more in eddies blith fhall rove,

But creep foft by with long-drawn murmurs flow.

For oft the mighty Mafter rous'd his waves

With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love :

He must not now in brifk mæanders flow

Gamefome, and kifs the fadly-filent shore,
Without the loan of fome poetic woe,

Say firft, Sicilian Muse,

For, with thy fifters, thou didst weeping ftand

In filent circle at the folemn scene,

When Death approach'd, and wav'd his ebon wand,
Say how each laurel droopt its with'ring green?

How, in yon grot, each filver trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;

While as the coral roof did foftly ring
Responsive to their sweetly-doleful song.

Meanwhile all pale th'expiring Poet laid,
And funk his awful head,

While vocal fhadows pleafing dreams prolong;
For fo, his fick❜ning spirits to release,

They pour'd the balm of vifionary peace.

First, fent from Cam's fair banks, like Palmer old, Came* TITYRUS flow, with head all filver'd o'er, And in his hand an oaken crook he bore,

And thus in antique guise short talk did hold.

"Grete clerk of Fame' is house, whofe excellence "Maie wele befitt thilk place of eminence,

"Mickle of wele betide thy houres last,

"For mich gode wirkè to me don and past.

"For fyn the days whereas my lyre ben strongen,

"And deftly many a mery laie I fongen,

"Old Time, which alle things don maliciously

"Gnawen with rufty tooth continually,

"Gnattrid my lines, that they all cancrid ben,

"Till at the laft thou smoothen 'hem haft again;

ΝΟΤΕ.

Came Tityrus &c.] i. e. CHAUCER, a name frequently given him by Spenfer. See Shep. Cal. Ecl. 2, 6, 12, and elsewhere.

"Sithence