Lord MIDDLESEX to Mr. POPE, On reading Mr. ADDISON's Account of the English Poets

If all who e'er invok'd the tuneful nine In Addison's majestic numbers shine, Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye criticks tell, Remain unsung, who sings himself so well? Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire With Waller's softness, or with Milton's fire; Whilst I, the meanest of the muses' throng, To thy just praises tune th' advent'rous song.

How am I fill'd with rapture and delight When gods and mortals mix'd, sustain the fight! Like Milton then, tho' in more polish'd strains, Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoking plains, What tho' archangel 'gainst archangel arms, And highest Heaven resounds with dire alarms! Doth not the reader with like dread survey The wounded gods repuls'd with foul dismay?

But when some fair one guides your softer verse, Her charms, her godlike features to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm.

When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, For still king Tibbald scribbles as before; Poor Shakespeare suffers by his pen each day, While Grubstreet alleys own his lawful sway.

Now turn, my muse, thy quick, poetic eyes, And view gay scenes and op'ning prospects rise. Hark! how his rustic numbers charm around, While groves to groves, and hills to hills resound. The list'ning beasts stand fearless as he sings, And birds attentive close their useless wings. The swains and satyrs trip it o'er the plain, And think old Spenser is reviv'd again. But when once more the godlike man begun In words smooth flowing from his tuneful tongue, Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder say, Sure Spenser's self ne'er sung so sweet a lay: Sure once again Eliza glads the isle, That the kind muses thus propitious smile.— Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, swains?— 'Tis Pope that sings, and Carolina reigns.

But hold, my muse! whose aukward verse betrays Thy want of skill, nor shews the poet's praise; Cease then, and leave some fitter bard to tell How Pope in ev'ry strain can write, in ev'ry strain excell.