less kind,)
By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand. 140

So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,
E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join'd 145
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

Oxford, Dec. 3,
1743.

VARIATIONS.

Ver.
1. While, own'd by you, with smiles the Muse surveys
The expected triumph of her sweetest lays:
While, stretch'd at ease, she boasts your guardian aid,
Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade:
Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows,
In just remembrance of the debt she owes;
With conscious, &c.

9. Long slighted Fancy with a mother's care
Wept o'er his works, and felt the last despair:
Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall,
By all deserted, though admired by all:

near And "Oh!" she cried, "shall Science still resign
11 Whate'er is Nature's, and whate'er is mine?
to Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard,
22. And scornful Pride reject the unletter'd bard?
Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign,
Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train,
If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have known
One perfect mind, which judgment calls its own;
There every breast its fondest hopes must bend,
And every Muse with tears await her friend."
'Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose,
In kind compassion of her sister's woes.
'Twas then she promised to the mourning maid
The immortal honours which thy hands have paid:
"My best loved son," she said, "shall yet restore
Thy ruin'd sweets, and Fancy weep no more."
Each rising art by slow gradation moves;
Toil builds, &c.

25. Line after line our pitying eyes o'erflow,

27. To Rome removed, with equal power to please,

35. When Rome herself, her envied glories dead,
No more imperial, stoop'd her conquer'd head;
Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme,
While all was peace, by Arno's silver stream.
With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain'd,
And arts reviving to