386 POPE. 



Direct and free, to Nature's guidance prone, 



Pope sought the paths that most he found his own : 



And never till his proper strength he knows, 



Home to the mark the archer's arrow goes. 50 



O mighty master of a vigorous lyre ! 

 To whose domain no rivals dare aspire, 

 From youth to age where in a puny form 

 The ardour of immortal fame could warm ; 

 Where, to one end thy noble labours bent, 

 Straight to the goal of proud perfection went ; 

 And, whilst thy body writhed with constant pain, 

 Thy soul exulted in the conquering strain ! 



Once in a dream within thy studious cell, 



Plying thy daily task, I saw thee well : 60 



The impression was so strong, that I forget 

 'Twas Fancy that thy form before me set ; 

 And still believe, till recollection's force 

 Brings back the glowing image to its source, 

 That I have seen thee, talk'd with thee, and knew 

 Thy hallow'd person in its living hue ! 

 The ardour of my heart not age can tame, 

 And my thoughts kindle with their youthful flame ! 



Poet of Twickenham ! with unbounded awe 

 The glances of thy fiery eye I saw: 70 



Beheld them in my early days, when Hope 

 Led me in vain with sons of song to cope ; 

 And now, when darkening life's approaching close 

 No more the vigour of the body knows, 

 In the full fire of intellectual heat, 

 With equal worship I thy memory greet! 



Though dry thy judgment, and thy thoughts severe, 

 In daily toil would flowery fancies clear ; 

 Yet when to passion thou thy heart didst yield, 

 What founts of heavenly splendour were reveal'd ! 80 



Then beauty shone as blazing angels bright, 

 And the soul melted in sublime delight. 

 Then altars trembled, and with sudden awe 

 The lamps grew pallid, that the wonders saw. 

 In mighty conflict then of thoughts divine, 

 Love and Religion fainted at the shrine ! 



O Eloisa ! in the living strain 

 Where all the bursts of eloquence complain 

 Where, in the solemn temple's heaven-pierced gloom, 

 The immortal soul puts off" its mortal doom 90 



Where, by the groves of shadowy umbrage fed, 

 Imagination wanders with the dead 

 Were ever such celestial tones as thine ? 

 Did ever passion, music, so combine? 

 Force, elegance, and pathos, and the play 

 Of images, and grandeur's holier ray? 

 A burst that angels only could impart 

 An effluence far above all human art ! 



O mighty poet, by whose hallow'd tongue 

 Notes never to be rivall'd thus were sung ; 100 



