An
Epistle
to
Mr.
POPE
.
From
Rome
,
1730.
By
the
Same
.
IMmortal
bard
!
for
whom
each
Muse
has
wove
The
fairest
garlands
of
th'
Aonian
grove
;
Preserv'd
,
our
drooping
genius
to
restore
,
When
Addison
and
Congreve
are
no
more
.
After
so
many
stars
extinct
in
night
The
darken'd
ages
last
remaining
light
!
To
thee
from
Latian
realms
this
verse
is
writ
,
Inspir'd
by
memory
of
ancient
wit
;
For
now
no
more
these
climes
their
influence
boast
,
Fall'n
is
their
glory
,
and
their
virtue
lost
;
From
Tyrants
and
from
Priests
the
Muses
fly
,
Daughters
of
Reason
and
of
Liberty
:
Nor
Baioe
now
,
nor
Umbria's
plain
they
love
,
Nor
on
the
banks
of
Var
,
or
Mincius
rove
;
To
Thames's
flow'ry
borders
they
retire
,
And
kindle
in
thy
breast
the
Roman
fire
.
So
in
the
shades
,
where
cheer'd
with
summer
rays
Melodious
linnets
warbled
sprightly
lays
,
Soon
as
the
faded
,
falling
leaves
complain
Of
gloomy
Winter's
unauspicious
reign
,
No
tuneful
voice
is
heard
of
joy
or
love
,
But
mournful
silence
saddens
all
the
grove
.
Unhappy
Italy
!
whose
alter'd
state
Has
felt
the
worst
severity
of
fate
:
Not
that
Barbarian
hands
her
Fasces
broke
,
And
bow'd
her
haughty
neck
beneath
their
yoke
;
Not
that
her
palaces
to
earth
are
thrown
,
Her
cities
desart
,
and
her
fields
unsown
;
But
that
her
ancient
spirit
is
decay'd
,
That
sacred
Wisdom
from
her
bounds
is
fled
,
That
there
the
source
of
Science
flows
no
more
,
Whence
its
rich
streams
supply'd
the
world
before
.
Illustrious
names
!
that
once
in
Latium
shin'd
,
Born
to
instruct
and
to
command
mankind
;
Chiefs
,
by
whose
virtue
mighty
Rome
was
rais'd
,
And
Poets
,
who
those
Chiefs
sublimely
prais'd
!
Oft
I
the
traces
you
have
left
explore
,
Your
ashes
visit
,
and
your
urns
adore
;
Oft
kiss
,
with
lips
devout
,
some
mould'ring
stone
,
With
ivy's
venerable
shade
o'ergrown
;
Those
hallow'd
ruins
better
pleas'd
to
see
Than
all
the
pomp
of
modern
luxury
.
As
late
on
Virgil's
tomb
fresh
flow'rs
I
strow'd
,
While
with
th'
inspiring
Muse
my
bosom
glow'd
,
Crown'd
with
eternal
bays
my
ravish'd
eyes
Beheld
the
poet's
aweful
form
arise
;
Stranger
,
he
said
,
whose
pious
hand
has
paid
These
grateful
rites
to
my
attentive
shade
,
When
thou
shalt
breathe
thy
happy
native
air
,
To
Pope
this
message
from
his
Master
bear
:
'
Great
Bard
,
whose
numbers
I
myself
inspire
,
To
whom
I
gave
my
own
harmonious
lyre
,
If
high
exalted
on
the
throne
of
Wit
,
Near
me
and
Homer
thou
aspire
to
sit
,
No
more
let
meaner
Satire
dim
the
rays
That
flow
majestick
from
thy
nobler
bays
;
In
all
the
flow'ry
paths
of
Pindus
stray
,
But
shun
that
thorny
,
that
unpleasing
way
;
Nor
when
each
soft
engaging
Muse
is
thine
,
Address
the
least
attractive
of
the
Nine
.
Of
thee
more
worthy
were
the
task
,
to
raise
A
lasting
column
to
thy
Country's
praise
;
To
sing
the
land
,
which
yet
alone
can
boast
That
Liberty
corrupted
Rome
has
lost
;
Where
Science
in
the
arms
of
Peace
is
laid
,
And
plants
her
Palm
beside
the
Olive's
shade
.
Such
was
the
theme
for
which
my
lyre
I
strung
,
Such
was
the
people
whose
exploits
I
sung
;
Brave
,
yet
refin'd
,
for
arms
and
arts
renown'd
,
With
diff'rent
bays
by
Mars
and
Phoebus
crown'd
;
Dauntless
opposers
of
tyrannick
sway
,
But
pleas'd
a
mild
Augustus
to
obey
.
If
these
commands
submissive
thou
receive
,
Immortal
and
unblam'd
thy
name
shall
live
;
Envy
to
black
Cocytus
shall
retire
,
And
howl
with
Furies
in
tormenting
fire
;
Approving
Time
shall
consecrate
thy
lays
,
And
join
the
Patriot's
to
the
Poet's
praise
.
'