Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light. So wealthy mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden ore, When choked by sinking banks, no more appear, And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:" 60 Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand informed with art) Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein; The mines detected flame with gold again. How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65 How ev'ry music varies in thy lines! Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat, And rise in raptures by another's heat. Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days, While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70 Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest, And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest: The shades resound with song--O softly tread, While a whole season warbles round my head. This to my friend--and when a friend inspires, 75 My silent harp its master's hand requires; Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune placed me in unfertile ground; Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning--very far from thee. 80 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf; Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;[14] Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet; Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood, 85 Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud. Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease, A friend delight me, and an author please; Ev'n here I sing, when POPE supplies the theme, Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90 THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT.[15] TO MR. POPE, ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.