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النشر الإلكتروني

There purple Vengeance, bathed in gore, retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.'

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise!
Enough for me,
that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.

POPE.

ESSAY ON CRITICISM,

AND

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

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