March 9, 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver-treaming floods, By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waite fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing: The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day: The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glaify plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At ev'n'ning a keen easterly breeze arose, And the defending rain unfailingly froze; Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes: For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass, And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glaify; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns flow, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield, Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. The flag in limpid currents with surprize, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:

The The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing aether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a flanged flower the prospect ends: Or, if a southerly gale the region warm, And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees: Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro' fragrant bow'rs and thro' delicious meads, While here enchanted gardens to him rise, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, And while he thinks the fair illusion true, The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear; A tedious road the weary wretch returns, And, as he goes, the transient vison mourns.

The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and the extravagant passion which some people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

See the wild waste of all devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd! Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods! Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce let alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage; Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name: That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespaian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more; Convince'd, she, now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the ruff adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years: To gain Pecennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cercops in ecstatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd: And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

There's the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine; Her gods and god-like heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush these studies they regard engage; These pleas'd the fathers of poetic race; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There, warriors frowning in historic brafs? Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's, looks agree; Or in fair series laurel'd bards be thrown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy CRAGGS (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio thine; With aspect open shall erect his head; And round the orb in lasting notes be read, "Stateman, yet friend to truth! of foul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd."

We have already observed, that the essential, and indeed the true characteristic of epistolary writing, is ease; and on this account, as well as others, the following letter from Mr Pope to Miss Blount is to be admired.

To Miss Blount, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation.

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care