H that fome genius, whofe poetic vein
Like Montague's could a juft piece sustain,
Would search the Grecian and the Latin ftore,
And thence present thee with the pureft ore:
In lafting numbers praife thy whole defign,
And manly beauty of each nervous line!
Shew how your pointed fatire's fterling wit,
Does only knaves or formal blockheads hit;
Who 're gravely dull, infipidly ferene,
And carry all their wisdom in their mien;
Whom thus expos'd, thus ftripp'd of their disguise,
None will again admire, most will despise!
Shew in what noble verse Naffau you fing,
How fuch a poet 's worthy such a king!
When Somers' charming eloquence you praife,
How loftily your tuneful voice you raise !
But my poor feeble Mufe is as unfit
To praise, as imitate what you have writ.
Artifts alone fhould venture to commend
What Dennis can't condemn, nor Dryden mend:
What must, writ with that fire and with that cafe,
The beaux, the ladies, and the critics, please.
MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR,
DESIRING MY OPINION OF HIS POEM.
ASK me not, friend, what I approve or blame;
Perhaps I know not why I like, or damn;
I can be pleas'd; and I dare own I am.
I read thee over with a lover's eye;
Thou haft no faults, or I no faults can spy;
Thou art all beauty, or all blindness I.
Critics and aged beaux of fancy chaste,
Who ne'er had fire, or elfe whofe fire is past,
Muft judge by rules what they want force to taste.
I would a poet, like a miftrefs, try,
Not by her hair, her hand, her nose, her eye;
But by fome nameless power, to give me joy.
The nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchill's charms,
If with refiftlefs fires my foul the warms,
With balm upon her lips, and raptures in her arms.
Such is thy genius, and fuch art is thine,
Some fecret magic works in every line;
We judge not, but we feel the power divine.
Where all is juft, is beauteous, and is fair,
Diftinctions vanifh of peculiar air.
Loft in our pleasure, we enjoy in you
Lucretius, Horace, Sheffield, Montague.
And yet 'tis thought, fome critics in this town,
By rules to all, but to themselves, unknown,
Will damn thy verfe, and juftify their own.
Why let them damn: were it not wondrous hard
Facetious Mirmil* and the City Bard,
So near ally'd in learning, wit, and skill,
Should not have leave to judge, as well as kill?
Nay, let them write; let them their forces join,
And hope the motley piece may rival thine.
Safely defpife their malice, and their toil,
Which vulgar ears alone will reach, and will defile.
Be it thy generous pride to please the best,
Whose judgement, and whose friendship, is a test.
With learned Hans thy healing cares be join'd;
Search thoughtful Ratcliffe to his inmost mind;
Unite, reftore your arts, and fave mankind :
Whilft all the bufy Mirmils of the town
Envy our health, and pine away their own.
Whene'er thou would'ft a tempting Mufe engage,
Judicious Walfh can beft direct her rage.
To Somers and to Dorset too fubmit,
And let their stamp immortalize thy wit.
Confenting Phoebus bows, if they approve,
And ranks thee with the foremost bards above.
Whilst these of right the deathless laurel send,
Be it my humble business to commend
The faithful, honeft man, and the well-natur'd friend.
TO MY FRIEND DR. GARTH,
THE AUTHOR OF THE DISPENSARY.
To praife your healing art, would be in vain ;
The health you give, prevents the poet's pen.
Sufficiently confirm'd is your renown,
And I but fill the chorus of the town.
That let me waive, and only now admire
The dazzling rays of your poetic fire:
Which its diffufive virtue does difpenfe,
In flowing verfe, and elevated fenfe.
The town, which long has swallow'd foolish verse, Which poetafters every where rehearse,
Will mend their judgement now, refine their tafte,
And gather up th' applause they threw in wafte,
The play-house fhan't encourage falfe fublime,
Abortive thoughts, with decoration-rhyme.
The fatire of vile fcribblers fhall appear
On none, except upon themfelves, severe :
While yours contemns the gall of vulgar spite;
And when you seem to smile the most, you bite.
S when the people of the northern zone
Find the approach of the revolving fun,
Pleas'd and reviv'd, they fee the new-born light,
And dread no more eternity of night:
Thus we, who lately, as of fummer's heat,
Have felt a dearth of poetry and wit,
Once fear'd, Apollo would return no more
From warmer climes to an ungrateful shore.
But
you, the favourite of the tuneful Nine,
Have made the God in his full luftre shine;
Our night have chang'd into a glorious day;
And reach'd perfection in your firft efsay.
So the young eagle, that his force would try,
Faces the fun, and towers it to the fky.
Others proceed to art by flow degrees,
Aukward at firft, at length they faintly please;
And still, whate'er their firft efforts produce,
'Tis an abortive, or an infant Mufe:
Whilft yours, like Pallas, from the head of Jove,
Steps out full-grown, with nobleft pace to move.
What ancient poets to their fubjects owe,
Is here inverted, and this owes to you:
You found it little, but have made it
They could defcribe, but you alone create.
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