I feek not by more labour'd lays To catch the flipp'ry tail of praise, Nor will I run a mad career
'Gainft genius which I moft revere;
When Phoebus burfts with genuine fire,
The little ftars at once retire;
Who cares a farthing for thofe lays
Which you can neither blame, nor praise?
I cannot match a CHURCHILL's fkill,
But may be LANGHORNE when I will.
Let the mere mimic, for each season bears
Your mimic Bards as well as mimic play'rs,
Creep fervilely along, and with dull pains
Lafh his flow fteed, in whofe enfeebled veins.
The cold blood lags, let him with fruitless aim
By borrow'd plumes affume a borrow'd fame,
With studied forms th' incautious ear beguile,
And ape the numbers of a CHURCHILL'S ftyle.
Slaves may fome fame from imitation hope;
Who'd be PAUL WHITEHEAD, tho' he honoursPOPE?
If clinking couplets in one endless chime
Be the fole beauty, and the praise of rhyme;
If found alone an easy triumph gains,
While fancy bleeds, and sense is hung in chains,
Ye happy triflers hail the rifing mode;
See, all Parnaffus is a turnpike road,
Where each may travel in the highway track
On true bred hunter, or on common hack,
For me, who labour with poetic fin,
Who often woo the muse I cannot win,
Whom pleasure first a willing poet made,
And folly spoilt by taking up the trade,
Pleas'd I behold fuperior genius fhine,
Nor ting'd with envy wish that genius mine.
TO CHURCHILL's mufe can bow with decent awe,
Admire his mode, nor make that mode my law:
Both may, perhaps, have various pow'rs to please ;
Be his the STRENGTH of NUMBERS, mine the EASE.
Eafe that rejects not, but betrays no care:
Lefs of the coxcomb than the floven's air.
Your taste, as mine, all metre must offend,
When imitation is its only end.
I could perhaps that fervile task pursue,
And copy CHURCHILL as I'd copy you,
But that my flippant mufe, too faucy grown,
Prefers that manner fhe can call her own.
THOU child of nature, genius ftrong,
Thou master of the poet's fong,
Before whofe light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov❜ft to steal along the secret shade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly warbling Shakespeare bore;
Whom every mufe endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that facred rill, Whose filver streams flow mufical along,
Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds with raptur'd fong.
Forfake not thou the vocal choir,
Their breasts revifit with thy genial fire,
Elfe vain the ftudied founds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not near the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order fet,
On each fide leaning on the [ftop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhyme still tinkling in the close,
While pure defcription fhines in measur'd prose.
Thou bear'ft aloof, and look'ft with high disdain,
Upon the dull mechanic train;
Whose nervelefs ftrains flag on in languid tone,
Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.
No longer now thy altars blaze,
poet offers up his lays; Infpir'd with energy divine, To worship at thy facred fhrine. Since tafte* with abfolute domain, Extending wide her leaden reign, Kills with her melancholy shade, The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree; Which erft full wantonly have stray'd In many a wreath of richest poesie. For when the oak denies her stay, The creeping ivy winds her humble way; No more fhe twists her branches round, But drags her feeble ftem along the barren ground.
Where then shall exil'd genius go?
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name,
Whose fober rhymes in even tenour flow;
* By Tafte, is here meant the modern affectation of it.
Who prey on words, and all their flow'rets cull, Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why fleep the fons of genius now?
Why, Wartons, refts the lyre unftrung?
*And thou, bleft bard! around whofe facred brow, Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:
Arife, and fnatch the majefty of fong
From dullness' fervile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.
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