Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd,
And ages ere the Mantuan fwan was heard:
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth ask'd ages more.
Thus genius rose and set at order'd times,
And shot a day-spring into distant climes,
Ennobling ev'ry region that he chofe;
He funk in Greece, in Italy he rofe;
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd,
Emerg'd all splendour in our ifle at laft.
Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main,
Then show far off their fhining plumes again.
A. Is genius only found in epic lays?
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise.
Make their heroic pow'rs your own at once,
Or candidly confefs yourself a dunce.

B. These were the chief: each interval of night Was grac'd with many an undulating light. In lefs illuftrious bards his beauty thone A meteor, or a ftar; in these, the fun.

The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, While the poor grasshopper muft chirp below: Like him, unnotic'd, I, and fuch as I,

Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly;

Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land,
An ell or two of profpect we command;
But never peep beyond the thorny bound,
Or oaken fence, that hems the paddoc round.
In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart
Had faded, poetry was not an art;
Language, above all teaching, or, if taught,
Only by gratitude and glowing thought,
Elegant as fimplicity, and warm
As ecftafy, unmanacled by form,
Not prompted, as in our degen'rate days,
By low ambition and the thirst of praise,
Was natural as is the flowing fiream,
And yet magnificent-a God the theme!.
That theme on earth exhaufted, though above
'Tis found as everlasting as his love,

Man lavish'd all his thoughts on human things-
The feats of heroes, and the wrath of kings:
But ftill, while virtue kindled his delight,
The fong was moral, and so far was right.
'Twas thus till luxury feduc'd the mind
To joys lefs innocent, as less refin'd;

Then genius danc'd a bacchanal; he crown'd

The brimming goblet, feiz'd the thyrfus, bound

His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field
Of wild imagination, and there reel'd,

The victim of his own lascivious fires,

And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the facred wires.
Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome
This Bedlam part; and others nearer home.
When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he
reign'd

The proud protector of the pow'r he gain'd,
Religion harfh, intolerant, auftere,

Parent of manners like herself severe,

Drew a rough copy of the Christian face
Without the fmile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and fullen humour of the time

Judg'd ev'ry effort of the mufe a crime;
Verfe, in the finest mould of fancy caft,

Was lumber in an age so void of taste :
But, when the second Charles affum'd the sway,
And arts reviv'd beneath a fofter day,

Then, like a bow long forc'd into a curve,

The mind, releas'd from too conftrain'd a nerve, Flew to its first pofition with a fpring

That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.

His court, the diffolute and hateful school
Of wantonnefs, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarm'd with a fcribbling herd, as deep inlaid
With brutal luft as ever Circe made.

From these a long fucceffion, in the rage
Of rank obfcenity, debauch'd their age;
Nor ceas'd, till, ever anxious to redress
Th' abuses of her facred charge, the prefs,
The mufe inftructed a well-nurtur'd train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain,
And claim the palm for purity of song,
That lewdness had ufurp'd and worn fo long.
Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense,
That neither gave nor would endure offence,
Whipp'd out of fight, with fatire juft and keen,
The puppy pack that had defil'd the scene.

In front of these came Addifon. In him
Humour in holiday and fightly trim,
Sublimity and attic tafte, combin'd,

To polish, furnish, and delight, the mind.
Then Pope, as harmony itfelf exact,

In verfe well difciplin'd, complete, compact,
Gave virtue and morality a grace,

That, quite eclipfing pleafure's painted face,

Levied a tax of wonder and applause,

Ev'n on the fools that trampled on their laws.
But he (his mufical fineffe was fuch,

So nice his ear, fo delicate his touch)
Made poetry a mere mechanic art;
And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart.
Nature imparting her satiric gift,

Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll fobriety they rais'd a fmile

At folly's coft, themselves unmov'd the while.
That conftellation fet, the world in vain

Muft hope to look upon their like again.

A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark;
Wit now and then, ftruck fmartly, fhows a spark,
Sufficient to redeem the modern race
From total night and abfolute difgrace.
While fervile trick and imitative knack
Confine the million in the beaten track,
Perhaps fome courfer, who difdains the road,
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad.
Contemporaries all furpafs'd, fee one;

Short his career, indeed, but ably run;
Churchill; himself unconscious of his pow'rs,
In penury confum'd his idle hours;