Uncouth to ears of modern days,
Make up the metre, which they call
Blank, CLASSICK BLANK, their All in All
Can only blank admit fublime?
Go, read and measure DRYDEN's rhyme.
Admire the magic of his fong,
See how his numbers roll along,
With ease and strength and varied pause,
Nor cramp'd by found, nor metre's laws.
Is harmony the gift of rhyme?
Read, if you can, your MILTON's chime
Where taste, not wantonly fevere,
May find the measure, not the ear.
As rhyme, rich rhyme, was DRYDEN'S
And blank has MILTON's nobler voice,
I deem it as the fubjects lead,
That either measure will fucceed.
That rhyme will readily admit
Of fancy, numbers, force and wit;
But tho' each couplet has its strength,
It palls in works of epic length.
For who can bear to read or hear, Tho' not offenfive to the ear,
The mighty BLACKMORE gravely fing
Of ARTHUR PRINCE, and ARTHUR KING,
Heroic poems without number,
Long, lifeless, leaden, lulling lumber;
Nor pity fuch laborious toil,
And lofs of midnight time and oil?
Yet glibly runs each jingling line,
Smoother, perhaps, than yours or mine,
But ftill, (tho' peace be to the dead,)
The dull, dull poems weigh down lead.
So have I feen upon the road,
A waggon of a mountain's load,
Broad-wheel'd, and drawn by horses eight,
Pair'd like great folks who ftrut in ftate:
While the gay steeds, as proud as strong,
Drag the flow tottering weight along,
Each as the steep afcent he climbs,
Moves to his bells, and walks in chimes.
And POPE (for POPE affects the fame)
In numbers lifp'd, for numbers came.
Thus, in hiftoric page I've read
Of fome queen's daughter, fairy-bred,
Who could not either cough or fpit,
Without fome precious flow of wit,
While her fair lips were as a spout,
To tumble pearls and diamonds out.
Yet, tho' dame nature may bestow
This knack of verfe, and jingling flow:
(And thousands have that impulse felt,
With whom the Mufes never dwelt)
Tho' it may fave the lab'ring brain
From many a thought-perplexing pain,
And while the rhyme presents itself,
Leaves BYSSHE untouch'd upon the shelf;
Yet more demands the critic ear,
Than the two catch-words in the rear,
Which ftand like watchmen in the clofe,
To keep the verfe from being profe.
But when reflexion has refin'd
This boift'rous bias of the mind,
When harmony enriches sense,
And borrows stronger charms from thence,
When genius fteers by judgment's laws,
When proper cadence, varied pause
Shew nature's ftrength combin'd with art,
And thro' the ear poffefs the heart;
Then numbers come, and all before
Is bab, dab, fcab-mere rhymes-no more.
Some boaft, which none could e'er impart,
A fecret principle of art,
Which gives a melody to rhyme
Unknown to Bards in antient time.
And BOILEAU leaves it as a rule
To all who enter PHOEBUS' fchool,
To make the metre ftrong and fine,
Poets write firft your fecond line.
'Tis folly all No poet flows
In tuneful verfe, who thinks in profe;
And all the mighty fecret here
Lies in the nicenefs of the ear.
E'en in this meafure, when the mufe,
With genuine ease, her way pursues,
Tho' fhe affect to hide her skill,
And walks the town in deshabille,
Which will, tho' carelefly display'd,
Distinguish MADAM from her maid.
Here, by the way of critic fample, I give the precept and example. Four feet, you know, in ev'ry line IS PRIOR's meafure, and is mine; Yet Tafte wou'd ne'er forgive the crime To talk of mine with PRIOR's rhyme.
Yet, take it on a Poet's word,
There are who foolishly have err'd,
And marr'd their proper reputation,
By sticking close to imitation.
A double rhyme is often fought
At strange expence of time and thought;
And tho' fometimes a lucky hit
May give a zeft to BUTLER's wit;
Whatever makes the measure halt
Is beauty feldom, oft a fault.
For when we see the wit and pains,
The twisting of the stubborn brains,
To cramp the fense within the bound
Of fome' queer double treble found.
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