While all the art of Imitation,
Is pilf'ring from the first creation;
Transplanting flowers, with useless toil,
Which wither in a foreign foil.
As confcience often fets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' affiftance of the laws
To combat in the moral caufe;
So Genius, of itself difcerning,
Without the myftic rules of learning,
Can, from its prefent intuition,
Strike at the truth of compofition.
Yet those who breathe the claffic vein,
Enlifted in the mimic train,
Who ride their fteed with double bit,
Ne'er run away with by their wit,
Delighted with the pomp of rules,
The fpecious pedantry of schools,
(Which rules, like crutches, ne'er became
Of any use but to the lame,)
Pursue the method fet before 'em;
Talk much of order, and decorum,
Of probability of fiction,
Of manners, ornament, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,
(A privilege which dulnefs claims,
And merely us'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common fenfe,)
Extol the wit of antient days,
The fimple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all fo chafte,
Trick'd up in ancient-modern tafte,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In fuch a sweet defcriptive ftile,
While Chorus marks the fervile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Prefent you with a perfect piece,
Form'd on the model of old Greece.
Come, pr'ythee Critic, fet before us,
The ufe and office of a chorus.
What! filent! why then, I'll produce
Its fervices from antient ufe.
'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage;
To be an arrant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Shewing its forrow, or delight,
By shifting dances, left and right,
Not much unlike our modern notions,
Adagio or Allegro motions;
To watch upon the deep distress,
And plaints of royal wretchedness;
And when, with tears, and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for fupplies,
And with their Hais, and Hees, and Hoes,
To make a fymphony of woes.
Doubtlefs the Antients want the art
To ftrike at once upon the heart:
Or why their prologues of a mile In fimple-call it-humble ftile, In unimpaffion'd phrase to say "'Fore the beginning of this play,' " I, hapless Polydore, was found By fishermen, or others drown'd!" Or, "I, a gentleman, did wed, "The lady I wou'd never bed, "Great Agamemnon's royal daughter, "Who's coming hither to draw water." Or need the Chorus to reveal Reflexions, which the audience feel; And jog them, left attention fink, To tell them how and what to think?
Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view
Cou'd look the whole creation through,
Who travers'd all the human heart,
Without recourfe to Grecian art?
He fcorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and tranflation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakspeare, thus, who ftands alone-
-But why repeat what You have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts must tell.
AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,
F at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,
They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
Would you, refolve me, critics, for you can,
Send for the mafter up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish business drives,
But tell me what's the mafter who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which fays, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the naufeous flop,
Master or 'prentice; we deteft the shop.
Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or cenfur'd with an open face:
Boldly purfu'd the free deeifive task,
Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask.
To works not men, with honeft warmth, fevere,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear:
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active flame;
To bring forth merit in its ftrongeft light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
But, as all ftates are fubject to decay,
The state of letters too will melt away,
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling found,
Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, fought their honour'd graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of flaves.
In claffic lore, deep science, language dead,
Though modern witlings are but scantly read,
Profeffors* fail not, who will loudly bawl
In praise of either, with the want of all:
Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour.
-The tribune's name surviv'd the tribune's pow'r.
Now Quack and Critic differ but in name,
Empirics frontless both, they mean the fame ;
This raw in Phyfic, that in Letters fresh,
Both spring, like warts, excrefcence from the flesh.
Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling schools,
For all profeffions have their rogues and fools,
Though the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Cafts no reflection on the wife or brave.
Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age,
When, blind with dulnefs, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first;
From the low earth afpiring genius fprings,
And fails triumphant, born on eagle wings.
No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time.
Pity perhaps might with a harmless fool
To scape th' obfervance of the critic school;
* The author takes this opportunity, notwithstanding all infinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentleman, whofe ability he fufficiently acknowledges.
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