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But hark! the full Orchestra frike the strings ;
The Hero ftruts, and the whole audience tings.
My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confus'd, like Babel's mingled found.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisy throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd ev'ry note.
Pray Sir, says I, fufpend a-while your song,
The Opera's drown'd; your lungs are wond'rous
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests ftrows the plain.
Sudden he shrugs surprize, and answers quick,
Monsieur apparement n'aime pas la musique.
Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noite ;
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.
O footh me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortur'd ear!
When Anastatia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through ev'ry vein ;
Thought itands suspense, and filence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heav'nly Choir descends.
But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice pofíeft,
He thinks French music and Fren: b painting bett.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fidler of their Ball he quotes ;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives ;.
Yes, Sir, says he, in colour and design,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!
'Tis true his country's love transports his breast With warmer zeal, than your old Greeks profesi.
Ulyd'es lov'd his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that sage trav'ler left his native fhore ;
What stronger virtue in the Frenchman shines !
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I mult confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
should not think my Britain had such charms,
lolt to learning, if enslav'd by arms;
France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known,
And then, I grant it, France in science hone: -
We too, I own, without such aids
In ignorance and pride to rival France.
But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's hum'rous Scene.
Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pult'ney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dictates sublime, and diftant nations hear.
Hear all ye Princes, who the world controul,
What cares, what terrors haunt the tyrant's soul;
His constant train are anger, fear, diftruft.
To be a King, is to be good and just ;
His people he protects, their rights he faves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of flaves.
Happy, thrice happy shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain !
There shall the plough-1hare break the stubborn land,
And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand :
There liberty her settled mansion boalts,
There commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend,
So shall these blessings to thy fons descend !
You'll think, 'tis time some other theme to chuse, And not with Beaus and Fops fatigue the Muse: Should I let Satire loose on English ground, There fools of various character abound; But here my verse is to one race confn'd, All Frenchmen are of Perit-maitre kind.
"HAT 'tis encouragement makes Science spread,
When learning droops and fickens in the land,
What Patron's found to lend a saving hand ?
True-gen'rous Spirits prosp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish virtue when distreit:
But ere our mighty Lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty Lords muft think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's fides?
To find the seat where Harmony resides ?
Why touch we not so foft the filver lute,
The cheerful haut-boy, and the mellow flute ?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the found,
But there the Patrons of her sons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus’ reign,
He and Mecænas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that weight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel ftars !) a Poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great ;
Write ranc'rous libels to reform the State :
Or if you choose more fure and ready ways,
Spatter a Minister with fulsome praise :
Launch out with freedom, Aatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy inercenary quill.,
He who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause ;
He must indulge his Patron's hate and spleen,
And ftab the fame of thofe he ne'er had seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate casei
Be brave, do this, and then demand á place.
Why art thoa poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And banish tim'rous virtue from thy eyes.
All this seems modern preface, where we're told
I hat wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope succefs at Court?
Why should our Patriots virtue's cause fupport?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that virtue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Muse's train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.
Ask Painting, why she loves Hefperian air,
Go view, the cries, my glorious labours there ;-,
There in rich palaces I reign in ftate,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.
Why didft thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand ?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home...
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome ;