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Shall not our verfe their praife with pleasure speak,
Though mimics bark, and Envy splits her cheek?
No honeft worth's beneath the Mufe's praise;
No greatnefs can above her cenfure raise ;
Station and wealth to her are trifling things;
She ftoops to actors, and fhe foars to kings.
Is there a man, in vice and folly bred,
To fenfe of honour as to virtue dead;
Whom ties nor human, nor divine can bind;
Alien to God, and foe to all mankind;
Who fpares no character; whofe ev'ry word,
Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword,
Cuts to the quick; whofe thoughts with rancour fwell;
Whofe tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell;
If there be fuch a monster, the Reviews
Shall find him holding forth against abuse.
"Attack profeffion!-'tis a deadly breach!-
"The Chriftian laws another leffon teach :-
"Unto the end fhall charity endure,
"And Cardour hide thofe faults it cannot cure.'
Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's
As devils, to ferve their purpofe, Scripture quote.
The Mufe's office was by Heav'n defign'd
To pleafe, improve, instruct, reform mankind;
To make dejected Virtue nobly rife
Above the tow'ring pitch of fplendid Vice;
To make pale Vice, abah'd, her head hang down,
And trembling crouch at Virtue's awful frown.
Now arm'd with wrath, the bids eternal shame,
With ftricteft juftice, brand the villain's name :
Now in the milder garb of ridicule
She fports, and pleafes while the wounds the fool.
Her fhape is often varied; but her aim,
To prop the caufe of Virtue, ftill the fame.
In praise of mercy let the guilty bawl,
When Vice and Folly for correction call,
Silence the mark of weakness juftly bears,
And is partaker of the crimes it fpares.
But if the Mufe, too cruel in her mirth,
With harth reflections wounds the man of worth;
If wantonly the deviates from her plan,
And quits the Actor to expofe the Man;
Afham'd, fhe marks that paffage with a blot,
And hates the line where Candour was forgot.
But what is Candour, what is Humour's vein,
Tho' Judgment join to confecrate the strain,
If curious numbers will not aid afford,
Nor choiceft mufic play in ev'ry word?
Verfes must run, to charm a modern ear,
From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.
Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze;
Smooth let their current flow, as fummer feas;
Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense
A happy tuneful vacancy of fenfe.
Italian fathers thus, with barb'rous rage,
Fit helpless infants for the fqueaking stage,
Deaf, to the calls of pity, Nature wound,
And mangle vigour for the fake of found.
Henceforth farewell then fev'rish thirst of fame;
Farewell the longings for a poet's name;
Perish my Mufe ;-a with 'bove all fevere
To him who ever held the Mufes dear→→→
If e'er her labours weaken to refine
The gen'rous roughness of a nervous line.
Others affect the ftiff and fwelling phrafe ;
Their Mufe muft walk in ftilts, and ftrut in ftays:
The fenfe they murder, and the words tranfpoft,
Left poetry approach too near to profe.
See tortur'd Reafon how they pare and trim,
And, like Procruftes, ftretch or lop the limb.
Waller, whofe praise fucceeding bards rehearsa,
Parent of harmony in English verse,
Whofe tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows,
In couplets first taught straggling fense to close.
In polish'd numbers, and majestic sound,
Where fhall thy rival, Pope, be ever found?
But whilst each line with equal beauty flows,
E'en excellence, unvaried tedious grows.
Nature, thro' all her works, in great degree,
Borrows a bleffing from Variety.
Mufic itfelf her needful aid requires
Torouze the foul, and wake our dying fires.
Still in one key, the Nightingale would teize:
Still in one key, not Brent would always please.
Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy fhrine,
Thou deareft name to all the tuneful Nine.
What if fome dull lines in cold order creep,
And with his theme the poet seems to fleep,
Still, when his fubject rifes proud to view,
With equal strength the poet rises too.
With ftrong invention, noblest vigour fraught,
Thought ftill fprings up and rifes out of thought
Numbers ennobling numbers in their course;
In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;
The pow'rs of Genius and of Judgment join,
And the whole art of Poetry is thine.
But what are numbers, what are bards to me,
Forbid to tread the paths of poefy?
"A facred Mufe fhould confecrate her pen;
"Priests must not hear nor fee like other men
"Far higher themes should her ambition claim;
"Behold where Sternhold points the way
Whilft with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn,
Let Reafon for a moment take her turn.
When coffee-fages hold discourse with kings,
And blindly walk in paper-leading strings,
What if a man delight to país his time
In fpinning Reafon into harmless rime;
Or fometimes boldly venture to the play!
Say, Where's the crime ?-great Man of Prudente
No two on earth in all things can agree;
All have fome darling fingularity;
Women and men, as well as girls and boys,
In gew-gaws take delight, and figh for toys,
Your fceptres, and your crowns, and fuch like
Are but a better kind of toys for kings.
In things indiff'rent Reafon bids us chufe,
Whether the whim's a Monkey, or a Muse.
What the grave triflers on this bufy scene,
When they make ufe of this word Reason, mean,
I know not; but, according to my plan,
'Tis Lord Chief-Juftice in the Court of Man,
Equally form'd to rule in age or youth,
The friend of Virtue, and the guide to Truth,
To Her I bow, whofe facred pow'r I feel;
To Her decifion make my laft appeal;
Condemn'd by Her, applauding worlds in vain
Should tempt me to take up the pen again :
By Her abfolv'd, my courfe I'll still pursue s
If Reafon's for me, Gop is for me too.
For me let Galen moulder on the shelf,
I'll live, and be phyfician to my felf. While foul is join'd to body, whether fate Allot a longer or a shorter dite;
ROBERT LLO Y D. I'll make them live as brother fhould with brother,
Win pity trains, the worst of infolence,
HEN foes infult, and prudent friends difpenfe,
Oft with thee, LLOYD, I fteal an hour from grief,
And in thy focial converfe find relief.
The mind, of folitude impatient grown,
any forrows rather than her own.
Let flaves to bufinefs, bodies without foul,
Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll,
Solemnize nonfenfe in the day's broad glare,
We NIGHT prefer, which heals or hides our care.
Rogues juftified, and by fuccefs made bold,
Dull fools and coxcombs fanctified by gold,
Freely may bask in Fortune's partial ray,
And spread their feather's op'ning to the day;
But thread-bare Merit dares not fhew the head
Till vain Profperity retires to bed.
Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light;
The fons of Care are always fons of Night.
The wretch bred up in Method's drowsy school, Whofe only merit is to err by rule,
Who ne'r thro' heat of blood was tripping caught,
Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought,
Whofe foul directed to no use is seen,
Unless to move the body's dull machine,
Which, clock-work like, with the fame equal pace,
Still travels on thro' life's infipid fpice;
Turns up his eyes to think that there should be
Among God's creatures two fuch things as we
Then for his night-cap calls, and thanks the pow'rs
Which kindly gave him grace to keep good hours.
Good hours-Fine words!-But was it ever feen
That all men could agree in what they mean?
Florio, who many years a courfe hath run
la downright oppofition to the fun,
Expatiates on good hours, their caufe defends
With as much vigour as our prudent friends.
Th' uncertain term no fettled notion brings,
But ftill in diff'rent mouths mean diff'rent things.
Each takes the phrase in his own private view.
With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two.
Go on, ye fools, who talk for talking fake,
Without diftinguishing distinctions make,
Shine forth in native folly, native pride,
Make yourselves rules to all the world befide;
Reafon, collected in herself, difdains
The flavish yoke of arbitrary chains;
Steady and true, each circumftance the weighs,
Nor to bare words inglorious tribute pays.
Men of fenfe live exempt from vulgar awe,
And Reafon to herself alone is law.
That freedom the enjoys with lib'ral mind,
Which the as freely grants to all mankind.
No idol titled name her rev'rence stirs,
No hour the blindly to the reft prefers;
All are alike, if they're alike employ'd,
And all are good if virtuously enjoy'd.
Let the fage Doctor (think him one we know)
With fcraps of ancient learning overflow,
In all the dignity of wig declare
The fatal confequence of midnight air,
How damps and vapours, as it were by stealth,
Ladermine life, and fap the walls of health,
And keep them in good-humour with each other.
The fureft road to health, fay what they will,
Is never to fuppofe we shall be ill.
Moft of thofe evils we poor mortals know,
From doctors and imagination flow.
Hence to old women with your boafted rules,
Stale traps, and only facred now to fools;
As well may fons of phyfic hope to find
One med'cine, as one hour, for all mankind.
If Rupert after ten is out of bed,
The fool next morning can't hold up his head.
What reafon this which me to bed must call,
Whofe head (thank heaven) never aches at all?
In diff'rent courfes diff'rent tempers run,
He hates the Moon, I ficken at the Sun.
Wound up at twelve at noon, his clock goes right;
Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.
Then in Oblivion's grateful cup I drown
The galling fneer, the fupercilious frown,
The strange referve; the proud affected state
Of upftart knaves grown rich, and fools grown great.
No more that abject wretch disturbs my reft,
Who meanly overlooks a friend distrest.
Purblind to poverty the wordling goes,
And scarce fees rags an inch beyond his nofe:
But from a crowd can fingle out his grace,
And cringe and creep to fools who ftrut in lace.
Whether thofe claffic regions are furvey'd
Where we in earliest youth together stray'd,
Where hand in hand we trod the flow'ry shore,
Tho' now thy happier genius runs before,
When we confpir'd a thinklefs wretch to raise,
And taught a fump to shoot with pilfer'd praife,
Who once for Rev'rend merit famous grown,
Gratefully ftrove to kick his Maker down';
Or if more gen'ral arguments engage,
The court or camp, the pulpit, bar or stage;
If half-bred furgeons, whom men doctors call,
And lawyers, who were never bred at all,
Thofe mighty letter'd monsters of the earth,
Our pity move, or exercife our mirth;
Or if in tittle-tattle, tooth-pick way,
Our rambling thoughts with eafy freedom ftray;
A gainer till thy friend himself must find,
His grief fufpended, and improv'd his mind.
Whilft peaceful flumbers biefs the homely bed,
Where Virtue, felf-approv'd, reclines her head;
Whilft Vice beneath imagin'd horrors mourns,
And Confcience plants the villain's couch with thorns;
Impatient of restraint, the active Mind,
No more by fervile prejudice confin'd,
Leaps from her feat, as waken'd from a trance,
And darts through Nature at a fingle glance.
Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, furvey,
And fee by Night what fools we are by Day.
Stript of her gaudy plumes and vain difguife,
See where Ambition mean and loathfome lies;
Reflection with relentlefs hand pulls down
The tyrant's bloody wreath and ravish'd crown.
In vain he tells of battles bravely won,
Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone :
Triumphs like these but ill with manhood suit,
And fink the conqueror beneath the brute,
But if, in fearching round the world, we find
Some gen'rous youth, the friend of all mankind,
Whofe anger, like the bolt of Jove, is fped
In terrors only at the guilty head,
Whofe mercies, like Heaven's dew, refreshing fall
In gen'ral love and charity to all,
Pleas'd we behold fuch worth on any throne,
And doubly pleas'd we find it on our own.
Through a falfe medium things are fhewn by Day,
Pomp, wealth, and titles, judgment lead aftray.
How many from appearance borrow state,
Whom Night difdains to number with the Great!
Muft not we laugh to fee yon lordling proud
Snuff up vile incenfe from a fawning crowd?
Whilft in his beam furrounding clients play,
Like infects in the fun's enliv'ning ray,
Whilft, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate,
And feems the only charioteer of state,
Talking himself into a little God,
And ruling empires with a fingle nod;
Who would not think, to hear him 1:w difpenfe,
That he had int'reft, and that they had fenfe?
Injurious thought! Beneath Night's honeft shade,
When pomp is buried and falfe colours fade,
Plainly we fee at that impartial hour
Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of pow'r.
God help the man, condemn'd by cruel fate
To court the feeming, or the real great.
Much forrow shall he feel, and fuffer more
Than any flave wno labours at the oar.
By flavish methods must he learn to please,
By smooth-tongu'd flatt ry, that curft court-disease,
Supple to ev'ry wayward mood ftrike fail,
And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.
To Nature dead, he muft adopt vile Art,
And wear a smile with anguish in his heart.
A fenfe of honour would destroy his schemes,
And Confcience ne'er would speak unless in dreams.
When he hath tamely borne for many years
Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous fneers;
When he at laft expects, good easy man,
To reap the profits of his labour'd plan,
Some cringing Lacquey, or rapacious Whore,
To favours of the great the fureft door,
Some Catamite, or Pimp, in credit grown,
Who tempts another's wife, or fells his own,
Steps crofs his hopes, the promis'd boon denies,
And for fome Minion's Minion claims the prize.
Foe to restraint, unpractis'd in deceit,
Too refolute, from Natures active heat,
To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by ;
Too proud to flatter, too fincere to lye,
Too plain to please, too honeft to be great;
Give me, kind Heav'n, an humbler, happier state;
Far from the place where men with pride deceive,
Where rafcals promife, and where fools believe;
Far from the walk of folly, vice and strife,
Calm, independent, let me fteal thro' life,
Nor one vain with my steady thoughts beguile
To fear his lordship's frown, or court his smile.
Unfit for Greatnefs, I her inares defy,
And look on riches with untainted eye.
To others let the glitt'ring bawbles fall,
Content shall place us far above them all.
Spectators only on this bustling stage,
Weiee what vain defigns mankind engage;
Vice after vice with ardour they pursue,
And one old folly brings forth twenty new.
Perplex'd with trifles thro' the vale of life,
Man trives 'gainst man, without a caufe for ftrife;
Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed
For fome vile fpot where fifty cannot feed.
Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right,
For the world's empire kings ambitious fight;
What odds?-Tous 'tis all the felf-fame thing,
A Nut, a World, a Squirrel, and a King.
Britons, like Roman fpirits fam'd of old,
Are caft by nature in a Patriot mould;
No private joy, no private grief they know,
Their foul's ingrofs'd by public weal or woe.
Inglorious eafe, like ours, they greatly scorn:
Let care with nobler wreaths their brows adorn.
Gladly they toil beneath the ftateiman's pains,
Give them but credit for a statesman's brains.
All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fit
To rule in politics as well as wit.
The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,
Start up (God bless us !) ftatefinen all at once.
His mighty charge of fouls the priest forgets,
The court-bred lord his promifes and debts,
Soldiers their fame, mifers forget their pelf,
The rake his miftrefs, and the fop himself;
Whilft thoughts of higher moment claim their care,
And their wife heads the weight of kingdoms bear.
Females themselves the glorious ardour feel,
And boaft an equal, or a greater zeal ;
From nymph to nymph the state-infection flies,
Swells in her breast, and fparkles in her eyes.
O'erwhelm'd by politics lie malice, pride,
Envy, and twenty other faults befide.
No more their little flutt'ring hearts confess
A paffion for applaufe, or rage for drefs;
No more they pant for Public Raree-fhows,
Or lofe one thought on monkeys or on beaux.
Coquettes no more purfue the jilting plan,
And luftful prudes forget to rail at man,
The darling theme CECILIA's felf will chufe,
Nor thinks of fcandal whilst the talks of news.
The CIT, a Common-Council-Man by place,
Ten thoufand mighty nothings in his face,
By fituation as by nature great,
With nice precifion parcels out the state;
Proves and difproves, affirms, and then denies,
Objects himself, and to himself replies;
Wielding aloft the politician rod,
Makes Pitt by turns a devil and a god;
Maintains, e'en to the very teeth of pow'r,
The fame thing right and wrong in half an hour.
Now all is well, now he fufpects a plot,
And plainly proves, WHATEVER IS, IS NOT.
Fearfully wife, he thakes his empty head,
And deals out empires as he deals out thread.
His ufelefs fcales are in a corner flung,
And Europe's balance hangs upon his tongue.
Peace to fuch triflers; be our happier plan
To pafs thro' life as eafy as we can.
Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine,
Nor ftirs my curiofity, nor fpleen.
Secrets of ftate no more I wish to know
Than fecret movements of a Puppet-fhow;
Let but the puppets move, I've my defire,
Unfeeen the hand which guides the Mafter-wire.
What is't to us, if taxes rife or fall,
Thanks to our fortune we pay none at all.
Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,
Lament thofe hardships which we cannot feel.
His Grace who fmarts, may bellow if he please,
But muft I bellow too, who fit at eate?
By custom fafe, the poet's numbers flow,
Free as the light and air fome years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours, and excise our brains.
Burthens like thefe vile earthly buildings bear,
No tribute's laid on cafties in the air.
Let then the flames of war destructive reign,
And England's terrors awe imperious Spain;
Let ev'ry venal clan and neutral tribe
Learn to receive conditions, not prefcribe;
Let each new year call loud for new fupplies,
And tax on tax with double burthens rife :
Exempt we fit, by no rude cares oppreft,
And, having little, are with little bleft.
All real ills in dark oblivion lie,
And joys, by fancy form'd, their place fupply,
Night's laughing hours unheeded flip away,
Nor one dull thought foretells th' approach of Day.
Thus have we liv'd,and whilft the fates afford
Plain plenty to fupply the frugal board,
Whilft Mirth with Decency his lovely bride,
And Wine's gay God, with Temp'rance by his fide,
Their welcome vifit pay; whilft Health attends
The narrow circle of our chofen friends,
Whilft frank Good-Humour confecrates the treat,
And Woman makes fociety complete,
Thus will we live, tho' in our teeth are hurl'd
Thofe hackney ftrumpets, Prudence and the World.
Prudence, of old a facred term, imply'd
Virtue, with godlike Wisdom for her guide,
But now in general ufe is known to mean
The ftalking-horse of vice, and folly's fcreen.
The fenfe perverted we retain the name,
Hypocrify and Prudence are the fame.
A Tutor once, more read in men than books,
A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks,
Demurely fly, with high preferment bleft,
His fav'rite pupil in these words addressed :
Would'ft thou, my fon, be wife and virtuous deem'd,
By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?
Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call;
Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all.
Keep up appearances, there lies the test,
The world will give thee credit for the rest.
Outward be fair, however foul within;
Sin if thou wilt, but then in fecret fin.
This maxim's into common favour grown,
Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.
Virtue indeed may barefac'd take the field;
But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.
Should raging paffions drive thee to a whore,
Let Prudence lead thee to a poftern door;
Stay out all night, but take especial care
That Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.
As one with watching and with study faint,
Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a faint.
With joy the youth this useful lesson heard, And in his mem❜ry ftor'd each precious word, Successfully purfu'd the plan, and norv, "Room for my Lord,-Virtue ftand by and bow." And is this all-is this the worldings art, To mask, but not mend a vicious heart? Shall lukewarm caution and demeanor grave For wife and good stamp ev'ry fupple knave? Shall wretches whom no real virtue warms, Gild fair their names and states with empty forms,
Whilft Virtue feeks in vain the wifh'd-for prize,
Becaufe, difdaining ill, he hates disguise;
Because the frankly pours forth all her store,
Seems what the is, and fcorns to pafs for more?
Well-be it fo-let vile diffemblers hold
Unenvy'd pow'r, and boast their dear-bought gold,
Me neither pow'r fhall tempt, nor thirst of pelf,
To flatter others or deny myself;
Might the whole world be plic'd within my fpan,
I would not be that Thing, that Prudent Man.
What, cries Sir Pliant, would you then oppof
Yourself, alone, against an host of foes?
Let not conceit, and peevish luft to rail,
Above all fenfe of intereft prevail.
Throw off for fhame this petulance of wit,
Be wife, be modeft, and for once submit :
Too hard the talk against multitudes to fight,
You must be wrong, the World is in the right.
What is this World? A term which men have got
To fignify, not one in ten knows what ;
A term, which with no more precifion paffes
To point out herds of men than herds of affes;
In common ufe no more it means, we find,
Than many fools in fame opinions join'd.
Can numbers then change Nature's stated laws ?
Can numbers make the worfe the better caufe?
Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue ftill,
Tho' thousands rail at good and practice ill.
Wouldst thou defend the Gaul's deftructive rage
Because vast nations on his part engage?
Tho' to fupport the rebel Cæfar's caufe
Tumultuous legions arm against the laws,
Tho' Scandal would our patriot's name impeach,
And rails at virtues which the cannot reach,
What honest man but would with joy submit
To bleed with Cato, and retire with PITT?
Stedfaft and true to Virtue's facred laws,
Unmov'd by vulgar cenfure or applaufe,
Let the World talk, my friend; that World we
His heart like dripping, melts, and new defire
Within him ftirs, each time the ftirs the fire;
Trembling and blushing he the fair one views,
And fain would speak, but can't-without a Mufe.
So to the facred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,
To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills proclaims,
In fimpleft notes, and all unpolish'd strains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
a ruftic weeds a cook-maid now no more-
Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies,
Green mofs her couch; her canopy the skies.
From aromatic fhrubs the roguish gale
Steals young perfumes, and wafts them thro' the vale.
The youth, turn'd fwain, and skill'd in ruftic lays,
Faft by her fide his am'rous defcant plays.
Herds lowe, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens fcream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the stream.
The ftreams, with mufic freighted, as they pafs,
Prefent the fair Lardella with a glass,
And Zephyr, to compleat the love-fick plan,
Waves his light wings, and ferves her for a fan.
But, when maturer Judgment takes the lead,
Thefe childish toys on Reason's altar bleed ;
Form'd after fome great man, whofe name breeds awe,
Whofe ev'ry fentence Fashion makes a law,
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,
And founds his merit on our fervile fears;
Then we difcard the workings of the heart,
And Nature's banish'd by we hanic Art;
Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown.
Then Oftentation marches to our aid,
And letter'd Pride ftalks forth in full parade;
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each fentence, polish'd ev'ry line:
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of Ancients with a Modern air,
Nonfenfe with claffic ornaments is grac'd,
And paffes current with the stamp of Taste.
Then the rude Theocrite is ranfack'd o'er,
And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;
Sicilian Mufes on our mountains roam,
Eafy and free as if they were at home :
Nymphs, Naiads, Nereids, Dryads, Satyrs, Fauns,
Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;
Flow'rs, which once flourish'd fair in Greece and
More fair revive in Englands meads to bloom;
Skies without cloud exotic funs adorn;
And rofes blufh, but blufh without a thorn;
Landscapes unknown to dowdy Nature, rife,
And new creations ftrike our wond'ring eyes.
For bards like thefe, who neither fing nort fay,
Grave without thought, and without feeling gay,
Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,
Attun'd to pleasure, and attun'd to woe,
Who, if plain Common Senfe her vifit pays,
And mars one couplet in their happy lays,
As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,
And ask the meaning of her coming there;
For bards like these a wreath shall Mason bring,
Lin'd with the fofteft down of Folly's wing;
In Love's Pagoda fhall they ever doze,
And Gifbal kindly rock them to repofe ;
My lord to letters as to faith most true
At once their patron and example too-
Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,
Sigh with fad winds, and weep with weeping streams,
Curious in grief, (for real grief, we know,
Is curious to drefs up the tale of woe)
From the green umbrage of fome Druid's feat,
Shall his own works in his own way repeat.
Me whom no Mufe of heav'nly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires ;
Who boaft no merit but mere knack of rime,
Short gleams of fenfe, and fatire out of time,
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling ftreams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads ;
Who often, but without fuccefs, have pray'd
For apt Alliteration's artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,
Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill ;
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poefy, and ambling wit,
Tafte with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.
Thou, Nature, art my goddess-to thy law
Myfelf I dedicate.-Hence flavish awe
Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules,
Impos'd at first, and fince obferv'd by fools.
Hence thofe vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hoe,
And bring the fober matron forth to view,
With all that artificial tawdry glare,
Which Virtue fcorns, and none but ftrumpets wear.
Sick of thofe pomps, thofe vanities that wafte
Of toil, which critics now mistake for tafte,
Of falfe refinements fick, and labour'd ease,
Which Art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please,
By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdu'd,
However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier course I steer,
Climes where the goddefs reigns throughout the
Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,
She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan.
To that rare foil, where virtues cluft'ring grow,
What mighty bleffings doth not England owe?
What waggon-loads of courage, wealth and fenfe,
Doth each revolving day import from thence?
To us the gives, difinterested friend,
Faith without fraud, and Stuarts without end.
When we profperity's rich trappings wear,
Come not her gen'rous fons and take a share?
And if, by fome difaftrous turn of fate,
Change fhould enfue, and ruin feize the state,
Shall we not find fafe in that hallow'd ground,
Such refuge as the Holy Martyr found?
Nor lefs our debt in Science, tho' deny'd By the weak flaves of prejudice and pride. Thence came the Ramfays, names of worthy note, Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote; Thence, Home, difbanded from the fons of pray'r For loving plays, tho' no dull Dean was there; Thence iffued forth, at great Macpherson's call, That old, new, epic paftoral, Fingal ; Thence Malloch, friend alike of Church and State Of Chrift and Liberty, by grateful Fate Rais'd to rewards which, in a pious reign, All darling infidels should seek in vain ; Thence fimple bards, by fimple prudence taught To this wife town by fimple patrons brought,