Who, scornful of the flatterer's fawning art,
Dreads even to pour his gratitude of heart;
And with a distant lover's silent pain
Must the best movements of his soul restrain.
But men sagacious to explore mankind
Trace even the coyest passions of the mind.
Not only to the good we owe good-will;
In good and bad, distress demands it still.
This with the generous lays distinction low,
Endears a friend, and recommends a foe.
Not that resentment never ought to rise;
For even excess of virtue ranks with vice:
And there are villanies no bench can awe,
That sport without the limits of the law.
No laws th' ungenerous crime would reprehend
Could I forget Eumenes was my friend:
In vain the gibbet or the pillory claim
The wretch who blasts a helpless virgin's fame.
Where laws are duped, 'tis nor unjust nor mean
To seize the proper time for honest spleen.
An open candid foe I could not hate,
Nor even insult the base in humbled state;
But thriving malice tamely to forgive-
"Tis somewhat late to be so primitive.
But I detain you with these tedious lays,
Which few perhaps would read, and fewer praise.
No matter: could I please the polished few
Who taste the serious or the gay like you,
The squeamish mob may find my verses bare
Of every grace-but curse me if I care.
Besides, I little court Parnassian fame;
There's yet a better than a poet's name.
"Twould more indulge my pride to hear it said
That I with you the paths of honour tread,
Than that amongst the proud poetic train
No modern boasted a more classic vein;
Or that in numbers I let loose my song,
Smooth as the Tweed, and as the Severn strong.
AN EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CRITIC.
FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR MDCCLIII.
Proferre quæ sentiat cur quisquam liber dubitet?-Malim, mehercule, ́solus insanire, quam sobrius aut plebis aut patrum delirationibus ignaviter assentari.-Autor anonym. Fragm.
RANGE from Tower-hill all London to the Fleet,
Thence round the Temple, t' utmost Grosvenor-street:
Take in your route both Gray's and Lincoln's Inn;
Miss not, be sure, my Lords and Gentlemen;
You'll hardly raise, as I with Petty1 guess,
Above twelve thousand men of taste; unless
In desperate times a connoisseur may pass.
A connoisseur! What's that?" "Tis hard to say: But you must oft amidst the fair and gay Have seen a would-be rake, a fluttering fool, Who swears he loves the sex with all his soul. Alas, vain youth! dost thou admire sweet Jones? Thou be gallant without or blood or bones! You'd split to hear the insipid coxcomb cry Ah charming Nanny! 'tis too much! I die!'Die and be d-n'd,' says one; but let me tell ye I'll pay the loss if ever rapture kill ye.'
'Tis easy learnt the art to talk by rote: At Nando's 'twill but cost you half a groat;
1 'Petty:' Sir William Petty, author of the 'Political Arithmetic.”
The Bedford school at three-pence is not dear, sir; 20
At White's the stars instruct you for a tester.
But he, whom Nature never meant to share
One spark of taste, will never catch it there:-
Nor nowhere else; howe'er the booby beau
Grows great with Pope, and Horace, and Boileau.
Good native taste, though rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song.
But this, as well as other faculties,
Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
I know, my dear; 'tis needless to deny 't,
You like Voiture, you think him wondrous bright:
But seven years hence, your relish more matured,
What now delights will hardly be endured.
The boy may live to taste Racine's fine charms,
Whom Lee's bald orb or Rowe's dry rapture warms:
But he, enfranchised from his tutor's care,
Who places Butler near Cervantes' chair;
Or with Erasmus can admit to vie
Brown' of Squab-hall of merry memory;
Will die a Goth: and nod at Woden's feast,2
The eternal winter long, on Gregory's breast.
Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull, The drowsy mum-But touch not Maro's skull! His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom, Good Heaven! the immortal classics to the tomb!Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise
1' Brown' Tom, the famous satirist and lampooner.-2' Woden's feast:' alluding to the Gothic heaven, Woden's hall; where the happy are for ever employed in drinking beer, mum, and other comfortable liquors out of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle.-3' Gregory's breast' Pope Gregory VI. distinguished by the name of St Gregory; whose pious zeal, in the cause of barbarous ignorance and priestly tyranny, exerted itself in demolishing, to the utmost of his power, all the remains of heathen genius.
When all Rome's saints have rotted from the skies. 47
Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown
You aim; each country's classics, and your own.
But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime,
And drink Castalia at the fountain's brim.
The man to genuine Burgundy bred up,
Soon starts the dash of Methuen in his cup.
Those sovereign masters of the Muse's skill
Are the true patterns of good writing still.
Their ore was rich and seven times purged of lead;
Their art seemed nature, 'twas so finely hid.
Though born with all the powers of writing well,
What pains it cost they did not blush to tell.
Their ease (my lords!) ne'er lounged for want of fire, 60
Nor did their rage through affectation tire.
Free from all tawdry and imposing glare
They trusted to their native grace of air.
Rapt'rous and wild the trembling soul they seize,
Or sly coy beauties steal it by degrees;
The more you view them, still the more they please.
Yet there are thousands of scholastic merit Who worm their sense out but ne'er taste their spirit. Witness each pedant under Bentley bred;
Each commentator that e'er commented.
(You scarce can seize a spot of classic ground,
With leagues of Dutch morass so floated round.)
Witness-but, sir, I hold a cautious pen,
Lest I should wrong some honourable men.'
They grow enthusiasts too-Tis true! 'tis pity!'
But 'tis not every lunatic that's witty.
Some have run Maro-and some Milton-mad,
Ashley1 once turned a solid barber's head:
1'Ashley:' Lord Shaftesbury, author of the Characteristics."
Hear all that's said or printed if you can,
Ashley has turned more solid heads than one.
Let such admire each great or specious name;
For right or wrong the joy to them's the same.
'Right!' Yes, a thousand times.-Each fool has heard
That Homer was a wonder of a bard.
Despise them civilly with all my heart-
But to convince them is a desperate part.
Why should you teaze one for what secret cause
One doats on Horace, or on Hudibras?
'Tis cruel, sir, 'tis needless, to endeavour
To teach a sot of taste he knows no flavour.
To disunite I neither wish nor hope
A stubborn blockhead from his favourite fop.
Yes-fop I say, were Maro's self before 'em:
For Maro's self grows dull as they pore o'er him.
But hear their raptures o'er some specious rhyme Dubbed by the musked and greasy mob sublime. For spleen's dear sake, hear how a coxcomb prates As clamorous o'er his joys as fifty cats; 'Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, To soften rocks, and oaks,—and all the rest: 'I've heard'-Bless these long ears!-'Heav'ns, what
Good God! What thunders burst in this Campaign! Hark, Waller warbles! Ah! how sweetly killing! Then that inimitable Splendid Shilling!
Rowe breathes all Shakespeare here!―That ode of Prior
Is Spenser quite! egad his very fire!
As like'-Yes faith! as gum-flowers to the rose,
Or as to clarct flat Minorca's dose;
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