From him who rears a poem lank and long, To him who strains his all into a fong,
Perhaps fome bonny Caledonian air,
All birks and breas, though he was never there;
Or having whelp'd a prologue with great pains,
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains;
A prologue interdafh'd with many a ftroke,
An art contriv'd to advertise a joke,
So that the jeft is clearly to be seen,
Not in the words-but in the gap between.
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The fubititute for genius, sense, and wit.
To dally much with subjects mean and low,
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it fo.
Neglected talents ruft into decay,
And ev'ry effort ends in push-pin play.
The man that means fuccefs, fhould foar above
A foldier's feather, or a lady's glove,
Elfe, fummoning the mufe to fuch a theme,
The fruit of all her labour is whipt-cream.
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then
Stoop'd from his highest pitch to pounce a wren;
As if the poet purpofing to wed,
Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread.
Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd,
And ages ere the Mantuan fwan was heard:
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, afk'd ages more.
Thus genius rose and set at order'd times,
And shot a day-spring into distant climes;
Ennobling ev'ry region that he chofe,
He funk in Greece, in Italy he rose;
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd,
Emerg'd all fplendor in our isle at last,
Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,
Then show far off their fhining plumes again.
A. Is genius only found in epic lays?
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise;
Make their heroic pow'rs your own at once,
Or candidly confess yourself a dunce.
B. These were the chief, each interval of night
Was grac'd with many an undulating light;
In lefs illuftrious bards his beauty fhone
A meteor or a ftar, in these the fun.
The nightingale may claim the topmast bough,
While the poor grafshopper must chirp below;
Like him unnotic'd, I, and fuch as I,
Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly:
Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land,
An ell or two of profpect we command;
But never peep beyond the thorny bound,
Or oaken fence, that hems the paddoc round.
In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart
Had faded, poetry was not an art;
Language above all teaching, or if taught,
Only by gratitude and glowing thought,
Elegant as fimplicity, and warm
As extafy, unmanacl'd by form,
Not prompted, as in our degen'rate days,
By low ambition and the thirst of praise,
Was natural, as is the flowing stream,
And yet magnificent, a God the theme.
That theme on earth exhaufted, though above
'Tis found as everlasting as his love,
Man lavish'd all his thoughts on human things,
The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings;
But ftill, while virtue kindled his delight,
The fong was moral, and fo far was right.
'Twas thus till luxury feduc'd the mind
To joys lefs innocent, as less refin'd;
Then genius danc'd a bacchanal, he crown'd
The brimming goblet, feiz'd the thyrfus, bound
His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field
Of wild imagination, and there reel'd
The victim of his own lafcivious fires,
And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the facred wires.
Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome
This Bellam part; and, others nearer home.
When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he
The proud protector of the pow'r he gain'd,
Religion harsh, intolerant, auftere,
Parent of manners like herself fevere,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face
Without the fmile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and fullen humour of the time
Judg❜d ev'ry effort of the mufe a crime;
Verse in the finest mould of fancy caft,
Was lumber in an age fo void of taste;
But when the fecond Charles affumed the fway,
And arts reviv'd beneath a softer day,
Then, like a bow long forc'd into a curve,
The mind, releas'd from too constrain'd a nerve,
Flew to its first position with a spring
That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.
His court, the diffolute and hateful school
Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd as deep inlaid
With brutal luft as ever Circe made.
From thefe a long fucceffion, in the rage
Of rank obfcenity, debauch'd their age,
Nor ceas'd, till ever anxious to redress
Th' abuses of her facred charge, the press,
The muse inftructed a well nurtur'd train
Of abler votaries to cleanfe the ftain,
And claim the palm for purity of song,
That lewdness had ufurp'd and worn fo long.
Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense
That neither gave nor would endure offence,
Whipp'd out of fight with fatyr just and keen,
The puppy pack that had defil'd the scene.
In front of these came Addison: in him
Humour in holiday and fightly trim,
Sublimity and attic taste combin'd,
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind:
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,
In verfe well disciplin'd, complete, compact;
Gave virtue and morality a grace
That, quite eclipfing pleasure's painted face,
Levied a tax of wonder and applause,
Ev'n on the the fools that trampl'd on their laws.
But he (his mufical fineffe was fuch,
So nice his ear, fo delicate his touch)
Made poetry a mere mechanic art,
And every warbler has his tune by heart.
Nature imparting her fatyric gift,
Her ferious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll fobriety they rais'd a smile
At Folly's coft, themselves unmov'd the while.
That conftellation fet, the world in vain
Muft hope to look upon their like again.
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