But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to naught but his ambition true, Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post horns of all Europe, lays her waste Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock, To see a people scatter'd like a flock, Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, With all the savage thirst a tiger feels: Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette Chief monster that has plagu'd the nations yet. The globe and sceptre in such hands misplac'd, Those ensigns of dominion, how disgrac'd! The glass that bids man mark the fleeting hour, And Death's own sithe would better speak his pow'r ; Then grace the bony phantom in their stead With the king's shoulderknot and gay cockade ; Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, The same their occupation and success.
A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the self-same plan : Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. B. Seldom, alas! the power of logick reigns, With much sufficiency in royal brains; Such reas'ning falls like an inverted cone, Wanting its proper base to stand upon.
Man made for kings! those opticks are but dim, That tell you so say, rather, they for him. That were indeed a king-ennobling thought,
Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. The diadem with mighty projects lin❜d, To catch renown by ruining mankind,
Is worth, with all its gold and glitt'ring store, Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. Oh! bright occasions of dispensing good, How seldom used, how little understood! To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward; Keep vice restrain'd behind a double guard;
Give me the line that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan, conqu'ring the stream by force; That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. When Labour and when Dulness club in hand, Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's, stand, Beating alternately in measur'd time, The clock-work tintinabulum of rhyme, Exact and regular the sounds will be ; But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. From him who rears a poem lank and long, To him who strains his all into a song; Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air,
All birks and braes, though he was never there; Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains, Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke- An art contriv'd to advertise a joke, So that the jest is clearly to be seen, Not in the words-but in the gap between : Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ
To substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
To dally much with subjects mean and low^ Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. Neglected talents rust into decay,
And ev'ry effort ends in pushpin play.
The man that means success should soar above
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove;
Else, summoning the muse to such a theme,
The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream,
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then
Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. As if the poet, purposing to wed,
Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard, To carry Nature's lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'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 chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ;
And, tedious years of Gothick darkness pass'd, Emerg'd all splendour in our isle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again. A. Is genius only found in epick lays? Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. Make their heroick 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 less illustrious bards his beauty shone
A meteor or a star; in these the sun.
The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. Like him unnotic'd I, and such as I,
Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly; Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land, An ell or two of prospect we command; But never peep beyond the thorny bound, Or oaken fence that hems the paddock round. In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart
Had faded, poetry was not an art:
Language above all teaching, or, if taught,
That theme on Earth exhausted, 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 still, while virtue kindled his delight, The song was moral, and so far was right. Twas thus till Luxury seduc'd'the mind
To joys less innocent, as less refin'd;
Then Genius danc'd a bacchanal; he crown'd
The brimming goblet, seiz'd the thyrsus, bound His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field
Of wild imagination, and there reel'd, The victim of his own lascivious fires,
And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the sacred wires. Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome
This bedlam part, and others nearer home.
When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he reign'd
The proud protector of the power he gain'd,
Religion harsh, intolerant, austere,
Parent of manners like herself severe,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace;
The dark and sullen humour of the time
Judg'd ev'ry effort of the muse a crime;
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast,
Was lumber in an age so void of taste :
But when the second Charles assum'd the sway,
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 dissolute and hateful school Of Wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,
The abuses of her sacred charge, the press,
The muse instructed a well-nurtur'd train
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain,
And claim the palm for purity of song, That Lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long. Then decent Pleasantry, and sterling Sense, That neither gave nor would endure offence, Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen, The puppy pack, that had defil'd the scene.
In front of these came Addison. Humour in holiday and sightly triin,
Sublimity and attick taste combin'd, To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,
In verse well disciplin'd, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace,
That quite eclipsing Pleasure's painted face,
Levied a tax of wonder and applause,
E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. But he, (his musical finesse was such,
So nice his ear, so delicate his touch,) Made poetry a mere mechanick art;
And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart.. Nature imparting her satirick gift,
Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,
With droll sobriety they rais'd a smile
At Folly's cost, themselves unmov'd the while. That constellation set, the world in vain
Must hope to look upon their like again.
A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark;
Wit now and then, struck smartly. shows a spark, Sufficient to redeem the modern race
From total night and absolute disgrace.
While servile trick and imitative knack
Confine the million in the beaten track.
Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one;
Short his career, indeed, but ably run; Churchill, himself unconscious of his pow'rs, In penury consum'd his idle hours;
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