For him, beneath his poplar, mourns the Po;
For him the tears of hoary Serius flow!
For him their tears the watery sisters shed,
Who lov'd him living, and deplor'd him dead!
The furious pedant, to restrain his rage,
Should mark th' example of a former age,
How fierce Alcides, warm'd with youthful ire,
Dash'd on his master's front his vocal lyre.
But yet, ye youths, confess your masters' sway,
And their commands implicitly obey.

Whoever then this arduous task pursues,
To form the bard, and cultivate the Muse,
Let him by softer means, and milder ways,
Warm his ambition with the love of praise;
Soon as his precepts shall engage his heart,
And fan the rising fire in every part,
Light is the task ;-for then the eager boy
Pursues the voluntary toil with joy;
Disdains th' inglorious indolence of rest,
And feeds th' immortal ardour in his breast.

And here the common practice of the schools,
By known experience, justifies my rules,
The youths in social studies to engage ;
For then the rivals burn with generous rage,
Each soul the stings of emulation raise,
And every little bosom beats for praise.
But gifts propos'd will urge them best to rise;
Fir'd at the glorious prospect of a prize,
With noble jealousy, the blooming bard
Reads, labours, glows, and strains for the reward;
Fears lest his happy rival win the race,
And raise a triumph on his own disgrace.

But when once season'd to the rage divine,
He loves and courts the raptures of the Nine;
The sense of glory, and the love of fame,
Serve but as second motives to the flame;
The thrilling pleasure all the bard subdues,
Lock'd in the strict embraces of the Muse.
See! when harsh parents force the youth to quit,
For meaner arts, the dear delights of wit,
If e'er the wonted warmth his thoughts inspire,
And with past pleasures set his mind on fire;
How from his soul he longs, but longs in vain,
To haunt the groves and purling streams again;
No stern commands of parents can control,
No force can check the sallies of his soul.
So burns the courser season'd to the rein,
That spies his females on a distant plain,
And longs to act his pleasures o'er again.
Fir'd with remembrance of his joys, he bounds,
He foams and strives to reach the well-known
grounds;

The goring spurs his furious flames improve,
And rouse within him all the rage of love;
Ply'd with the scourge he still neglects his haste,
And moves reluctant, when he moves at last;
Reverts his eye, regrets the distant mare;
And neighs impatient for the dappled fair.

How oft the youth would long to change his
fate,

Who, high advanc'd to all the pomp of state,
With grief his gawdy load of grandeur views.
Lost at too high a distance from the Muse!
How oft he sighs by warbling streams to rove,
And quit the palace for the shady grove;
How oft in Tybur ́s cold retreats to lye,
And gladly stoop to cheerful poverty,
Beneath the rigour of the wint'ry sky!
But yet how many curse their fruitless toil,
Who turn and cultivate a barren soil?

This, ere too late, the master may divine
By a sure omen, and a certain sign;
The hopeful youth, determin'd by his choice,
Works without precept, and prevents advice,
Consults his teacher, plies his task with joy,
And a quick sense of glory fires the boy.
He challenges the crowd;-the conquest o'er,
He struts away the victor of an hour.
Then vanquish'd in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with
care,

He weeps, he pines, he sickens with despair;
Nor looks his little rivals in the face,
But flies for shelter to some lonely place,
To mourn his shame, and cover his disgrace.
His master's frowns impatient to sustain,
Straight he returns, and wins the day again.
This is the boy his better fates design
To rise the future darling of the Nine,
For him the Muses weave the sacred crown,
And bright Apollo claims him for his own.
Not the least hope th' unactive youth can raise,
Dead to the prospect, and the sense of praise;
Who your just rules with dull attention hears,
Nor lends his understanding, but his ears,
Resolv'd his parts in indolence to keep,
He lulls his drowsy faculties asleep;
The wretch your best endeavours will betray,
And the superfluous care is thrown away.

I fear for him, who ripens ere his prime;
For all productions there's a proper time.
Oh! may no apples in the spring appear,
Out-grow the seasons, and prevent the year,
Nor mellow yet, till autumn stains the vine,
And the full presses foam with floods of wine.
Torn from the parent tree too soon, they lie
Trod down by every swain who passes by.

Nor should the youth too strictly be confin'd,
'Tis sometimes proper to unbend his mind;
When tir'd with study, let him seek the plains
And mark the homely humours of the swains;
Or pleas'd the toils to spread, or horns to wind,
Hunt the fleet mountain-goat, or forest-hind.
Meantime the youth, impatient that the day
Should pass in pleasures unimprov'd away,
Steals from the shouting crowd, and quits the plains,
To sing the sylvan gods in rural strains;
Or calls the Muses to Albunea's shades,
Courts, and enjoys, the visionary maids.
So labour'd fields, with crops alternate blest,
By turns lie fallow, and indulge their rest;
The swain contented bids the hungry soil
Enjoy a sweet vicissitude from toil;
Till earth renews her genial powers to bear,
And pays his prudence with a bounteous year.

On a strict view your solid judgment frame, Nor think that genius is in all the same; How oft the youth, who wants the sacred fire, Fondly mistakes for genius his desire ? Courts the coy Muses, though rejected still, Nor Nature seconds his misguided will: He strives, he toils with unavailing care; Nor Heaven relents, nor Phœbus hears his prayer. He with success, perhaps, may plead a cause, Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws; Perhaps discover Nature's secret springs, And bring to light th' originals of things. But sometimes precept will such force impart, That Nature bends beneath the power ofart.

Besides, 'tis no light province to remove From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love;

Till, ripe in years, and more confirm'd in age,
He learns to bear the flames of Cupid's rage;
Oft hidden fires on all his vitals prey,
Devour the youth, and melt his soul away
By slow degrees ;- -blot out his golden dreams,
The tuneful poets, and Castalian streams;
Struck with a secret wound, he weeps and sighs;
In every thought the darling phantoms rise;
The fancy'd charmer swims before his sight,
His theme all day, his vision all the night:
The wandering object takes up all his care,
Nor can he quit th' imaginary fair.
Meantime his sire, unconscious of his pain,
Applies the temper'd medicines in vain;
The plague, so deeply rooted in his heart,
Mocks every slight attempt of Pæan's art;
The flames of Cupid all his breast inspire,
And in the lover's quench the poet's fire.

When in his riper years, without control,
The Nine have took possession of his soul;
When, sacred to their god, the crown he wears,
To other authors let him bend his cares;
Consult their styles, examine every part,
And a new tincture take from every art.
First study Tully's language and his sense,
And range that boundless field of eloquence.
Tully, Rome's other glory, still affords
The best expressions and the richest words;
As high o'er all in eloquence he stood,
As Rome o'er all the nations she subdued.
Let him read men and manners, and explore
The site and distances from shore to shore;
Then let him travel, or to maps repair,
And see imagin'd cities rising there;
Range with his eyes the Earth's fictitious ball,
And pass o'er figur'd worlds that grace the wall.
Some in the bloody shock of arms appear,
To paint the native horrours of the war;
Through charging hosts they rush before they write,
And plunge in all the tumult of the fight.
But since our lives, contracted in their date
By scanty bounds and circumscrib'd by fate,
Can never lanch through all the depths of arts,
Ye youths, touch only the material parts;
There stop your labour, there your search control,
And draw from thence a notion of the whole.
From distant climes when the rich merchants come,
To bring the wealth of foreign regions home;
Content the friendly harbours to explore,
They only touch upon the winding shore;
Nor with vain labour wander up and down
To view the land, and visit every town;
That would but call them from their former road,
To spend an age in banishment abroad;
Too late returning from the dangerous main,
To see their countries and their friends again.
Still be the sacred poets your delight,
Read them by day, consult them in the night;
From those clear fountains all your raptures bring,
And draw for ever from the Muses' spring.
But let your subject in your bosom roll,
Claim every thought, and draw in all the soul.
That constant object to your mind display,
Your toil all night, your labour all the day.
I need not all the rules of verse disclose,
Nor how their various measures to dispose;
The tutor here with ease his charge may guide
To join the parts and numbers, or divide.
Now let him words to stated laws submit,
Or yoke to measures, or reduce to feet;

1

Now let him softly to himself rehearse
His first attempts and rudiments of verse;
Fix on those rich expressions his regard
To use made sacred by some ancient bard;
Tost by a different gust of hopes and fears,
He begs of Heaven an hundred eyes and ears.
Now here, now there, coy Nature he pursues,
And takes one image in a thousand views."
He waits the happy moment that affords
The noblest thoughts, and most expressive words
He brooks no dull delay; admits no rest;
A tide of passion struggles in his breast;
Round his dark soul no clear ideas play,
The most familiar objects glide away.
All fixt in thought, astonish'd he appears,
His soul examines, and consults his ears;
And racks his faithless memory, to find
Some traces faintly sketch'd upon his mind.
There he unlocks the glorious magazine,
And opens every faculty within ;
Brings out with pride their intellectual spoils,
And with the noble treasure crowns his toils;
And oft mere chance shall images display,
That strike his mind engag'd a different way.
Still he persists; regrets no toil nor pain,
And still the task, he tried before in vain,
Plies with unweary'd diligence again.
For oft unmanageable thoughts appear,
That mock his labour, and delude his care;
Th' impatient bard, with all his nerves apply'd
Tries all the avenues on every side;
Resolv'd and bent the precipice to gain ;
Though yet he labours at the rock in vain ;
By his own strength and Heaven, with conquest
He wins th' important victory at last;
Stretch'd by his hands the vanquish'd monster lies
And the proud triumph lifts him to the skies.
But when ev'n chance and all his efforts fail,
Nor toils, nor vigilance, nor cares prevail;
His past attempts in vain the boy renews,
And waits the softer seasons of the Muse;
He quits his work; throws by his fond desires;
And from his task reluctantly retires.

[grac'd,

Thus o'er the fields the swain pursues his road, Till stopt at length by some impervious flood, That from a mountain's brow, o'ercharg'd with rains, [plains

Bursts in a thundering tide, and foams along the
With horrour chill'd, he traverses the shore,
Sees the waves rise, and hears the torrent roar
Then griev'd returns, or waits with vain delay
Till the tumultuous deluge rolls away.

But in no Iliad let the youth engage
His tender years, and unexperienc'd age;
Let him by just degrees and steps proceed,
Sing with the swains, and tune the tender reeds
He with success an humbler theme may ply,
And, Virgil-like, immortalise a fly:
Or sing the mice, their battles and attacks,
Against the croaking natives of the lakes:
Or with what art her toils the spider sets,
And spins her filmy entrails into nets.

And here embrace, ye teachers, this advice;
Not to be too inquisitively nice,

But, till the soul enlarg'd in strength appears,
Indulge the boy, and spare his tender years;
Till, to ripe judgment and experience brought,
Himself discerns and blushes at a fault;
For if the critic's eyes too strictly pierce,
To point each blemish out in every verse,

Void of all hope the stripling may depart,
And turn his studies to another art.
But if resolv'd his darling faults to see,
A youth of genius should apply to me,
And court my elder judgment to peruse
Th' imperfect labours of his infant Muse;
I should not scruple, with a candid eye,
To read and praise his poem to the sky;
With seeming rapture on each line to pause,
And dwell on each expression with applause.
But when my praises had inflam'd his mind,
If some lame verse limp'd slowly up behind;
One, that himself, unconscious, had not found,
By numbers charm'd, and led away by sound;
I should not fear to minister a prop,
And give him stronger feet to keep it up;
Teach it to run along more firm and sure;
Nor would I show the wound before the cure.
For what remains; the poet I enjoin
To form no glorious scheme, no great design,
Till free from business he retires alone,
And flies the giddy tumult of the town;
Seeks rural pleasures, and enjoys the glades,
And courts the thoughtful silence of the shades,
Where the fair Dryads haunt their native woods,
With all the orders of the sylvan gods.
Here in their soft retreats the poets lye,
Serene, and blest with cheerful poverty;
No guilty schemes of wealth their souls molest,
No cares, no prospects, discompose their rest;
No scenes of grandeur glitter in their view;
Here they the joys of innocence pursue,
And taste the pleasures of the happy few.
From a rock's entrails the barbarian sprung,
Who dares to violate the sacred throng

By deeds or words-The wretch, by fury driven,
Assaults the darling colony of Heaven!

Some have look'd down, we know, with scornful

eyes

[rise,

On the bright Muse who taught them how to
And paid, when rais'd to grandeur, no regard
From that high station to the sacred bard.
Uninjur'd, mortals, let the poets lye,

Or dread th' impending vengeance of the sky;
The gods still listen'd to their constant prayer,
And made the poets their peculiar care.
They, with contempt, on fortune's gift look down,
And laugh at kings who wear an envy'd crown.
Rais'd and transported by their soaring mind,
From their proud eminence they view mankind
Lost in a cloud; they see them toil below,
All busy to promote their common woe.
Of guilt unconscious, with a steady soul,
They see the lightnings flash, and hear the thunders
When, girt with terrours, Heaven's almighty sire
Lanches his triple bolts, and forky fire,
When o'er high towers the red destroyer plays,
And strikes the mountains with the pointed blaze;
Safe in their innocence, like gods, they rise,
And lift their souls serenely to the skies.

[roll.

Fly, ye profane ;-the sacred Nine were given To bless these lower worlds by bounteous Heaven: Of old, Prometheus, from the realms above, Brought down these daughters of almighty Jove, When to his native earth the robber came, Charg'd with the plunder of ethereal flame. As due compassion touch'd his generous mind, To see the savage state of human kind; When, led to range at large the bright abodes, And share th' ambrosial banquets of the gods;

In many a whirl he saw Olympus driven,
And heard th' eternal harmony of Heaven.
Turn'd round and round the concert charm'd his
With all the music of the dancing spheres; [ears
The sacred Nine his wondering eyes behold,
As each her orb in just divisions roll'd;
The thief beholds them with ambitious eyes,
And, bent on fraud, he meditates the prize;
A prize! the noblest gift he could bestow
(Next to the fire) on human race below;
At length th' immortals reconcil'd resign'd
The fair celestial sisters to mankind; .
Though bound to Caucasus with solid chains,
Th' aspiring robber groan'd in endless pains;
By which deterr'd, for ages lay supine
The race of mortals, nor invok'd the Nine:
Till Heaven in verse show'd man his future state,
And open'd every distant scene of fate.
First, the great father of the gods above
Sung in Dodona and the Libyan grove;
Next, to th' inquiring nations Themis gave
Her sacred answers from the Phocian cave;
Then Phoebus warn'd them from the Delphic dome,
Of future time, and ages yet to come;
And reverend Faunus utter'd truths divine
To the first founders of the Latian line.
Next the great race of hallow'd prophets came,
With them the Sibyls of immortal fame,
Inspir'd with all the god; who rapt on high
With more than mortal rage unbounded fly,
And range the dark recesses of the sky.
Next, at their feasts, the people sung their lays
(The same their prophets sung in former days);
Their theme an hero, and his deathless praise.

What has to man of nobler worth been given,
Than this the best and greatest boon of Heaven?
Whatever power the glorious gift bestow'd,
We trace the certain footsteps of a god;
By thee inspir'd, the daring poet flies,
His soul mounts up, and towers above the skies;
Thou art the source of pleasure, and we see
No joy, no transport, when debarr'd of thee;
Thy tuneful deity the feather'd throng
Confess in all the measures of their song.
Thy great commands the savages obey,
And every silent native of the sea:
Led by thy voice the starting rocks advance,
And listening forests mingle in the dance.
On thy sweet notes the damn'd rejoice to dwell,
Thy strains suspended all the din of Hell;
Lull'd by the sound, the furies rag'd no more,
And Hell's infernal porter ceas'd to roar.
Thy powers exalt us to the realms above,
To feast with gods, and sit the guests of Jove!
Thy presence softens anguish, woe, and strife,
And reconciles us to the load of life.

Hail, thou bright comfort of these low abodes,
Thou joy of men and darling of the gods.
As priest and poet, in these humble lays,
I boldly labour to resound thy praise;
To hang thy shrines, this gift I bring along,
And to thy altars guide the tender throng.

VIDA'S ART OF POETRY.

BOOK II.

PROCEED, ye Nine, descended from above,. Ye tuneful daughters of almighty Jove;

To teach the future age I hasten on,
And open every source of Helicon,
Your priest and bard with rage divine inspire,
While to your shrine I lead the blooming choir.
Hard was the way, and dubious, which we trod,
Now show, ye goddesses, a surer road;
Point out those paths, which you can find alone,
To all the world but to yourselves unknown;
Lo! all th' Hesperian youths with me implore
Your softer influence, and propitious power,
Who, rang'd beneath my banners, boldly tread
Those arduous tracks to reach your mountain's
head.

New rules 'tis now my province to impart ;
First to invent, and then dispose with art:
Each a laborious task; but they who share
Heav'n's kinder bounty, and peculiar care,
A glorious train of images may find,
Preventing hope, and crowding on the mind.
The other task, to settle every part,
Depends on judgment, and the powers of art;
From whence in chief the poet hopes to raise
His future glory, and immortal praise.

This as a rule the noblest bards esteem,
To touch at first in general on the theme;
To hint at all the subject in a line;
And draw in miniature the whole design.
Nor in themselves confide; but next implore
The timely aid of some celestial power;

To guide your labours, and point out your road,
Choose, as you please, your tutelary god;
But still invoke some guardian deity,
Some power, to look auspicious from the sky:
To nothing great should mortals bend their care,
Till Jove be solemnly addrest in prayer.
'Tis not enough to call for aid divine,
And court but once the favour of the Nine;
When objects rise, that mock your toil and pain,
Above the labour and the reach of man ;
Then you may supplicate the blest abodes,
And ask the friendly succour of the gods.
Shock not your reader, nor begin too fierce,
Nor swell and bluster in a pomp of verse;
At first all needless ornament remove,
To shun his prejudice, and win his love,
At first, you find most favour and success
In plain expression, and a modest dress.
For if too arrogant you vaunt your might,
You fall with greater scandal in the fight,
When on the nicest point your fortune stands,
And all your courage, all your strength demands.
With gradual flights surprise us as we read;
And let more glorious images succeed,
To wake our souls; to kindle our desire
Still to read on, and fan the rising fire.
But ne'er the subject of your work proclaim
In its own colours, and its genuine name;
Let it by distant tokens be convey'd, [shade.
And wrapt in other words, and cover'd in their
At last the subject from the friendly shrowd
Bursts out, and shines the brighter from the cloud;
Then the dissolving darkness breaks away,
And every object glares in open day.
Thus great Ulysses' toils were I to choose',
For the main theme that should employ my
Muse;

By his long labours of immortal fame,
Should shine my hero, but conceal his name;

! Vid. Hom. Odyss. Lib. I.

As one, who lost at sea, had nations seen, [men, And mark'd their towns, their manners, and their Since Troy was levell'd to the dust by Greece; Till a few lines epitomis'd the piece.

But study now what order to maintain,
To link the work in one continued chain,
That, when the Muse displays her artful scheme,
And at the proper time unfolds the theme;
Each part may find its own determin'd place,
Laid out with method, and dispos'd with grace;
That to the destin'd scope the piece may tend,
And keep one constant tenour to the end.
First to surprising novelties inclin'd,
The bards some unexpected objects find,
To wake attention, and suspend the mind.
A cold dull order bravely they forsake;
Fixt and resolv'd the winding way to take,
They nobly deviate from the beaten track.
The poet marks th' occasion, as he sings,
To lanch out boldly from the midst of things,
Where some distinguish'd incident he views,
Some shining action that deserves a Muse.
Thence by degrees the wondering reader brings
To trace the subject backward to its springs,
Lest at his entrance he should idly stay,
Shock'd at his toil, and dubious of his way;
For when set down so near the promis'd goal,
The flattering prospect tempts and fires his soul;
Already past the treacherous bounds appear,
Then most at distance, when they seem so near;
Far from his grasp the fleeting harbour flies,
Courts his pursuit, but mocks his dazzled eyes;
The promis'd region he with joy had spy'd,
Vast tracks of oceans from his reach divide;
Still must he backward steer his lengthen'd way,
And plough a wide interminable sea.
No skilful poet would his Muse employ,
From Paris' vote to trace the fall of Troy,
Nor every deed of Hector to relate,
While his strong arm suspended Ilion's fate;
Work! for some annalist! some heavy fool,
Correctly dry, and regularly dull.

Best near the end those dreadful scenes appear2;
Wake then, and rouse the furies of the war.
But for his ravish'd fair at first engage
Peleides' soul in unrelenting rage.
Be this the cause that every Phrygian flood
Swells with red waves, and rolls a tide of blood;
That Xanthus' urns a purple deluge pour,
And the deep trenches float with human gore.
Nor former deeds in silence must we lose,
The league at Aulis, and the mutual vows,
The Spartan raging for his ravish'd spouse;
The thousand ships; the woes which Ilion bore
From Greece, for nine revolving years before.
This rule with judgment should the bard maintain',
Who brings. Laërtes' wandering son again,
From burning Ilion to his native reign.
Let him not lanch from Ida's strand his ships,
With his attendant friends into the deeps;
Nor stay to vanquish the Ciconian host;
But let him first appear (his comrades lost)
With fair Calypso on th' Ogygian coast.
From thence, a world of toils and dangers past,
Waft him to rich Phæacia's realms at last,
There at the feast his wanderings to relate,
His friends' dire change; his own relentless fate.

2 See Homer's Iliad.

! See the Odyssey.

But if the bard of former actions sings,
He wisely draws from those remoter springs
The present order, and the course of things.
As yet unfold th' event on no pretence,
"Tis your chief task to keep us in suspense.
Nor tell what presents* Atreus' son prepares,
To reconcile Achilles to the wars;

Or by what god's auspicious conduct led,
From Polyphemus' den Ulysses fled.
Pleas'd with the toil, and on the prospect bent,
Our souls leap forward to the wish'd event.
No call of nature can our search restrain,
And sleep, and thirst, and hunger, plead in vain.
Glad we pursue the labour, we embrac'd,
And leave reluctant, when we leave at last.
See! how the bard triumphant in his art,
Sports with our passions, and commands the heart;
Now here, now there, he turns the varying song;
And draws at will the captive soul along;
Rack'd with uncertain hints, in every sense
We feel the lengthen'd anguish of suspense.
When Homer once has promis'd to rehearse
Bold Paris' fight, in many a sounding verse,
He soon perceives his reader's warm desire
Wrapt in th' event, and all his soul on fire;
The poet then contrives some specious stay,
Before he tells the fortune of the day.
Till Helen to the king and elders show,
From some tall tower, the leaders of the foe,
And name the heroes in the fields below.
When chaste Penelope', to gain her end,
Invites her suitors the tough bow to bend ;
(Her nuptial bed the victor's promis'd prize)
With what address her various arts she plies!
Skill'd in delays, and politicly slow
To search her treasures for her hero's bow,
None lead the reader in the dark along,
To the last goal that terminates the song ;
Sometimes th' event must glance upon the sight,
Not glare in day, nor wholly sink in night.
"Tis thus Anchises to his son relates
The various series of his future fates;
For this the prophets see3, on Tyber's shore,
Wars, horrid wars, and Latium red with gore,
A new Achilies rising to destroy

With boundless rage the poor remains of Troy;
But raise his mind with prospects of success,
And give the promise of a lasting peace.
This knew the hero when he sought the plains,
Sprung from his ships", and charg'd the embattled
swains,

[might,

Hew'd down the Latian troops with matchless
(The first, auspicious omen of the fight)
And at one blow gigantic Theron kill'd,
Bold, but in vain, and foremost of the field;
Thus too Patroclus 10 with his latest breath
Foretold his unregarding victor's death:
His parting soul anticipates the blow,
That waits brave Hector from a greater foe.
Thou too, poor Turnus, just before thy doom
Could'st read thy end, and antedate a tomb,
When o'er thy head the baleful fury flew,
And in dire omens set thy fate to view :

A bird obscene, she flutter'd o'er the field, [shield.
And scream'd thy death, and beat thy sounding

For lo! the time, the fatal time is comé,
Charg'd with thy death, and heavy with thy doom.
When Turnus, though in vain, shall rue the day;
Shall curse the golden belt he bore away;
Shall wish too late young Pallas' spoils unsought,
And mourn the conquest he so dearly bought.
Th' event should glimmer through its gloomy
shrowd,

Though yet confus'd, and struggling in the cloud.
So, to the traveller, as he journies on
To reach the walls of some far distant town,
If, high in air, the dubious turrets rise,
Peep o'er the hills and dance before his eyes;
Pleas'd the refreshing prospect to survey,
Each stride he lengthens, and beguiles the way.
More pleas'd (the tempting scene in view) to ge,
Than pensively to walk the gloomy vales below.
Unless the theme within your bosom roll,
Work in each thought, and run through all the
Unless you alter with incessant pain, [soul;
Pull down, and build the fabric o'er again;
In vain, when rival-wits your wonder raise,
You'll strive to match those beauties which you

praise.

To one just scope with fixt design go on;
Let sovereign reason dictate from her throne,
By what determin'd methods to advance,
But never trust to arbitrary chance.

Where chance presides, all objects wildly join'd,
Crowd on the reader, and distract his mind;
From theme to theme unwilling is he tost,
And in the dark variety is lost.

You see some bards, who bold excursions make
In long digressions from the beaten track;
And paint a wild unnecessary throng
Of things and objects foreign to the song;
For new descriptions from the road depart,
Devoid of order, discipline, and art.
So, many an anxious toil and danger pást,
Some wretch returns from banishment at last;
With fond delay to range the shady wood,
Now here, now there, he wanders from the road;
From field to field, from stream to stream he roves,
And courts the cooling shelter of the groves.
For why should Homer" deck the gorgeous car,
When our rais'd souls are eager for the war?
Or dwell on every wheel, when loud alarms,
And Mars in thunder calls the host to arms?
When with his heroes we some dastard find 12,
Of a vile aspect, and malignant mind;
His awkward figure is not worth our care;
His monstrous length of head, or want of bair,
Not though he goes with mountain-shoulders by,
Short of a foot, or blinking in an eye.
Such trivial objects call us off too long
From the main drift and tenour of the song.
Drances "appears a juster character,
In council bold, but cautious in the war ;
Factious and loud the listening throng he draws,
And swells with wealth, and popular applause;
But, what in our's would never find a place,
The bold Greek language may admit with grace.
Why should I here the stratagems recite,
And the low tricks of every little wit?
Some out of time their stock of knowledge boast,
Till in the pedant all the bard is lost.

11 Vid. Hom. Iliad, Lib. V. v. 722. 12 Ibid. Lib. II. v. 212. 15 Eneid. Lib. XI. v. 336.