If ranker weeds their foul contagion spread,
And daring Licence rais'd her impious head,
Thefe, while the state could bear a cenfor's frown, Check'd their lewd growth, and pull'd corruption down.
Here springs a wish, that none their pow'r profane : Pure be his life, who writes, from ev'ry ftain;
Pure let his page with facred luftre shine;
Let rigid virtue mark the blameless line.
If e'er (which heav'n avert !) he leaves her fide,
To cringe to wealth, or fwell the pomp of pride;
If e'er the Pen fhall aid the spurious birth,
When Lewdness pours his vile debauch'ries forth,
Drive the bafe wretch, ye Mufes, from your train,
And bind, in dullness bind his barren brain,
That, when the strangled thought would press to light,
Vex'd, he may gnaw the guilty Pen in spight.
But hence; and darkness whelm th' apoftate throng! To brighter themes I fteer my wand'ring song. That
That glorious lift my raptur'd eyes furvey,
Which Greece and Rome with confcious pride display,
Which, fpar'd by spoiling time, and Gothic rage,
Admir'd, rever'd, has fhone through ev'ry age.
So ftrongly bright, the morn of science rose,
Still in our hearts the warm reflection glows.
Prone at your fhrines, ye fons of antient fame,
Genius ftill bows, and lights th' infpiring flame;
He hopes, he fears, he burns with strong defire,
Then grafps the Quill, to join the god-like choir.
Thus, if some youth, who fhuns inglorious eafe,
Points his high aim at Wolfe's or Elliot's praife,
Fir'd with the view, he feeks th' embattled foe,
Where conqueft waits to crown the warrior's brow.
But Heav'n, who nerves the arm, and guides the hand,
Forbids, that all, in war, and wit, command.
Few yet have fped, whofe bold ambition dar'd
To fnatch the wreath, which crowns the epic bard:
For 'tis a plan, no vulgar Pen can trace,
Where join, at once, confiftence, strength, and grace.
Critics gave rules, the cobwebs of their brains;
But poets rofe, who broke their flimfy chains.
These Milton scorn'd, who ftretch'd, on wing fublime,
Through boundless space, beyond the birth of time.
Some nearer home their fhort excursions try,
Or fhave, in level flight, the nether sky;
Like bees, in fummer fields, the buzzing throngs
Pour forth in odes, and elegies, and fongs.
Some, humbler ftill, their petty pow'r employ,
Who glitter, flutter, fhoot their ftings, and die.
But cease to count, what rovers of the Quill,
In nameless tribes, infeft the Mufes' hill.
As atoms crowded in the folar ray,
Their embryo forms in endlefs mazes ftray.
Yet fee that groupe, no undiftinguifh'd choir, Gentler in mien, and lovelier in attire:
Mark, how each Grace directs their pleafing toils,
And ev'ry Mufe enlivens with her fmiles.
Welcome, ye bards, thefe partners of your praife,
The virtuous Sapphos of our modern days.
Too long in wit had man ufurp'd the throne,
Till time and freedom broke the barrier down,
Till taste and learning travell'd fide by fide,
And barb'rous rules and Salic laws deftroy'd.
No further glories wait the grey goofe Quill,
Since wit and beauty try its potent skill;
For thefe, whene'er they take the letter'd field,
With twofold force the plumed weapon wield.
P. II, lege Außhes; p. 13, xeт'; p. 25, 0'; p. 31,
fævus; p. 41, mæfta; p. 83, cæli, et alibi.
|