The rude, bleak waste a blooming verdure wears;

Rocks blush with vines, and heaths are gay parterres ; While airy forms trip o'er th' enchanted ground,

And heav'nly mufic charms the region round.

Ah! fpare your fneers, ye fons of wealth and care:

Gold cannot paint a scene so gay and fair.

Such too that pow'r, which bids the landfkip glow,
Provok'd it deals fure vengeance on the foe.
Scorn all, who lift; if e'er the plumed dart

Is aim'd to ftrike, it awes the proudeft heart.
This dullness feels, enflam'd with rage and fhame,

When Dunciads doom it to the fcoffs of fame.

When human laws are bought, its active zeal

Reftores to Juftice her impartial scale.

No lurking vice efcapes its fcourging lay,

Stripp'd bare, and branded in the eye of day.

So Rome's grave cenfors o'er her manners reign'd,

Where justice fail'd, their chaft'ning rod restrain'd; If

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 fprings a wifh, 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 Lewdnefs pours his vile debauch'ries forth,
Drive the base wretch, ye Muses, from your train,
And bind, in dullness bind his barren brain,

That, when the ftrangled thought would prefs 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 fong. 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 ftrong defire,
Then grafps the Quill, to join the god-like choir.
Thus, if fome youth, who fhuns inglorious ease,
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, ftrength, and grace.
Critics gave rules, the cobwebs of their brains;
But poets rofe, who broke their flimfy chains.

These Milton fcorn'd, who ftretch'd, on wing fublime,
Through boundless space, beyond the birth of time.

Some nearer home their short excurfions try,

Or fhave, in level flight, the nether sky;

Like bees, in fummer fields, the buzzing throngs
Pour forth in odes, and elegies, and songs.

Some, humbler ftill, their petty pow'r employ,

Who glitter, flutter, fhoot their ftings, and die.
But ceafe to count, what rovers of the Quill,
In nameless tribes, infeft the Mufes' hill.

As atoms crowded in the folár ray,

Their embryo forms in endless mazes stray.

Yet

Yet fee that groupe, no undiftinguish'd choir, Gentler in mien, and lovelier in attire:

Mark, how each Grace directs their pleafing toils,
And ev'ry Muse enlivens with her smiles.
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.

FIN I S.