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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 music charms the region round.

Ah! spare your sneers, ye sons of wealth and care : Gold cannot paint a scene so gay and fair.

Such too that pow's, which bids the landskip glow,

Provok'd it deals fure vengeance on the foe.

Scorn all, who list; if e'er the plumed dart

Is aim'd to strike, it awes the proudest heart.

This dullness feels, enflam’d with rage and shame,

When Dunciads doom it to the scoffs of fame.

When human laws are bought, its active zeal

Restores to Justice her impartial scale.
No lurking vice escapes its scourging lay,
Stripp'd bare, and branded in the eye of day.
So Rome's grave censors o'er her manners reign’d!,
Where justice fail'd, their chast’ning rod restrain’d;

If

If ranker weeds their foul contagion spread,

And daring Licence rais'd her impious head,
These, while the state could bear a cenfor's frown,
Check'd their lewd growth, and pull’d corruption down.

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Here springs a wish, that none their pow'r profane :

Pure be his life, who writes, from ev'ry stain;

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 side,
To cringe to wealth, or swell the pomp of pride ;
If e'er the Pen shall aid the spurious birth,

When Lewdness pours his vile debauch’ries forth,

Drive the base wretch, ye Muses, from your train,

And bind, in dullness bind his barren brain,

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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’ apostate throng!
To brighter themes I steer my wand'ring song. That

That glorious list my raptur’d eyes survey,
Which Greece and Rome with conscious pride display,

Which, spar'd by spoiling time, and Gothic rage,

Admir'd, rever'd, has fhone through ev'ry age.

So strongly bright, the morn of science rose,

Still in our hearts the warm reflection glows.
Prone at your shrines, ye fons of antient fame,

Genius still bows, and lights th' inspiring flame ;
He hopes, he fears, he burns with strong desire,
Then grasps the Quill, to join the god-like choir.
Thus, if fome youth, who shuns inglorious eafe,
Points his high aim at Wolfe's or Elliot's praise,

Fir'd with the view, he seeks th'cmbattled foe,

Where conquest 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.

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Few yet have sped, whose bold ambition dar'd

To snatch the wreath, which crowns the epic bard:

For 'tis a plan, no vulgar Pen can trace,
Where join, at once, consistence, strength, and grace.
Critics gave rules, the cobwebs of their brains

;
But poets rose, who broke their Aimsy chains.
These Milton scorn’d, who stretch’d, on wing sublime,
Through boundless space, beyond the birth of time.
Some nearer home their short excursions try,

Or shave, in level flight, the nether sky;

Like bees, in summer fields, the buzzing throngs

Pour forth in odes, and elegies, and songs.

Some, humbler still, their petty pow'r employ,
Who glitter, futter, shoot their stings, and die.

But cease to count, what rovers of the Quill,
In nameless tribes, infest the Muses' hill.

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As atoms crowded in the folár ray,

Thcir embryo forms in endless mazes stray,

Yet

Yet see that groupe, no undistinguish'd choir, Gentler in mien, and lovelier in attire :

Mark, how each Grace directs their pleasing toils,

And ev'ry Muse enlivens with her smiles. Welcome, ye bards, these partners of your praise,

The virtuous Sapphos of our modern days.

Too long in wit had man usurp'd the throne,
Till time and freedom broke the barrier down,

'Till taste and learning travellid side by side,

And barb'rous rules and Salic laws destroy'd.

No further glories wait the grey goose Quill,
Since wit and beauty try its potent skill;
For these, whene'er they take the letter'd field,

With twofold force the plumed weapon wield.

F INI s.

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