Ill-fated bard! where-e'er thy name appears, 'Tis true the man of verse, though born to ills, He, only he, should haunt the Muse's grove, Whom youth might reverence and grey hairs approve; Whose heav'n-taught numbers, now, in thunder roll'd Might rouse the virtuous and appal the bold. Curs'd be their verse, and blasted all their bays, Whose sensual lure th' unconscious ear betrays; Wounds the young breast, ere virtue spreads her shield, And takes, not wins, the scarce disputed field, Should some MACHAON, whose sagacious soul And arm with poisons every baleful breeze: But spreads contagion wide, and stains a future age? Forgive me, Sir, that thus the moral strain, Profan'd by them, the Muse's laurels fade, New cares appear, new terrors swell the train, And must we paint them ere we close the scene ? Say, must the Muse th' unwilling task pursue, And to compleat her dangers mention you ? Yes you, my friend, and those whose kind regard With partial fondness views this humble bard: Ev'n you he dreads.—Ah! kindly cease to raise Unwilling censure, by exacting praise. Just to itself the jealous world will claim A right to judge; or give, or cancel fame. And, if th' officious zeal unbounded flows, The friend too partial is the worst of foes. Behold th' Athenian sage, whose piercing mind Had trac'd the wily lab'rinths of mankind, When now condemn'd, he leaves his infant care To all those evils man is born to bear. Not to his friends alone the charge he yields, But nobler hopes on juster motives builds; Bids ev'n his foes their future steps attend, And dar'd to censure, if they dar'd offend. Would thus the poet trust his offspring forth, Or bloom'd our BRITAIN with ATHENIAN Worth: Would the brave foe th' imperfect work engage With honest freedom, not with partial rage, What just productions might the world surprize! But since by foes, or friends alike deceiv'd, Catch the first gale, and make the nearest shore; Where humble peace, and sweet contentment reign; If not thy precepts, thy example own, And steal through life not useless, though unknown. EPISTLE V. ΤΟ LORD MELCOMBE. FROM RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ. I'VE often thought, my Lord, the thing now true, Said by Lord Bute, but what I've learn'd from you: "We shall lose poetry :" In this alone Too short, he might have added, "Wit is gone." How came this prime delight of man thus lessen'd From its full orb down to a thumb-nail crescent ? With me the case admits not of a doubt! The fact is, poesy itself's worn out. To you, my Lord, this notion I submit, Who knew and help'd to make this age of wit, Congreves, and Addisons, and Garths, and Rowes, Whose deeds we wonder at, and hide our own; Whom but to copy in their idle fits, Would break the backs of puny modern wits. |