Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain, Afford the most uncertain gain: And lotteries never tempt the wise, With blanks so many to a prize. I only transient visits pay, Meeting the Muses in my way,
Scarce known to the fastidious dames, Nor skill'd to call them by their names. Nor can their passports, in these days, Your profit warrant, or your praise. On poems by their dictates writ, Critics, as sworn appraisers, sit, And mere upholsterers in a trice On gems and paintings set a price. These tailoring artists for our lays Invent cramp'd rules, and, with straight stays, Striving free Nature's shape to hit, Emaciate sense before they fit.
A common-place, and many friends, Can serve the plagiary's ends, Whose easy vamping talent lies, First, wit to pilfer, then disguise. Thus some, devoid of art and skill, To search the mine on Pindus' hill, Proud to aspire and workmen grow, By genius doom'd to stay below, For their own digging show the town Wit's treasure brought by others down. Some wanting, if they find a mine, An artist's judgment to refine, On fame precipitately fix'd,
The ore, with baser metals mix'd,
Melt down, impatient of delay,
And call the vicious mass a play. All these engage, to serve their ends, A band select of trusty friends, Who, lesson'd right, extol the thing, As Psapho taught his birds to sing; Then to the ladies they submit, Returning officers on wit:
A crowded house their presence draws, And on the beaux imposes laws. A judgment in its favor ends,
When all the pannel are its friends: Their natures, merciful and mild, Have from mere pity saved the child; Iu bulrush ark the bantling found, Helpless, and ready to be drown'd, They have preserved by kind support, And brought the baby-muse to court. But there's a youth† that you can name, Who needs no leading-strings to fame; Whose quick maturity of brain The birth of Pallas may explain : Dreaming of whose depending fate, I heard Melpomene debate:
Psapho was a Libyan, who, desiring to be accounted a god, effected it by this means: He took young birds, and taught them to sing Psapho is a great god. When they were perfect in their lesson, he let them fly; and other birds learning the same ditty, repeated it in the woods; on which his countrymen offered sacrifice to him, and considered him as a deity.
† Mr. Glover, the excellent author of Leonidas, Boadicea, Me dea, &c.
This, this is he, that was foretold Should emulate our Greeks of old. Inspired by me with sacred art, He sings and rules the varied heart; If Jove's dread anger he rehearse, We hear the thunder in his verse; If he describes love turn'd to rage, The furies riot in his page : If he fair liberty and law
By ruffian power expiring, draw, The keener passions then engage Aright, and sanctify their rage; If he attempt disastrous love,
We hear those plaints that wound the grove, Within the kinder passions glow,
And tears distill'd from pity flow.
From the bright vision I descend, And my deserted theme attend.
Me never did ambition seize, Strange fever most inflamed by ease! The active lunacy of pride, That courts jilt Fortune for a bride, This paradise-tree, so fair and high, I view with no aspiring eye: Like aspen shake the restless leaves, And Sodom-fruit our pain deceives. Whence frequent falls give no surprise, But fits of Spleen, call'd growing wise. Greatness in glittering forms display'd Affects weak eyes much used to shade, And by its falsely envied scene Gives self-debasing fits of Spleen.
We should be pleased that things are sa, Who do for nothing see the show, And, middle-sized, can pass between Life's hubbub safe, because unseen, And 'midst the glare of greatness trace A watery sunshine in the face, And pleasures fled to, to redress The sad fatigue of idleness.
Contentment, parent of delight, So much a stranger to our sight, Say, goddess, in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face? Thy gracious auspices impart, And for thy temple choose my heart! They whom thou deignest to inspire, Thy science learn, to bound desire; By happy alchemy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find; They both disdain in outward mien The grave and solemn garb of Spleen, And meretricious arts of dress,
To feign a joy and hide distress; Unmoved when the rude tempest blows, Without an opiate they repose; And, covered by your shield, defy The whizzing shafts that round them fly; Nor meddling with the gods' affairs, Concern themselves with distant cares; But place their bliss in mental rest, And feast upon the good possess'd.
Forced by soft violence of prayer, The blithesome goddess soothes my care,
I feel the deity inspire,
And thus she models my desire :—
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid, Annuity securely made,
A farm some twenty miles from town, Small, tight, salubrious, and my own; Two maids that never saw the town, A serving man not quite a clown, A boy to help to tread the mow, And drive while t'other holds the plow, A chief, of temper form'd to please, Fit to converse, and keep the keys; And, better to preserve the peace, Commission'd by the name of niece: With understandings of a size To think their master very wise. May Heaven ('tis all I wish for) send One genial room to treat a friend, Where decent cupboard, little plate, Display benevolence, not state. And may my humble dwelling stand Upon some chosen spot of land:
A pond before, full to the brim,
Where cows may cool, and geese may swim; Behind, a green like velvet neat,
Soft to the eye and to the feet; Where odorous plants, in evening fair, Breathe all around ambrosial air; From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground, Fenced by a slope with bushes crown'd, Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng, Who pay their quit-rents with a song; With opening views of hill and dale, Which sense and fancy too regale,
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