B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire-
The mufe imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her foft attention claim,
A tender fympathy pervades the frame,
She pours a fenfibility divine
Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne,
Fire indignation and a fenfe of fcorn,
The strings are swept with fuch a pow'r, fo loud,
The form of mufic fhakes th' aftonifh'd crowd.
So when remote futurity is brought
Before the keen enquiry of her thought,.
A terrible fagacity informs.
The poet's heart, he looks to diftant ftorms,
He hears the thunder ere the tempeft low'rs,.
And arm'd with ftrength furpaffing human pow'rs
Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his foul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name:
Of prophet and of poet was the same,
Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd,
And ev'ry hallow'd druid was a bard.
But no prophetic fires to me belong,
I play with fyllables, and fport in fong.
A. At Westminster, where little poets strive
To fet a diftich upon fix and five,
Where discipling helps op'ning buds of fenfe,
And makes his pupils proud with filver-pence,
I was a poet too-but modern taste
Is fo refin'd and delicate and chaste,
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms,
Without a creamy smoothness has no charms.
Thus, all fuccefs depending on an ear,
And thinking I might purchase it too dear,
If fentiment were facrific'd to found,
And truth cut short to make a period round,
I judg'd a man of fenfe could scarce do worse,
Than caper in the morris-dance of verfe.
B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit,
And fome wits flag through fear of losing it.
Give me the line, that ploughs its stately courfe
Like a proud fwan, conqu'ring the ftream by force.
That like fome cottage beauty ftrikes the heart,
Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.
When labour and when dullness, club in hand,
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand,
Beating alternately, in measur'd time,
The clock-work tintinabulum of rhime,
Exact and regular the found will be,
But fuch mere quarter-strokes are not for me.
The laurel feem'd to wait on his command,
He fnatch'd it rudely from the mufes hand.
Nature exerting an unwearied pow'r,
Forms, opens, and gives fcent to ev'ry flow'r,
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads;
She fills profufe ten thousand little throats
With mufic, modulating all their notes,
And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown,
With artless airs and concerts of her own:
But feldom (as if fearful of expence)
Vouchfafes to man a poet's just pretence,
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, ftrength, words exquifitely fought;
Fancy that from the bow that spans the fky,
Brings colours dipt in heav'n that never die;
A foul exalted above earth, a mind
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;
And as the fun in rifing beauty drefs'd,
Looks to the weftward from the dappl'd eaft,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpofe,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close;
An eye like his to catch the distant goal,
Or e'er the wheels of verfe begin to roll;
Like his to shed illuminating rays
On ev'ry scene and subject it surveys:
Thus grac'd the man afferts a poet's name,
And the world chearfully admits the claim.
Pity Religion has fo feldom found
A skilful guide into poetic ground,
The flow'rs would fpring where'er the deign'd to stray, And ev'ry mufe attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming friend, And many a compliment politely penn'd; But unattir'd in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undrefs'd, Stands in the defert fhiv'ring and forlorn, A wint'ry figure, like a wither'd thorn. The shelves are full, all other themes are fped, Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread, Satyr has long fince done his best, and curst And loathfome ribaldry has done his worst; Fancy has fported all her pow'rs away In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; And 'tis the fad complaint, and almost true, Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. "Twere new indeed, to fee a bard all fire, Touch'd with a coal from heav'n, affume the lyre, And tell the world, ftill kindling as he fung, With more than mortal mufic on his tongue, That he who died below, and reigns above, Infpires the fong, and that his name is Love.
For after all, if merely to beguile
By flowing numbers and a flow'ry style,
The tædium that the lazy rich endure,
Which now and then fweet poetry may cure,
Or if to fee the name of idol self
Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the fhelf,
To float a bubble on the breath of fame,
Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,
Debas'd to fervile purposes of pride,
How are the powers of genius mifapplied?
The gift whofe office is the giver's praise,
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways;
Then spread the rich discov'ry, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight;
Distorted from its use and juft defign,
To make the pitiful poffeffor shine;
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair
Of vanity, a wreath for felf to wear,
Is profanation of the bafeft kind,
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.
A. Hail Sternhold then and Hopkins hail! B. Amen.
If Aatt'ry, folly, luft employ the pen,
If acrimony, flander, and abuse,
Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;
Tho' Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's cafe,
With all that fancy can invent to please,
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