The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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Advice to the Poets.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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Advice to the Poets.
Too long provok'd, immortal muse! forgive;
Rouse a dead world, and teach my verse to live.
Not the low muse, who lends her feeble fire,
To flush pale spleen, or light up loose desire;
But that bright influence, that expansive glow,
Which, first, in angel's numbers learnt to flow;
E're time had struck eternity, with shade,
Or day, or night, or space, or form, was made:
Tun'd the rais'd notes, at which Creation grew;
And worlds, and stars, and suns, and heav'ns, shot new.
She, she, the muse—Oh! ne'er to be defin'd;
Thou flame of purpose! and thou flow of mind!
Thou path of praise, by heav'n's first fav'rites, trod,
Thou voice of prophets, and thou breath of God!
Rouse a dead world, and teach my verse to live.
Not the low muse, who lends her feeble fire,
To flush pale spleen, or light up loose desire;
But that bright influence, that expansive glow,
Which, first, in angel's numbers learnt to flow;
E're time had struck eternity, with shade,
Or day, or night, or space, or form, was made:
Tun'd the rais'd notes, at which Creation grew;
And worlds, and stars, and suns, and heav'ns, shot new.
She, she, the muse—Oh! ne'er to be defin'd;
Thou flame of purpose! and thou flow of mind!
Thou path of praise, by heav'n's first fav'rites, trod,
Thou voice of prophets, and thou breath of God!
I feel her now—th' invader fires my breast;
And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest;
Hear her, O Pope! she sounds th' inspir'd decree,
Thou great arch-angel of wit's heav'n! for thee.
And my soul swells, to suit the heav'nly guest;
Hear her, O Pope! she sounds th' inspir'd decree,
Thou great arch-angel of wit's heav'n! for thee.
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Let
vulgar genii, sow'r'd, by sharp disdain,
Pique'd, and malignant, words low war maintain,
While ev'ry meaner art exerts her aim,
O'er rival arts, to lift her question'd fame,
Let half-soul'd poets, still, on poets fall,
And teach the willing world to scorn them all.
But, let no muse, pre-eminent as thine,
Of voice melodious, and of force divine,
Stung, by wit's wasps, all rights of rank forego,
And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe.
No—like thy own Ulysses, make no stay;
Shun monsters, and pursue thy streamy way.
Pique'd, and malignant, words low war maintain,
While ev'ry meaner art exerts her aim,
O'er rival arts, to lift her question'd fame,
Let half-soul'd poets, still, on poets fall,
And teach the willing world to scorn them all.
But, let no muse, pre-eminent as thine,
Of voice melodious, and of force divine,
Stung, by wit's wasps, all rights of rank forego,
And turn, and snarl, and bite, at every foe.
No—like thy own Ulysses, make no stay;
Shun monsters, and pursue thy streamy way.
Wing'd, by the muse's god, to rise, sublime,
What has thy fame to fear, from peevish rhime?
Shalt thou, decreed, 'till time's own death, to live,
Yet want the noblest courage—to forgive?
What has thy fame to fear, from peevish rhime?
Shalt thou, decreed, 'till time's own death, to live,
Yet want the noblest courage—to forgive?
Slander'd, in vain, enjoy the spleen of foes;
Let these, from envy, hate; from int'rest, those!
Guilt, like the first, your gratitude requires;
Since none can envy, 'till he, first, admires:
And nature tells the last, his crime is none,
Who, to your int'rest, but prefers his own.
Let these, from envy, hate; from int'rest, those!
Guilt, like the first, your gratitude requires;
Since none can envy, 'till he, first, admires:
And nature tells the last, his crime is none,
Who, to your int'rest, but prefers his own.
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Disgrac'd, by vict'ry, where we strike too low,
And, meanly furious, stretch the stooping blow,
Pride, that provokes revenge, misleads it, too;
Return of slander is the weak man's view:
The Wise expect it, with a cold disdain;
And, while they not receive, retort the pain.
And, meanly furious, stretch the stooping blow,
Pride, that provokes revenge, misleads it, too;
Return of slander is the weak man's view:
The Wise expect it, with a cold disdain;
And, while they not receive, retort the pain.
Shou'd ev'n hot rashness erring javelins throw,
And strike our friendly breast, suppos'd a foe?
How nobler, still, to undeceive, than blame!
And chasten insult, with the blush of shame?
Never, ah! never, shall that worth be found;
Which neither malice, nor mistake, can wound.
And strike our friendly breast, suppos'd a foe?
How nobler, still, to undeceive, than blame!
And chasten insult, with the blush of shame?
Never, ah! never, shall that worth be found;
Which neither malice, nor mistake, can wound.
Thus far, might ev'ry strength of heart extend;
Thus far, can ethic springs our tempers bend:
Thus far, the thoughts of saints, or kings, may rise,
And each known greatness, of earth's usual size:
But, far more tow'ring, still, the poet's fires!
Whose breast, a ray, from God's own heart, inspires.
Thus far, can ethic springs our tempers bend:
Thus far, the thoughts of saints, or kings, may rise,
And each known greatness, of earth's usual size:
But, far more tow'ring, still, the poet's fires!
Whose breast, a ray, from God's own heart, inspires.
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Heroes, and saints, rise, rare—yet, still, they rise;
And time's full stream, each common art supplies.
Philosophy's proud heights are hourly gain'd,
And painting's charms, and musick's force attain'd:
But, when the deathless Poet is to shine,
Long-lab'ring ages swell the slow design.
At length, he comes: the birth of time appears!
And heav'n smiles, satisfy'd, a thousand years.
And time's full stream, each common art supplies.
Philosophy's proud heights are hourly gain'd,
And painting's charms, and musick's force attain'd:
But, when the deathless Poet is to shine,
Long-lab'ring ages swell the slow design.
At length, he comes: the birth of time appears!
And heav'n smiles, satisfy'd, a thousand years.
Strange greatness, this! with which compar'd, priest, saint,
King, hero, and philosopher, sound faint!
He's none of these, whom time shall poet call,
But more than either, and creates them all.
King, hero, and philosopher, sound faint!
He's none of these, whom time shall poet call,
But more than either, and creates them all.
Learn, poets, learn, th' importance of your name;
And, conscious of your pow'r, exalt your aim.
Soul-shaking sov'reigns of the passions, you
Hold wider empire, than the Cæsars knew.
While clam'rous rhet'ric but suspends the mind,
And whisp'ring morals sigh, unheard, behind;
While frail philosophy but starts designs,
And revelation's light too distant shines,
Ardent, and close, the muse maintains her sway,
And the consenting wishes make her way:
E'vn pride's rash plunge, the poet's curb endures;
And ev'ry passage to the heart, is yours.
And, conscious of your pow'r, exalt your aim.
Soul-shaking sov'reigns of the passions, you
Hold wider empire, than the Cæsars knew.
While clam'rous rhet'ric but suspends the mind,
And whisp'ring morals sigh, unheard, behind;
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And revelation's light too distant shines,
Ardent, and close, the muse maintains her sway,
And the consenting wishes make her way:
E'vn pride's rash plunge, the poet's curb endures;
And ev'ry passage to the heart, is yours.
Scorn, then, the servile imitators name,
Nor, humbly splendid, wear cast coats of fame:
Lean not, sustain'd—a weight, no muse allows!
Pilf'ring the faded bays, from classic brows;
Nor creep, contented, in the modern way;
A dry, dull, soft, low, languid, tiresome lay!
But, strongly sacred, and sublimely warm,
Strike the aw'd soul, and the touch'd passions charm:
'Till the stern cynic, soft'ning at your strain,
Feels himself mov'd, and hugs the pleasing pain.
While lazy lovers, from their languor, start,
And gain a conquest, tho' they lost a heart.
Nor, humbly splendid, wear cast coats of fame:
Lean not, sustain'd—a weight, no muse allows!
Pilf'ring the faded bays, from classic brows;
Nor creep, contented, in the modern way;
A dry, dull, soft, low, languid, tiresome lay!
But, strongly sacred, and sublimely warm,
Strike the aw'd soul, and the touch'd passions charm:
'Till the stern cynic, soft'ning at your strain,
Feels himself mov'd, and hugs the pleasing pain.
While lazy lovers, from their languor, start,
And gain a conquest, tho' they lost a heart.
Such wond'rous change can harmony command!
For heav'n lent nature to the poet's hand;
Gave him, the passion's boundless pow'r to know;
And, like a god, distribute joy and woe:
Taught the tun'd nerves, at each known sound, to spring,
And bound, obedient, to the warbling string:
Bad the blood's current, in compliance, roll;
And the charm'd spirits rush, in tides of soul.
For heav'n lent nature to the poet's hand;
Gave him, the passion's boundless pow'r to know;
And, like a god, distribute joy and woe:
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And bound, obedient, to the warbling string:
Bad the blood's current, in compliance, roll;
And the charm'd spirits rush, in tides of soul.
Ye, who feel, strong, this pow'r, that heav'n has lent,
Be your rais'd hearts, with equal ardour, bent:
Dare to praise virtue, tho' unprais'd, before;
Lance your keen satires at oppressive pow'r:
Be worth, obscure, by your bright genius, sought,
And gild its paleness, in your sun of thought:
Lift it to notice; give it strength to move,
And teach dull greatness, how to know and love.
Be your rais'd hearts, with equal ardour, bent:
Dare to praise virtue, tho' unprais'd, before;
Lance your keen satires at oppressive pow'r:
Be worth, obscure, by your bright genius, sought,
And gild its paleness, in your sun of thought:
Lift it to notice; give it strength to move,
And teach dull greatness, how to know and love.
With nerves of thought, invig'rate manly themes;
Nor, idly, sport, in fancy's empty beams;
Let no base flatt'ry tempt your verse astray,
Nor a light laughter a low taste display.
In wit's cold shallows wade, for shame! no more,
Her soundless ocean tempts you, from the shore:
Up her vast steeps, launch, with intrepid climb,
And swim, thro' ages, down the stream of time.
Nor, idly, sport, in fancy's empty beams;
Let no base flatt'ry tempt your verse astray,
Nor a light laughter a low taste display.
In wit's cold shallows wade, for shame! no more,
Her soundless ocean tempts you, from the shore:
Up her vast steeps, launch, with intrepid climb,
And swim, thro' ages, down the stream of time.
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Tho' faint, thro' modish mists, religion shines,
Oft, let her sacred soarings lift your lines:
Oft, let your thoughts take fire, at that first flame,
From whose bright effluence inspiration came.
Th' almighty god, who gave the sun to blaze,
Voic'd the great poet, for his maker's praise:
First, for his glory, form'd the world's extent;
Then, form'd a language, for that glory, meant.
Hence, have all tow'ry minds, sublimely fir'd,
With in-born strength, to their own heav'n aspir'd;
While conscious pertness, for such heights unfit,
Safe, to slight subjects, pins its puny wit.
Oft, let her sacred soarings lift your lines:
Oft, let your thoughts take fire, at that first flame,
From whose bright effluence inspiration came.
Th' almighty god, who gave the sun to blaze,
Voic'd the great poet, for his maker's praise:
First, for his glory, form'd the world's extent;
Then, form'd a language, for that glory, meant.
Hence, have all tow'ry minds, sublimely fir'd,
With in-born strength, to their own heav'n aspir'd;
While conscious pertness, for such heights unfit,
Safe, to slight subjects, pins its puny wit.
Lives there a man, whose breast, with honour, glows?
Who, wrong'd, by friends, forgives, and pities, foes;
Who, still deserving, never gains success,
But lives, oppress'd, by shunning to oppress?
Who can all grief, for his own woes, restrain,
Yet melts, in gen'rous tears, at other's pain?
Teach him, O muse! to wish no monarch's sway,
Greater, in want, than, in dominion, they!
For, oh!—what diff'rence! 'twixt th' effulgent mind,
That longs for light, lest others should be blind,
And him, who, wanting nothing, grasping all,
Seems great, himself, because all, round, look small!
Who, wrong'd, by friends, forgives, and pities, foes;
Who, still deserving, never gains success,
But lives, oppress'd, by shunning to oppress?
Who can all grief, for his own woes, restrain,
Yet melts, in gen'rous tears, at other's pain?
Teach him, O muse! to wish no monarch's sway,
Greater, in want, than, in dominion, they!
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That longs for light, lest others should be blind,
And him, who, wanting nothing, grasping all,
Seems great, himself, because all, round, look small!
Or, does a softer subject suit your mind?
Fond of the fair, and, to their int'rest, kind;
Pity some maid, whom modest wishes move,
Unbless'd, by fortune, yet inspir'd, by love;
Fair, without followers, without art, sincere,
Prais'd, without hope, and, without conquest, dear:
There, let the muse, the rights of beauty prove,
For all are equal, by the laws of love.
There let the muse perswade, on virtue's side,
And teach lame love to leap the bars of pride:
The pains of passion let the muse impart,
And, to soft yieldings, mould the stubborn heart.
Fond of the fair, and, to their int'rest, kind;
Pity some maid, whom modest wishes move,
Unbless'd, by fortune, yet inspir'd, by love;
Fair, without followers, without art, sincere,
Prais'd, without hope, and, without conquest, dear:
There, let the muse, the rights of beauty prove,
For all are equal, by the laws of love.
There let the muse perswade, on virtue's side,
And teach lame love to leap the bars of pride:
The pains of passion let the muse impart,
And, to soft yieldings, mould the stubborn heart.
Are there, whose rais'd distinction sweetly shines,
And whom high fortune fill's with high designs?
Who, greatly blessing all, o'er whom they rise,
Smile on th' inferior world, with friendly eyes
Or, whom the love of useful arts inspires?
Or, whom faith, gratitude, or friendship, fires?
Or, whom, by Charity's soft glowings, warm'd,
All vice has fled from, and all virtue charm'd?
These, and all these, deserve the muse's strain;
At once, adorn, and are adorn'd, again.
And whom high fortune fill's with high designs?
Who, greatly blessing all, o'er whom they rise,
Smile on th' inferior world, with friendly eyes
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Or, whom faith, gratitude, or friendship, fires?
Or, whom, by Charity's soft glowings, warm'd,
All vice has fled from, and all virtue charm'd?
These, and all these, deserve the muse's strain;
At once, adorn, and are adorn'd, again.
Shines there a captain, form'd, for war's controul,
Born, with the seeds of conquest, in his soul?
By envy, driv'n to trust his in-bred store,
And, still, the less supply'd, renown'd the more?
'Gainst foes, and friends, at once, compelld to guard,
But hardest press'd, by those, for whom, he warr'd;
Victor, alike, supported, or betray'd,
And obstinate, in his oppressor's aid;
Pointing, superior, from the heights, he won,
To teach his rash supplanters what to shun.
Disclaiming vengeance, while secure of fame,
And griev'd, not angry, at his country's shame:
Fearless of flatt'ry, here, confess the great,
And, to wrong'd glory, lend the muses weight.
To crowns, and senates, hold a daring light,
And, 'spite of M---'s, do a M--- right.
Born, with the seeds of conquest, in his soul?
By envy, driv'n to trust his in-bred store,
And, still, the less supply'd, renown'd the more?
'Gainst foes, and friends, at once, compelld to guard,
But hardest press'd, by those, for whom, he warr'd;
Victor, alike, supported, or betray'd,
And obstinate, in his oppressor's aid;
Pointing, superior, from the heights, he won,
To teach his rash supplanters what to shun.
Disclaiming vengeance, while secure of fame,
And griev'd, not angry, at his country's shame:
Fearless of flatt'ry, here, confess the great,
And, to wrong'd glory, lend the muses weight.
To crowns, and senates, hold a daring light,
And, 'spite of M---'s, do a M--- right.
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Should
wit's high guardians e'er their charge neglect,
Nor watch her waning, nor her growth protect,
Cold, and unmov'd, see tragic warmth decay,
And epic splendor fade, unfelt, away;
While, in their place, low tastes the land defame,
Jests, without words; and laughter, without shame!
Poets expell'd the stage, supremely theirs,
And the bays with'ring, round the heads of play'rs;
Then should the muse, indignant, wake the throne,
And the whole thunder of her voice be shown.
Nor watch her waning, nor her growth protect,
Cold, and unmov'd, see tragic warmth decay,
And epic splendor fade, unfelt, away;
While, in their place, low tastes the land defame,
Jests, without words; and laughter, without shame!
Poets expell'd the stage, supremely theirs,
And the bays with'ring, round the heads of play'rs;
Then should the muse, indignant, wake the throne,
And the whole thunder of her voice be shown.
O! that all verse would senseless sound expel,
And the big subject bid the numbers swell!
But, ah! far short th' unsolid tinklers rise;
Nor soar, but flutter, in the muse's skies.
And the big subject bid the numbers swell!
But, ah! far short th' unsolid tinklers rise;
Nor soar, but flutter, in the muse's skies.
Shame on your jingling, ye soft sons of rhyme!
Tuneful consumers of your reader's time!
Fancy's light dwarfs! whose feather-footed strains,
Dance, in wild windings, thro' a waste of brains!
Yours is the guilt of all, who, judging wrong,
Mistake tun'd nonsense, for the poet's song.
Provoking dulness! what a soul has he,
Who fancies rhyme, and measure, Poetry!
He thinks, profanely, that this gen'rous art
Stops, at the ear, with pow'r to shake the heart.
Tuneful consumers of your reader's time!
Fancy's light dwarfs! whose feather-footed strains,
Dance, in wild windings, thro' a waste of brains!
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Mistake tun'd nonsense, for the poet's song.
Provoking dulness! what a soul has he,
Who fancies rhyme, and measure, Poetry!
He thinks, profanely, that this gen'rous art
Stops, at the ear, with pow'r to shake the heart.
For twice nine cent'ries, why has partial fame,
O'er worthier Romans, swell'd th' Augustan name?
O'er Julius, nobler, and of mightier mind?
O'er ev'n Vespasian, darling of mankind?
What, but the muse, this lasting diff'rence made?
Pleas'd poets lent the world's great lord their aid:
And, from their grateful praise, consent first grew,
That he, who rais'd the arts, surpass'd them, too.
O'er worthier Romans, swell'd th' Augustan name?
O'er Julius, nobler, and of mightier mind?
O'er ev'n Vespasian, darling of mankind?
What, but the muse, this lasting diff'rence made?
Pleas'd poets lent the world's great lord their aid:
And, from their grateful praise, consent first grew,
That he, who rais'd the arts, surpass'd them, too.
Think, ye vain statesmen! whose self-pointed aims
Die, with your dust, nor save your bury'd names,
Think, on the crowds of busy cyphers, lost,
Who, once, like you, their sov'reign's smiles engross'd!
Cloudily, bustling, fill'd a realm, alone,
And, with state curtains, skreen'd the darken'd throne:
'Twixt crown, and subject, stood an envy'd wall,
Bought, built, clear'd, clouded, and decided all:
Yet, dead for ever, in dumb graves are laid,
And rest, forgotten, with the noise they made.
Die, with your dust, nor save your bury'd names,
Think, on the crowds of busy cyphers, lost,
Who, once, like you, their sov'reign's smiles engross'd!
Cloudily, bustling, fill'd a realm, alone,
And, with state curtains, skreen'd the darken'd throne:
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Bought, built, clear'd, clouded, and decided all:
Yet, dead for ever, in dumb graves are laid,
And rest, forgotten, with the noise they made.
No
Richelieu's they—nor knew the poet's pow'r,
Nor, skill'd to plant, invok'd the genial show'r:
Hence, their dry names, in happy haste, decay,
And ev'ry barren glory fades away.
Nor, skill'd to plant, invok'd the genial show'r:
Hence, their dry names, in happy haste, decay,
And ev'ry barren glory fades away.
In peace, such themes demand the poet's fire,
Such subjects raise th' exalted art, still higher:
But, if provok'd too far, some wav'ring state,
Push'd, and insulted, in perplex'd debate,
Feels her slow patience blush,—and, tir'd, at length,
Weighs her mean wrongs, against her mighty strength;
If, then, wish'd War th'exerted genius warms,
And glowing verse would rouse a realm to arms,
Then, the joint muses animate the song,
And the whole godhead pours the sound along:
Then, the big notes, in tun'd excitement, roll,
Bid the blood boil, and wing the wafted soul:
Courage, impatient, burns in ev'ry breath;
And a taught brav'ry leaps the lines of death.
Such subjects raise th' exalted art, still higher:
But, if provok'd too far, some wav'ring state,
Push'd, and insulted, in perplex'd debate,
Feels her slow patience blush,—and, tir'd, at length,
Weighs her mean wrongs, against her mighty strength;
If, then, wish'd War th'exerted genius warms,
And glowing verse would rouse a realm to arms,
Then, the joint muses animate the song,
And the whole godhead pours the sound along:
Then, the big notes, in tun'd excitement, roll,
Bid the blood boil, and wing the wafted soul:
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And a taught brav'ry leaps the lines of death.
These are the seasons, O, ye muse-inspir'd!
When states, unwarlike, may, to war, be fir'd;
Then, pow'rful verse should long-lost heroes raise,
And kindle glory, at the catching blaze:
Arthur's great ghost, unresting, and asham'd,
That William's brav'ry saw the brave defam'd,
Shining, redeem'd, in honour of our land,
Wou'd smile, to 'scape the knighted tort'rers hand,
Then, might our great, third Edward's aweful shade,
Hem'd with ris'n standards, dreadfully display'd,
Pale, from his tomb, in epic strides, advance;
And shoot cold horror thro' the heart of France.
Wide, o'er the reading world, extend alarms,
And warn proud states to shun Britannia's arms.
When states, unwarlike, may, to war, be fir'd;
Then, pow'rful verse should long-lost heroes raise,
And kindle glory, at the catching blaze:
Arthur's great ghost, unresting, and asham'd,
That William's brav'ry saw the brave defam'd,
Shining, redeem'd, in honour of our land,
Wou'd smile, to 'scape the knighted tort'rers hand,
Then, might our great, third Edward's aweful shade,
Hem'd with ris'n standards, dreadfully display'd,
Pale, from his tomb, in epic strides, advance;
And shoot cold horror thro' the heart of France.
Wide, o'er the reading world, extend alarms,
And warn proud states to shun Britannia's arms.
Or, since the muses sons, in courts, are known,
And, pleas'd, pay homage, round a reigning throne,
Why are they slow, to sing the saxon fame?
From whose long lineage, sov'reign Brunswic came:
When their White Courser, by brave Hengist born,
Did, first, in Albion, war's wav'd pomp adorn:
While German aids thy cliffs, O Britain! scal'd,
To triumph, where ev'n Rome's great help had fail'd!
To save, and give forgetful England Name;
To plant a race, that know not whence they came:
To lend us language, to express our fires,
In grateful railings, at our German sires.
And, pleas'd, pay homage, round a reigning throne,
Why are they slow, to sing the saxon fame?
From whose long lineage, sov'reign Brunswic came:
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Did, first, in Albion, war's wav'd pomp adorn:
While German aids thy cliffs, O Britain! scal'd,
To triumph, where ev'n Rome's great help had fail'd!
To save, and give forgetful England Name;
To plant a race, that know not whence they came:
To lend us language, to express our fires,
In grateful railings, at our German sires.
Thus, O ye hapyy few,! for glory, born,
Whose starry wreathes your country's fame adorn,
Waste not, on vulgar themes, your breathing fire,
But tune, for gen'rous ends, your living lyre:
Teach the mistaken world a juster rate,
To court your praises, and to dread your hate.
Then, when kind heav'n inspires the vast sublime,
And your verse lives, and claims the stamp of time,
Hist'ry shall die, and scarce preserve a name;
While poets flourish, in immortal fame.
Whose starry wreathes your country's fame adorn,
Waste not, on vulgar themes, your breathing fire,
But tune, for gen'rous ends, your living lyre:
Teach the mistaken world a juster rate,
To court your praises, and to dread your hate.
Then, when kind heav'n inspires the vast sublime,
And your verse lives, and claims the stamp of time,
Hist'ry shall die, and scarce preserve a name;
While poets flourish, in immortal fame.
How have endanger'd ballancers of state
Liv'd, in light ign'rance of the muse's weight?
How might a guided stage men's wills prepare,
To brook tame Peace, or wish reluctant War!
How might the subtle scene our passions wind!
And the watch'd arms of young sedition bind!
How timely might this pow'rful art persuade!
How make light lovelier, and illumine shade!
Ease statesmen's labours, animate their aims,
Adorn their actions, and embalm their names!
Liv'd, in light ign'rance of the muse's weight?
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To brook tame Peace, or wish reluctant War!
How might the subtle scene our passions wind!
And the watch'd arms of young sedition bind!
How timely might this pow'rful art persuade!
How make light lovelier, and illumine shade!
Ease statesmen's labours, animate their aims,
Adorn their actions, and embalm their names!
Shou'd
W---'s self, unconscious of the muse,
Provoke her vengeance, or her rev'rence lose,
In vain were votes! she could his pow'r defy,
And bid his blacken'd mem'ry never die:
Shade his best virtues, widen each mistake,
And his hop'd fame, from unborn ages take.
Or, she could force unwilling praise to climb,
And float him, topmost, on the tide of time;
Bid millions bless him, ages after death,
And give new life, in a charm'd people's breath:
When no skill'd antiquary finds his bust,
And his proud buildings shall be lost, in dust.
Provoke her vengeance, or her rev'rence lose,
In vain were votes! she could his pow'r defy,
And bid his blacken'd mem'ry never die:
Shade his best virtues, widen each mistake,
And his hop'd fame, from unborn ages take.
Or, she could force unwilling praise to climb,
And float him, topmost, on the tide of time;
Bid millions bless him, ages after death,
And give new life, in a charm'd people's breath:
When no skill'd antiquary finds his bust,
And his proud buildings shall be lost, in dust.
Pardon, ye living lights! where-e'er you shine,
Ye, blest elect! ye prophets, of the nine!
Pardon, that I, whom fainter flames inspire,
Have, thus, presum'd to point your heav'nly fire:
To make the great more great, requires your skill;
I want the pow'r, nor ev'n possess the will.
While to myself, I live, obscurely bless'd,
Look round the busy world, and hug my rest;
Plac'd below greatness, and above distress,
I pity pow'r, and hold fast happiness:
Pursue no int'rest, no mean prospect raise;
Reject no censure, and invite no praise.
Ye, blest elect! ye prophets, of the nine!
224
Have, thus, presum'd to point your heav'nly fire:
To make the great more great, requires your skill;
I want the pow'r, nor ev'n possess the will.
While to myself, I live, obscurely bless'd,
Look round the busy world, and hug my rest;
Plac'd below greatness, and above distress,
I pity pow'r, and hold fast happiness:
Pursue no int'rest, no mean prospect raise;
Reject no censure, and invite no praise.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |