XVIII.
[Who, elevated by the sacred flame]
Who, elevated by the sacred flame
Of Poesy sublime, their minds debase?
Spotted with indecorous deeds of shame?
And imitating man's inferior race?
How little they the muse's votary know,
Who think his soul from constancy will swerve,
While the pure current whence his numbers flow,
Each artery fills, and strengthens every nerve!
These truths, my Thespia, on thy memory seal;
Are there, who boast to join her chosen train,
Fickle and wavering, of affections frail,
Pursuing joys fantastic, light and vain?
Who stoop to vaunting pride? who covet gold?
Who scorn the least of honour's generous ties?
Rude in their manners, pert, obtrusive, bold?
The muse surveys them with indignant eyes.
No warm originality is theirs,
Genius retired, or frown'd upon their birth,
Mechanic rhimesters, to mechanic ears,
The frigid, groveling progeny of earth.
Idly they strive to ascend the forked hill,
It's arduous paths, and rocks abrupt to climb,
Forever at it's base, tho labouring still,
Then swept unnoticed down the vale of time.
Confiding in their oaths—Oh, luckless fair!
What woes, what tortures, follow close behind!
Unprincipled their giddy bark they steer,
It suits their native littleness of mind.
Not thus, on Whom the true Phœbean ray
It's influence sheds; his bosom glowing bright,
Free are his numbers as the beams of day,
Ardent and chaste as that celestial light.
Should He, amid the fervid hours of youth,
Be drawn by pleasure's specious wiles aside,
Soon he retreats, led back by radiant truth,
Nor e'er forsakes again his bounteous guide.
To fashion's mode he varies not his strain,
Nature and taste impart their liberal rules,
No flatterer he, no slave to sordid gain,
And independent on the breath of fools.
For no peculiar day, no age he sings,
The time will come when judgment shall prevail;
For late posterity he spreads his wings,
And lives, when marble monuments shall fail.
Firmness and dignity possess his soul,
No wild caprice, or trifles fond, beguile;
His steady course is bent toward honour's goal,
The virtues praise him, and the graces smile.
How true to fame! How tenderly alive
To pity's soft emotions! How sincere!
How vainly the tumultuous passions strive
To shake his breast! they claim no empire there.
No change he knows, ne'er roves his devious eye,
On him the virgin's heart it's faith reclines;
He estimates a tear of her's, a sigh,
Above Potosi's or Golconda's mines.
Doth not on him, her every hope depend?
Shall love, shall innocence, repent the trust?
Can rectitude it's deeds with falsehood blend?
Or can the muse's offspring be unjust?
Haply their spurious brood at strains like these
May scoff; and dissipation laugh aloud:
But nature all-consistent in her ways,
With the sun's essence mingles not a cloud.
In the same breast she places not desires
Of adverse sort, discriminating nice;
Nor kindles strong imagination's fires,
In the cold head, or luke-warm heart of vice.
