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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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133

The Muse to the Writer.

[_]

A Translation from the French of Dubartas.

I

Scarce was the April of my life begun,
When anxious to immortalize my name,
Pleasure, and soft repose, I learnt to shun,
And lab'ring, upward, sought the mounts of fame.

II

But, as a traveller, in viewless plains,
Stops, amid crossing roads, and doubts his way;
Pensively searchful, and, unsure, remains,
Eager to journey on, yet, loth to stray.

III

So stopt, and so unfix'd, I mark'd, around,
The flow'ry paths, that led to groves of Bays:
But, pausing doubtful, long confusion found,
Which, best to chuse, of all those tempting ways.

134

IV

One while, my genius plan'd the glowing scene,
And from the Grecian source, example drew:
Taught pride to pity; ignorance to mean;
And form'd the many, by the suff'ring few.

V

Anon domestic discord, snatch'd my pen;
My Country's woes I, now, aspir'd to feel:
Historic truths, and wrongs of injur'd men,
Impell'd my justice, and inflam'd my zeal.

VI

Then sinking sudden, from the glorious height,
Low mercenary praises quench'd my fire:
Poorly, a flatt'rer, I for profit, write,
And, to my fortune, tune my tortur'd lyre.

VII

At length, grown lazy, I, by love, was caught,
And, finding age, and taste, and will, too fit,
In warm light sallies, wanton lessons taught,
And, to the size of Cupid, cropt my wit.

135

VIII

While roving, thus, uncenter'd, and unstaid,
I lik'd, by turns, and did, by turns, refuse:
Sudden, before me, a descending maid
Confess'd the shape of a cœlestial muse.

IX

All, that we dream of angels, form'd her air;
Sweet was her gesture, and her step divine:
But, when she spoke, she would have charm'd despair,
And taught the gloom of wither'd age, to shine.

X

High, from her head, aspir'd a starry crown,
Immensely, beaming its effulgence round:
An azure mantle flow'd, obliquely down,
And, bright with lamps of silver, swept the ground.

XI

MORTAL! she cry'd, Urania's face behold!
Urania—muse, of all the heavenly nine,
Best skill'd—the paths of glory to unfold,
And make the poet (like his art) divine.

136

XII

I, thro' the dancing numbers, breathe a soul,
And, to the sound of reason, tune mankind:
I teach true pleasures false ones to controul,
And warm the yielding heart, to stamp the mind.

XIII

Mark me, and keep my image, long, in sight,
And, when departed to my starry sphere,
Strike this new harp, and, from it, draw delight,
By sounds, that list'ning angels love to hear.

XIV

Long, have I mourn'd my sister's sully'd fame,
By friendless mirth, or chearless malice, stain'd;
Cramp'd by cold flatteries, that blight their name,
Or, by wild warmths of loose desire, profan'd.

XV

But, most, I grieve that rebel waste of wit,
Which, boldly, pushing its infernal claim,
With darkness, for such blind presumption, fit,
Turns its own arms, on Heaven, with impious aim.

137

XVI

Learnt are the vulgar arts—But Poets draw,
From heaven alone, the Gift, that wings their fire:
Not the best lights, that ever learning saw,
Could living verse, by study'd strength, inspire.

XVII

Thence 'tis, that Homer, powerless, poor, and blind,
Beggar, himself, has taught e'en kings to shine:
Buoy'd sinking heroes, by fresh floods of mind,
And stretch'd the human grasp, with reach divine.

XVIII

Thence 'tis, that Ovid could not speak, in prose,
But wept in measure, and expir'd, in verse:
Thence, the Jessæan lyre, to musick rose,
Which seraphs, in their Maker's Ear, rehearse.

XIX

Read, meditate, reflect, grow wise—in vain;
Try every help; force fire, from every spark;
Yet, shall you ne'er the poet's power attain,
If heaven ne'er stamp'd you, with the muses mark.

138

XX

Man must be, out of man, sublimely swell'd,
Whose wreckless verse wou'd swim the storms of time,
By force, not fury, meaningly, impell'd,
To scorn the puny prostitutes of rhyme.

XXI

The warmth of fury but compassion moves,
And less than man, makes man, to man, appear:
But warmth of genius, man, from man, removes,
And lifts his wid'ning soul, to Heaven's high sphere.

XXII

Mark this soft Flute—when, void of vocal wind,
In tuneless silence, rests the sleeping sound:
Yet, when thus breath'd in, hark! what power 'twill find,
To waft the modulated raptures round!

XXIII

So, 'till the whisp'ring God-head bids—begin,
The poet's silent spirit stands unbent:
But, when he feels th' inspiring power, within,
Tuneful, he spreads the transports, heaven has lent.

139

XXIV

Since, therefore, all, that makes his genius shine,
Is heaven's own gift,—how dares he subjects chuse
Base, and unworthy, of that warmth divine,
And poorly noxious, to the passive muse?

XXV

Why is his pen employ'd, on idle themes?
Why is his fancy light? his purpose low?
Why does he waste his fire, in fruitless dreams?
And, with a tide of wanton wishes, flow?

XXVI

Why does he stoop to praise unletter'd pride?
Why celebrate defects, in those, who rule?
Why does his wit soft, am'rous trains provide,
And bid love's wild fire catch, from fool to fool?

XXVII

Ah! 'tis too much, that he, himself, has crimes,
Which, unrepented, ne'er unpunish'd go:
Why would he lend his guilt to distant times,
And teach an un-born race, to merit woe?

140

XXVIII

As, on the yielding wax, the seal we find,
Left in strong likeness, with imprinted glow;
So does the reader steal the poet's mind,
And, to the byas lent, inclining go.

XXIX

Shame on your pens, ye flexible of heart!
Whose poorness does not hurt yourselves alone,
But teaches blockheads to despise your art;
Judg'd by false patterns, you have, lightly, shewn.

XXX

Conscious of this, wou'd you but turn, at last,
And bid true genius, with true lustre, shine;
All would, admiring, lose th' impression past,
And feel, and own you, of a stamp divine.

XXXI

Then, as my Moses his Jehovah sung,
And Israel, wafted by the guardian rod:
Poets, from every kindling country, sprung,
Shall, in a thousand tongues, uncover God.

141

XXXII

O, you! who wou'd the deathless laurel win,
No King's vile badge, but time's all-rev'rend crown!
High, as the fountain, of your verse begin,
And, with the God, you write for, share renown.

XXXIII

This is a subject, that, out-stretching thought,
Thro' depths, unsounded, wit's long plummet draws:
There, by immense effects, immensely taught,
Pour out your straining souls, and claim applause.

XXXIV

There, and there only, find the road to fame;
The hardiest themes, the noblest glory yield:
On low, light subjects, scorn to build a name;
But, ent'ring boldly, plow th' untrodden field.

XXXV

Vainly, shall envy blast your budding praise;
Malice and hatred, vainly, press you down:
Slow shall you rise, indeed, but sure to blaze,
And, hourly broad'ning, reach decreed renown.

142

XXXVI

Envy's a curr, that, at all Strangers, barks;
But, on the known and licenc'd, creeps to fawn:
It's hov'ring smoke, hangs hard, on kindling sparks,
But, when the fire burns up, 'tis, strait withdrawn.

XXXVII

On then, be mine—Urania hears your pray'r;
Glows, in your breast, and fans it's gen'rous flame:
Write, to be read—be times to come, your care,
And bloom, forever fragrant, still the same.

XXXVIII

She said: and breath'd, ambrosial, o'er my face:
The circling sweetness swell'd my ravish'd mind;
She rose; and left me, in an empty space;
But left her pow'rful influence, still behind.