University of Virginia Library

Yes; men of fortune, let them rhyme,
Their greatest foe, to murder time.
Time a dead burden on them hangs,
Which they sustain with endless pangs;
And much the Muses oft avail
To lighten it when all things fail.
Satan might else boast some excuse,
His wiles and fiery darts to use.
That state from manly cares exempt,
Is his apology to tempt;
Near too his idleness akin,
And in demerit next, to sin.

The hapless wretch with riches curst,
Is of all menial slaves the worst,
If no ingenious liberal turn
Makes his expanded bosom burn;
If Science, bounteous but to few,
Opes not her treasures to his view;
Who cannot, disengag'd from pelf,
Retire well-pleas'd within himself.
To know, is but to pity him,
A slave to caprice and to whim.
A slave to indolence and sloth,
That eat him up, as cloaths the moth.
A slave to passion and to pride,
That whirl him down their rapid tide.
A slave to discontent and spleen,
With many a rash resolve between.
A slave to every modish folly,
To sullen moppish melancholy.
A most obsequious slave to Vice,
And her attendants, cards and dice,
Whose prize, still fools, or knaves dispute,
The bottle and the prostitute.
Let him then rhyme, and who can tell,
But you may save a soul from hell?

That there are some exceptions we
With you most cordially agree;
As, when the Winter sets in drear,
Haply some ever-greens appear:
Haply, in base and sordid mines,
Some vein of nobler metal shines.
Besides, these slaves of high degree
In many articles are free.
Freedom they nobly boast from both,
As tradesmen feel, their word, and oath;
But honour here, to souls refin'd,
Argues a low plebeian mind;
Though in mere trifles did you doubt them,
Zounds! 's death—they carry swords about them.
A slave in all things else, to be
Is just in some such instance free.

But to destroy that monster, Time,
As they claim privilege to rhyme;
Not freedom here alone they use,
They take much greater with the Muse.
So much averse to be confin'd,
No rule whate'er has force to bind.
For who would be a dupe to schools,
To men, who almost breathe by rules?
Horace of poetry may prate,
Mere Popes alone his maxims rate.
Poetic licence too apart,
Beyond ev'n credible they start.
Thus, faulty in some thing or other,
From one extreme we seek another.
The Stagyrite and Flaccus wrote,
And hence such numbers daily quote,
Because their scanty talents rose
No higher than such rules as those.
Their wit and precepts ne'er dispart,
That cramp'd by Nature, these by Art.
But would our new-light bards invent,
On forms less scrupulously bent,
Maxims that might their genius suit,
Boileau might doubtless then be mute.
For better, to the lib'ral man,
The ample than the bounded plan.
The Gallic critic writes, confin'd
By Nature, to the humankind;
Beyond her bourn our poets soar,
Traverse whole worlds, and ask for more.
Space, matter, time, obey the nod
Of each upstart poetic god.
His mouth each couplet-joiner opes,
And out fly strange unusual tropes,
Such figures, metaphors, and phrases,
As Nature he affronts who praises;
Such imagery, which right to relish,
Though meant to heighten and embellish,
You must, whate'er enjoyment hence is,
Don-Quixote-like, give up your senses;
Or with heroic nonsense burn,
See giants where but windmills turn.
But such employments aptly hit
Our great originals in wit,
Who much affected glee pretend,
That them we ne'er can comprehend.
“The critics ah! how grossly stupid!
“How crawls on earth the vile quadruped,
“While the strong eagle soars sublime,
“True bards but eagles wing'd by rhyme!
“How long will writers bless our land,
“Yet not one reader understand!
“Thy gifts, Heav'n, less to us dispense,
“Till men boast more than common sense.
“Beyond this vulgar test when learn'd,
“Then will our merit be discern'd.
“Ah! why were printing-presses plann'd,
“But mankind's ignorance to brand!
“To nothing doom them, Heav'n, once more,
“Till our scann'd works read o'er and o'er.”

Thus pray our bards, and adepts say,
That they successfully still pray;
We mean such adepts, as could see
Reviewers damn'd, and Dulness free.
But shall the critics them pass o'er,
Umpires decreed of human lore?
No; first let fishes seek the land,
And rivers in their courses stand.
Let needles first their poles reverse,
Nor morning-beams night's shades disperse.
The critic's truest, noblest fame,
Is to admonish and reclaim;
If they in vain this task discharge,
Then excommunicate at large,
Not from the kirk, but, with disdain,
From Immortality's bless'd fane.

That common origin whence springs
The fix'd propriety of things;
That particle of light divine,
By which we Reason would define;
Those ties, in essence and in name,
Which sentiment and language claim,
Objects of sense with thought combin'd,
And matter somehow link'd to mind:
In these the probable and just,
That have subsisted still, and must;
Or, in one word concentred all,
What aptly makind, Nature, call;
Such seems a standard too contracted
For bards, by no set rules directed,
Such rules as all mankind must own
To be supremely—theirs alone.
Nature too unembellish'd lies,
To ravish hypercritic eyes.
Her charms too vulgarly are seen,
Without the optic lens between.
No depths of study are requir'd,
Nor Plato-like to be inspir'd;
A heart's the requisite alone,
That Beauty's touches may be known,
Still faithful, as magnetic steel.
Are we, when Nature bids us feel.
But yet how mean to value that
Which occupies the clown's chit-chat?
Why those ideas entertain,
That ev'n to them appear so plain?
Why own sensations, that must strike
Philosophers and hinds alike?
This would Invention's rambles curb,
And Nature's order quite disturb;
To rustic life would Genius sink,
To such as only—feel and think,
Who, while Ambition's transport glows,
Ne'er nobly venture to—compose.

Hence, to our learned poets, this
Display of parts is all amiss,
Where simple thoughts, in simple phrase,
Support alone our claim to praise.
Where obvious lies to all the sense,
Unkept the judgment in suspense.
Where Commentators have no room,
To twist, conjecture, and presume.
Nature to them's wrapt in disguise,
Her therefore would our bards despise;
Yet a disguise not native to her,
But what absurdly they bestow her.
They seem somehow chagrin'd at Fate,
And would the world anew create.
For sure, their mysteries of strain
To some strange system appertain.
Their modes of thinking too refer,
Else Monthly Critics greatly err,
To some surprising race of men,
That ne'er were taught from Dryden's pen:
And, as all things from chaos rose,
That our vast universe compose;
So, into prompt belief to draw us,
Our bards begin too with a chaos.
Some nobler species (where or when
Are secrets to the sons of men)
May fathom all their depths, and be
More critically learn'd than we.
But here, would Heav'n grant my request,
Would I with ignorance be blest;
Yet thus (what wonders swarm below!)
Like Young, like Pope, like Blacklock, know.

Meantime, advantages accrue
To those their footsteps that pursue.
For thus their various hours ingross'd,
That ah! might otherwise be lost;
Such visits paid by Fancy round
To fairy scenes, and magic ground;
Thus stretch'd Imagination's wing
Beyond immensely—ev'ry thing;
Thus Memory (enrich'd by stealth)
Emptied of all her precious wealth;
Their passions thus by wonders caught,
Whirl'd round in vortices of thought;
Their elemental fire assuag'd,
And restless faculties engag'd:
The Muses—who so kind as they!
How cheated Satan of his prey!
What blessings from the great employ
Does hence Society enjoy!
All negatives we grant indeed,
As Parthians flying oft succeed.

Thus, had the Muse, with aspect bland,
And bays extended in her hand,
At Stella's birth presiding, said,
“Be thou a metre-loving maid,”
Stella had ne'er, to show her sense,
Shone at all womankind's expense;
Expos'd their hours quite run to waste,
Their ignorance, and want of taste;
Their little unaspiring aims,
Content with sorry housewife-names;
Within a narrow roof confin'd
The mighty powers of female mind;
Whose best exertions but imply
A jelly, custard, or a pie;
Mirrours and pictures rightly plac'd,
Or side-boards garnish'd out with taste;
Unknown, though with brocaded suit on,
To Hume, to Hutcheson, and Newton .

But not to Stella's case confin'd
The blessings of the Muses kind;
Around diffusively they spread,
Like currents from the fountain-head.
For some choice topics more, at large
Our task appointed to discharge,
To hail their glorious deeds who—sing,
In our next labour we shall bring;
No fact designedly suppressing,
To prove the Muse a public blessing.
Meantime, each wit of spirit, show it,
Dare to live poor and be a—poet.