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Poems

By George Dyer
  
  
  

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THE REDRESS.


303

THE REDRESS.
[_]

N. B. The names of Dr. Aikin, and William Frend, stood successively at the beginning of this poem: but its didactic form can render it proper only

TO A YOUNG POET.

Yes, yes—there are, my friend, whose skilful pen
Would manage poets just like other men;
Their spirits bind by rules of common sense,
And make them reckon right their pounds and pence.
Ah! just restraint! ah! soul-directing rules,
More wise, more friendly, than the lore of schools.
And, yet, if statesmen err in common things,
Statesmen, the representatives of Kings ;
If financiers may sometimes count amiss,
And Princes falsely rate a nation's bliss .

304

If schools, where science sits enthron'd in state,
Have called e'en minus plus, and little great ;
While prelates , senators, go sometimes wrong,
Ah! who shall blame too much the child of song?
Enough—better the present to endure,
Than pore on wrongs, and not prvoide a cure.
I too could wish, nor need the wish be vain,
That nor imagin'd woes, nor real pain,
Might be the poet's lot; nor fortune's frown
Keep the proud tow'rings of his genius down:
That who has learn'd the poet's art, to please,
Might, if not move in splendour, sing at ease;
View undisturb'd life's pageantry pass by,
Paint what he saw, and without murm'ring die.
This honest wish first led me to relate,
In simple, hasty rhymes, the Poet's Fate:
To answer sneer, best answer, with a sneer,
Whether to pedant, coxcomb, or to peer;

305

To point at genius, as I pass'd along;
I ask'd no pension for my humble song.
Oh! when I trace man's nature, end, and aim,
Whether he toil for wealth, or pant for fame,
Or arts delight, or glory rouse to arms,
Or pleasure soften with her syren charms;
Whate'er his genius lead him to pursue,
Or conscience prompt, or warn him not, to do,
Still, as the planets round one centre run,
And catch a living lustre from the sun;
Thus onward move the restless tribes of man,
And keep, thro' different paths, one common plan
To bliss still moves each instinct of the soul,
Passion's soft melting, Reason's grave controul;
Ev'n wayward Mis'ry wishes to be blest,
Ev'n Folly, wandering far, still looks to rest.
Nature but acts the sweet musician's part,
And strikes each chord, that vibrates on the heart:
While such, as burn with true poetic fire,
Aim to excite in all, what all desire;
Their art's perfection this, their proudest lore,
To touch the strings, that Nature touch'd before;

306

With skill to touch, and bear the soul along
With all th' enchanting ravishment of song.
Or when I read the list of human woes,
The treach'rous friendships, the more open foes,
The hope's fair blossoms, doom'd in dust to lie,
The full-blown joys, that do but smile and die;
The silent cares, the fancy's vision'd sight
Of ills, which while conceal'd, the more affright;
And, pitying, view the short-liv'd creature man,
Fond to crop all the little sweets he can,
All that may calm the pang of secret grief,
Wake the short glow, and yield the light relief;
Who knows to act the kind physician's part,
And raise to pleasure e'en the wounded heart,
On him may heav'ns most kindly beams descend,
For he is human nature's watchful friend:
And such the poet's task, to soothe the breast,
And lull with magic hand the cares to rest.
Yet, know, who hope the noble prize to gain,
Reach at, what few, though thousands seek, attain.
'Tis not enough some feeble thought to nurse,
Or weave soft nonsense into flimsy verse:

307

Who proudly hopes to wreathe the living lay,
Is born from heav'n, a soul of purest ray,
Feels like some god within the sacred fire,
And rapture listens, while he strikes the lyre ;
From art and nature every charm must seize,
And live content, if he but learn to please:
His first great wish, to earn the poet's name,
His loftier hope, to live in future fame.
Ah! will not this suffice? Then plough the seas,
For anxious riches barter learned ease;
To thee let India all her stores unfold,
Wake but for wealth, and only dream of gold;
Then like Avarus, hoard, and dream, and plan,
Or, like Orbilio, brutalize the man;
Or bask, at pleasure's call, in loose delight,
Sport all the day, and riot all the night;
Speed time's light wings, as young Lorenzo gay,
Ah! frailest trifler through life's little day;
Or scale yon height, at mad ambition's call,
And climb, where thousands only climb, to fall.

308

From pride's rough steep, like Cæsar headlong hurl'd,
The school-boy's tale, though vulture of the world.
It will not do—no—'tis decreed by fate,
Thus wide the difference of the good and great,
That such, whose breasts with noblest ardour glow,
What Folly craves, should proudly dare forego;
Hence, such as aim'd to raise the stately rhyme,
Have seen, unenvying, fierce ambition climb,
Seen avarice delve in mines, nor yet repin'd,
Prouder, and wealthier, in the stores of mind .
And, what if Wealth has sometimes courted fame,
By vain alliance with the poet's name?
Yet Genius to itself true glory brings,
And might be ruin'd by the smile of kings;

309

Spin silken lies, or weave a flimsy lay,
Bartering soft nonsense for a hireling's pay;
Till the town wonders, who's the greatest fool,
The noble patron, or his rhyming tool.
Peace to the man, to fortune while unknown,
That owes his vigour to himself alone,
Enriching others, though of nought possest,
And blessing, though he seem himself unblest.
Round the broad oak let feeble ivy twine,
And round th' umbrageous elm the slender vine;
The faint exotic in the green-house thrive,
And, but when rear'd like feeble nurslings live;
Yet feed the gayest flowers on heav'n's own dew,
And catch from genial suns their boldest hue;
Nature's high voice proclaims the region blest,
And Beauty crops the sweetness for her breast.
Happy the man, whom moderate joys invite,
Wisdom his treasure, song his dear delight,
Serenely cheerful, if not proudly gay,
Who every upstart craving drives away.
Should (for the sylvan scene is wont to please,
Whom nature charms, and soft poetic ease,)

310

Should he through native fields, and fav'rite groves,
Find the retreat of more than fabled loves;
Study and toil, an ever constant pair,
Protect his haunts, and still each busy care.
His the neat cottage, his the frugal board,
That crave supply from no resplendent hoard;
Genius requires what nature not denies,
And Taste but asks what Prudence well supplies.
What tho' no high triumphal arch arise,
Nor towering column catch inquiring eyes;
Nor mansion boast Palladio's great design,
Nor deck'd in grace of Grecian order shine?
What though nor Pembroke's statues grace thy hall,
Nor Argyle's tapestry adorn thy wall,
Nor Browne's light-labour'd spruceness smiles, display'd
In all the pride of lawn, the pomp of shade?

311

Her spark'ling gems to thee not India sends,
Nor Italy her mimic arts commends;
Nor shelves with Roxburgh's, Spencer's lustre shine,
Nor Crachrode's , Wodhull's, Hollis', stores are thine?
Ah! what avails?—For thee shall nature pour,
From copious urn, a never-wasting store;
Give thee, (ah! dare not thou the gift disdain)
The pregnant mind, the fancy's richest vein,

312

Teach thee within how small a circle lies,
What forms the truly good, the truly wise;
That noblest joy is gain'd at light expence,
And prodigality is want of sense;
That life's blest current calmly glides along,
While simple means inspire the proudest song.
But, know, the man, whom I aspire to praise,
And high above the vulgar crowd to raise,
Must not o'er murm'ring stream still sigh and weep,
Nor chain'd by sloth, in daisied meadows sleep,
Nor stretch'd at length, distract the fields and groves
With fancied wrongs, and visionary loves,
Weary with sheepish plaints the ear of day,
And worry nymphs and swains with woeful lay,
Till forms phantastic craze an empty brain,
And languor knows not its own flimsy strain.
No—if thy soul delight in sylvan shade,
Scorn not the plough, the mattock, and the spade,
But seize each instrument of rustic life,
And keep off envy, penury, and strife;
Protect thy flock, and learn the care of bees,
And plant with fostering hand the tender trees,

313

Lop the luxuriance of the mantling vine,
And in gay splendour bid the garden shine.
Let art to nature skilful aid supply,
And happy graffs delight the watchful eye;
Nor scorn at times the labours of the field,
The loitering steer to guide, the fork to wield;
Here let the net its subtle thread display,
And here the scarecrow drive the birds away .
Thus as the smiling seasons circling roll,
Strong in resource, and provident of soul,
Range thro' thy lands, and watch the infant grain,
The guide and glory of the past'ral train;
So round thy fields may heav'n propitious smile,
And a rich harvest crown thy honest toil.

314

Thus ancient heroes pass'd their golden days,
Thus train'd, the poet wak'd the sweetest lays;
Hence Rome, the queen of states, in virtue strong,
And tuneful Maro poured the richest song .
But happiest thou, should sylvan strains delight,
And rural cares, and rural scenes invite,
If, where thou choosest thy sequester'd seat,
There love shall deign to fix his blest retreat,
And, she, the gentle mistress of thy heart,
In care and bliss divide her equal part;
While playful babes the lingering hours beguile,
Hang on thy lips, and live upon thy smile:

315

Thus blest by heav'n, what canst thou wish beside,
Peace in thy heart, and beauty at thy side?
Tibullus (such as never lov'd may blame),
Thus sunk to glory, and yet rose to fame,
In vain to him war lifts the standard high,
And points to wealth beneath an eastern sky;
Arms he relinquished, fir'd with rural charms,
And found his treasure in his Delia's arms;
Caught at her eye the soul-bewitching pain,
And wak'd, as beauty taught, th' elegiac strain;
Love saw him labouring mid the rustic throng,
And clapp'd the wing, and triumph'd in his song.
But live there such, whose breasts were doom'd to prove
The restless cares of ill-requited love?

316

For them shall pity shed her softest sigh,
And drop her pearly tear of sympathy:
Ah! such too oft have been the tuneful throng,
And hence have bloom'd the sweetest flowers of song.
Thus Petrarch , vanquish'd by his lovely foe,
Breath'd the soft sonnet to beguile his woe;
Hence the wild fires, in Cowley's verse that play,
Hammond's meek strain, and Shenstone's past'ral lay.
But, ah! fond youth, beware the fev'rish dreams,
And the slow languor of too am'rous themes;
Lest, like the snows that feel the solar ray,
And into dribbling currents melt away,
So the soft power enslave thy yielding heart,
And all the soul of man from thee depart,

317

Till a mere wandering exile thou be found,
The idle tale of all the country round .
But think not rashly that my counsels mean
To bind the poet to the silvan scene:
No; various is the lot of human kind,
And as the features differ, so the mind:
A city some, and some the country please,
Those active walks, these unambitious ease.
Should the gay town allure thy curious eyes,
Go, watch its manners, changeful as the skies:
But oh! beware, ere yet thy name be known,
To throw thyself at random on the town,

318

Poor in resource, and desperate of purse,
A mere adventurer in gainless verse,
To curse in penury, and spleen'd with woe,
All our good friends in Pater-noster-Row.
Ah! think of Chatterton , that child of care,
Ploughing in hope, and reaping in despair.
There are who say, and bards of fairest fame,
That prudence, though in poets, is no shame;
Who quit not bus'ness for an airy flight,
But deem it just, to work, as well as write :

319

Who draw a line, and mark the separate plan,
To please, as poet, and to thrive as man;
Thinking, that verse, however rich and rare,
Like a sweet sauce, but helps more solid fare;
Thus Independence soars on eagles wings,
And pities wriggling bards, who pipe to kings.
But if, and Fortune sometimes aids the bold,
You still resolve your daring course to hold,
Jeering at madam Prudence, and refuse
All counsel, save the warbling of your muse;
Then heav'n protect thee, and with vigour bless,
And to thy daring equal thy success:
Still I, at modest distance must attend,
Still to the last will act the poet's friend.
As the wise general, ere he braves the field,
Or dares in martial feat the sword to wield,
Marks the position of the threat'ning foe,
Plans a retreat, then meditates the blow:
So thou, too wildly ere thou dare to stray,
Well know thy strength, nor dare a doubtful way;
Nor sigh for profit, if you pant for fame,
Content, if you deserve the poet's name ;

320

Ask Milton, if you burn with epic rage,
What the reward of his Heroic page :
Read his advent'rous song, and what it cost,
Then own, his Paradise indeed was lost;
Ah! lost; ah! doubly lost, if grosser pence
Were the just estimate of matchless sense;
If pride of science crav'd a fool's applause,
And towering genius could be paid with straws.
Ask you the value of the Lyric lay?
Speak, mighty Dryden, and majestic Gray:
And say, oh! Collins, 'mid thy dazzling page,
How dull the organs of a tasteless age.
Critiques, reports, puns, essays, scraps of news,
All earn their penny but the lyric muse.
Should you the goosequill dip again in ink,
Like an old tippler eager still for drink,
Or, as with wing already sing'd, the fly
Still hovers round the candle, tho' he die,
The flame that sing'd his wing, now fires his head,
Till the bold flutterer sleeps among the dead;

321

Should you, still smarting, dare to write again,
Oh! may you never wake the lyric strain ,
In fruitless Sonnet prattling griefs relate,
Nor in Elegiacs mourn the Poet's Fate.
Seek thou the Stage—and keep the town alive—
The blessed Stage, where lucky authors thrive ,

322

Or dash at satire—there a feeble wit,
If a bold coxcomb, has a chance to hit,
May strike unseen, though half-inclin'd to dose,
With rude rough rhymes and stiff pedantic prose—
With odds and ends of learning daze the great,
And let some man of quality translate.
Then sleep high-bolster'd on some downy trope,
And dream yourself to be the Shade of Pope .

323

Or wrap your soul in deep poetic trance,
Then soar at Eastern Tales, and bold Romance,
Saddle the Hyppogryf , and speed your way,
Make danger smile, and Hell itself obey;
Bid all around the pomp terrific rise ,
Screams rend our ears, and visions fill our eyes;
Let ghostly lovers, fiend-like forms appear;
Impel no passion of the soul but fear:
Thus a knight-errant minstrel drive along,
In all the dread magnificence of song;
Till Germans—you so well can imitate—
Wonder, that you their horrors should translate:
Spain, Portugal, shall meet you on the way,
Rivals of Lope de Viga's rapid lay .

324

There are who scorn each creeping chirping thing,
Who needs must soar on metaphysic wing;
Soon in the clouds, and fairly out of sight,
They think the world all wondering at their flight:
Mistaken bards! I wonder much, I own,
But ah! such flights but rarely charm the town:
Tho' pure as heav'n's own beam the nice-spun lay,
The sensual town must see for what they pay:
Blackmore's Creation did but make them doze,
And Cowley's Davideis they sell for prose.
Well weigh your powers, and well your subject choose,
Whether you woo the gay, or solemn muse.
Light-lacquer'd fiction shall beguile the sense;
But truth with dulness is the great offence.
A serious theme, well polish'd may prevail;
But genuine wit is sure to find a sale .

325

—And take it with you for a constant rule,
That vice and folly claim your ridicule.
Near folly let your standard be display'd,
Near vice your light artillery well be laid;
If nought but sport you mean, then sport with ease;
The wit is less than nought, that fails to please;
Try—if with humour you the page can fill—
Bath Guides, or Eloise en Dishabille :

326

Yet, as your serious thoughts must be refin'd,
Not always diving in the depths of mind;
So must your wit be classic, sparkling, keen;
Tho' bold, not blustering; free, but not obscene .
If am'rous, still on offals scorn to feed,
And dread to write, what others blush to read.
Now ponder well Cornaro's sober page,
The Æsculapius of a temp'rate age;
Who warns you, if you prize Pierian lore,
Shun the mad rout, and Bacchanalian roar:
Or hear some deep learn'd Plutarch well define
The vine of Bacchus, and the Muse's vine;

327

This fires the soul, and purifies the sense,
Yields copious pleasures, and at small expence;
That but inflames the passions, drowns the soul;
And ruin follows fast the flowing bowl.
Ah! think not thou poetic fury reigns
In none but groveling hearts, and drunken brains:—
Say, Plato, whence perennial springs arise,
Where the least temp'rate are the truly wise;
How by a sacred furor onward driv'n ,
Minds mix with minds, and find a mystic heav'n:
Still the soul feels a symmetry divine—
Still truth irradiates the harmonious line—
While yet the enthusiast poet rolls along,
In thought ecstatic, and sublime of song.
Ah! different he, whose Muse is but a punk,
Never inspir'd, but when she's mad or drunk.
But think not thou too rashly, that I pass
The bigot censure on the social glass:
No—with Sir William would I recommend
Health to yourself, your enemy, your friend;

328

Three glasses thus may sparkle; and one more
A pure libation to good humour pour.
And now the work is done:—now rise to view
The hero-poet, to his genius true!
Too proud, to tremble at the poet's fate,
Too great, to heed each feeble critic's hate;
Too fixt, to truckle a mere statesman's tool,
No rhyming villain, yet no simpering fool;
Too brave, to give to modest worth offence,
Too pure, to sink himself the slave of sense.
Wish you the world your writings to commend?
Be sure you make the bookseller your friend :

329

And know, a bookseller will oft'ner choose,
With luckier stars a subject, than your muse;
Seek his advice, who, sometimes, best can tell,
How stands the market, and what books will sell.
His interest study, then, nor blush to find,
That tradesmen, sometimes, can be just and kind.
Indeed, some reckon it a truth confest,
That of all patrons booksellers are best:
But drones hive not,—as all the learned know,—
In Paul's Church-yard, or Paternoster-Row.
Wish you a patron? rather seek a friend,
Who knows your worth, nor blushes to commend;
Who in your heart may hold the foremost place,
And whom to rev'rence, ne'er shall be disgrace;

330

Who forms himself by virtue's steady rule,
Will blush to find his poet knave or fool.
Wish you a patron? Learn what diff'rence lies
'Twixt one, whom while you flatter, you despise;
And one, whom wisdom's self might well approve;
You need not flatter, where you needs must love.
Oh! might I, then, in parting, but commend
My youthful poet to some valued friend!
Prudent, yet warm, though learn'd, of soul sincere,
Still prone to praise, and yet of taste severe;
No smooth dissembler who sits purring by,
Of soul insidious, though of smiling eye,
Pouring his loathsome flatt'ries in your face,
Calling your verse the paragon of grace;
But who, departing, shall with treach'rous pains,
Blast your fair hopes, and damn your youthful strains;
But such as knows to trace the rude design,
Mark the crude thought, and point th' unpolish'd line:
Who your full stretch of song shall take in view,
True to your faults, and to your genius true;
Who, strict to honour, still reveres your name,
And, far from envying, points the road to fame.

331

Thus would thy modest merit take no fright,
Though folly scorn, and envy's tooth should bite;
Catch no disorder from the flatt'rer's art;
And dread no secret villain's venom'd dart:
As the wild flocks, that rang'd the lofty brow
Of Ida, frowning on the vale below ,
If wounded by some archer, quickly flew,
And from the neighb'ring plant a virtue drew;
So wouldst thou learn each little fault to mend,
Cheer'd by the guidance of some critic friend;
So learn to know, how far the censure's just,
How far, hereafter, still thyself to trust.
Go now,—whoe'er may shoot his shaft of blame,—
Truth be thy balm, and justice shield thy fame!
 

See William Frend's Principles of Taxation, and William Morgan's Statement of Facts.

This subject is argued with great learning, more particularly on the article of war, by Algernon Sydney, in his Discourses on Government, Ch. ii. sect. 21, 22, 23; and has lately been well examined by Anthony Robinson, and historically traced, with respect to the wars of Great Britain.

Alludes to William Frend's Treatise of Algebra, in which he opposes the doctrine of negative quantities, as laid down in the books of Algebra taught in our Universities.

Alludes to Benjamin Malkin's Essays on Subjects connected with Civilization.

The reader must indulge the author here in a little poetical language, in describing the force of genius.

The finest blossoms of poetry have been consecrated to the cause of virtue, as the respectable translator of Euripides, Michael Wodhull, has shewn, in a poem, entitled the Use of Poetry, in a small volume of poems (the principal of which is, the Equality of Mankind), that has, I believe, only been circulated among the author's friends. I wish that impartial pen had not been obliged to give two or three instances of great deviation from the simplicity and greatness of the poetic character in two excellent English poets.

See this subject elegantly handled in Samuel Rogers's Epistle to a Friend.

The fine collection of statues, at Wilton-House, in the possession of the Earl of Pembroke, is well known.

Some of the most beautiful French tapestry in this kingdom is at the Duke of Argyle's seat, at Inverary, Argyleshire.

For an account of the peculiar taste of Browne, in laying out ground, see Mason's English Garden, Gilpin's Essays, and Price on the Picturesque, as compared with the Sublime and Beautiful. The place where Browne has displayed the utmost exertion of his skill is at Blenheim-House, the seat of the Duke of Marlborough, in Oxfordshire.

The Florentine Gallery, in which was the celebrated Venus de Medicis; the Vatican, at Rome, where the Apollo Belvidere, and Laocoon, formed the principal ornaments; the Villa Borghese, replete with the finest statues, and the most exquisite paintings; the Farnese Palace, &c. &c. all well known to travellers and readers of travels.—The fine arts were advanced to such high perfection no where as in Italy. See De Pile's Abridgement of the Lives of the Roman and Florentine Painters. Most of the above statues have been lately removed to Rome.

The Duke of Roxburgh, and Earl Spencer, have splendid and valuable libraries.

A gentleman lately deceased, well known for his valuable library and museum.—Michael Wodhull, mentioned in a former note, is in possession of a valuable collection of books, enriched, as I perceive, from Dr. Askew's catalogue, with many of that gentleman's splendid editions.—Thomas Brand Hollis has a fine collection of antiques, at his seat called the Hide, near Colchester, in Essex.

Nec tamen interdum pudeat tenuisse bidentem,
Aut stimulo tardos increpuisse boves:
Non agnamve sinu pigeat, fœtumve capellæ
Desertum, oblitam matre, referre domum.

Tibullus. lib. i. el. 4.

Nor would I blush at times the prong to wield,
Or chide with quick'ning goad the lazy steer;
Nor grudge a lamb, beneath my arm, from field,
Or kidling lorn, of heedless dam, to bear.

Henlry's Translation.

Hanc olim veteres vitam coluere coloni,
Hanc Remus et frater: sic fortis Etruria crevit,
Scilicet et Rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma.

Virgil. Georgic. lib. xi. 533.

Every thing said by mehere, or elsewhere, aboutindustry, attention to a profession, working for the booksellers, and the like, must be considered with its appropriate application. If the poet enjoys an easy independence, and can pursue the otium cum dignitate, he may be pronounced,

------Terq. quaterq. beatum.

But miserable is the man, who amidst poverty is intoxicated with an imaginary independence! He, who is destitute of fortune, that is the poet I am addressing in this poem, must find resources in himself, and take for his motto, Labor omnia vincit.

Hoc mihi contingat: sit dives jure, furorem
Qui maris et tristes ferre potest pluvias:
O, quantum est auri potius pereatq smaragdi,
Quam fleat ob nostras ulla puella vias.

Tibullus, lib. i. el. 4.

This lot be mine: let wealth be his, of right,
Who rage of sea, and winter's rain can bear,
O! perish gold, and gems of richest light,
Ere my campaigning cost one maid a tear.

Henley.

Mille Fiate, O dolce mea guerrera
Per aver co' begli occhi vostri pace,
V'aggio proferto il cor: m'a voi non piace
Mirar si basso con la mente altera.

Petrarch. Sonnetto xix.

Full many a time, oh! thou my lovely foe,
A short-liv'd truce with your fair eyes to gain,
I've proffer'd you my heart; but you disdain,
With that exalted mind, to look so low.
Ma ben veggi' or, sì come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo: onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno.

Petrarch.

And late I feel how to the country round
A common tale I grew, in memory
Of which full oft asham'd I bow my head.

The great error of this ingenious youth, on his coming to town, was improvidence. See his life by Dr. Gregory, in the Biographia Britannica.

It was the advice of Gray to his friend West, when leaving College for the Bar; “Cherish the sweets of poetry in your bosom; they will serve you now and then to correct the disgusting sober follies of the Common Law. Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem: dulce est desipere in loco. So said Horace to Virgil, those two sons of Anac in poetry, and so say I to you, in this degenerate land of pigmies,

“Mix with your grave designs a little pleasure;
“Each day of business has its hour of leisure.”

Mason's Life of Gray, p. 15.

It deserves observation, that some of the most successful poets of the present day have been in professions. I think it of great importance to mention this circumstance.

Ο ποιητης, in the sense laid down by Aristotle.

On this subject enough has already been said.

After what has been said in the preface concerning the excellence and sublimity of lyric poetry, the reader cannot suppose, that I mean to speak degradingly of it here. By no means. We have, indeed, few compositions of this kind truly excellent in the English language, and the reason is, so much goes to constitute the perfection of this species of poetry. But we have not many compositions that possess so much genuine poetry as Dryden's Ode on St. Cæcilia's day, and Gray's and Collins's Odes; though in proportion as they come nearer to perfection, severe criticism will more clearly discover each smaller blemish. And, indeed, we have lately had some successful attempts at this refined species of writing. I speak in the text, only of its productiveness. Dryden took a fortnight to compose his Ode on St. Cæcilia's day. I never heard that he got any thing for it. Collins starved over sublime odes; and Gray, too proud to receive pay from booksellers, gave his lyric performances to Dodsley the Bookseller.

Two or three successful plays would produce more profit to an author, than all the epic poems written in England, put together. The reader, however, should take with him, that managers are not always manageable themselves; that the public taste is now as ricketty and corrupt, as in the times of Pope; and that a play, never acted, is no commodity for book-sellers. Moreover, he should be prepared to answer, at the bar of his own taste and conscience, whether he is disposed to make the due sacrifices to stage effect. Such sacrifices, in times like the present, will not be inconsiderable.—If a person of genius can surmount these difficulties, I congratulate him;—he may proceed.

This is, however, all said, as I hinted in a former place, with the greatest deference to dramatic works of real excellence; such are some of Inchbald's comedies (I mean her originals), Sheridan's, and a few others.

Monsieur de la Mott wrote an ode, called l'Ombre d'Homere. That would not suit my rhyme.

To abuse people in plain English, and to get men of quality to translate the Greek and Latin notes, is, it seems, the via ad astra now. Pope has hinted as much in his notes to the Dunciad.

See Wieland's Oberon, book the first.

Burger's Leonora, and various imitations. The works I allude to are works of genius, and the species of composition is popular. A writer, however, will here stand on the edge of a precipice, and may soon fall into errors pointed out by Longinus, Plutarch, Horace, and Persius.

The ingenious Robert Southey, in his Travels into Spain and Portugal—who has given a large account of the Spanish and Portugueze poetry—observes, that it rather exhibits “an age of genius than of taste.”

For an account of Lope de Viga's poetry, particularly his Tears of Angelica, see Southey's Travels. The Spanish and Portugueze poetry will, I understand, be soon published in a separate volume.

As the great object of poetry is to please (See Aristotle, Περι ποιητικης) he who best secures that point, whether he write on humorous or serious subjects, acts most agreeably to the character of a poet, and will be most successful as a writer. The poems that have had the most extensive sale in the present day, are in extremes with regard to each other; one being replete with religious sentiment and solemn latire; the other with fun and banter.

That the principal and immediate aim of poetry is, to please, has been opposed by Julius Scaliger, and some other critics. But though I must admit that,

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
yet will I still abide by Aristotle's and Plutarch's opinion, that the immediate object of poetry is, to please, and that even in solemn subjects poetry is used to render them more engaging and agreeable. Poetry, therefore, must not, as Lord Bacon expresses it, “buckle and bow, too much, the mind to the nature of things.”

By this principle should we examine all the mysteries of poetry, whether of sentiment, figure. or expression. In maintaining, that the immediate and principal object of poetry, is to please, I do but speak after two very serious writers, Bishop Lowth, and Bishop Hurd. Poeticam igitur eo præcipue utilem esse statuo, quod sit jucunda, says the former. Prælect. prima. “The art of poetry,” says the latter, “will be, universally, the art of pleasing; and all its rules, but so many means, which experience finds most conducive to that end.” See his Critical Dissertations subjoined to his Commentary on Horace's Epistles to the Pisos and Augustus.

Anstey's New Bath Guide, a favourite poem, that has gone through many editions. The Eloisa en Dishabille is a poem on the same taste, though on a different subject, a humourous version of Pope's Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, published in 1794. Both are poems, justly to be admired for their wit.

Swift and Rochester, however, have their great admirers, and their portion of popularity; and I am aware that many read Ovid's Art of Love, who will never read his metamorphosis. General utility, however, and the hazard such writers run of not succeeding, is a sufficient ground for my prudential hints.

See the History of Lewis Cornaro, a Venetian nobleman; his Discourses on a sober and temperate life, are well known. There is an account of them in the Spectator, No. 195.

See Plutarch, de audiend. Poetis.

Nobody has written more earnestly and poetically on the Furor poeticus than Plato, more particularly in his Phædrus.

Τρεις γαρ μονους κρατηρας εγκεραννυω
Τοις ευφρονουσι. τον μεν υγιειας ενα,
Ον πρωτον εκπινουσι: τον δε δευτερον
Ερωτος ηδονης τε. τον τριτον δε υπνου,
Ον εκπιοντες, οι σοφοι κεκλημενοι
Οικαδε βαδιζουσ' ο δε τεταρτος ουκετι
Ημετερος εστ', αλλ' υζρεως.

Ex Eudulo.

Whence Sir William Temple derived his rule, so frequently quoted; “The first glass may pass for health; the second for good humour; the third for our friends; but the fourth for our enemies.”—See his Treatise on health and long life.

The reader will please not to confound my hints with the strict rules of dogmatical egotists; but as accommodated to the predominant principle in this poem, general utility.

I have already hinted at the danger of laying aside a profession for poetry. If, however, my poet should venture to make literature his profession, he will, probably, soon find out, that he cannot afford to be always writing poetry. Goldsmith undertook several prose works, and found his account in following the advice of booksellers. And (if I might be allowed to give counsel) I would recommend an attention to the same rule; so far as relates to prose writing. In poetry, genius will judge for itself of proper subjects, and abide by that judgment. I have said nothing concerning the printing, the form of the book, the paper, and the decorations. These things, however, are worthy the poet's consideration, in these times. The book-seller is the proper adviser. Many useful hints may be collected from Fawcet's Art of Poetry.

This property of the Δικταμνος peculiar to Crete is mentioned by Ælian. Var. Hist. See also Virgil's Æneid, L. xii. v. 411.