University of Virginia Library

Let every bard who seeks applause
Be true to virtue and her cause,
Nor ever try to raise his fame
By praising that which merits blame;
The vain attempt he needs must rue,
For disappointment will ensue.
Virtue with her superior charms
Exalts the Poet's soul and warms,
His taste refines, his genius fires,
Like Phoebus and the Nine inspires;
While Vice tho' seemingly approv'd
Is coldly flatter'd, never lov'd.

Palemon once a story told,
Which by conjecture must be old:
I have a kind of half conviction
That at the best 'tis but a fiction;
But taken right and understood,
The moral certainly is good.

A Shepherd swain was wont to sing
The infant beauties of the spring,
The bloom of summer, winter hoar,
The autumn rich in various store;
And prais'd in numbers strong and clear
The Ruler of the changeful year.
To human themes he'd next descend,
The Shepherd's harmless life commend,
And prove him happier than the great
With all their pageantry and state:
Who oft for pleasure and for wealth,
Exchange their innocence and health;
The Muses listen'd to his lays
And crown'd him as he sung with bays.
Euterpe, goddess of the lyre,
A harp bestow'd with golden wire:
And oft wou'd teach him how to sing,
Or touch with art the trembling string.
His fame o'er all the mountains flew,
And to his cot the Shepherds drew;
They heard his music with delight,
Whole summer days from morn to night:
Nor did they ever think him long,
Such was the magic of his song:
Some rural present each prepar'd,
His skill to honour and reward;
A flute, a sheep-hook or a lamb
Or kidling follow'd by its dam:
For Bards it seems in earlier days,
Got something more than empty praise.
All this continu'd for a while,
But soon our Songster chang'd his stile,
Infected with the common itch,
His gains to double and grow rich:
Or fondly seeking new applause,
Or this or t'other was the cause;
One thing is certain that his rhimes
Grew more obsequious to the times,
Less stiff and formal, alter'd quite
To what a courtier calls polite.
Whoe'er grew rich, by right or wrong,
Became the hero of a song:
No nymph or shepherdess could wed,
But he must sing the nuptial bed,
And still was ready to recite
The secret transports of the night,
In strains too luscious for the ear
Of sober chastity to bear.
Astonish'd at a change so great,
No more the Shepherds sought his seat,
But in their place, a horned crowd
Of Satyrs flock'd from every wood,
Drawn by the magic of his lay,
To dance, to frolic, sport and play.
The goddess of the lyre disdain'd
To see her sacred gift profan'd,
And gliding swiftly to the place,
With indignation in her face,
The trembling shepherd thus address'd,
In awful majesty confess'd.

“Thou wretched fool, that harp resign,
For know it is no longer thine;
It was not given you to inspire
A herd like this with loose desire,
Nor to assist that venal praise
Which vice may purchase, if it pays:
Such offices my lyre disgrace;
Here take this bag-pipe in its place.
'Tis fitter far, believe it true,
Both for these miscreants and you.”

The swain dismay'd, without a word,
Submitted, and the harp restor'd.