University of Virginia Library

I cannot think but more or less
True merit always gains success;
That envy, prejudice and spite,
Will never sink a genius quite.
Experience shews beyond a doubt
That worth, tho' clouded, will shine out.
The second name for epic song,
First classic of the English tongue,
Great Milton, when he first appear'd,
Was ill receiv'd and coldly heard:
In vain did faction damn those lays
Which all posterity shall praise:
Is Dryden or his works forgot
For all that Buckingham has wrote?
The peer's sharp satire, charg'd with sense,
Gives pleasure at no one's expence:
The Bard and Critic, both inspir'd
By Phebus, shall be still admir'd:
'Tis true that censure, right or wrong,
May hurt at first the noblest song,
And for a while defeat the claim
Which any writer has to fame:
A mere book-merchant with his tools
Can sway with ease the herd of fools:
Who on a moderate computation
Are ten to one in every nation.—
Your stile is stiff—your periods halt—
In every line appears a fault—
The plot and incidents ill sorted—
No single character supported—
Your similies will scarce apply;
The whole misshapen, dark and dry.
All this will pass, and gain its end
On the best poem e'er was penn'd:
But when the first assaults are o'er,
When fops and witlings prate no more,
And when your works are quite forgot
By all who praise or blame by rote:
Without self-interest, spleen or hate
The men of sense decide your fate:
Their judgment stands, and what they say
Gains greater credit ev'ry day;
Till groundless prejudices past,
True merit has its due at last.
The hackney scribblers of the town,
Who were the first to write you down,
Their malice chang'd to admiration
Promote your growing reputation,
And to excess of praise proceed;
But this scarce happens till you're dead,
When fame for genius, wit, and skill,
Can do you neither good nor ill;
Yet, if you would not be forgot,
They'll help to keep your name afloat.

An aged Swain that us'd to feed
His flock upon a mountain's head,
Drew crouds of shepherds from each hill,
To hear and profit by his skill;
For ev'ry simple of the rock,
That can offend or cure a flock,
He us'd to mark, and knew its pow'r
In stem and foliage, root and flow'r.
Beside all this, he cou'd foretel
Both rain and sunshine passing well;
By deep sagacity he'd find,
The future shiftings of the wind;
And guess most shrewdly ev'ry year
If mutton wou'd be cheap or dear.
To tell his skill in every art,
Of which he understood a part,
His sage advice was wrapt in tales,
Which oft persuade when reason fails;
To do him justice every where
Wou'd take more time than I can spare,
And therefore now shall only touch
Upon a fact which authors vouch;
That Phebus oft wou'd condescend
To treat this Shepherd like a friend:
Oft when the solar chariot past,
Provided he was not in haste,
He'd leave his steeds to take fresh breath,
And crop the herbage of the heath;
While with the Swain a turn or two
He'd take, as landlords use to do,
When sick of finer folks in town,
They find amusement in a clown.
One morning when the God alighted,
His winged steeds look'd wild and frighted;
The whip it seems had not been idle,
One's traces broke, another's bridle:
All four were switch'd in every part,
Like common jades that draw a cart,
Whose sides and haunches all along
Show the just measure of the thong.

Why, what's the matter, quoth the Swain,
My lord, it gives your servant pain;
Sure some offence is in the case,
I read it plainly in your face.—

Offence, quoth Phebus, vex'd and heated;
'Tis one indeed, and oft repeated:
Since first I drove thro' heav'ns highway,
That's before yesterday, you'll say,
The envious clouds in league with night
Conspire to intercept my light;
Rank vapours breath'd from putrid lakes,
The steams of common-sew'rs and jakes,
Which under-ground shou'd be confin'd,
Nor suffer'd to pollute the wind;
Escap'd in air by various ways,
Extinguish or divert my rays.
Oft in the morning, when my steeds
Above the ocean lift their heads,
And when I hope to see my beams
Far glittering on the woods and streams;
A ridge of lazy clouds that sleep
Upon the surface of the deep,
Receive at once and wrap me round
In fogs extinguish'd half and drown'd.
But mark my purpose, and by Styx
I'm not soon alter'd when I fix;
If things are suffer'd at this pass,
I'll fairly turn my nags to grass:
No more this idle round I'll dance,
But let all nature take its chance.

If, quoth the Shepherd, it were fit
To argue with the god of wit,
I cou'd a circumstance suggest
That wou'd alleviate things at least.
That clouds oppose your rising light
Full oft and lengthen out the night,
Is plain; but soon they disappear,
And leave the sky serene and clear;
We ne'er expect a finer day,
Than when the morning has been gray;
Besides, those vapours which confine
You issuing from your eastern shrine,
By heat sublim'd and thinly spread,
Streak all the ev'ning sky with red:
And when your radiant orb in vain
Wou'd glow beneath the western main,
And not a ray cou'd reach our eyes,
Unless reflected from the skies,
Those watry mirrors send your light
In streams amidst the shades of night:
Thus length'ning out your reign much more
Than they had shorten'd it before.
As this is so, I must maintain
You've little reason to complain:
For when the matter's understood,
The ill seems balanc'd by the good;
The only diff'rence in the case
Is that the mischief first takes place,
The compensation when you're gone
Is rather somewhat late, I own:
But since 'tis so, you'll own 'tis fit
To make the best on't, and submit.