Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid Together with The Jordan, a poem in imitation of Spenser, by --- ---, Esq [i.e. Christopher Pitt] |
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THE NINETEENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED. |
 | Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid |  |
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THE NINETEENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED.
To Mr. Robert Lowth.
'Tis said, dear Sir, no Poets please the Town,
Who drink meer Water—tho' from Helicon:
For in cold Blood they seldom boldly think;
Their Rhymes are more insipid than their Drink.
Not great Apollo could the Train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the Fire.
Warm'd by two Gods at once they drink and write,
Rhyme all the Day, and fuddle all the Night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a Place,
But hints, he nodded oft'ner o'er the Glass.
Inspir'd by Wine old Ennius sung, and thought
With the same Spirit that his Heroes fought.
And we, from Johnson's Tavern-laws, divine
That Bard was no great Enemy to Wine.
'Twas from the Bottle King deriv'd his Wit,
Drank till he could not talk—and then he writ.
Let no coif'd Serjeant touch the sacred Juice,
But leave it to the Bards, its better Use:
Let the grave Judges too the Glass forbear;
Who never sing—and dance but once a Year.
This Truth once known—our Poets take the Hint,
Get drunk or mad,—and then get into Print;
To raise their Flame, indulge the mellow Fit,
And lose their Senses in the Search of Wit;
And, when with Claret fir'd, they take the Pen,
Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Who drink meer Water—tho' from Helicon:
For in cold Blood they seldom boldly think;
Their Rhymes are more insipid than their Drink.
Not great Apollo could the Train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the Fire.
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Rhyme all the Day, and fuddle all the Night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a Place,
But hints, he nodded oft'ner o'er the Glass.
Inspir'd by Wine old Ennius sung, and thought
With the same Spirit that his Heroes fought.
And we, from Johnson's Tavern-laws, divine
That Bard was no great Enemy to Wine.
'Twas from the Bottle King deriv'd his Wit,
Drank till he could not talk—and then he writ.
Let no coif'd Serjeant touch the sacred Juice,
But leave it to the Bards, its better Use:
Let the grave Judges too the Glass forbear;
Who never sing—and dance but once a Year.
This Truth once known—our Poets take the Hint,
Get drunk or mad,—and then get into Print;
To raise their Flame, indulge the mellow Fit,
And lose their Senses in the Search of Wit;
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Swear they can write, because they drink like Ben.
Some mimic Swift or Prior to their Cost;
For in the rash Attempt the Fops are lost.
When once a Genius breaks through common Rules,
He leads a Herd of imitating Fools.
If Pope, the Prince of Wits, tho' sick a-bed,
O'er steaming Coffee bends his aching Head,
The Fools in public o'er the fragrant Draught,
Incline those Heads, that never ach'd, nor thought:
This must provoke his Mirth, or his Disdain;
Cure his Complaint—or make him sick again.
I too like them that Poet's Path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus' easy Strains in view;
But in a distant View,—yet what I write
In these loose Starts, must never see the Light;
Epistles, Odes, and twenty Trifles more,—
Things that are born and die in half an Hour.—
For in the rash Attempt the Fops are lost.
When once a Genius breaks through common Rules,
He leads a Herd of imitating Fools.
If Pope, the Prince of Wits, tho' sick a-bed,
O'er steaming Coffee bends his aching Head,
The Fools in public o'er the fragrant Draught,
Incline those Heads, that never ach'd, nor thought:
This must provoke his Mirth, or his Disdain;
Cure his Complaint—or make him sick again.
I too like them that Poet's Path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus' easy Strains in view;
But in a distant View,—yet what I write
In these loose Starts, must never see the Light;
Epistles, Odes, and twenty Trifles more,—
Things that are born and die in half an Hour.—
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What—you must dedicate, says sneering Spence,
This Year, some new Performance to the Prince,
Tho' Money is your Scorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant Stall by Rhyme.
Like other Poets, were the Truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wise Remarks my Modesty confound,
While the Laugh rises, and the Sneer goes round;
Vext at the Jest, yet glad to shun a Fray,
I whisk into my Coach, and drive away.
This Year, some new Performance to the Prince,
Tho' Money is your Scorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant Stall by Rhyme.
Like other Poets, were the Truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wise Remarks my Modesty confound,
While the Laugh rises, and the Sneer goes round;
Vext at the Jest, yet glad to shun a Fray,
I whisk into my Coach, and drive away.
| Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid | |