University of Virginia Library

The Sun was set; and now th' expected Breeze
Sigh'd in low murmurs thro' the waving Trees:
Deep in the silent Grove I chanc'd to stray,
And in delightful Mazes lost my Way;
Sweet through the Copse the Sylvan Syrens sung,
And all the list'ning Vales with Ecchoes rung;
The Turtle sat, embosom'd in the Grove,
And sorrowfully coo'd his absent Love.
Fatigu'd with rambling down my self I laid,
And stretch'd my weary Limbs beneath the Shade;
Fast by, the Murmurs of a rowling Stream
My Eyelids clos'd, and gave this pleasing Dream:
When Lo! great Milton's Shade stood at my Head,
To whom I rising bow'd, methought, and said:

Say, mighty Poet! say, what grand Affair?
What Cause has brought Thee to this upper Air?
Say, didst thou come to string my humble Lyre,
And fill my Soul with all thy sacred Fire?
To make her boldly rise, and soar away
Far to the Realms of everlasting Day,
To paint new Wars, to sing of new Alarms,
And set once more th' Omnipotent in Arms?
Or didst thou come, before it was too late,
To warn my Soul of some impending Fate?
I ended here; when from the Heav'nly Man
These Accents fell, and thus the Shade began:

Adventrous Youth! and will you still persist
To scrible on in the Poetick List?
And what can no Misfortunes cool your Fire?
Not empty Pockets still your restless Lyre?
Can no Example make you e're give o'er?
You don't consider that you're always poor:
Do but reflect upon the Græcian Bard?
See! how he liv'd and di'd without Regard;
He darkling sung, and trudg'd about in vain,
No Silver Bounty to reward his Pain.
Be then advis'd by me, leave off in Time
This paltry Way of Life, this scribling Rhime;
Or else, go sing the Product of your Head,
And e'en be forc'd to beg your Daily Bread.
Poets are always lavish of their Store,
To day they spend, to morrow write for more;
Nor can you bring one single Line to shew it,
Where Rich is made an Epithet for Poet.
Plutus did ever Phæbus Thoughts employ,
But Plutus, like his Daphne, still was coy.
We read, “the Muses all are Virgins yet,
And may be so, 'till they can Portions get.”
Poets by Verse must raise up House and Wall,
Or now a-days must have no House at all.
Was I to breath the upper Air agen,
I'd never handle the Poetick Pen;
I'd sooner follow Dust-Carts in the Street,
Or live, unknown, in some obscure Retreat,
Than thus be forc'd to prostitute my Head
To Great-Men's Humours and a Piece of Bread;
For still the Poet lives, altho' the Man is Dead.

But tho' your Heart is fix'd upon the Trade,
Charm'd with a Grott, or soft-inspiring Shade;
Yet don't rely upon your toiling Brains,
And think to live by your Poetick Gains:
It can't be done; you better would adjoyn
Some Benefice, to ease the lab'ring Nine;
Or have some Birchen Scepter at command,
Greater, if possible, than G---ge or F---d.
'Tis hard, when Want must all your Muse controul
And press the daily Labours from your Soul,
When for Subsistance you are forc'd to write,
Rise with the Morning Sun, and drudge 'till Night.
Come then, fond Youth! lay all your Arms aside,
Throw off Ambition, and this early Pride:
'Tis not for you, to soar up into Fame,
And get your Works an everlasting Name.

With that, methought, he lifted me on high,
And bore me upwards thro' the azure Skie;
Wafted by Winds I heard, or seem'd to hear,
Aerial Musick die upon my Ear:
Nearer and nearer yet the Heav'nly Sound
Gain'd on my Sense, and fill'd the Region round.
I look'd, and saw rais'd high amid the Air,
A mighty Structure, beautiful and fair;
High on the Hill, with ev'ry Virtue bless'd,
Congreve was plac'd, who seem'd to call the Rest:
A Scepter, graceful, in his Hand he sway'd,
And radiant Sun-beams round his Temples play'd.
Beneath the Hill, a spacious Plain was seen,
With Groves and shady Bowers ever-green:
High on the Battlements I took my stand,
My friendly Guide still held me by my Hand.
Look down, says he, upon yon crowded Plain,
Observe those Bards, a poor, unhappy Train!

Now all at once strove up the steep Ascent,
Then down again with fruitless Labour spent:
But some there were in native Vigour strong,
Who gain'd the Hill, and boldly press'd along;
I look'd, and streight I saw, supreme of these,
Pope roving pensive, deep among the Trees;
'Till Homer, in full Majesty array'd,
Beckon'd the Bard, and bid him leave the Shade:
Then from the Dome a Trumpet sounded loud,
The Poet heard, and left the struggling Croud,
Swift up the Steep with nimble Speed he flew;
Thrice he address'd the Shade, and thrice the Trumpets blew.

But who is He? what blooming Youth is there?
'Tis Pattison, the Muses darling Care!
I saw him rush adventrous from the Throng,
Rise on the Hill, and bravely push along;
When ah!—unhappy Youth! in mid Career
He drop'd down breathless, drop'd without a Peer.
As he lay strugling in the Pangs of Death,
Fame bid the Trumpets raise their strongest Breath.
Wide o'er the World the length'ning Blasts resound,
The Heaven's vaulted Roofs re-ecchoe all around;
Slow and more slow the distant Notes decay,
'Till all at once they trembling die away.

Low, wondrous low, I saw a num'rous Train.
Part on the Hill, part musing o'er the Plain;
Some, pleas'd with Shades, and ever-murm'ring Streams,
Were gently-warbling out their softest Themes;
Thinking, perhaps, of rising into Fame,
And sometime gaining an Immortal Name.

High-seated in the Temple, I beheld
All, who in Arts and Sciences excell'd.
First Socrates, the wise, Athenian Sage!
And Plato, Glory of the wondring Age!
Timoleon Brave, and Aristides Just,
With Godlike Cato, steddy to his Trust!
Newton sat pensive with uplifted Eye,
Still fix'd on Heav'n, still measuring the Skie.
Tully and Lock shon forth with equal Rays,
Immortal Worthies! born in better Days!
I look'd agen, and saw the Laurel'd Train
Of Bards Triumphant, of a brighter Vein:
High in the Dome the Roman Bard I spy'd,
With awful Dryden seated by his Side.
Spencer and Cowley next advanc'd to Sight,
With Chaucer, breaking thro' the Shades of Night.
Next I beheld great Addison and Prior,
And Waller, leaning on his sacred Lyre:
Phillips came on, but made a sudden Stand,
(Long Scrolls of Paper waving in his Hand)
When first he spy'd his Milton thro' the Croud,
He stop'd with Reverence, and lowly bow'd.

My Guide was leading me, to see the Name
Of ev'ry future Purchaser of Fame;
But now the Birds proclaim'd the Morning Ray,
And rising Phæbus chas'd the Shades away:
Starting from Sleep, I look'd with vast Surprize,
And hardly could believe my waking Eyes;
I gaz'd around, and view'd the running Stream,
And Curs'd the fleeting Pleasures of a Dream.

Might I but have these Visions e'ery Night,
I'd never wish to see returning Light.