University of Virginia Library

TO THE Author of the Earl of Essex.

To rouse the indolent! to wake the brave!
To rescue glory from the dreary grave!
To shew the strange vicissitudes of fate;
To trace the actions of the good and great:
And stamp bright virtue's image on the heart
For this! the gods ordain'd the tragic art!

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For these great ends, by blooming fancy fir'd,
By science prompted, and by heav'n inspir'd,
To art and nature's topmost height to soar,
Arose the bards, in ages now no more,
And found reward their excellence up-hold;
Protected by the Boyles, and Chesterfields of old.
But now, when sense and learning few respect,
And what their sires ador'd, their sons neglect;
When party int'rests govern works of wit,
And courts and theatres alike submit;
How vent'rous he who'd please th'uncertain age,
His task, the drama; and his hope, the stage;
Who dares the hatred merit's sure to gain,
The din of fools, and envy of the vain.
This thou hast done;—the palm admits thy claim;
On Essex's establish'd stands thy fame:
Still has the town the judgment, Jones, to see
The heroe lost by Banks, retriev'd by thee.

With knowledge fraught, imbib'd from Greece and Rome
Profoundly vers'd in each recorded tome:

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In ev'ry ancient, ev'ry modern read,
With loads of lumber treasur'd in his head;
The pedant launches in pursuit of fame,
And thinks the Scholiast and the Bard the same;
But soon his flatt'ring self-delusion flies;
His audience censure, and the wits despise.
How oft' we find in some o'er-labour'd tale,
The scholar please us, but the poet fail!

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