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Whofe wings the Mufe in better ages prun'd,
And their fweet harps to meral airs attun'd.
As night is tedious while, in love betray'd,
The wakeful youth expects the faithlefs maid;
As wearied hinds accuie the lingering fun,
And heirs impatient with for twenty-one:
So dull to Horace did the moments glide,
Till his free Mufe her fprightly force employ'd
To combat vice, and follies to expofe,
In eafy numbers near allied to profe:
Guiltblufh'd and trembledwhen she heard him fing,
He fmil'd reproof, and tickled with his fting.
With fuch a graceful negligence exprefs'd,
Wit, thus applied, will ever ftand the teft:
But he who blindly led by whimfy ftrays,
And from grofs images would merit praise,
When Nature fets the nobleft stores in view,
Affects to pofith copper in Peru:

So while the feas on barren fands are caft,
The faltnefs of their waves offends the taste :
But, when to heaven exhal'd, in fruitful rain,
In fragrant dews they fall, to cheer the fwain,
Revive the fainting flow'rs, and fwell the
meager grain.

Be this their care, who, ftudious of renown,
Toil up th' Aonian fteep to reach the crown;
Suffice it me, that (having spent iny prime,
In picking epithets, and yoking rhyme)
To fteadier rule my thoughts I now compofe,
And prize ideas clad in honeft profe.
Old Dryden, emulous of Cæfar's praife,
Cover'd his baldness with immortal bays;
And Death perhaps, to fpoil poetic sport,
Unkindly cut an Alexandrine fhort:
His ear had a more lafting itch than mine,
For the fimooth cadence of a golden line:
Should luft of verfe prevail, and urge the man
To run the trifling race the boy began,
Mellow'd with fixty winters, you might fee
My circle end in fecond infancy.

I might ere long an aukward humour have,
To wear my bells and coral to the grave;
Or round my room alternate take a course,
Now mount my hobby, then the Mufes' horfe.
Let others wither gay, but I'd appear
With fage decorum in my eafy chair;
Grave as Libanius, flumbering o'er the laws,
Whilft gold and party zeal decide the caufe.

A nobler task our riper age affords
Than fcanning fyllables, and weighing words.
To make his hours in even meafures flów,
Nor think fome fleet too faft, and fome too flow;
Still equal in himfelf, and free to tafte
The Now, without repining at the Paft;
Nor the vain prefcience of the fplcen t' employ,
To pall the flavour of a promis'd joy;
To live tenacious of the golden mean,
In all events of various fate ferene;
With virtue fteel'd, and steady to furvey
Age, death, difeafe, or want, without difinay--
Thefe arts, my Lambard! useful in their end,
Make man to others and himself a friend.

* Epist. 1. Lib. 1.

Happiest of mortals he, who, timely wife,
In the calm walks of Truth his bloom enjoy;
With books and patrimonial plenty bleft,
Health in his veins, and quiet in his breaft !
Him no vain hopes attract, no fear appals,
Nor the gay fervitude of courts enthrals,
Unknowing how to mark concerted guile
With a falfe cringe or undermining imile;
His manners pure, from affectation free,
And prudence thines through clear fimplicity,
Though no rich labours of the Persian loom,
Nor the nice fculptor's art, adorn his room,
Sleep unprovok'd will foftly feal his eyes,
And innocence the want of down fupplies;
Health tempers all his cups, and at his board
Reigns the cheap luxury the fields afford:
Like the great Trojan, mantled in a cloud,
Himfelf unfeen he fees the labouring crowd,
Where all induftrious to their ruin run,
Swift to purfue what moft they ought to fhua.
Some, by the fordid thirft of gain control'd,
Starve in their ftores, and cheat themfelves for
gold,

Preferve the precious bane with anxious care
In vagrant lufts to feed a lavish heir:
Others devour Ambition's glittering bait,
To fweat in purple, and repine in state;
Devote their pow'rs to every wild extreme
For the fhort pageant of a pompous dream >
Nor can the mind to full perfection bring
The fruits it early promis'd in the spring;
But in a public fphere thofe virtues fade,
Which open'd fair and flourish'd in the shade:
So while the Night her ebon fceptre fways,
Her fragrant blooms the + Indian plant difplays;
But the full day the fhort-liv'd beauties fhun,
Elude our hopes, and ficken at the fun.

Fantaftic joys in diftant views appear,
And tempt the man to make the rash career.
Fame, Pow'r, and Wealth, which glitter at the goal,
Allure his eye, and fire his eager foul;
For thefe are cafe and innocence refign'd,
For thefe he ftrips; farewel the tranquil mind!
Headstrong he urges on till vigour fails,
And grey experience (but too late!) prevails.
But, in his evening, view the hoary fool,
When the nerves flacken, and the fpirits cool;
When joy and bluhy youth forfake his face,
Sicklied with age, and four with self-disgrace;
No flavour then the fparkling cups retain,
Mufic is harsh, the Syren fings in vain;
To him what healing balm can art apply,
Who lives difeas'd with life, and dreads to die?
In that laft fcene, by Fate in fables drefs'd,
Thy power, triumphant Virtue! is confefs'd;
Thy veftal flames diffufe celeftial light
Through Death's dark vale, and vanquish total
night;

Lenient of anguish, o'er the breaft prevail, When the gay toys of flattering Fortune fail. Such, happy Twilden! (ever be thy name Mourn'd by the Mufe, and fair in deathlets fame")

+ The nure-tree.

While the bright effluence of her glory fhone,
Were thy laft hours, and fuch I with my own :
So caília bruis'd exhales her rich perfumes,
And incenfe in a fragrant cloud confumes.

Moft fpoil the boon that Nature's pleas'd t'impart,
By too much varnish, or by want of art;
By folid fcience all her gifts are grac'd,
Like gems new polifh'd, and with gold enchas'd.
Votes to th' unletter'd 'fquire the laws allow,
As Rome receiv'd dictators from the plough:
But arts, addrefs, and force of genius, join
To make a Hanmer in the fenate fhine.
Yet one prefiding pow'r in every breast
Receives a stronger fanction than the reft;
And they who study and difcern it well,
A&t unreftrain'd, without defign excel,
But court contempt, and err without redress,
Miffing the mafter-talent they poffefs.
Whifton perhaps in Euclid may fucceed,
But thail I trust him to reform my creed?
In fweet affemblage every blooming grace
Fix Love's bright throne in Teraminta's face,
With which her faultlefs fhape and air agree,
But, wanting wit, fhe ftrives to repartee;
And, ever prone her matchlefs form to wrong,
Left Envy thould be dumb, fhe lends her tongue.
By long experience D-y may, no doubt,
Enfnare a gudgeon, or fometimes a trout:
Yet Dryden once exclaim'd (in partial fpite!)
He fifh-because the man attempts to write.
O, if the Water-nymphs were kind to none
But thofe the Mufes bathe in Helicon,
In what far diftant age would Belgia raise
One happy wit to net the British feas!

Nature permits her various gifts to fall
On various climes, nor fmiles alike on all:
The Latian vales eternal verdure wear,
And flow'rs spontaneous crown the fmiling year;
But who manures a wild Norwegian hill,
To raife the jafmine or the coy jonquil?
Who finds the peach among the favage floes,
Or in bleak Scythia feeks the blushing rofe?
Here golden grain waves o'er the teeming fields,
And there the vine her racy purple yields.
High on the cliff's the British oak afcends,
Proud to furvey the feas her pow'r defends;
Her sovereign title to the flag the proves,
Scornful of fofter India's fpicy groves.

Thefe inftances, which true in fact we find,
Apply we to the culture of the mind.
This foil, in early youth improv'd with care,
The feeds of gentle fcience beft will bear;
That with more particles of flame infpir'd,
With glittering arms and thirft of fame is fir'd;
Nothing of greatnefs in a third will grow,
But, barren as it is, 'twill bear a beau.
If these from nature's genial bent depart,
In life's dull farce to play a borrow'd part;
Should the fage drefs, and flutter in the Mall,
Or leave his problems for a birth-night ball;
Should the rough homicide unfheath his pen,
And in heroics only murder men;
Should the foft fop forfake the lady's charms,
To face the foe with inoffenfive arms;

Each would variety of acts afford,
Fit for fome new Cervantes to record.

rays;

Whither, you cry, tends all this dry difcourfe?
To prove, like Hudibras, a man's no horie.
I look'd for sparkling lines, and fomething gay
To frisk my fancy with; but footh, to say!
From her Apollo now the Mufe elopes,
And trades in fyllogifms more than tropes.
Faith, Sir, I fee you nod, but can't forbear;
When a friend reads, in honour you must hear:
For all enthufiafts, when the fit is strong,
Indulge a volubility of
tongue :
Their fury triumphs o'er the men of phlegm,
And, council-proof, will never baulk a theme.
So Burgess on his tripod rav'd the more,
When round him half the faints began to fnore.
To lead us fafe through Error's thorny maze,
Reafon exerts her pure ethereal
But that bright daughter of eternal day
Holds in our mortal frame a dubious fway.
Though no lethargic fumes the brain inveft,
And opiate all her active pow'rs to reft;
Though on that magazine no fevers feize,
To calcine all her beauteous images:
Yet banish'd from the realms by right her own,
Paflion, a blind ufurper, mounts the throne:
Or, to known good preferring fpecious ill,
Reafon becomes a cully to the will:
Thus man, perverfely fond to roam aftray,
Hoodwinks the guide affign'd to fhew the way;
And in life's voyage like the pilot fares
Who breaks the compafs, and contemns the stars,
To fteer by meteors which at random fly,
Preluding to a tempeft in the sky.

Vain of his fkill, and led by various views,
Each to his end a different path pursues:
And feldom is one wretch fo humble known
To think his friend's a better than his own :
The boldeft they who leaft partake the light,
As game-cocks in the dark are train'd to fight.
Nor fhame, nor ruin, can our pride abate,
But what became our choice we call our fate.
Villain, faid Zeno to his pilfering flave,
What frugal Nature needs, I freely gave;
With thee my treasure I depos'd in trust,
What could provoke thee now to prove unjuft?
Sir, blame the ftars, felonious culprit cried:
We'll by the ftatute of the stars be tried.
If their ftrong influence all our actions urge,
Some are foredoom'd to steal-and fome to
fcourge:

The beadle muft obey the Fates' decree,
As powerful Destiny prevail'd with thee.

This heathen logic feems to bear too hard
On me, and many a harmless modern bard:
The critics hence may think themfelves decreed
To jerk the wits, and rail at all they read!
Foes to the tribe from which they trace their clan,
As monkeys draw their pedigree from man;
To which (tho' by the breed our kind's disgrac'd)
We grant fuperior elegance of taste :

But in their own defence the wits obferve
That, by impulfe from heaven, they write and
ftarve;
$3

Their

Their patron-planet, with refiftlefs pow'r,
Irradiates every poet's natal hour;
Engendering in his head a folar heat
For which the college has no fure receipt;
Elfe from their gari ets would they foon withdraw,
And leave the rats to revel in the ftraw.

Nothing fo much intoxicates the brain As Flattery's fmcoth infinuating bane: She on th' unguarded ear employs her art, While vain felf-love unlocks the yielding heart; And Reason oft fubmits when both invade, Without alfaulted, and within betray'd. When Flattery's magic mifts fuffufe the fight, The don is active, and the boor polite; Her mirror fhews perfection through the whole, And ne'er reflects a wrinkle or a mole; Each character in gay confufion lies, And all alike are virtuous, brave, and wife: Nor fail her fulfome arts to footh our pride, Though praife to venom turns, if wrong applied. Me thus the whifpers while I write to you: "Draw forth a banner'd hoft in fair review! "Then every Mufe invoke thy voice to aife, "Arms and the man to fing in lofty lays: "Whofe active bloom heroic deeds employ, "Such as the fon of Thetis fung at Troy; "When his high-founding lyre his valour rais'd "To emulate the demi-gods he prais'd. "Like him the Briton, warm at honour's call, "At fam'd Blaragaia quell'd the bleeding Gaul; "By France the genius of the fight confefs'd, "For which our patron faint adorns his breaft." Is this my friend, who fits in full content, Jovial, and joking with his men of Kent, And never any fcene of flaughter faw, But those who fell by phyfic or the law? Why is he for exploits in war renown'd, Deck'd with a star, with bloody laurels crown'd? O often prov'd, and ever found fincere! Too honeft is thy heart, thy fenfe too clear, On thefe encomiums to vouchfafe a fmile, Which only can belong to great Argyll.

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But moft among the brethren of the bays
The dear enchantress all her charms difplays,
In the fly commerce of alternate praise.
If, for his father's fins condemn'd to write,
Some young half-feather'd poct takes a flight,
And to my touchstone brings a puny ode,
Which Swift, and Pope, and Prior would ex-
plode:

Though every ftanza glitters thick with stars,
And goddeffes defcend in ivory cars:
Is it for me to prove in every part
The piece irregular by laws of art?
His genius looks but aukward, yet his fate
May raife him to be premier bard of ftate;
I therefore bribe his fuffrage to my fame,
Revere his judgment, and applaud his flame;
Then cry, in feeming tranfport, while I speak,
'Tis well for Pindar that he dealt in Greek!
He, confcious of defert, accepts the praife,
And, courteous, with increafe the debt repays:

* Iliad ix.

Boileau's a mushroom if compar'd to me,
And, Horace, I dispute the palm with thee!
Both ravifh'd fing Te Phœbum for fuccefs;
Rife fwift, ye laurels! boy, befpeak the preis.
Thus on imaginary praife we feed;

Each writes till all refufe to print or read:
From the records of fame condemn'd to país
Tot Brifquet's calendar, a rubric afs.

Few, wondrous few! are eagle-eyed to find A plain difeafe or blemith in the mind: Few can, tho' wifdom fhould their health is 1 fure,

Difpaffionate and cool attend a cure.
In youth difus'd t' obey the needful rein,
Well pleas'd a favage liberty to gain,
We fate the kind defire of every sense,
And lull our age in thoughtless indolence :
Yet all are Solons in their own conceit;
Though, to fupply the vacancy of wit,
Folly and Pride, impatient of control,
The fifter-twins of Sloth, poffefs the foul.
By Kneller were the gay Pumilio drawn,
Like great Alcides, with a back of brawn;
I fcarcely think his picture would have pow'r
To make him fight the champions of the Tow't:
Though lions there are tolerably tame,
And civil as the court from which they came
Bot yet, without experience, fenfe, or arts,
Pumilio boafts fufficiency of parts;
Imagines he alone is amply fit

To guide the state, or give the stamp to wit:
Pride paints the mind with an heroic air,
Nor finds he a defect of vigour there.

When Philomel of old effay'd to fing,
And in his rofy progrefs hail'd the fpring,
Th' aerial fongfters lift'ning to the lays,
By filent ecftafy confefs'd her praife.
At length, to rival her enchanting note,
The peacock ftrains the difcord of his throat,
In hope his hideous fhrieks would grateful prove ;
But the nice audience hoot him through the
grove.

Confcious of wanted worth, and just disdain,
Low'ring his creft, he creeps to Juno's fane :
To his protectrefs there reveals the cafe,
And for a fweeter voice devoutly prays.

Then thus replied the radiant geddets, known
By her fair rolling eyes and rattling tone:

My favourite bird! of all the feather'd kind,
Each fpecies has peculiar gifts affign'd:
The tow'ring eagles to the realms of light
By their strong pounces claim a legal right;
The fwan, contented with an humbler fate,
Low on the fishy river rows in ftate :
Gay ftarry plumes thy length of train bedeck,
And the green em'rald twinkles on thy neck;
But the poor nightingale, in mean attire,
Is made chief warbler of the woodland choir.
Thefe various bounties were difpos'd above,"
And ratified th' unchanging will of Jove:
Difcern thy talent, and his laws adore;
Be what thou wert defign'd, nor ain at more.

+Frifquet, jefter to Francis I. of France, kept a calendar of fools.

§ 218. An Ode to the Right Honourable Lord JOHN GOWER. Written in the Spring of 1716. FENTON.

O'ER Winter's long inclement fway

At length the lufty Spring prevails;
And, fwift to meet the finiling May,
Is wafted by the wettern gales.
Around him dance the roty hours,
And damasking the ground with flow'rs,
With ambient fweets perfume the morn:
With fhadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A fudden youth the groves enjoy;
Where Philomel laments forlorn.

By her awak'd, the woodland choir
To hail the coming god prepares ;
And tempts me to refume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal airs.
Yet once more, O ye Mufes! deign
For me, the meaneft of your train,
Unblam'd t' approach your bleft retreat:
Where Horace wantons at your fpring,
And Pindar fweeps a bolder ftring;
Whofe notes th' Aonian hills repeat.

Or if invok'd, where Thames's fruitful tides, Slow through the vale in filver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month prefides, Gives Love the night, and doubly gilds the day: Thither, indulgent to my pray'r,

Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair,
To fwell the notes I feebly raife:
So, with infpiring ardours warm'd,
May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd,
To listen to my lays.

Beneath the Pole, on hills of fnow,
Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede
To dint of fword defies the foe;
In fight unknowing to recede:
From Volga's banks th'imperious Czar
Leads forth his furry troops to war;
Fond of the fofter fouthern sky:
The Soldan gauls th' Illyrian coaft;
But foon the mifcreant moony hoft
Before the victor-crofs fhall fly.

But here no clarion's fhrilling note
The Mufe's green retreat can pierce;
The grove, from noify camps remote,
Is only vocal with my verfe:
Here, wing'd with innocence and joy,
Let the foft hours that o'er me fly
Drop freedom, health, and gay defires:
While the bright Seine, t'exalt the foul,
With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl,
And wit and focial mirth infpires.

Enamour'd of the Seine, celeftial fair,
The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caus'd his care,
Lafh'd his fwift tigers to the Celtic plain :

There, fecret in her fapphire cell,
He with the Naiads wont to dwell;
Leaving the nectar'd feafts of Jove:
And where her mazy waters flow,
He gave the mantling vine to grow
A trophy to his love,

Shall man from Nature's fanction ftray, With blind Opinion for his guide; And, rebel to her rightful way, Leave all her bounties unenjoy'd? Fool! Time no change of motion knows; With equal speed the torrent flows, To fweep Fame, Pow'r, and Wealth away: The paft is all by Death poffefs'd; And frugal Fate that guards the reft, By giving, bids him live to-day.

O Gower! through all that deftin'd space What breath the pow'rs allot to me, Shall fing the virtues of thy race United and complete in thee. O flow'r of ancient English faith, Purfue th' unbeaten patriot-path, In which confirm'd thy father thone: The light his fair example gives Already from thy dawn receives A luftre equal to its own.

Honour's bright dome, on lafting columns rear',
Nor envy rufts, nor rolling years confume;
Loud paans echoing round the roof are hear'd,
And clouds of incenfe all the void perfume.

There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland feated near his fide,
Fix'd by the Mufe, the temple grace:
Prophetic of thy happier fame,
She, to receive thy radiant name,
Selects a wider fpace.

$219. An Efay upon unnatural Flights in Poetry. LANSDOWNE.

AS when fome image of a charming face,

In living paint, an artist tries to trace, He carefully confults each beauteous line, Adjufting to his object his defign; We praife the piece, and give the painter fame, But as the bright refemblance fpeaks the dame; Poets are limners of another kind,

To copy out ideas in the mind;

Words are the paint by which their thoughts ar

fhewn,

And Nature is their object to be drawn ;
The written picture we applaud or blame
But as the juft proportions are the fame.
Who, driven with ungovernable fire,
Or void of art, beyond thefe bounds afpire
Gigantic forms and monftrous births aloue
Produce, which Nature fhock'd difdains to own.
By true reflection I would fee my face,
Why brings the fool a magnifying glass?
"But poetry in fiction takes delight,

“ And mounting in bold figures out of fight,
"Leaves Truth behind in her audacious flight:
"Fables and metaphors, that always lye,
"And rath hyperboles that foar fo high,
"And ev'ry ornament of verfe muft die."
Miftake me not: no figures I exclude,
And but forbid intemperance, not food.

Who would with care fome happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very fame;

Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's fcorn,
But meant to grace, illuftrate, and adorn.
Important truths ftill let your fables hold,
And moral myfteries with art unfold:
Ladies and beaux to pleafe, is all the task;
But the fharp critic will inftruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear, when right applied;
When through the phrafe we plainly fee the fenfe,
Truth with fuch obvious meanings will difpenfe.
The reader what in reafon's due believes,
Nor can we call that falfe which not deceives:
Hyperboles fo daring and fo bold,
Difdaining bounds, are yet by rules controul'd;
Above the clouds, but yet within our fight,
They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring
Prefenting things impoffible to view, [flight,

That fury fpent in each elaborate piece,

He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Rofcommon first, then Mulgrave rose, like light,
To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight;
With steady judgment, and in lofty founds,
They gave us patterns, and, they let us bounds.
The Stagyrite and Horace laid afide,
Inform'd by then, we need no foreign guide;
Who feek from poetry a lafting name,
May from their leffons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be fure
That ev'ry line the test of truth endure;
On this foundation may the fabric rife
Firm and unfhaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from love,
Abandon'd Truth feeks fhelter in the grove;
Cherish, ye Mufes, the forfaken fair,
And take into your train this beauteous wanderer.

§ 220. To Mr. Spence, prefixed to the Fly s PITT. Pope's Ody Jey.

They wander through incredible to true:
Falfchcods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd;
And truth, like filver, leaves the drofs behind.
Thus Poetry has ample fpace to foar,
Nor needs forbidden legions to explore;
Such vaunts as his who can with patience read,
Who thus defcribes his hero when he's dead-'TIS done-reftor'd by thy immortal pen,
"In heat of action flain, yet fcorns to fall,
"But ftill maintains the war, and fights at-All?"
The noify culverin, o'er-charg'd, lets fly,
And burfts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And Nature fuffers in the wild extreme.
The captive cannibal, oppreft with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains;
Of nature ficrce, untameable, and proud,
He bids defiance to the gaping crowd;
And spent at laft, and fpeechlefs, as he lies,
With fiery glances mocks their rage, and dies.
This is the utmoft ftretch that Nature can,
And all beyond is fulfome, falfe, and vain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different fides,
I would condemn, but that, in fpite of fenfe,
Th' admiring world still stands in his defence:
The gods permitting traitors to fucceed,
Become not parties in an impious deed;
And, by the tyrant's murder, we may find
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with fuch prepoft'rous praise,
Our characters we leflen when we'd raife;
Like caftles built by magic art in air,
That vanish at approach, fuch thoughts appear;
But, rais'd on truth by fome judicious hand,
As on a rock they fhall for ages ftand.
Our king return'd, and banith'd peace reftor'd,
The Mufe ran mad to fee her exil'd lord;
On the crack'd ftage the Bedlam heroes roar'd,
And fcarce could fpeak one reasonable word:
Dryden himself, to please a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgment stoop to rage;
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Complied to custom, but not err'd through choice.
Deem then the people's, not the writer's fin,
Almanfor's rage, and rants of Maximin ;

The critic's noble name revives again;
Once more that great, that injur'd name we fee
Shine forth alike in Addifon and thee.

Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feaft,
And feed on fcraps refus'd by ev'ry gueft;
From the old Thracian dog they learn'd the way
To fnarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey.
As though they grudg'd themlelves the joys they
feel,

Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.
Such their inverted tafte, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell fnake rejects the fragrant flow`rs,
In ev'ry poifon of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's fame;
With his, your gen'rous raptures ftill afpire;
The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.
But when fome lame, fome limping line demands
The friendly fuccour of your healing hands;
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we furvey,
We ftand all dazzled with excefs of day,
Blind with the glorious blaze-to vulgar fight
'Twas one bright mafs of undiftinguith'd light;
But, like the tow'ring eagle, you alone
Difcern'd the spots and fplendors of the fun.

To point out faults, yet never to offend;
To play the critic, yet preferve the friend;
A life well fpent, that never loft a day;
An eafy fpirit, innocently gay;

A ftrict integrity, devoid of art;
The fweeteft manners, and fincereft heart;
A foul, where depth of fenfe and fancy meet;
A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit-
Were ever yours: be what you were before,
Be ftill yourfelf; the world can afk no more.

* Zollus, fo called by the ancients.

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