Such is the shout, the long-applauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;
Or when from Court a birth-day suit bestow'd
Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the universal peal!
"But has he spoken?" Not a syllable.
"What shook the stage, and made the people stare?"
Cato's long wig, flow'r'd gown, and lacker'd chair.
Yet, lest you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once presume t'instruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes.
'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each passion that he feigns;
Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
With pity and with terror tear my heart,
And snatch me o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will and where.
But not this part of the poetic state
Alone deserves the favour of the great.
Think of these authors, Sir, who would rely
More on a reader's sense than gazer's eye.
Or who shall wander where the Muses sing?
Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring?
How shall we fill a library with wit,
When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet? 355
My Leige! why writers little claim your thought
guess,
and with their leave will tell the fault.
We poets are (upon a Poet's word)
Of all mankind the creatures most absurd:
The season when to come and when to go,
To sing, or cease to sing, we never know ;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience just like other men.
Then, too, we hurt ourselves, when, to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unask'd; lament the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line:
But most when straining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write epistles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the Town,
Expect a place or pension from the Crown;
Or, dubb'd Historians, by express command,
T'enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land,
Be call'd to Court to plan some work divine,
As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.
Yet think, great Sir! [so many virtues shown,] Ah! think what poet best may make them known;
Or chuse at least some minister of grace,
Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place.
Charles, to late times to me transmitted fair, 380 Assign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed
To fix him graceful on the bounding steed :
So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit :
But kings in wit may want discerning spirit.
The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles,
Which made old Ben. and surly Dennis swear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear.”
Not with such majesty, such bold relief,
The forms august of king, or conqu❜ring chief,
E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shin'd
(In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Your arms, your actions, your repose, to sing! 395
What seas you travers'd, and what fields you fought!
Your country's peace how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage subsided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword!
How when you nodded, o'er the land and deep 400
Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep,
Till earth's extremes your meditation own,
And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne
But verse, alas! your majesty disdains:
And I'm not us'd to panegyric strains.
The zeal of fools offends at any time,
But most of all the zeal of fools in rhyme.
Besides, a fate attends on all I write,
That when I aim at praise they say I bite.
A vile encomium doubly ridicules;
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woeful likeness; and if lies,
"Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise."
Well may he blush who gives it, or receives;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
[Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things
As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings,]
Clothe spice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.
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