With all the guilt of impotence in view, • That if the voice of intʼrest might be heard, For one who wears a gown, would be preferr'd'Incorrigibly deaf, I feign a yawn; And mock their just conclusions, ere they're drawn. If to my practice, they oppos'd my theme; I'd quote 'em half the writers of the age; EPISTLE IV. ON THE DANGER OF WRITING VERSE. BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ. Quae porterunt umquam satis expurgare cicutae, Ni melius dormire putem quam scribere versus ? Hor. You ask me, Sir, why thus by phantoms aw'd, 'Twould wrong your judgment, should I fairly say Distrust or weakness caus'd the cold delay: Hint the small diff'rence, till we touch the lyre, 'Twixt real genius and too strong desire; The human slips, or seeming slips pretend, That rouze the critic, but escape the friend; Nay which, though dreadful when the foe pursues, You pass, and smile, and still provoke the Muse. 10 Yet, spite of all you think, or kindly feign, My hand will tremble while it grasps the pen. For not in this, like other arts, we try Our light excursions in a summer sky, No casual flights the dangerous trade admits, But wits, once authors, are for ever wits. The fool in prose, like earth's unwieldy son, May oft rise vig'rous, though he's oft o'erthrown; One dangerous crisis marks our rise or fall, By all we're courted, or we're shun'd by all. Will it avail, that unmatur'd by years, My easy numbers pleas'd your partial ears, If now condemn'd, my riper lays must bear The wise man's censure, and the vain man's sneer? And barr'd all arts, for having fail'd in one. 30- But grant, for once, th' officious Muse has shed Her gentlest influence on his infant head, Let fears lie vanquish'd, and resounding Fame Give to the bellowing blast the poet's name. And see! distinguish'd from the crowd he moves, Each finger marks him, and each eye approves ! ? O blissful state, O more than human joy! Rude to the world, like earth's first lord expell'd,__fo Is he reserv'd ?-his sense is so refin'd, 69 It ne'er descends to trifle with mankind. Contempt with envy strangely mix'd endure, Fear'd where caress'd, and jealous though secure. One fatal rock on which good authors split Besides, on parties now our fame depends, And frowns or smiles, as these are foes or friends. Wit, judgment, nature join; you strive in vain ; 'Tis keen invective stamps the current strain. Fix'd to one side, like Homer's gods, we fight, These always wrong, and those for ever right. And would you choose to see your friend, resign'd Each conscious tie which guides the virtuous mind, Embroil'd in factions, hurl with dreadful skill The random vengeance of his desp'rate quill? 'Gainst pride in man with equal pride declaim, 20 And hide ill-nature under virtue's name? Or deeply vers'd in flattery's wily ways, Flow in full reams of undistinguish'd praise ? To vice's grave, or folly's bust bequeath The blushing trophy, and indignant wreath? Like Egypt's priests, bid endless temples rise, And people with earth's pests th' offended skies ? |