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A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark, Wit now and then, ftruck smartly, shows a spark, Sufficient to redeem the modern race

From total night and abfolute disgrace.
While fervile trick and imitative knack
Confine the million in the beaten track,
Perhaps fome courfer, who difdains the road,
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad.
Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one,
Short his career, indeed, but ably run,
Churchill; himself unconscious of his pow'rs,
In penury confum'd his idle hours,

And like a scatter'd feed at random fown,
Was left to spring by vigor of his own.
Lifted at length by dignity of thought
And dint of genius to an affluent lot,
He laid his head in luxury's foft lap,
And took too often there his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.
Surly and flovenly and bold and coarse,
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,
Always at speed and never drawing bit,
He ftruck the lyre in fuch a careless mood,
And fo difdain'd the rules he understood,

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The laurel feem'd to wait on his command,

He snatch'd it rudely from the mufes hand.

Nature exerting an unwearied pow'r,
Forms, opens, and gives scent to ev'ry flow'r,
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads;
She fills profufe ten thousand little throats

With mufic, modulating all their notes,

And charms the woodland fcenes and wilds unknown, With artless airs and concerts of her own:

But feldom (as if fearful of expence)

Vouchfafes to man a poet's just pretence,
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, ftrength, words exquifitely fought;
Fancy that from the bow that spans the sky,
Brings colours dipt in heav'n that never die:
A foul exalted above earth, a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;
And as the fun, in rifing beauty dress'd,
Looks to the westward from the dappled east,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close;
An eye like his to catch the distant goal,
Or ere the wheels of verse begin to roll;
Like his to shed illuminating rays

On ev'ry scene and subject it surveys;

Thus

Thus grac❜d, the man afferts a poet's name,
And the world chearfully admits the claim.
Pity, Religion has fo feldom found

A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flow'rs would spring where'er fhe deign'd to stray,
And ev'ry mufe attend her in her way..
Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming friend,
And many a compliment politely penn'd;
But unattir'd in that becoming vest

Religion weaves for her, and half undrefs'd,
Stands in the defert fhiv'ring and forlorn,
A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn.
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped,
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimfy thread,
Satyr has long fince done his beft, and curft
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst ;
Fancy has sported all her pow'rs away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the fad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new.
'Twere new, indeed, to see a bard all fire,
Touch'd with a coal from heav'n, affume the lyre,
And tell the world, ftill kindling as he fung,
With more than mortal mufic on his tongue,
That he who died below, and reigns above,
Infpires the fong, and that his name is Love.

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For after all, if merely to beguile

By flowing numbers and a flow'ry style,
The tædium that the lazy rich endure,
Which now and then sweet poetry may cure;

Or if to fee the name of idol felf

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf,

To float a bubble on the breath of fame,
Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim;
Debas'd to fervile purposes of pride,
How are the pow'rs of genius mifapplied?
The gift whofe office is the giver's praife,
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways;
Then spread the rich discov'ry, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight;
Distorted from its ufe and just defign,
To make the pitiful poffeffor fhine;
To purchase, at the fool-frequented fair
Of vanity, a wreath for felf to wear,
Is profanation of the bafeft kind,

Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

A. Hail Sternhold then and Hopkins hail! B. Amen.

If flatt'ry, folly, luft, employ the pen,

If acrimony, flander, and abuse,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

Tho' Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's eafe,

With all that fancy can invent to please,

Adorn

Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall,
One Madrigal of their's is worth them all.

A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you profcribe. B. No matter-we could fhift when they were not, And should no doubt if they were all forgot.

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