40 Would make him soon against his greatness sin, Such is thy pow'r, O Goddess of the song! Come then, and guide my careless pen along; 50 Yet keep it in the bounds of sense and verse, Nor, like Mac-Homer, make me gabble Erse. Verse 37. That solemn vein of irony.] "A fine vein of solemn irony runs through this piece." See Monthly Review, under the article of the Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers. Verse 43. There should he see.] A certain naval event happened just about two calendar months after the publication of the Heroic Epistle. It was impossible, considering the necessary preparations, it could have been sooner. Facts are stubborn things. No, let the flow of these spontaneous rhymes That he who runs may read; while well he knows Find a sure patron in each English heart. Verse 52. Nor like Mac-Homer.] See, if the reader thinks it worth while, a late translation of the Iliad. Verse 62. Like old young Fannius.] The noble personage here alluded to, being asked to read the Heroic Epistle, said, "No, it was as bad as blasphemy." Ibid. Fannius.] Before I sent the manuscript to the press, I discovered that an accidental blot had made all but the first syllable of this name illegible. I was doubtful, therefore, whether to print it Fannius or Fannia. After much deliberation, I thought it best to use the masculine termination. If I have done wrong, I ask pardon, not only of the Author, but the Lady. THE EDITOR Proud of a single word, nor hope for more, 65 Though Jenkinson is blest with many a score: That lay shall live, tho'Court and Grub-street sigh, The Muse shall nurse him up to man's estate, 75 Admit him then your candidate for fame, Verse 76. And break the black asperity of fate.] Tu Marcellus eris." VIRG. So when o'er Crane-Court's philosophic Gods The Jove-like majesty of Pringle nods, If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair, 85 He "wonders how the devil he got there." Whate'er his fame or fate, on this depend→→ Sell her as cheaply as themselves they sold; In mean, unkingly prodigality; 100 Nor, ere they give, ask how the sums were spent, So quickly squander'd tho' so lately lent If this they dare, the thunder of his song, Shall strike, with Truth's dead bolt, each mis creant's name, Who, dead to duty, senseless e'en to shame, 105 Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithless crew, |