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Where common fhores a lulling murmur keep,
Whose torrents rush from Holbourn's fatal steep :
Penfive through idleness, tears flow'd apace,
Which eas'd his loaded heart, and wash'd his face;
At length he fighing cry'd; That boy was bleft,
Whofe infant lips have drain'd a mother's breast ;
But happier far are those, (if such be known)
Whom both a father and a mother own:
But I, alas! hard fortune's utmost scorn,
Who ne'er knew parent, was an orphan born!
Some boys are rich by birth beyond all wants,
Belov'd by uncles, and kind good old aunts;
When times comes round, a Chrifimas box they bear,
And one day makes them rich for all the
year.
Had I the precepts of a father learn'd,
Perhaps I then the coachman's fare had earn'd,
For leffer boys can drive; I thirsty stand
And fee the double flaggon charge their hand,
See them puff off the froth, and gulp amain,
While with dry tongue I lick my lips in vain.

While thus he fervent prays, the heaving tide
In widen'd circles beats on either fide;
The Goddess rose amid the inmost round,
With wither'd turnip-tops her temples crown'd;
Low reach'd her dripping treffes, lank, and black
As the smooth jet, or gloffy raven's back;
Around her waift a circling eel was twin'd,
Which bound her robe that hung in rags behind.
Now beck'ning to the boy; fhe thus begun;
Thy prayers are granted; weep no more, my fon :
Go thrive. At fome frequented corner ftand,
This brush I give thee, grafp it in thy hand.
Temper the foot within this vafe of oil,
And let the little tripod aid thy toil;

On this methinks I fee the walking crew,

At thy request fupport the miry fhoe,

The foot grows black that was with dirt embrown'd,
And in thy pocket gingling halfpence found.
The Goddess plunges fwift beneath the flood,
And dafhes all around her fhow'rs of mud;

The youth ftraight chofe his poft; the labour ply'd,
Where branching ftreets from Charing-cross divide;

His treble voice refounds, along the Meufe,
And Whitehall echoes Clean your honour's fhoes.

Episodes, and poetical fictions, properly introduc'd, have a most admirable effect in preceptive poetry; for they take off the attention of the mind, when fatigued with dry precepts, and lead it to subjects that are entertaining. They may, in this refpect, be compared to inns placed at proper distances on the road, where, when a man is tired, he may ftop to refresh himself.

But the humour and art of this author is fo powerful, that he can make us laugh even at circumstances that fhould excite a different fenfation; as will appear by the following description.

O roving mufe, recal that wondrous year,
When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted ofiers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound,
The waterman, forlorn along the fhore,
Penfive reclines upon his useless oar,

See harness'd steeds defert the ftony town;
And wander roads unstable, not their own:
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters smoothly glide,
And raise with whiten'd tracks the flipp'ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the fpit can turn the fteer entire.
Booths fudden hide the Thames, long ftreets appear,
And num'rous games proclaim the crouded fair,
So when a gen'ral bids the martial train
Spread their incampment o'er the fpacious plain;
Thick rifing tents a canvas city build,

And the loud dice refound thro' all the field.
'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate:

Let elegiac lay the woe relate,

Soft as the breath of diftant flutes, at hours
When filent ev'ning closes up the flow'rs;
Lulling as falling water's hollow noise;

Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.

Doll ev'ry day had walk'd these treach'rous roads ;

Her neck grew wrapt beneath autumnal loads

Of various fruits; fhe now a basket bore,
That head alas! fhall basket bear no more.
Each booth fhe frequent paft, in queft of gain,
And boys with pleasure heard her fhrilling strain.
Ah Doll! all mortals must resign their breath,
And industry itself submit to death!

The cracking cryftal yields, fhe finks, the dies,
Her head chopt off, from her loft shoulders flies;
Pippins the cry'd, but death her voice confounds,
And Pip pip-pip along the ice refounds.

We should here treat of thofe preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deferve particular attention; but we have anticipated our defign, and render'd any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the obfervations we have made in the courfe of this work. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients, who wrote precepts for poetry in verse, at least his epistle to the Pio's is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is fo perfect it seems almost to have precluded the neceffity of any other. Among the moderns we have feveral that are justly admired, which the reader will find, occafionally mentioned in different parts of this volume.

We are now to speak of those precepts that respect criticifi; and here we fhall be obliged to draw all our examples from Mr. Pope, who is, perhaps, the only author that has laid down rules in this manner for the direction of the judgment. His effay is of a mix'd nature, and may not improperly be called the Art of Poetry as well as Criticism. This, however, is not to be confidered as a blemish, but a beauty in his production.

Mr. Pope introduces his poem with this very juft obfervation, that it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and more dangerous to the publick. He then proceeds to fhew, that a true tafte is as difficult to be found as a true genius; and obferves, that tho' moft men are born with fome tafte, yet it is generally spoiled by a false education. He takes notice of the multitude of critics, and tells us in the following lines that we ought to ftudy our

own taste, and know the limits of our genius, and judgment, before we attempt to criticife on others.

But you who feek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a critic's noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, tafte, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.

And in the following beautiful lines he refers us to nature as the best, and indeed, the only unerring guide to the judgment.

First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
By her juft ftandard, which is ftill the fame;
Unerring nature, ftill divinely bright,

One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart,
At once the fource, and end, and teft of art.
Art from that fund, each juft fupply provides;
Works without show, and without pomp prefides :
In fome fair body thus th' informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unfeen, but in th' effects, remains.

But the judgment, he obferves, may be improved by the rules of art, which rules, if juft and fit, are only nature methodifed; and as these rules are derived from the practice of the ancient poets, the ancients, particularly Homer and Virgil, ought to be ftudy'd by the critic.

You then whofe judgment the right course wou'd steer,
Know well each ANCIENT's proper character;
His fable, fubject, scope in ev'ry page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.

Be HOMER's works your ftudy, and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night;

Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
And trace the mufes upward to their fpring.

Still with itself compar'd, his text perufe ;
And let your comment be the Mantuan mufe.

He then speaks of the licences allow'd to poetry, and of the use of them by the ancients; which is thus happily expreffed.

Some beauties yet,. no precepts can declare,
For there's a happiness as well as care.
Mufick resembles poetry; in each

Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a master-hand alone can reach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend,
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Some lucky LICENCE answers to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
Thus Pegafus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great wits fometimes may gloriously offend,
And rife to faults true critics dare not mend
From vulgar bounds with brave diforder part,
And fnatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Which, without paffing thro' the judgment, gains
The heart, and all its ends at once attains.
In profpects thus, fome objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rife,.
The shapelefs rock, or hanging precipice.
But care in poetry must still be had,

It afks difcretion ev'n in running mad:

And tho' the ancients thus their rules invade,

(As kings difpenfe with laws themfelves have made)
Moderns beware! Or if you must offend
Against the precept, ne'er tranfgrefs its end;
Let it be feldom; and compell'd by need ;
And have, at leaft, their precedent to plead.
The critic elfe proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose prefumptuous thoughts
Thofe freer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults.
Some figures monftrous and mis-fhap'd appear,
Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near,

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