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Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,

And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew ;
From the same foes at last both felt their doom,
And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
With tyranny then superstition join'd,
As that the body, this enslaved the mind;
Much was believed, but little understood,
And to be dull was construed to be good :
A second deluge learning thus o'er-ran,
And the monks finish'd what the Goths began.
At length Erasmus, that great injured name,
(The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!)
Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barbarous age,
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

But see! each Muse in Leo's golden days Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays; Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head. Then sculpture and her sister arts revive; Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung: Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow! Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arms from Latium chased, Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd; Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, But critic-learning flourish'd most in France; The rules a nation born to serve obeys, And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, And kept unconquer'd and uncivilised; Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defied the Romans, as of old.

Yet some there were, among the sounder few
Of those who less presumed and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restored wit's fundamental laws.
Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell,
'Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.'
Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good,
With manners generous as his noble blood;

To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And every author's merit, but his own.

Such late was Walsh-the Muse's judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
To failings mild, but zealous for desert,
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
This humble praise, lamented shade! receive;
This praise at least a grateful Muse may give :
The Muse whose early voice you taught to sing,
Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing,
(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
But in low numbers short excursions tries;
Content if hence the unlearn'd their wants may view,
The learn'd reflect on what before they knew;
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;
Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame;
Averse alike to flatter or offend;

Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

P.SHUT, shut the door, good John!' fatigued,
I said;

"Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.'
The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ?
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'uam, and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.'
'Nine years!' cries he, who, high in Drury Lane,
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Obliged by hunger and request of friends :
‹ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it,
I'm all submission; what you'd have it—make it.'
Three things another's modest wishes bound ;-
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.'
Pitholeon sends to me: You know his grace:
I want a patron; ask him for a place.'
Pitholeon libell'd me—But here's a letter
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine;
He'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine.”
Bless me! a packet.- "Tis a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.'

If I dislike it, ‹ Furies, death, and rage!'

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If I approve, Commend it to the stage.'
There, thank my stars, my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house rejects him, "Sdeath, I'll print
And shame the fools—your interest, sir, with Lintot.'
Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much :
Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.'
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, 'Do, and we go snacks."

Glad of a quarrel, straight clap the door;
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.'
"Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a_king)

His very minister who spied them first

(Some say his queen) was forced to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things;

I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick,
"Tis nothing.-P. Nothing! if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he's an ass :
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The, queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain ;
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet or peer
Lost the arch'd eyebrow or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colley still his lord and whore?
His butchers Henley? his free-masons Moore ?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold! for God's sake-you'll of-
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend :

[fend.

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