Page images
PDF
EPUB

But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.

And, when false flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst cull, Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Sir Formal, tho' unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hoftile name.

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part:
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble ftrain?
Where fold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce ?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doft transfuse to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play :
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ ;
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:
Thy tragic mufe gives fmiles, thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet'ft thyfelf to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen lambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou may'ft Wings difplay, and Altars raife,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou woud'ft thy different talents suit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute."
He faid; but his laft words were scarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

Ο Ν

O N

POE T TRY.

A

RHAP PSODY.

Here follows one of the beft verfified poems in our language, and the moft masterly production of its author. The feverity with which, Walpole is here treated, was in confequence of that minister's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose in the year 1725 (if I remember right). The feverity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneafinefs. A man whofe fchemes, like this minifter's, feldom extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of posterity.

A

LL human race would fain be wits,

And millions mifs for one that hits.
Young's univerfal paffion, pride,
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age, at most ?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A fprig of bays in fifty years:
I 4

While

While ev'ry fool his claim alledges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reafon can there be affign'd
For this perverfeness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horfe will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate :
A dog, by inftinct, turns afide,
Who fees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature,
Who, led by folly, combats nature;
Who, when the loudly cries forbear,
With obftinacy fixes there;
And, where his genius leaft inclines,
Abfurdly bends his whole defigns.
Not empire to the rifing fun,
By valour, conduct, fortune won ;
Not highest wisdom in debates
For framing laws to govern ftates;
Not skill in fciences profound,
So large, to grafp the circle round;
Such heav'nly influence require,
As how to ftrike the Mufe's lyre.
Not beggar's brat, on bulk begot;
Not baftard of a pedlar Scot;.
Not boy brought up to cleaning fhoes,
The spawn of Bridewell, or the ftews;
Not infants dropt, the fpurious pledges
Of gipfies litt'ring under hedges,

Are

Are fo difqualify'd by fate

To rife in church, or law, or state,
As he whom Phoebus, in his ire,
Hath blafted with poetic fire.

What hope of custom in the fair,
While not a foul demands your ware ?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life, or public ufe?
Court, city, country, want you not;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets law makes no provifion;
The wealthy have you in derifion;
Of state affairs you cannot fmatter;
Are aukward, when you try to flatter;
Your portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not fo much as in remainder,
Since Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine

(A monarch's right) on Grub-street line.
Poor ftarvling bard, how fmall thy gains!
How unproportion'd to thy pains!

And here a fimile comes pat in:

Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The guests, in less than half an hour,
Will more than half a fcore devour:
So, after toiling twenty days
To earn a flock of pence and praife,
Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,
Are fwallow'd o'er a dish of tea:
I 5

Gone

« PreviousContinue »