For thus his genius takes a different face
From every different genius of a place.
The foul too changes, and the Bard may find
A thousand various motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will every moment rise,
While from each part the scattering darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amifs,

He adds new flowers to beautify the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of fuch,
Who with excess of care correct too much;
Whofe barbarous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the found,
And make the cure more dangerous than the wound.
Till, all the blood and fpirits drain'd away,
The body fickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die, the limbs appear
Rough and deform'd with one continued fear.
No fixt determin'd number I enjoin,

But when fome years fhall perfect the defign;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whofe fcanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the fpacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish'd piece to take its way ;
Till all mankind admires the heavenly fong,
The theme of every hand and every tongue.
See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to fwell the vast applaufe;
The vaft applaufe fhall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages, fhall obfcure thy fame,
And earth's laft ends fhall hear thy darling name.

}\

}

Shall

Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the Muse?

Thrice happy Bards! who, taught by heaven, ob
Thefe rules, and follow where they lead the
And hear the faithful precepts I bestow'd,

way;

Infpir'd with rage divine, and labouring with the God.
But art alone, and human means must fail,
Nor thefe inftructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the Gods their prefent aid fupply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths that lead
The panting youth to steep Parnaffus' head;
And show'd the tuneful Muses from afar,
Mixt in a folemn choir, and dancing there.
Thither forbidden by the Fates to go,
I fink and grovel in the world below.
Deterr'd by them, in vain I labour up,

And stretch these hands to grasp the distant top.
Enough for me, at diftance if I view

Some Bard, fome happier Bard, the path purfue;
Who, taught by me to reach Parnaffus' crown.
Mounts up, and calls his flow companions on.
But yet thefe rules, perhaps, thefe humble lays,
May claim a title to a share of praise,

When, in a crowd, the gathering youths fhall hear
My voice and precepts with a willing ear;
Close in a ring fhall prefs the liftening throng,
And learn from me to regulate their fong.
Then, if the pitying Fates prolong my breath,
And from my youth avert the dart of death;

Whene'er

Whene'er I fink in life's declining stage,

Trembling and fainting on the verge of age,
To help their wearied master shall they run,
And lend their friendly hands to guide him on ;
Through blooming groves his tardy progress wait,
And fet him gently down at Phoebus' gate,
The while he fings, before the hallow'd shrine,
The facred Poets, and the tuneful Nine.
Here then in Roman numbers will we rife,
And lift the fame of Virgil to the skies;
Aufonia's pride and boaft; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my fong:
First how the mighty Bard transported o'er
The facred Mufes from th' Aonian shore;
Led the fair fifters to th' Hefperian plains,
And fung in Roman towns the Grecian strains;
How in his youth to woods and groves he fled,
And sweetly tun'd the foft Sicilian reed;
Next, how, in pity to th' Ausonian fwains,
He rais'd to heaven the honours of the plains;
Rapt in Triptolemus's car on high,

He scatter'd peace and plenty from the sky;
Fir'd with his country's fame, with loud alarms,
At laft he rous'd all Latium up to arms;
In just array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a God.
Father of verfe! from whom our honours spring;
See! from all parts, our Bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear proud trophies from the spoils of Greece.

Low, in Elysian vales, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy laurels, and adore thy fong:
On thee alone thy country turns her eyes;
On thee her Poets future fame relies.

See! how in crowds they court thy aid divine
(For all their honours but depend on thine);
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearfe,
And sip the balmy sweets of every verse.
Unrival'd Bard! all ages fhall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy Bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rife;
Such heavenly numbers in thy fong we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phoebus' hands impart
His foul, his genius, and immortal art.
What help or merit in these rules are shown,
The youth muft owe to thy fupport alone.
The youth, whose wandering feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er fteep Parnaffus' facred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths which thou hast trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For whom, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
And with rich incenfe bid the temples blaze;
Our folemn hymns fhall ftill refound thy praife.
Hail, holy Bard, and boundlefs in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thyfelf alone,
Requires no fong, no numbers but thy own.

Look

Look down propitious, and my thoughts infpire;
Warm my chafte bofom with thy facred fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
Deep in my breast, and kindle all my foul!

HORACE, Book II. EP. XIX. IMITATED. AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT LOWTH *.

TIS faid, dear Sir, no poets please the town,

Who drink mere water, though from Helicon :
For in cold blood they feldom boldly think;
Their rhymes are more infipid than their drink.
Not great Apollo could the train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire.
Warm'd by two gods at once, they drink and write,
Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night.
Homer, fays Horace, nods in many a place,
But hints, he nodded oftner o'er the glass.
Infpir'd with wine old Ennius fung and thought
With the fame fpirit, that his heroes fought:
And we from Johnson's tavern-laws divine,
That bard was no great enemy to wine.

'Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit,
Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ.
Let no coif 'd ferjeant touch the facred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better use:

Let the grave judges too the glass forbear,
Who never fing and dance but once a year.

*Now Bishop of London.