The common bulk of fubjects to rehearse
In all the rich varieties of verse.
Yet none of all with equal honours fhine
(But thofe which celebrate the power divine)
To thofe exalted meafures, which declare
The deeds of heroes, and the fons of war.
From hence pofterity the name bestow'd
On this rich prefent of the Delphic God;
Fame fays, Phæmonoe in this measure gave
Apollo's anfwers from the Pythian cave.
But ere you write, confult your ftrength, and chufe
A theme proportion'd juftly to your Mufe.
For though in chief these precepts are bestow'd
On him who fings an hero or a God;
To other themes their general ufe extends,
And ferves in different views to different ends.
Whether the lofty Mufe with tragic rage
Would proudly ftalk in buskins on the stage;
Or in foft elegies our pity move,
And fhew the youth in all the flames of love;
Or fing the fhepherd's woes in humble strains,
And the low humours of contending fwains:
Thefe faithful rules fhall guide the Bard along
In every meafure, argument, and fong.
Be fure (whatever you propofe to write)
Let the chief motive be your own delight,
And well-weigh'd choice ;---a tafk enjoin'd refufe,
Unless a monarch should command your Mufe.
(If we may hope thofe golden times to fee,
When Bards become the care of majefty!)
Free and fpontaneous the fmooth numbers glide,
Where choice determines, and our wills prefide;
But, at command, we toil with fruitless pain,
And drag th' involuntary load in vain.
Nor, at its birth, indulge your warm defire,
On the firft glimmering of the facred fire;
Defer the mighty tafk; and weigh your power
And every part in every view explore;
And let the theme in different prospects roll
Deep in your thoughts, and grow into the foul.
But ere with fails unfurl'd you fly away,
And cleave the bofom of the boundless fea;
A fund of words and images prepare,
And lay the bright materials up with care,
Which at due time, occafion may produce,
All rang'd in order for the Poet's use.
Some happy objects by meer chance are brought
From hidden caufes to the wandering thought;
Which if once loft, you labour long in vain
To catch th' ideal fugitives again.
Nor muft I fail their conduct to extol,
Who, when they lay the basis of the whole,
Explore the ancients with a watchful eye,
Lay all their charms and elegancies by,
Then to their use the precious fpoils apply.
At first without the least restraint compofe,
And mould the future poem into profe;
A full and proper feries to maintain,
And draw the just connexion in a chain ;
By ftated bounds your progrefs to control,
To join the parts, and regulate the whole.
And now 'tis time to spread the opening fails
Wide to the wanton winds and flattering gales;
"Tis time we now prescribe the genuine laws
To raife the beauteous fabrick with applaufe;
But first fome method requifite appears
To form the boy, and mould his tender years.
In vain the Bard the facred wreath pursues,
Unless train'd up and feafon'd to the Muse.
Soon as the prattling innocent fhall reach
To the first use and rudiments of speech,
Ev'n then, by Helicon he ought to rove,
Ev'n then the tuneful Nine fhould win his love
By juft degrees.---But make his guide your choice
For his chafte phrafe and elegance of voice;
That he at firft fuccefsfully may teach
The methods, laws, and difcipline of speech;
Left the young charge, mistaking right and wrong,
With vitious habits prejudice his tongue,
Habits, whofe fubtle feeds may mock
And spread their roots and poifon through his heart.
Whence none shall move me to approve the wretch,
Who wildly borne above the vulgar reach,
And big with vain pretences to impart
Vast shows of learning, and a depth of art,
For fenfe th' impertinence of terms affords;
An idle cant of formidable words;
The pride of pedants, the delight of fools;
The vile difgrace, and lumber of the schools:
In vain the circling youths, a blooming throng,
Dwell on th' eternal jargon of his tongue.
Deluded fools !---The fame is their mistake,
Who at the limpid ftream their thirst may flake,
Yet choose the tainted waters of the lake.
Let no fuch peft approach the blooming care,
Deprave his ftyle, and violate his ear;
But far, oh far, to fome remoter place
Drive the vile wretch to teach a barbarous race.
Now to the Mufe's ftream the pupil bring,
To drink large draughts of the Pierian fpring;
And from his birth the facred Bard adore,
Nurft by the Nine, on Mincio's flowery fhore;
And ask the Gods his numbers to infpire,
With like invention, majefty, and fire.
He reads Afcanius' deeds with equal flame,
And longs with him to run at nobler game.
For youths of ages past he makes his moan,
And learns to pity years fo like his own;
Which with too fwift, and too fevere a docm,
The fate of war had hurried to the tomb.
His eyes, for Pallas, and for Laufus, flow,
Mourn with their fires, and weep another's woe,
But when Euryalus, in all his charms,
Is fnatch'd by Fate from his dear mother's arms,
And as he rolls in death, the purple flood
Streams out, and ftains his fnowy limbs with blood,
His foul the pangs of generous forrow pierce,
And a new tear tea's out at every verse.
Mean time with bolder steps the youth proceeds,
And the Greek Poets in fucceffion reads;
Seafons to either tongue his tender ears;
Compares the heroes glorious characters;
Sees, how Æneas is himself alone,
The draught of Peleus' and Laertes' fon;
How, by the Poet's art, in one, conspire
Ulyffes' conduct, and Achilles' fire.
But now, young Bard, with ftrict attention hear,
And drink my precepts in at either ear;
Since mighty crowds of Poets you may find,
Crowds of the Grecian and Aufonian kind,
Learn hence what Bards to quit or to purfue,
To fhun the falfe, and to embrace the true;
Nor is it hard to cull each noble piece,
And point out every glorious fon of Greece;
Above whofe numbers Homer fits on high,
And fhines fupreme in diftant majefty;
Whom with a reverent eye the reft regard,
And owe their raptures to the fovereign Bard;
Through him the God their panting fouls infpires,
Swells every breast, and warms with all his fires,
Bleft were the Poets with the hallow'd rage,
Train'd up in that and the fucceeding age:
As to his time each Poet nearer drew,
His fpreading fame in just proportion grew,
By like degrees the next degenerate race
Şunk from the height of honour to disgrace.
And now the fame of Greece extinguish'd lies,
Her ancient language with her glory dies.
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