With kind feverities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of every part;
Prunes the fuperfluous boughs, that wildly ftray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.

Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From every line to wipe out every blot,
Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinish'd numbers limp behind,
When the warm Poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;

He brings the fovereign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the fickly, and supports the lame.
Oft as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the teft again.

In different lights th' expreffion must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes muft pierce,
And mark the parts diftinct of every verse.
In this perfift; for oft one day denies
The kind affiftance which the next supplies;
As oft, without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thoufand errors you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft, to improve his Mufe, the Bard fhould try,
By turns, the temper of a different sky.

VOL. LII.

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 excefs 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 spirits drain'd away,
The body fickens, and the parts decay;
The native, beauties die, the limbs appear
Rough and deform'd with one continued scar.
No fixt determin'd number I enjoin,

But when fome years shall perfect the defign;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious 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 fpreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to fwell the vaft applause;
The vaft applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages, fhall obfcure thy fame,
And earth's laft ends fhall hear thy darling name.

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Shall

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

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

Infpir'd with rage divine, and labouring with the God.
But art alone, and human means muft fail,
Nor thefe inftructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the Gods their present aid supply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths that lead
The panting youth to fleep 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 these rules, perhaps, these 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 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 boast; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my song:
First how the mighty Bard transported o'er
The facred Mufes from th' Aonian fhore;
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' Aufonian swains,
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 juft array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a God.
Father of verfe! from whom our honours fpring;
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,

Low, in Elyfian vales, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy laurels, and adore thy song:
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 rehearse,
And fip 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 rise;
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 support alone.
The youth, whofe wandering feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er fteep Parnaffus' facred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Thofe arduous paths which thou haft 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 raife;
And with rich incenfe bid the temples blaze;
Our folemn hymns fhall ftill refound thy praise,
Hail, holy Bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thyself alone.
Requires no fong, no numbers but thy own,

Q3

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