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All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend : Nay, show'd his faults-but when would poets mend?

No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's church-

yard:

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead;
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,
It still looks home, and short excursions makes;
But rattling nonsense in full vollies breaks,
And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide.

But where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiass'd or by favour or by spite,

Not dully prepossess'd nor blindly right;
Though learn'd, well-bred, and though well-bred,
Modestly bold, and humanly severe; [sincere ;
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Bless'd with a taste exact, yet unconfined,
A knowledge both of books and humankind;
Generous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were critics; such the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star.

Poets, a race long unconfined and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,

Received his laws, and stood convinced 'twas fit
Who conquer'd nature should preside o'er wit.
Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And, without method, talks us into sense;
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who, supreme in judgment as in wit,
Might boldly censure as he boldly writ,
Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
Our critics take a contrary extreme,

They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm:
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,
And call new beauties forth from every line!
Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
The scholar's learning with the courtier's ease.
In grave Quintilian's copious work we find
The justest rules and clearest method join'd.
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
All ranged in order, and disposed with grace;
But less to please the eye than arm the hand,
Still fit for use, and ready at command.

Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
And bless their critic with a poet's fire:
An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
Whose own example strengthens all his laws,
And is himself that great sublime he draws.
Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd,
License repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd:

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'erran,
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 w! 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 uncivilized;

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 ménd.

AN

ESSAY ON MAN.

In Four Epistles to Lord Bolingbroke.

THE DESIGN.

HAVING proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression)' come home to men's business and bosoms,' I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in the abstract, his nature, and his state; since to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points; there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind, as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last; and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice more than advanced the theory of morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of

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