To him in such small measure should dispense
Her better gifts to him! whose genʼrous soul
Could relish, with as fine an elegance,
The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth;
He who could tyrannize o'er menial slaves,
Or swell beneath a coronet of state,
Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien,
Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.—
But 'tis in vain to rave at destiny,
Here he must rest and brook the best he can,
To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit;
Immur'd amongst th' ignoble, vulgar herd
Of lowest intellect; whose stupid souls
But half inform their bodies; brains of lead
And tongues of thunder: whose insensate breasts
Ne'er felt the rapt'rous, soul-entrancing fire
Of the celestial Muse; whose savage ears
Ne'er heard the sacred rules, nor ev'n the names,
Of the Venusian Bard, or critic sage
Full-fam'd of Stagyra: Whose clam'rous tongues
Stun the tormented ear with colloquy,
Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent;
Replete with boorish scandal: Yet, alas!
This, this! he must endure, or muse alone,
Pensive and moping o'er the stubborn rhyme,
Or line imperfect-No! the door is free,
And calls him to evade their deaf'ning clang,
By private ambulation;-'tis resolv'd:
Off from his waist he throws the tatter'd gown,
Beheld with indignation; and unloads
His pericranium of the weighty cap,
With sweat and grease discolour'd: then explores
The spacious chest, and from its hollow womb
Draws his best robe, yet not from tincture free
Of age's rev'rend russet, scant and bare;
Then down his meagre visage waving flows
The shadowy perruque; crown'd with gummy hat
Clean brush'd; a cane supports him. Thus equip'd
He sallies forth; swift traverses the streets,
And seeks the lonely walk; Hail sylvan scenes,
Ye groves, ye vallies, ye meand'ring brooks
Admit me to your joys, in rapt'rous phrase,
Loud he exclaims; while with th' inspiring Muse
His bosom labours; and all other thoughts,
Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself,
Before her influence vanish. Rapt in thought,
Fancy presents before his ravish'd eyes
Distant posterity, upon his page
With transport dwelling; while bright learning's sons
That ages hence must tread this earthly ball,
Indignant seem to curse the thankless age,
That starv'd such merit. Meantime swallow'd up
In meditation deep, he wanders on,
Unweeting of his way. -But ah! he starts!
With sudden fright his glaring eye-balls roll,
Pale turn his cheeks, and shake his loosen'd joints,
His cogitations vanish into air,
Like painted bubbles, or a morning dream.
Behold the cause! see! thro' the opening glade,
With rosy visage, and abdomen grand,
A cit, a dun!- -As in Apulia's wilds,
Or where the Thracian Hebrus rolls his wave,
A heedless kid, disportive, roves around,
Unheeding, till upon the hideous cave
Of the dire wolf she treads; half dead she views
His bloodshot eye-balls, and his dreadful fangs,
And swift as Eurus from the monster flies.
So fares the trembling Bard; amaz’d he turns,
Scarce by his legs upborn; yet fear supplies
The place of strength; straight home he bends his
Nor looks behind him till he safe regain
His faithful citadel; there spent, fatigu'd,
He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs,
Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinc'd.
Soon as the panick leaves his panting breast,
Down to the Muse's sacred rites he sits,
Volumes pil'd round him; see! upon his brow
Perplex'd anxiety, and struggling thought,
Painful as female throes: whether the Bard
Display the deeds of heroes; or the fall
Of vice, in lay dramatick; or expand
The lyrick wing; or in elegiac strains
Lament the fair; or lash the stubborn age,
With laughing satire; or in rural scenes
With shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brains
For th' unexpected turn. Arachne so,
In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels
Spins the fine web; but spins with better fate
Than the poor Bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares,
And with their aid enjoys luxurious life,
Bloated with fat of insects, flesh'd in blood:
He! hard, hard! lot! for all his toil and care,
And painful watchings, scarce protracts awhile
His meagre, hungry days! ungrateful world!
If with his Drama he adorn the stage;
No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge,
Or of the orchestra, or th' enlight'ning torch.
He who supports the luxury and pride
Of craving Lais; he! whose carnage fills
Dogs, eagles, lyons; has not yet enough,
Wherewith to satisfy the greedier maw
Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast,
Yclep'd a Poet. What new Halifax,
What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find,
Thou hungry mortal? break, wretch, break thy quill,
Blot out the studied image; to the flames
Commit the Stag'rite; leave this thankless trade;
Erect some peddling stall, with trinkets stock'd,
There earn thy daily half-pence, nor again
Trust the false Muse: So shall the cleanly meal
Repel intruding hunger.-Oh! 'tis vain,
The friendly admonition's all in vain ;
The scribbling itch has seiz'd him, he is lost
To all advice; and starves for starving's sake.
Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood,
Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth;
But, oh! ye Gods, avert th' impending stroke,
This luckless omen threatens! hark! methinks,
I hear my better angel cry, Retreat,
Rash youth! in time retreat! let those poor Bards,
Who slighted all, all! for the flatt'ring Muse,
Yet curs'd with pining want, as land-marks stand,
To warn thee from the service of th' ingrate.
EPIGRAM FROM THE LATIN.
On two beautiful Sisters who were drowned at Sea, WHAT to the faithless Ocean now is due ! It gave one Venus, and has taken two!
EREWHILE, alive to Love's alarms,
My breast beat high to Beauty's charms,
I woo'd, I won the fair;
But now the pleasing conflict's o'er,
My arms I quit, my lute no more
Warbles the wanton air.
In sea-born Venus' sacred shrine,
My love's artillery I resign,
Here, here, my levers lie;
Torches and sabres, bearing fate
To many a proud opposing gate,
Which durst access deny.
Oh! thou, that o'er the Cyprian isle,
And Memphis, ray'st thy beamy smile,
Repressing winter's frown;
Oh, Goddess! hear my sole request,
Let youthful Chloe's haughty breast,
For once thy rigours own.
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