Tis best fometimes your cenfure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain.
Your filence there is better than your spite,.
For who can rail fo long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowzy courfe they keep,
And lafh'd fo long, like tops, are lafh'd afleep.
False steps but help them to renew the race,
As after ftumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crouds of thefe, impenitently bold,
In founds and jingling fyllables grown old,.
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
Ev'n to the dregs and fqueezings of the brain;
Strain out the last dull droppings of their fenfe,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!
Such fhameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,.
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue ftill edifies his ears,
And always lift'ning to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads affails,
From Dryden's fables down to D—y's tales.
With him, moft authors fteal their works, or buy;
"Garth did not writ his own Difpenfary,
Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, 625
Nay fhow'd his faults-but when wou'd poets mend?
No place fo facred from fuch fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church more fafe than Paul's church-yard:
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead;.
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread..
Diftruftful fenfe with modeft caution speaks,.
It ftill looks home, and short excurfions makes;
But rattling nonfenfe in full vollies breaks;
And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
Burfts out refiftless with a thund'ring tyde!
But where's the man who counsel can bestow,. Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know!! Unbiafs'd, or by favor, or by fpite;
Not dully prepoffefs'd, or blindly right;
Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred fincere;;
Modeftly bold, and humanly fevere ?
Who to a friend his faults can freely fhow,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Bleft with a tafte exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and humankind;
Gen'rous converfe; a foul exempt from pride;:
And love to praife, with reafon on his fide?.
Such once were critics; fuch the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite firft left the fhore, 650
Spread all his fails, and durft the deeps explore;
He steer'd fecurely, and discover'd far,
Led by the light of the Maonian star.
Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of favage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws; and ftood convinc'd 'twas fit
Who conquer'd nature, should prefide o'er wit.
Horace ftill charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense,
Will like a friend, familiarly convey
The trueft notions in the eafieft way.
He, who fupreme in judgment, as in wit,
Might boldly cenfure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judg'd with coolnefs tho' he fung with fire,
His precepts teach but what his works infpire.
Our critics take a contrary extream,
They judge with fury, but they write with phle'me:
Nor fuffers Horace more in wrong tranflations
By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.
See * Dionyfius Homer's thoughts refine, And call new beauties forth from ev'ry 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 jufteft rules, and cleareft method join'd;
Thus ufeful arms in magazines we place,
All rang'd in order, and difpos'd with grace;
Nor thus alone the curious eye to please,
But to be found when need requires, with eafe.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the nine inspire,
And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
An ardent judge, who zealous in his truft,
With warmth gives fentence, yet is always juft;
Whofe own example ftrengthens all his laws,
And is himself that great fublime he draws.
Thus long fucceeding critics juftly reign'd,
Licence reprefs'd, and useful laws ordain'd.
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
And arts ftill follow'd where her eagles flew.
From the fame foes, at laft, both felt their doom.
And the fame age faw learning fall, and Rome.
* Dionyfius of Halicarnaffus.
With tyranny, then fuperftition join'd,
As that the body, this enflav'd the mind;
Much was believ'd, but little understood,
And to be dull was conftru'd to be good.
A fecond deluge learning thus o'er-run,
And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun.
At length Erafmus, that great, injur'd name,
(The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!)
Stem'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age, 700.
And drove thofe holy Vandals off the stage.
But fee! each mufe, 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 duft, and rears his rev'rend head!
Then fculpture and her fifter-arts revive;.
Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;
With fweeter notes each rifing temple rung;.
A Raphael painted, and a * Vida fung!
Immortal Vida! on whofe honour'd brow
The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow:
Cremona now fhall ever boaft thy name,
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!!
* M. Hieronymus Vida, an excellent Latin poet, who writ an art of poetry in verfe. He flourish'd in the time of Leo the tenth. But
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