Alike th' infernal and seraphic dreams
Delight the spirit studious of extremes.
Transient alike the sorrow and the joy;
But, 'tis a theme which may the tongue employ,
From coral lips bid tuneful nonsense flow,

And the fair form in graceful postures show. 150
Lord! with what scorn she marks the vulgar crew,
That rest in common-sense, like me and you!
"Poor wretched beings, stupidly content,
"That shun the charming pangs of Sentiment !-
"Who can the dull unfeeling things endure?
"'Tis vastly horrid !-vastly, to be sure!"
But when two sentimental spirits meet!—
For scorn and ridicule, oh what a treat!

161

"Sir, your address, so winning and so stealing.""And, dearest creature, you have so much feeling""Oh, my dear Miss, your sentiments divine "Are something exquisite, sublime, and fine.""Ab, Sir, with you to taste, without controul, "The feast of Reason, and the flow of soul!

"Sure in one mould kind Nature form'd our hearts." "Miss, you have genius"-Oh, Sir, you have parts! "What transport were it, on some lonely steep, "With thee, my fair, to tend the fleecy sheep; "To listen to the soft Æolian lyre,

"Or hear the cricket chirrup from the fire."- 170 "Oh, Damon, where you tread, contentment beams; "The wild a court, the cot a palace seems. "Supremely happy was that Age of Gold, "Ere Priests were known, or Licences were sold! "No parent's mandate then inspir'd a dread; "No marriage treaty was on sheep-skin spread !”Thus in a mental air-balloon they ride,

Tow'ring o'er Prudence, and from Reason wide.

Their first excursion is to Gretna-green,
Then to the cottage, and sequester'd scene.
Thence, soon inveigled by some ruling star,
In search of Sentiment they wander far.
Till many a region of romance o'erpast,
In DOCTOR'S-COMMONS they come down at last.
Oh may my fair her destiny fulfil:

180

Heav'n guard her youth from every touch of ill !—
From blighting Sickness, from Misfortune's storm,
From all that may the frame or soul deform!
Bid her in beauty, health, and virtue shine,
A present, worthy of a hand divine;

And give her, to reward the virtuous breast,
That feels, and estimates her worth the best.

190

200

Thrice happy man! whom bounteous Heav'n ordains, To find such partner of his joys and pains. To find a treasure that in price outshines The richest jewel of Golconda's mines. Th' expanding bosom is with godhead fraught, Some spirit whispers to prophetic thought: "Thro' length of days, and all the social ties, "Miranda shall in worth and virtue rise; "And mild Devotion pour a steady light, "To guide her footsteps to the fair and right. "An Angel, soaring to the Sister Choir, "With temp'rate lustre, of etherial fire. "In converse with her Maker, may she find "The purest pleasure of the reas'ning mind." I know, Miranda, that with pious awe Thy youth was nurtur'd in thy Maker's Law; Parental care, from day to day, imprest The Gospel Precepts on thy tender breast. Thro' all exertions that thy doom may ask, Each arduous trial, every doubtful task;

210

Hold fast the words of peace, and never part
The healing comfort from thy faithful heart;
Thy consolation in the hour of pain;
Thine amulet against th' infectious train
Of follies, warping on the sultry wind,
When Fortune's treacherous gales relax the mind;
Thy polar star, when crouds are led astray,
Thy rest, by night, thy counsellor, by day.

THE TOBACCONIST.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

Supposed to be written from a Poet to his Friend.

{

ARGUMENT OF THE POEM.

Exordium-Dissuasives of the Author's Friend from writing Verse -unavailing-The Author determines to write-possest at first with high notions of the dignity of the poetical character and desire of future fame-Changes his way of thinking-wishes to render the profession of a Poet profitable-various projects for that purpose-Dedication and flattery of unworthy rich menfails-and why-He determines then, to cultivate and praise the Jews-in vain-Fruitless attempts in the horrible stile of the German-Resolves to write satire-Two popular models, at present Peter Pindar, and the Author of Pursuits of LiteratureDiscouragements to satirical writings-the cause-Proceeds to write for the Stage-Many rival candidates for public favourPerversion of public taste-Tries Tragedy and Comedy-succeeds in neither-Contemptuous spirit of the Managers-Ma

nagers compared to giants in romance-ugly tricks of Managers --Disappointed in his hopes of encouragement from the Booksellers reflections on the occasion-Authors of birth and fashion -The practice of antient Poets who declaimed their own verses commended-Author wishes to imitate it-The Author reprobates the idea of becoming a minor Poet, as an introduction into the circles of soi disant wits-and readers-The Difficulty of writing, well under the pressure of poverty-and petty distresses. -Some reflections on the character of Alexander Pope-Friendly -invitation of a Tobacconist to reside with him--and become his Shopman-Author gladly accepts it—and renounces Poetry.

WHILE my green years pursued, with idle aim,
The fleeting phantoms of poetic fame,
Replete with many a charm, and many a wile,
To siren rocks, and the Circaan Isle;
Oft have I heard thy monitory vein,

Full oft thy voice recall'd me from the train.
Lost was the warning voice on witless youth;
But added years and pains have felt it's truth.
Thy lessons now recur to sting the soul,
Strong for remorse, tho' feeble for controul.

The cares and sorrows printed on my brow,
My head declining with a weight of snow,
My hopes and projects running all to waste,
Have taught me rhyme is foolishness at last;
That deadly blights attend Aonia's dew;
More baneful far the laurel than the yew,
For pain and scorn, and penury invade

Th' incautious man that slumbers in it's shade.
Why was I tempted with Icarian flight,
To rise advent'rous to the source of light?
My treacherous pinions scattered wide in air,
Deep am I plung'd in oceans of despair,
No more the forms of GOOD and FAIR to see,
Or catch the sound of seraph minstrelsy.

10

20

Why have I swell'd the trump of epic song?
Why call'd in sable weeds the gliding throng,
Whose fates ennobled by the Grecian stage,
In tuneful bosoms wake poetic rage ?-

What are the fruits of all my life's proud aim?—
To toil for Glory, and to find it shame ;—
To feel the scorn that in these gothic times,

Looks down contemptuous on the man of rhymes.-
Wise was my mother:when I was a boy,
And scribbled verses with an idle joy,
She chid me daily as a thriftless fool;
And daily urg'd to learn the golden rule.

30

Then, earliest friend *, tho' proud and rash and young,
With reverential awe to thee I clung;

My kindling bosom chose thee from the croud,
My conscious spirit to thy talents bow'd.
The firm Cornutus of my thoughtless age,
The lov'd companion and the guiding sage,
When life before me lay a doubtful maze,
Thy sense mature diffus'd the temperate rays:
But envious Demons thine ascendant crost,
And wisest aims, and fairest hopes were lost.
Oft I recall, in bitterness of heart,
Thy grave invective 'gainst the tuneful art.
"Go, pile thy hearth with faggots, let it blaze
"The fun'ral structure of thy darling lays;
"Or deep entomb thy labours in a chest,
"Retreat of spiders, worms and moths to feast.-
"Who deals in verses, drives with idle hand,
"Th' unthrifty plough along the barren sand.
"Who feeds on laurel, finds it bitter food,
Infusing poison thro' the vital blood.-

* Me tibi supposui, &c. PERSIUS.

50

59