Him ferious toils, and humbler arts engage,
To make youth easy, and provide for age;
While loft in filence hangs his useless lyre,
And tho from heav'n it came, faft dies the facred fire.
Or grant true genius with fuperior force
Bursts every bond, refistless in its course,
Yet lives the man, how wild foe'er his aim,
Would madly barter fortune's smiles for fame!
Or diftant hopes of future ease forego,
For all the wreaths that all the Nine bestow?
Well pleas'd to fhine, through each recording page,
The hapless Dryden of a fhameless age ?
Ill-fated bard! where-e'er thy name appears,
The weeping verse a fad memento bears.
Ah! what avail'd th' enormous blaze between
Thy dawn of glory, and thy closing scene!
When finking nature asks our kind repairs,
Unftrung the nerves, and filver'd o'er the hairs;
When stay'd reflection comes uncall'd at last,
And grey experience counts each folly past,
Untun'd and harsh the sweetest strains: appear,
And loudest Pæans but fatigue the ear.
'Tis true the man of verfe, though born to ills, Too oft deferves the very fate he feels.
When, vainly frequent at the great man's board,
He shares in every vice with every
Makes to their tafte his fober sense submit,
And 'gainst his reafon madly arms his wit;
Heav'n but in juftice turns their serious heart
To scorn the wretch, whofe life belies his art.
He, only he, fhould haunt the Mufe's grove,
Whom youth might rev'rence and grey hairs approve;
Whose heav'n-taught numbers, now, in thunder roll'd,
Might rouse the virtuous and appal the bold.
Now, to truth's dictates lend the grace of ease,
And teach inftruction happier arts to please.
For him would PLATO change their gen'ral fate,
And own one poet might improve his state.
Curs'd be their verfe, and blafted all their bays, Whofe fenfual lure th' unconscious ear betrays; Wounds the young breast, ere virtue spreads her shield, And takes, not wins, the scarce difputed field, Though fpecious rhet'ric each loofe thought refine, Though mufic charm in every labour'd line, The dangerous verfe, to full perfection grown,
BAVIUS might blufh, and QUARLES difdain to own. Should fome MACHAON, whofe fagacious foul
Trac'd blushing nature to her inmost goal,
Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides,
All earth embofoms, and all ocean hides,
Nor cooling herb, nor healing balm fupply,
Eafe the fwoln breaft, or close the languid eye;
But, exquifitely ill, awake disease,
And arm with poifons every baleful breeze :
What racks, what tortures must his crimes demand,
The more than BORGIA of a bleeding land!
And is lefs guilty he, whofe fhameless
Not to the present bounds its fubtil rage,
But fpreads contagion wide, and stains a future age?
Forgive me, Sir, that thus the moral strain,
With indignation warm'd, rejects the rein;
Nor think I rove regardless of my theme,
'Tis hence new dangers clog the paths to fame.
Not to themselves alone fuch bards confine
Fame's just reproach for virtue's injur❜d shrine ;
Profan'd by them, the Mufe's laurels fade,
Her voice neglected, and her flame decay'd.
And the fon's fon muft feel the father's crime,
A curfe entail'd on all the race that rhyme.
New cares appear, new terrors fwell the train,
And must we paint them ere we close the scene?
Say, muft the Muse th' unwilling task pursue,
And to compleat her dangers mention you?
Yes you, my friend, and those whose kind regard
With partial fondness views this humble bard:
Ev'n you he dreads. Ah! kindly cease to raise
Unwilling cenfure, by exacting praise,
Juft to itself the jealous world will claim
A right to judge, or give, or cancel fame,
And, if th' officious zeal unbounded flows,
The friend too partial is the worst of foes.
* Behold th' ATHENIAN fage, whose piercing mind Had trac'd the wily lab'rinths of mankind,
When now condemn'd, he leaves his infant care
To all thofe evils man is born to bear.
Not to his friends alone the charge he yields,
But nobler hopes on jufter motives builds;
Bids ev'n his foes their future fteps attend,
And dare to cenfure, if they dar'd offend.
Would thus the poet truft his offspring forth,
Or bloom'd our BRITAIN with ATHENIAN Worth:
Would the brave foe th' imperfect work engage
With honeft freedom, not with partial rage,
What just productions might the world surprise!
What other POPES, what other MAROS rife!
But fince by foes, or friends alike deceiv'd,
Too little those, and these too much believ'd;
Since the fame fate pursues by diff'rent ways,
Undone by cenfure, or undone by praise;
Since bards themselves fubmit to vice's rule,
And party-feuds grow high, and patrons cool:
Since, ftill unnam'd, unnumber'd ills behind
Rise black in air, and only wait the wind:
Let me, O let me, ere the tempeft roar,
Catch the first gale, and make the nearest shore;
In facred filence join th' inglorious train,
Where humble peace, and sweet contentment reign;
If not thy precepts, thy example own,
And steal through life not useless, though unknown.
|