Quæ poterant unquam fatis expurgare Cicuta, "Ni melius dormire putem, quam fcribere versus ?"
YOU ask me, fir, why thus by phantoms aw'd,
No kind occafion tempts the Muse abroad?
Why, when retirement fooths this idle art,
To fame regardless sleeps the youthful heart?
'Twould wrong your judgment, should I fairly fay Distrust or weakness caus'd the cold delay: Hint the small diff'rence, 'till we touch the lyre, 'Twixt real genius and too strong defire; The human flips, or feeming flips pretend, Which rouse the critick, but escape the friend; Nay which, though dreadful when the foe pursues, You pafs, and fmile, and still provoke the Muse.
Yet, fpite of all you think, or kindly feign,
My hand will tremble while it grafps the pen.
For not in this, like other arts, we try
Our light excurfions in a fummer sky,
No cafual flights the dangerous trade admits;
But wits once authors, are for ever wits.
The fool in profe, like earth's unwieldy fon,
May oft rise vig'rous, though he's oft o'erthrown
One dangerous crifis marks our rife or fall;
By all we're courted, or we're fhun'd by all.
Will it avail, that, unmatur'd by years,
My eafy numbers pleas'd your partial ears,
If now condem'd, ev'n where he's valu'd moft,
The man must fuffer if the poet's loft;
For wanting wit, be totally undone,
And barr'd all arts for having fail'd in one.
When fears like these his ferious thoughts engage,
No bugbear phantom curbs the poet's rage.
'Tis powerful reafon holds the streighten'd rein,
While flutt'ring fancy to the diftant plain
Sends a long look, and spreads her wings in vain.
But grant for once, th' officious Mufe has shed
Her gentleft influence on his infant head,
Let fears lie vanquish'd, and refounding Fame
Give to the bellowing blait the poet's name.
And fee! diftinguifh'd from the crowd he moves,
Each finger marks him, and each eye approves!
Secure, as halcyons brooding o'er the deep,
The waves roll gently, and the thunders fleep,
Obfequious Nature binds the tempeft's wings,
And pleas'd Attention listens while he fings!
O blissful state, O more than human joy!
What shafts can reach him, or what cares annoy?
What cares, my friend? why all that man can know,
Opprefs'd with real or with fancy'd woe.
Rude to the world, like earth's first lord expell'd,
To climes unknown, from Eden's fafer field;
No more eternal springs around him breathe,
Black air fcowls o'er him, deadly damps beneath;
Now must he learn, mifguided youth, to bear
Each varying feason of the poet's year:
Flatt'ry's full beam, Detraction's wintry store,
The frowns of Fortune, or the pride of Pow'r.
His acts, his words, his thoughts no more his own
Each folly blazon'd, and each frailty known.
Is he referv'd?—his sense is so refin'd,
It ne'er defcends to trifle with mankind.
Open and free?-they find the fecret cause
Is vanity; He courts the world's applause.
Nay, though he speak not, fomething ftill is feen,
Each change of face betrays a fault within.
If grave, 'tis fpleen; he fmiles but to deride;
And downright aukwardness in him is pride.
Thus muft he fteer through fame's uncertain feas,
Now funk by cenfure, and now puff'd by praise ;
Contempt with envy ftrangely mix'd endure,
Fear'd where carefs'd, and jealous though fecure.
One fatal rock on which good authors split
Is thinking all mankind must like their wit;
And the grand business of the world stand still
To listen to the dictates of their quill.
Hurt if they fail, and yet how few succeed!
What's born in leifure men of leisure read;
And half of thofe have fome peculiar whim
Their teft of fenfe, and read but to condemn.
Befides, on parties now our fame depends,
And frowns or fmiles, as these are foes or friends.
Wit, judgment, nature join; you strive in vain ;
'Tis keen invective ftamps the current ftrain.
Fix'd to one fide like Homer's gods, we fight,
These always wrong, and those for ever right.
And would you chufe to fee your friend, refign'd
Each conscious tie which guides the virtuous mind,
Embroil'd in factions, hurl with dreaded skill
The random vengeance of his defp'rate quill?
'Gainft pride in man with equal pride declaim,
And hide ill-nature under virtue's name?
Or, deeply vers'd in flattery's wily ways,
Flow in full reams of undiftinguish'd praise ?
To Vice's grave, or Folly's buft bequeath
The blushing trophy, and indignant wreath ?
* Like Ægypt's priests, bid endless temples rise,
And people with earth's pefts th' offended skies?
The Mufe of old her native freedom knew,
And wild in air the sportive wand'rer flew;
-Qui nefcit qualia demens
Ægyptus portenta colat? crocodilon adorat→
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