Like dove and eagle, wolf and lamb unite-
One all in fury, t'other all in fright;
Nor coupled thus for sake of sense, but sound,
And thus the living with the dead are bound,
Unlike what Homer's speech-compelling Muse
Wedded, to meet his fresh-discover'd views,
Or Shakspere, wanting what his age denied,
Fast from his palette, copying Truth, supplied.
Thus Pegasus at length flagging in force, With swelt'ring pomp labours along his course: Plumes on his head, and many a jingling bell, His conscious want of inborn vigour tell, Whence strutting hobblingly, fine without grace, Slowly the incumbent beast slugs on with cart-horse pace.
Or rather let my indignation say,
This gen'rous art thus hast'ning to decay
(With images from modish vice combin’d),
In what it deems the first of arts declin'd.
The Muse degen'rate, Pride's poor toils her care,
Paints her hagg'd face, decks with false flow'rs false hair,
Light lays the gauze to hover o'er her breast-
By that thin cloud unshaded, and unpress'd,
With strain'd strength tries to torture into grace
Her lank sides with the steel's severe embrace,
Yet not to seem like rustic Chloe strong,
Rais'd on a cobler's pep, tottereth along;
'Then drap'ry-bloated, sweeping on her way,
Exults her pile of gew-gaws to display,
Whooping with glee to see her fine self trail
Behind her mincing step a peacock's pomp of tail.
Studious alone of temporary praise,
She traps the times a thousand wily ways,
Becoming now a chronicler to those
Whose feebler genius plods its way in prose,
Or for the pedant decks in labour'd rhymes
The gory ruffians of Barbaric times,
Or on some fruitless theme (a child-bed throe)
Strains every nerve her screaming powers to shew:
The critic nods, the ready people roar,
Their master mark'd, and shout encore, encore !
Now the poor pensioner of Faction's crew,
She darts an arrow where a wreath is due,
Yet so her satires oft exceed, that they
Claim of her friends more punishment than pay;
But thus performing an assassin's part,
She tempts the noble mind to scorn her art.
She too, of old an heroine, deigns desire
This age to prompt the movements of her lyre,
Leaps from her lirics, and in see-saw lay
Dilutes her diction, melts her force away,
Though haply fall'n upon the very time
That asks the Poet's searching pow'r sublime,
Diffusive Luxury's victim to reclaim,
Warm his chill'd heart with Virtue's patriot flame,
Display his one career, and point his only fame.
Whate'er man writes, as man's must ever be
Mark'd by the faults which Hypercritics see :
Their microscopic eyes dilate the mite
That 'scapes the censure of the Stagyrite.
To some the burnish'd line of Mason glares,
And Akenside a robe too Grecian wears;
Thy odes, O Collins, flimsy fops despise,
Nor know the pedants Pope himself to prize,
To mark him bounding on his beauteous course,
Grace in his speed, and in his beauty force.
The prettier sort, whom toilet-laws refine,
Live o'er the compass of a single line,
And dare, dread Dryden, blame thy number'd march divine.
Reason's rough Champions, under Saturn born,
The seraph flights of Milton's fancy scorn,
And town-bred Critics, wanting sight and ear,
Would blast harmonious Eden with a sneer.
By cens'ring Zoilus a churl became,
Admiring Virgil caught his master's flame;
Who most admire are pleas'd, who censure most
Hard-earn the Critic's fame at Pleasure's cost.
Grant that their vanity is gratify'd,
'Tis but a bastard joy procur'd by pride,
For Pride a genuine joy can never gain,
Accurs'd to dash her cup of bliss with pain.
The man deserves, who nought but ill descries,
That Milton's drop serene should dim his eyes.
Hadst thou, great poet, thus abus'd thy sight,
So well thou hadst not sang the loss of light,
So well bemoan'd the beauties seen no more,
Nor form'd an Eden from thy pict'ring store.
Hence, Matho, learn that he who loves to praise,
The means has found his own desert to raise ;
Pleas'd and improving by the candid part,
He mends at once his genius and his heart,
Lights Emulation's lamp, and pays the prize'
Which Honour owes the worthy and the wise.
WISDOM, hence, and seek thy crony
Religion grave,
In some lone cave,
With hermit Virtue, lantern-jaw'd and bony;
Or seek some parsonage mean,
Where yews and ghastly graves deform the scene,
Where the tythe-pigs seldom squeak,
But squalling brats molest the vicar meek,
Nor let him read, nor let him pray,
Nor yet know Pleasure's holiday;
There, Wisdom, there with sober Sadness stay.
Hither, Goddess, blithe and boon,
Whom on earth we title Fun,
But the name in Heav'n you bear,
Who can tell that is not there?
Spread thy wing, and hither flee,
Since I solely worship thee;
Whom, as sing the seers of yore,
Malice keen to laughter bore.
Goddess, from thy jovial air,
We thy jocund sire declare,
Whilst thy mother's force is seen
Doubled in thy spirit keen.
Haste then, Goddess, and to me
Bring thy whole artillery;
Squibs and crackers, salt and brandy,
Sheets for ghosts, and bludgeons handy.
Down we batter shrove-tide cocks,
Batter down the borough's blocks,
Where besides the travel'd way,
Wont plebeian wights display,
Or Pomona's fruitage fair,
Or the potter's shining ware.
Hark! I hear the thund'rous fall!
Bolts out Goodman from the stall
Up the street and up the lane,
Some to scold, but more to cane.
Bring turnips scoop'd and bladders blown,
Bring the string and bring the stone—
This for window, that for door,
And a thousand trap-toys more,
Precious load, for urchin play,
On the lengthen❜d holiday.
Oh, what bliss at dead of night!
Village-Thestylis to fright,
From the market as she steals
Homeward by the church, and feels
All the fears her childhood brought
From the tales her grandam taught:
Candle, plac'd in bladder blown,
Glares a skull upon the stone:
Phrensied with the sight, she squalls,
Hears a rustle, faints, and falls;
Scours away the raptur'd boy,
Claps his hands, and hoots for joy.
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