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With mad rapidity and unconcern,
Down to the guif, from which is no return.
They trust in navies, and their navies fail
God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail!
They trust in armies, and their courage dies;
In wisdomn, wealth, in fortune, and in lies;
But all they trust in withers, as it must,
When He commands, in whom they place no trust.
Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast
A long despis’d, but now victorious, bost;
Tyranny sends the chain, that must abridge
The noble sweep of all their privilege;
Gives liberty the last, the mortal shock;
Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock.
A. Such lofty straius embellish what you teach: Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach?
B. I know the mind, that feels indeed the fire The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her soit attention claim, A tender sympathy pervades the frame, She pours a sensibility divine Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, The strings are swept with such a pow'r, so loud, The storm of music shakes th' astonish'd crowd. So, when remote futurity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms; He hears the thunder ere the tempest low'rs; And, arm'd with strength surpassing human pow'rs, Seizes events as yet unknown to man, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name Of prophet and of poet was the same; Hence British poets too the priesthood shard, Aud ev'ry hallow'd druid was a bard.
But no prophetic fires to me belong;
I play with syllables, and sport is seer.
A. At Westminster, where little puits strat
To set a distich upon six and fre,
Where Discipline helps op'ning beds of sensen
And makes bis pupils proud sita silver peata
I was a poet too; but modern taste
Is so refin'd, and drlicate, and taste,
That verse, whatever tire lise tugey waras,
Without a creang smoothness has to cus
Thus, all success depeoding cu dh tar,
And thinking I might purchase it too dear,
If sentiment were sacribe'd to sound,
And truth cat short to make a period med
I judg'd a man of sense could scarce da netko
Thau caper in the morris-dance of verse.
B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit,
And some wits flag through fear of losing it.
Give me the line, that ploughs its statuts content
Like a proud sya, conq'nog the streza by
That, like some cottage beauty, striles the best
Quite ugindebted to the tricts of art.
When Labour and when Duluess, club is based
Like the two egures at St. Donstan's, stand,
Beating alternately, in measur'd time,
The clock-Fork tintinnabulumn of chyne,
Exact and regular the sounds will be ;
But such mere quarter-strokes are act for the
From him, who reass a poem lank and love
To him who strains his all into a song,
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air,
Ali birks and braes, though he was pere there;
Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pales,
Feels himself spect, and tuisbles for his biale;
A prologue interdashid with many a strokem
An art contriv'd to advertise a joke,
So that the jest is clearly to be sera,
Not in the words--but in the gap between;
Manuer is all in all, whate er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sease, and wife
1. Eden, ere yet innocence of heart
Ilad faded, poetry was not an art:
Language, above all teaching, or, if taughly
Only by gratitude and glowing theaght,
Elegant is simplicity, and warun
As ecstasy, untwanacled by forma,
Not prompted, as in our degen rate days,
By low ambition and the thirst of prais,
Was Batural as is the flowing stream,
And yet maguifcenti-A God the theme!
That theme on Earth exhausted, thoaga slove
'Tis found as everlasting as his lore,
Man lavish'd all his thoughts on humu tiasa
The feats of heroes, and the wrath of kings;
But still, while Virtue kindled his deligist
The song was moral, and so far was right.
'Twas thus till Luxury seduc'd the wind
To joys less japocent, as less rehad;
Then Genius danc'd a bacelenal; he cron't
The brimming goblet, seie'd the wyrsus, boest
Ilis brows with ivy, sush'd into the held
Of wild imagination, and there reel de
The victim of his own lascivious fires,
And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the sacred sites,
Anacreon, Horace play'd in Greece and kex
This bedlam part; and others bearer bone,
When Cromwell foughttar pow's, and whilchesega's
The proud protector of the pow'r be guiled,
Religion harsh, intolerant, kustere,
Parent of mansers like herselt serere,
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace ;
The dark and sullen humour of the time
Jody'd ev'ry effort of the muse a crime;
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast,
Was lumber is an age so cold of taste;
But when the Second Charles assum'd the svar,
And arts revis'd beneath a softer day,
Then, like a baw long forc'd into a curre,
The mind, releas'd from too constrain'da nerte,