But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth,
With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth;
If wantonly she deviates from her plan,
And quits the actor to expose the man;
Ashamed, she marks that passage with a blot,
And hates the line where candour was forgot.
But what is candour, what is humour's vein,
Though judgment join to consecrate the strain,
If curious numbers will not aid afford,
Nor choicest music play in every word?
Verses must run, to charm a modern ear,
From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.
Soft let them breathe, as zephyr's balmly breeze,
Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas:
Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense
A happy, tuneful vacancy of sense.

Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage,
Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage:
Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound,
And mangle vigour for the sake of sound.
Henceforth farewell then, feverish thirst of fame :
Farewell the longings for a poet's name;
Perish my Muse a wish 'bove all severe
To him who ever held the Muses dear-
If e'er her labours weaken to refine

The generous roughness of a nervous line.

Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase: Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays: The sense they murder, and the words transpose, Lest poetry approach too near to prose.

Churchill, very creditably to his moral feeling, is said by Mr. Tooke to have blotted out several lines, which, in the first edition of the Rosciad, were of a nature personally injurious to the character of Mr. Palmer.

See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, And, like Procrustes, stretch or lop the limb. Waller, whose praise succeeding bards rehearse, Parent of harmony in English verse,

Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, In couplets first taught straggling sense to close. In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows, E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety.

Music itself her needful aid requires

To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.
Still in one key, the nightingale would tease:
Still in one key, not Brent would always please.
Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy shrine,
Thou dearest name to all the tuneful Nine.
What if some dull lines in cold order creep,
And with his theme the poet seems to sleep?
Still, when his subject rises proud to view,
With equal strength the poet rises too:

With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught,
Thought still springs up and rises out of thought;
Numbers, ennobling numbers in their course,
In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;
The powers of genius and of judgment join,
And the whole Art of Poetry is thine.

But what are numbers, what are bards, to me, Forbid to tread the paths of poesy?

'A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen;
Priests must not hear nor see like other men;
Far higher themes should her ambition claim:
Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame.'

Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn, Let Reason for a moment take her turn. When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings, And blindly walk in paper leading-strings, What if a man delight to pass his time In spinning reason into harmless rhyme, Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? Say, where's the crime?-great man of prudence,

say.

No two on earth in all things can agree!
All have some darling singularity:

Women and men, as well as girls and boys,
In gewgaws take delight, and sigh for toys.
Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like
things,

Are but a better kind of toys for kings.
In things indifferent Reason bids us choose,
Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse.

What the gay triflers on this busy scene,
When they make use of this word Reason, mean,
I know not; but, according to my plan,
"Tis lord chief justice in the court of man,
Equally form'd to rule in age or youth,
The friend of virtue and the guide to truth.
To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel:
To her decision make my last appeal;
Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain
Should tempt me to take up the pen again:
By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue:
If Reason's for me, God is for me too.

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96

NIGHT1.

An Epistle to Robert Lloyd.

Contrarius evehor orbi.

OVID. MET. Lib. ii.

WHEN foes insult, and prudent friends dispense
In pity's strains the worst of insolence,
Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief,
And in thy social converse find relief.
The mind, of solitude impatient grown,
Loves any sorrows rather than her own.

Let slaves to business, bodies without soul, Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll, Solemnize nonsense in the day's broad glare; We Night prefer, which heals or hides our care. Rogues justified, and by success made bold, Dull fools and coxcombs sanctified by gold,

1 This poem was published in October, 1761, and must be considered in the light of a familiar address to an intimate friend. The title of the poem may probably have been suggested by Dr. Armstrong's Day, an Epistle to J. Wilkes of Aylesbury, Esq.' then lately published. In this epistle Dr. Armstrong ventured to censure Churchill, who expressed much resentment at the attack, and would never be reconciled with the author of it.

Freely may bask in Fortune's partial ray,
And spread their feathers opening to the day;
But threadbare Merit dares not show the head,
Till vain Prosperity retires to bed.

Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light;
The sons of Care are always sons of Night.
The wretch bred up in method's drowsy school,
Whose only merit is to err by rule,

Who ne'er through heat of blood was tripping caught,

Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought,
Whose soul directed to no use is seen,
Unless to move the body's dull machine
Which, clockworklike, with the same equal pace,
Still travels on through life's insipid space,
Turns up his eyes to think that there should be
Among God's creatures two such things as we;
Then for his nightcap calls, and thanks the powers
Which kindly gave him grace to keep good hours.
Good hours-fine words-but was it ever seen
That all men could agree in what they mean?
Florio, who many years a course hath run
In downright opposition to the sun,
Expatiates on good hours, their cause defends
With as much vigour as our prudent friends.
The' uncertain term no settled notion brings,
But still in different mouths means different things;
Each takes the phrase in his own private view;
With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two.

Go on, ye fools who talk for talking sake,
Without distinguishing distinctions make;
Shine forth in native folly, native pride,
Make yourselves rules to all the world beside;