They will attempt the mountain steep,
Where on the top, like dreams in sleep,
The Muses revelations shew,

That find men crack'd, or make them so.

You, friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elab'rate waste of time,
Nor are content to be undone,
To pass for Phoebus' crazy son.
Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
Afford the most uncertain gain;
And lott❜ries never tempt the wise
With blanks so many to a prize.
I only transient visits pay,
Meeting the Muses in my way,

Scarce known to the fastidious dames,
Nor skill'd to call them by their names.
Nor can their passports in these days,
Your profit warrant, or your praise.
On Poems by their dictates writ,
Critics, as sworn appraisers, sit,
And mere upholst❜rers in a trice
On gems and painting set a price.
These tayl'ring artists for our lays
Invent cramp'd rules, and with strait stays
Striving free Nature's shape to hit,
Emaciate sense, before they fit.

A common place, and many friends,

Can serve the plagiary's ends.

Whose easy vamping talent lies,
First wit to pilfer, then disguise.
Thus some devoid of art and skill
To search the mine on Pindus' hill,
Proud to aspire and workmen grow,
By genius doom'd to stay below,
For their own digging shew the town
Wit's treasure brought by others down.
Some wanting, if they find a mine,
An artist's judgment to refine,
On fame precipitately fix'd,
The ore with baser metals mix'd
Melt down, impatient of delay,
And call the vicious mass a play.
All these engage to serve their ends,
A band select of trusty friends,
Who, lesson'd right, extol the thing,
As Psapho taught his birds to sing;
Then to the ladies they submit,
Returning officers on wit:

A crowded house their presence draws,
And on the beaus imposes laws,

A judgment in its favor ends,
When all the pannel are its friends:
Their natures merciful and mild
Have from mere pity sav'd the child;
In bulrush ark the bantling found
Helpless, and ready to be drown'd,
They have preserv'd by kind support,
And brought the baby-muse to court.

But there's a Youth that you can name,
Who needs no leading strings to fame,
Whose quick maturity of brain
The birth of Pallas may explain :
Dreaming of whose depending fate,
I heard Melpomene debate,
This, this is he, that was foretold
Should emulate our Greeks of old.
Inspir'd by me with sacred art,
He sings, and rules the varied heart;
If Jove's dread anger he rehearse,
We hear the thunder in his verse;
If he describes love turn'd to rage,
The furies riot in his page.
If he fair liberty and law

By ruffian pow'r expiring draw,
The keener passions then engage
Aright, and sanctify their rage;
If he attempt disastrous love,

We hear those plaints that wound the grove.
Within the kinder passions glow,
And tears distill'd from pity flow.

From the bright vision I descend, And my deserted theme attend.

Me never did ambition seize, Strange fever most inflam'd by ease! The active lunacy of pride,

That courts jilt Fortune for a bride,

This par'dise-tree, so fair and high,
I view with no aspiring eye :

Like aspine shake the restless leaves,
And Sodom-fruit our pains deceives,
Whence frequent falls give no surprise,
But fits of spleen, call'd growing wise.
Greatness in glitt'ring forms display'd
Affects weak eyes much us'd to shade,
And by its falsly-envy'd scene
Gives self, debasing fits of Spleen.

We should be pleas'd that things are so,
Who do for nothing see the show,
And, middle siz'd, can pass between
Life's hubbub safe, because unseen,
And 'midst the glare of greatness trace
A wat❜ry sun-shine in the face,
And pleasures fled to, to redress
The sad fatigue of idleness.

Contentment, parent of delight, So much a stranger to our sight, Say, Goddess, in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face; Thy gracious auspices impart, And for thy temple choose my heart. They, whom thou deignest to inspire, Thy science learn, to bound desire: By happy alchymy of mind

They turn to pleasure all they find;

They both disdain in outward mien

The

grave and solemn garb of Spleen, And meretricious arts of dress,

To feign a joy, and hide distress ;
Unmov'd when the rude tempest blows,
Without an opiate they repose;
And cover'd by your shield, defy

The whizzing shafts, that round them fly:
Nor meddling with the god's affairs,
Concern themselves with distant cares;
But place their bliss in mental rest,
And feast upon the good possess'd.

Forc'd by soft violence of pray❜r, The blithsome Goddess sooths my care, I feel the Deity inspire,

And thus she models my desire.

Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,
Annuity securely made,

A farm some twenty miles from town,
Small, tight, salubrious, and my own;
Two maids, that never saw the town,
A serving-man not quite a clown,
A boy to help to tread the mow,
And drive, while t'other holds the plough;
A chief, of temper form'd to please,
Fit to converse, and keep the keys;
And better to preserve the peace,
Commission'd by the name of niece;
With understandings of a size
To think their master very wise.