EPISTLE II. A PROSPECT OF POETRY, TO THE EARL OF ORRERY. BY JAMES DALACOURT, B. A. WHAT various styles to different strains belong, Garth, Steele, Rowe, Congreve, Wycherley, and Prior; These only left, the world's great loss declare, On you, my Lord, the Muses turn their eyes; The bloom of breeding, and the flower of fame : Think'st thou to 'scape the praises in their power? They'll search you out, discover where you shine, Proclaim your worth, and frustrate your design. So in the bloom the diamond darts its light, Though thick encircled with surrounding night; 'The kindling darkness breaks before the ray, And on the eye-ball bursts the brilliant day. Sage Temple writes, a spark of native fire, Excells whatever learning can acquire; In poetry this observation's true, Without some genius fame will ne'er ensue : Such for a while may climb against the hill, But then, like Sisyphus, are falling still; I own, by reading we may feed the flame, But first must have that heat from whence it came; Else, like dry pumps whose springs their moisture mourn, We may pour in, but will have no return; Come then, my friend, who like with me to rove The flowery mountain, and the laurel grove, Where god Apollo guards the limpid fount, And the glad Muses climb the vocal mount; You whom the voice invites to taste their charms, Whom verse transports, and tuneful fancy warms; Before you press the Sirens to your heart, Attend a while the precepts I impart. First let your judgment for your fancy choose Correct with spirit, musical with sense, Not apt to give, nor slow to take offence; But always last delighted with her own. When this is done, let Nature be your guide; Unless, to please our nice corrupted sense, Thus ever suit your numbers to your theme, But if a storm must rattle through the strain, Then let your lines grow black with gathering rain; Through Jove's aerial hall loud thunders sound, And the big bolt roars through the dark profound: But should the welkin brighten to the view, The sun breaks out, and gilds the style anew; Color your clouds with a vermilion dye, And let warm blushes streak the western sky; Till evening shuts in sober suited gray, And draws her dappled curtains o'er the day. Let Vesper then pursue the purple light, And lead the twinkling glories of the night; The moon must rise in silver o'er the shades, Stream through your pen, and glance along the meads: While Zephyr softly whispers in the lines, Sing in their sleep, and dream away their care; But if Aurora's fingers stain the lay, So the fair Indian crown its gloss assumes, Dispos'd in tufts of party-color'd plumes; The transient tincture drinks the neighbouring hue, As if from each th' alternate colors grew, Where every beauty's by a former made, And lends a lustre to the following shade. Thus may a simile come in with grace, |