Profan'd by them, the Muse's laurels fade, New cares appear, new terrors swell the train, And must we paint them ere we close the scene? Say, must the Muse th' unwilling task pursue, And to compleat her dangers mention you ? Yes you, my friend, and those whose kind regard Just to itself the jealous world will claim Behold th' Athenian sage, whose piercing mind Had trac'd the wily lab'rinths of mankind, When now condemn'd, he leaves his infant care To all those evils man is born to bear. Not to his friends alone the charge he yields, But nobler hopes on juster motives builds; Bids ev'n his foes their future steps attend, And dar'd to censure, if they dar'd offend. Would thus the poet trust his offspring forth, Or bloom'd our BRITAIN with ATHENIAN worth: Would the brave foe th' imperfect work engage With honest freedom, not with partial rage, What just productions might the world surprize! But since by foes, or friends alike deceiv'd, Where humble peace, and sweet contentment reign; If not thy precepts, thy example own, And steal through life not useless, though unknown. EPISTLE V. ΤΟ LORD MELCOMBE. FROM RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ. I'VE often thought, my Lord, the thing now true, Said by Lord Bute, but what I've learn'd from you: "We shall lose poetry:" In this alone Too short, he might have added, "Wit is gone." How came this prime delight of man thus lessen'd From its full orb down to a thumb-nail crescent ? With me the case admits not of a doubt! The fact is, poesy itself's worn out. To you, my Lord, this notion I submit, Who knew and help'd to make this age of wit, Mix'd with those demi-gods in verse and prose, Congreves, and Addisons, and Garths, and Rowes, Heroes of giant limb, and high renown, Whose deeds we wonder at, and hide our own; Whom but to copy in their idle fits, Would break the backs of puny modern wits. Epist. V. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. 69 To set this matter in the clearest light, And be myself th' example while I write, Let us, my Lord, if so it may avail, And you have patience for a long detail, Give the Earl's sentence a poetic turn; Let it run thus: "See all Parnassus mourn, "Mute ev'ry muse, see George's praise unsung, "Their laurels scatter'd, and their lyres unstrung, "Apollo veils with mists his beamy head, Nay, Aganippe murmurs something sad." I fancy scarce, and favor'd, if it pass From a raw school-boy in the second class : Was, that it might be Truth, for aught they knew. With all that either broach'd, the world content, By pow'rful Fancy into fact congeal'd. And not restrain'd, as now, for want of stuff; A new Religion spreading ev'ry where, The stock of Poetry fell under par; For Oracles grew dumb, as men grew wise, None saw for those, who saw with their own eyes. No more the Jesuit prompts her what to tell ;' But the new doctrines being found too pure, Some able doctors undertook its cure; It serv'd no purposes but saving sinners, They added that by which themselves were winners; The world grown old, its youthful follies past, Reason assumes her reign, tho' late, at last. By slow degrees, and laboring up the hill, Step after step, yet seeming to stand still, She wins her way, wherever she advances; Satyr no more, nor Fawn, nor Dryad dances. The groves, tho' trembling to a natural breeze, Dismiss their horrors, and shew nought but trees. Before her, Nonsense, Superstition fly; We burn no Witch, let her be e'er so dry: |