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. 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." Say, will this stile, my Lord, go down or no, Glib as it did two thousand years ago? I fancy scarce, and favor'd, if it pass From a raw school-boy in the second class: The reason then why no disgust it drew, Was, that it might be Truth, for aught they knew. With all that either broach'd, the world content, Believ'd still farther than they could invent, All irrealities came forth reveal'd By pow'rful Fancy into fact congeal'd. Then Poetry had elbow-room enough, 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, We burn no Witch, let her be e'er so dry: A woman now may live, tho' past her prime, Bankrupt of deities, with all their train, See, at his beck, all Nouns renouncing sense, To bless a nation, see Charlotta come, 'Twas Anson, and not Neptune, brought her home. A single Nereid stirr'd not from below, The duce a conch did e'er one Triton blow; But, in revenge she plough'd her subject main, Hark, 'tis a people's universal voice, That bless, while they approve their Sov'reign's choice. On such a theme, my Lord, might one extend Far as one would, nor strictest Truth offend, 'Twere only proper epithets to find, To every grace of person and of mind; Thus from the lunar hills some other Nile, And glads a thousand nations as he runs, Fall'n cherub; Simile! who erst divine, Thus to plain Narrative confin'd alone, |