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Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of fenfe.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.

Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:
Thy tragic mufe gives fmiles, thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet'ft thyself to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen lambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

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There thou may'ft Wings display, and Altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou woud'ft thy different talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute."
He faid; but his last words were scarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

ON

ON

POETRY.

A

RHAPSODY.

Here follows one of the best verfified poems in our language, and the most masterly production of its author. The feverity with which Walpole is here treated, was in confequence of that minifter's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose in the year 1725 (if I remember right). The feverity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneafinefs. A man whofe fchemes, like this minifter's, feldom extended beyond the exigency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of pofterity.

A

LL human race would fain be wits,

And millions mifs for one that hits.
Young's univerfal paffion, pride,
Was never known to spread fo wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age, at moft ?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A fprig of bays in fifty years:

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While ev'ry fool his claim alledges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reafon can there be aflign'd
For this perverfenefs in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horfe will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate:
A dog, by inftinet, turns afide,
Who fees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature,
Who, led by folly, combats nature;
Who, when she loudly cries forbear,
With obftinacy fixes there;
And, where his genius leaft inclines,
Abfurdly bends his whole defigns.
Not empire to the rifing fun,
By valour, conduct, fortune won;
Not higheft wifdom in debates
For framing laws to govern ftates;
Not skill in fciences profound,
So large, to grafp the circle round;
Such heav'nly influence require,
As how to ftrike the Mufe's lyre.
Not beggar's brat, on bulk begot
Not baftard of a pedlar Scot;
Not boy brought up to cleaning fhoes,
The fpawn of Bridewell, or the ftews;
Not infants dropt, the fpurious pledges

Of gipfies litt'ring under hedges,

Are

Are so disqualify'd by fate

To rife in church, or law, or state,
As he whom Phoebus, in his ire,
Hath blafted with poetic fire.

What hope of custom in the fair,
While not a foul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life, or public ufe?
Court, city, country, want you not;
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets law makes no provifion;
The wealthy have you in derifion;
Of ftate affairs you cannot fmatter;
Are aukward, when you try to flatter;
Your portion, taking Britain round,
Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not fo much as in remainder,
Since Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fix'd by right divine

(A monarch's right) on Grub-ftreet line.
Poor ftarvling bard, how small thy gains!
How unproportion'd to thy pains!

And here a fimile comes pat in:

Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The guests, in less than half an hour,

Will more than half a score devour ;
So, after toiling twenty days

To earn a flock of pence

and praise,

Thy labours, grown the critic's prey,

Are fwallow'd o'er a dish of tea.

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Gone, to be never heard of more;

Gone, where the chickens went before.
How fhall a new attempter learn
Of diff'rent fpirits to difcern,
And how distinguish which is which,
The poet's vein, or fcribbling itch?
Then hear an old experienc'd finner,
Inftructing thus a young beginner.

Confult yourself, and, if you find
A powerful impulfe, urge your mind;
Impartial judge within your breaft
What fubject you can manage best ;
Whether your genius moft inclines
To fatyre, praife, or hum'rous lines;
To elegies in mournful tone,

Or prologue, fent from hand unknown.
Then, rifing with Aurora's light,

The mufe invok'd, fit down to write ;
Blot out, correct, infert, refine,

Enlarge, diminish, interline;

Be mindful, when invention fails,

To fcratch your head, and bite your nails.
Your poem finish'd, next, your care

Is needful to transcribe it fair.

In modern wit all printed trash is

Set off with num'rous breaks-and dafhes
To statesmen would you give a wipe,
You print it in Italic type.

When letters are in vulgar fhapes,
'Tis ten to one the wit efcapes ;

But,

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