Man should be suffer'd thus to play the fool,
To keep from hurt, as children go to school.
You should not rhyme in spite of nature !-True; Yet sure 'tis greater trouble, if you do:
And if 'tis lab'ring only, men profess,
Who writes the hardest, writes with most success.
Thus for myself and friends, I do my part;
Promoting doubly the pains-taking art:
First to myself, 'tis labour to compose;
To read such lines, is drudgery to those.
YES: all, my Lord, usurp fair HONOR's fame,
Though false as various be the boasted claim:
Th' ambitious miser swells his boundless store,
And dreads that highest scandal, to be poor;
His wiser heir derides the dotard's aim,
And bids profusion bribe him into fame.
Oft' Honor, perching on the ribbon'd breast,
Sneers at weak justice, and defies th' arrest:
She dwells exulting on the tongues of kings;
She wakes the Muse to flight, and plumes her wings;
The soldier views her in the shining blade;
The pedant 'midst the lumber in his head.
She to fell Treason the disguise can lend,
And sheath her sword remorseless in a friend:
Her throne's fantastic pride, we often see
Rear'd on the tombs of Truth and Honesty ;
Fops, templars, courtiers, slaves, cheats, patriots, all
Pretend to hear, and to obey her call.
Where fix we then?-Each boasting thus his own, Say, does true Honor dwell with all, or none ?
The truth, my Lord, is clear: though impious pride
Be ever self-ador'd, self-deify'd;
Though fools by passion or self-love betray'd,
Fall down and worship what themselves have made;
Still does the Goddess, in her form divine,
O'er each grim idol eminently shine ;
Array'd in lasting majesty, is known
Through every clime and age, unchang'd, and one.
But how explor'd-Take Reason for your guide, Discard self-love; set passion's glass aside; Nor view her with the jaundic'd eye of pride. Yet judge not rashly from a partial view Of what is wrong or right, or false or true; Objects too near deceive th' observer's eye; Examine those which at a distance lie. Scarce is the structure's harmony descry'd
'Midst the tall column's, and gay order's pride;
But tow'rd the destin'd point your sight remove,
And this shall lessen still, and that improve,
New beauties gain upon your wond'ring eyes,
And the fair Whole in just proportion rise,
Thus Honor's true proportions best are seen,
Where the due length of ages lies between :
This separates pride from greatness, show from
worth,
Detects false beauty, real grace calls forth;
Points out what merits praise, what merits blame,
Sinks in disgrace, or rises into fame.
Come then, from past examples let us prove What raises hate, contempt, esteem, or love.
Can greatness give true Honor? can expence Can luxury? or can magnificence ?
Wild is the purpose, and the fruitless aim,
Like a vile prostitute to bribe fair Fame;
Persuasive splendor vainly tempts her ear,
And e'en all-potent gold is baffled here.
Ye pyramids, that once could threat the skies,
Aspiring tow'rs, and cloud-wrapt wonders, rise!
To latest age your founder's pride proclaim;
Record the tyrant's greatness; tell his name;
No more:-The treacherous brick and mould'ring
Are sunk in dust: the boasting title gone;
Pride's trophies swept by Time's devouring flood; Th' inscription want, to tell where once they stood. But could they rival Nature, Time defy,
Yet what record but Vice or Vanity?
His the true glory, though his name unknown,
Who taught the arch to swell; to rise, the stone;
Not his, whose wild command fair art obey’d,
Whilst folly dictated, or passion sway'd.
No spite of greatness, pride and vice are seen, Shameful in pomp, conspicuously mean.
In vain, O Studley, thy proud forests spread ;
In vain each gilded turret rears its head;
In vain thy lord commands the streams to fall,
Extends the view, and spreads the smooth canal,
While guilt's black train each conscious walk in
And cries of orphans haunt him in the shade.
Mistaken man! by crimes to hope for fame!
Thy imag'd glory leads to real shame :
Is villany self-hated? thus to raise
Upbraiding monuments of foul disgrace ?
Succeeding times, and ages yet unborn,
Shall view the guilty scenes with honest scorn;
Disdain each beauty thy proud folly plann'd,
And curse the labors of oppression's hand.
Next view the Hero in th' embattled field; True Honor's fruit can conquest's laurel yield?
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