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 Was, that it might be Truth, for aught they knew. Ready their faith, their manners roughly hewn, 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; The great abyss of Fable open stood, And nothing solid rose above the flood. A new Religion spreading ev'ry where, The stock of Poetry fell under par; For Oracles grew dumb, as men grew wise, But the new doctrines being found too pure, It serv'd no purposes but saving sinners, 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: 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, With every virtue 'tending in her train. 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, Swoln with new stores from snows that melt the while, Stretches his current on to fiercer suns, And glads a thousand nations as he runs, Till having reach'd, proud of his long career, Exhal'd, absorb'd, diverted, dry foot cross'd, And, finger'd into rivulets, is lost. Fall'n cherub; Simile! who erst divine, Cloath'd with transcendant beauty didst outshine Plain angel Poesy; how art thou lost! Sunk in Oblivion's pit! from what height toss'd! Thus to plain Narrative confin'd alone, |