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Here is the task of Reason, not of Art,
And sure that unbought praise which Learning
Hail, and proceed! be arts like ours thy care,
Power, Beauty, Virtue, dignify thy choice, Each public suffrage, and each private voice.
By the Same.
To move the springs of nature as we please,
'Tis your's, like these with curious toil to trace The powers of language, harmony, and grace; How Nature's self with living lustre shines, How judgment strengthens, and how art refines : How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame, And force a pleasure which we dare not blaine ; To charm us more through negligence than pains, And give e'en life and action to the strains : Led by soine law, whose powerful impulse guides Each happy stroke, and in the soul presides;
Some fairer image of perfection given
O ever worthy, ever crownd with praise,
Yet sure not so must all peruse thy lays;
So seems some picture, where exact design, And curious pains, and strength, and sweetness join ; Where the free thought its pleasing grace bestows, And each warm stroke with living color glows; Soft without weakness, without labor fair, Wrought up at once with happiness and care!
How blest the man that from the world removes, To joys that Mordaunt, or his Pope, approves ;
Whose taste exact each author can explore,
Nor deem this verse, though bumble, a disgrace, All are not born the glory of their race : Yet all are born t'adore the great man's name, And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame. The Muse, who now this early homage pays, First learn'd from thee to animate her lays : A Muse as yet unhonor'd, but unstain'd, Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gaind; Unbiass d or to censure or commend, Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend; Perhaps too fond to make those virtues known, And fix her fame inmortal on thy own.
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY,
J. SICAN, M.D.
You've read, Sir, in poetic strain, How Varrus and the Mantuan Swain Have on my birth-day been invited (But I was forc'd in verse to write it) Upon a plain repast to dine, And taste my old Campanian wine ; But I, who all punctilios hate, Though long familiar with the great, Nor glory in my reputation, Am come without an invitation, And thougn I'm usid to right Falernian, I'll deign for once to taste Iernian ; But fearing that you might dispute (Had I put on a common suit) Vol. VI.