'Mongst all the instances of genius crost, The rhyming tribe are those who err the most. Each piddling wretch who hath but common sense, Or thinks he hath, to verse shall make pretence; Why not? 'tis their diversion, and 'twere hard If men of their estates should be debarr'd. Thus wealth with them gives every thing beside: As people worth so much are qualify'd : They've all the requisites for writing fit, All but that one-some little share of wit.

Give way, ye friends, nor with fond pray'rs proceed To stop the progress of a pen full speed.

'Tis heav'n, incens'd by some prodigious crime,
Thus for men's sins determines them to rhyme.
Bad men, no doubt; perhaps 'tis vengeance due
For shrines they've plunder'd, or some wretch they
slew.

Whate'er it be, sure grievous is th' offence,
And grievous is (heaven knows!) its recompence.
At once in want of rhyme, and want of rest;
Plagues to themselves, and to mankind a jest:
Seduc'd by empty forms of false delight—
Such, in some men, their deadly lust to write!

Ev'n I, whose genius seems as much forgot,
(Mine when I write, as your's when you do not ;)
Who gravely thus can others' faults condemn,
Myself allowing, what I blame in them;
With no pretence to Phoebus' aid divine,

Nor the least int'rest in the tuneful Nine,

With all the guilt of impotence in view,
Griev'd for past sins, but yet committing new;
Whate'er the wits may say, or wise may think,
Am fooling every way with pen and ink.
When all who wish me best, begin t' advise,
That being witty, is not being wise;

That if the voice of int'rest might be heard,

For one who wears a gown,—would be preferr'd'— Incorrigibly deaf, I feign a yawn;

And mock their just conclusions ere they're drawn.

If to my practice, they oppos'd my theme;
And pointed, how I swam against the stream:
With all the rancor of a bard in rage,

I'd quote 'em half the writers of the age;
Who in a wrath of verse, with all their might

Write on, howe'er unqualify'd to write.

EPISTLE IV.

ON

THE DANGER

OF

WRITING VERSE.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

Quae porterunt umquam satis expurgare cicutae,

Ni melius dormire putem quam scribere versus ? Hor.

You ask me, Sir, why thus by phantoms aw'd,
No kind occasion tempts the Muse abroad?
Why, when retirement sooths this idle art,
To fame regardless sleeps the youthful heart?

'Twould wrong your judgment, should I fairly say Distrust or weakness caus'd the cold delay : Hint the small diff'rence till we touch the lyre, 'Twixt real genius and too strong desire; The human slips, or seeming slips pretend, That rouze the critic, but escape the friend ; Nay which, though dreadful when the foe pursues, You pass, and smile, and still provoke the Muse.

Yet, spite of all you think, or kindly feign, My hand will tremble while it grasps the pen. For not in this, like other arts, we try Our light excursions in a summer sky, ́ No casual flights the dangerous trade admits, But wits, once authors, are for ever wits. The fool in prose, like earth's unwieldy son, May oft rise vig'rous, though he's oft o'erthrown; One dangerous crisis marks our rise or fall, By all we're courted, or we're shun’d by all.

Will it avail, that unmatur'd by years,
My easy numbers pleas'd your partial ears,
If now condemn'd, my riper lays must bear

The wise man's censure, and the vain man's sneer?
Or, still more hard, ev'n where he's valued most,
The man must suffer, if the poet's lost;
For wanting wit, be totally undone,

And barr'd all arts, for having fail'd in one.
When fears like these his serious thoughts engage,
No bugbear phantom curbs the poet's rage;
'Tis powerful reason holds the strengthen'd rein,
While flutt'ring fancy to the distant plain
Sends a long look, and spreads her wings in vain.

But grant, for once, th' officious Muse has shed Her gentlest influence on his infant head, Let fears lie vanquish'd, and resounding Fame Give to the bellowing blast the poet's name. And see! distinguish'd from the crowd he moves,

Each finger marks him, and each eye approves !
Secure, as halcyons brooding o'er the deep,
The waves roll gently, and the thunders sleep,
Obsequious nature binds the tempest's wings,
And pleas'd attention listens whilst he sings!

O blissful state, O more than human joy!
What shafts can reach him, or what cares annoy?
What cares, my friend? why all that man can know,
Oppress'd with real or with fancy'd woe.

Rude to the world, like earth's first lord expell'd,
To climes unknown, from Eden's safer field;
No more eternal springs around him breathe,
Black air scowls o'er him, deadly damps beneath;
Now must he learn, misguided youth, to bear
Each varying season of the poet's year:
Flatt'ry's full beam, detraction's wintry store,
The frowns of fortune, or the pride of pow'r.
His acts, his words, his thoughts no more his own,
Each folly blazon'd, and each frailty known.
Is he reserv'd?-his sense is so refin'd,
It ne'er descends to trifle with mankind.
Open and free?-they find the secret cause
Is vanity; He courts the world's applause.
Nay, though he speak out, something still is seen,
Each change of face betrays a fault within.
If grave, 'tis spleen; he smiles but to deride;
And downright awkwardness in him is pride.
Thus must he steer through fame's uncertain seas,
Now sunk by censure, and now puff'd by praise;