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Low, in Elyfian vales, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy laurels, and adore thy fong:
On thee alone thy country turns her eyes;
On thee her Poets future fame relies.

See! how in crowds they court thy aid divine
(For all their honours but depend on thine);
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of every verse.
Unrival'd Bard! all ages fhall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy Bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rife;
Such heavenly numbers in thy fong we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phœbus' hands impart
His foul, his genius, and immortal art.

What help or merit in these rules are fhown,
The youth muft owe to thy fupport alone.
The youth, whose wandering feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er steep Parnaffus' facred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths which thou haft trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For whom, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
And with rich incenfe bid the temples blaze;
Our folemn hymns thall still refound thy praise.
Hail, holy Bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thyfelf alone,
Requires no fong, no numbers but thy own.


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Look down propitious, and my thoughts infpire;
Warm my chafte bofom with thy facred fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
Deep in my breast, and kindle all my foul!


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"TIS faid, dear Sir, no poets please the town,

Who drink mere water, though from Helicon For in cold blood they feldom boldly think; Their rhymes are more infipid than their drink. Not great Apollo could the train inspire, Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire. Warm'd by two gods at once, they drink and write, Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night. Homer, fays Horace, nods in many a place, But hints, he nodded oftner o'er the glass. Infpir'd with wine old Ennius fung and thought With the fame spirit, that his heroes fought : And we from Johnson's tavern-laws divine, That bard was no great enemy to wine.

'Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit, Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ. Let no coif'd ferjeant touch the facred juice,

But leave it to the bards for better use:

Let the grave judges too the glass forbear,

Who never fing and dance but once a year.

*Now Bishop of London.

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This truth once known, our poets take the hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print :
To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And lofe their fenfes in the fearch of wit:
And when with claret fir'd they take the pen,

Swear they can write, because they drink, like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coft,

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For in the rash attempt the fools are loft.
When once a genius breaks through common rules,
He leads an herd of imitating fools.

If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er fteaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools in public o'er the fragrant draught
Incline thofe heads, that never ach'd or thought.
This must provoke his mirth or his disdain,
Cure his complaint,—or make him fick again.
I too, like them, the poet's path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diftant view-yet what I write,
In thefe loose sheets, must never fee the light;
Epiftles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
Things that are born and die in half an hour.
What! you must dedicate, fays fneering Spence,
This year fome new performance to the prince :
Though money is your fcorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant stall by rhyme;
Like other poets, were the truth but known,.
You too admire whatever is your own.


These wife remarks my modefty confound,

While the laugh rifes, and the mirth goes round;
Vext at the jest, yet glad to fhun a fray,

I whisk into my coach, and drive away.




Prefixed to the ESSAY on POPE'S ODYSSEY.


IS done-Reftor'd by thy immortal pen,

The critic's noble name revives again; Once more that great, that injur'd name we fee Shine forth alike in Addifon and thee.


Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast,
And feed on fcraps refus'd by every guest ;
From the old Thracian dog they learn'd the way
To fnarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey..
As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they feel,
Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.
Such their inverted tafte, that we expect

For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell fnake rejects the fragrant flowers,
But every poifon of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's flame;
With his, your generous raptures ftill aspire;
The critic kindles, when the bard 's on fire.
But when fome lame, some limping line demands
The friendly fuccour of your healing hands;

Zoilus, fo called by the ancients.
Cc 3


The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, 'while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we furvey,
We stand all dazzled with excefs of day,

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Blind with the glorious blaze ;-to vulgar fight (1
'Twas one bright mafs of undiftinguish'd light ;
But, like the towering eagle, you alone
Difcern'd the spots and splendors of the fun. d
To point out faults, yet never to offend;
To play the critic, yet preferve the friend;
A life well spent, that never loft a day;
An eafy fpirit, innocently gay;

A ftrict integrity, devoid of art;

The sweetest manners, and fincerest heart;
A foul, where depth of sense and fancy meet;
A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit,
Were ever yours ;-be what you were before,
Be ftill yourself; the world can ask no more.



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A Well-known vafe of fovereign ufe I fing,

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Pleafing to young and old, and Jordan hight, The lovely queen, and eke the haughty king Snatch up this veffel in the murky night: 17 Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy wight, But ufes it in mantle brown or green; Sometimes it ftands array'd in gloffy white; And eft in mighty dortours may be feen Of China's fragile earth, with azure flowrets fheen.

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II. The

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