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Whom Nature's works can charm, with God him-
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, [self
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

Akenside.

POWER AND DIGNITY OF VERSE.

..THE mind that feels the fire

The muse imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her soft attention claim,
A tender sympathy pervades the frame,
She pours a sensibility divine

Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.

But if a deed not tamely to be borne
Fire indignation and a sense of scorn,

The strings are swept with such a pow'r, so loud,
The storm of music shakes th' astonish'd crowd.
So when remote futurity is brought

Before the keen inquiry of her thought,

A terrible sagacity informs

The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms;
He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers;
And, arm'd with strength surpassing human powers,
Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his soul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of prophet and of poet was the same;
Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd,
And ev'ry hallow'd Druid was a bard.

*...................................................................................

Give me the line, that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan, conq'ring the stream by force; That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.

When Labour and when Dùlness, club in hand,
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand,
Beating alternately, in measur'd time,
The clock-work tintinabulum of rhyme,
Exact and regular the sounds will be;
But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me.
From him, who rears a poem lank and long,
To him, who strains his all into a song;
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air,

All birks and braes, though he was never there;
Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains,
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains;
A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke—
An art contriv'd to advertise a joke,

So that the jest is clearly to be seen,
Not in the words-but in the gap between :
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.

To dally much with subjects mean and low
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so.
Neglected talents rust into decay,

And ev'ry effort ends in pushpin play.

The man, that means success, should soar above
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove;

Else, summoning the Muse to such a theme,
The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream.
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then-

Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren.
As if the poet, purposing to wed,

Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread.

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Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard. To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. Thus Genius rose and set at order'd times, And shot a dayspring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose : And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, Emerg'd all splendour in our isle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again.

Cowper.

SATIRE MISCHIEVOUS UNLESS DIRECTED BY

VIRTUE.

.

UNLESS a love of virtue light the flame,

Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magisterial air

His own offences, and strips others bare;
Affects indeed a most humane concern,
That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn;
That mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd
By softer methods, must be made asham'd ;
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean)
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.

Most sat❜rists are indeed a public scourge ;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ;
Their acrid temper turns as soon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd.
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse,

The wild assassins start into the street,
Prepar❜d to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.
No skill in swordmanship, however just,
Can be secure against a madman's thrust;
And even Virtue, so unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
When Scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply,
"Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears
Gath'ring around it with erected ears :
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd;
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud;
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dang❜rous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash;
Th' important letters, that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd;
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law.
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail;
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood.
All zeal for a reform, that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence :
A bold remark, but which, if well applied,
Would humble many a tow'ring poet's pride.
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame;

Perhaps--whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At ev'ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes;

The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise,
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That, while they please, possess us with alarms;
So have I seen, and (hasten'd to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight)

Where stands that monument of ancient pow'r,
Nam'd with emphatic dignity, the Tow'r,
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small,
In starry forms dispos'd upon the wall;

We wonder, as we gazing stand below,

That brass and steel should make so fine a show; But though we praise th' exact designer's skill, Account them implements of mischief still.

Cowper.

RULES FOR WRITING WELL.

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well :
No writing lifts exalted man so high,
As sacred and soul-moving poesy :
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the Sun,

Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.

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