That Wretch (in spite of his forgotten Rhymes)
Condemn'd to live thro' all fucceeding Times,
With pompous Nonsense and a bellowing Sound
Sung lofty llium tumbling to the Ground.
And (if the Muse can through past Ages see)
That noisy, nauseous, gaping fool was he;
Exploded when with universal scorn
The Mountains laboured and a Mouse was born.
Learn, learn, Crotona's brawny Wrestler
cries,
Audacious Mortals, and be timely wife!
'Tis I that call, remember Milo's End,
Wedg'd in that Timber, which he strove to rend.
Each Poet with a different Talent writes,
One praifes, one instructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er afpire to Epic Bays,
Nor lofty Maro îtoop to Lyric Lays.
Examine how your Humour is inclin'd,
And which the ruling Passion of your Mind;
Then, seeck a Poet who your way does bend,
And choose an Author as you choose a Friend.
United by this sympathetic Bond,
You grow familiar, intimate, and fond;
Your Thoughts, your Words, your Stiles, your
No longer his Interpreter, but He.
With how much Ease is a young Muse be
How nice the Reputation of the Maid?
Your early, kind, paternal Care appears,
By chaft Instruction of her tender Years.
The first Impression in her infant Breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not Austerity breed fervile Fear;
No wanton Sound offend her Virgin-ear.
Secure from foolish Pride's affected State,
And specious Flatt'ry's more pernicious Bait,
Roscommon. Habitual Innocence adorns her thoughts;
- But your Neglect must answer for her Faults.
Immodest Words admit of no Defence;
For want of Decency is want of Sense.
What mod'rate Fop wou'd rake the Park or Stews,
Who among Troops of faultless Nymphs may choo-
Variety of such is to be found;
Take then a fubject, proper to expound;
But moral, great, and worth a Poet's Voice,
For Men of sense despise a trivial Choice:
And fuch Applause it must expect to meet,
As would some Painter bufy in a Street,
To copy Bulls and Bears, and ev'ry Sign
That calls the staring Sots to nasty Wine.
Yet 'tis not all to have a Subject good,
It must delight us, when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsom Objects to my View,
(As many Old have done, and many New)
With nauseous Images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like Oximel of Squills.
Instruct the list'ning World how Maro fings
Of useful Subjects, and of lofty Things.
Those will fuch true, such bright Ideas raise,
As merit Gratitude as well as Praise:
But foul Descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being like, or being ill.
For who, without a Qualm, hath ever look'd
On holy Garbage, tho' by Homer cook'd?
Whose railing Heroes, and whose wounded Gods,
Make some suspect, He snores, as well as nods.
But I offend - Virgil begins to frown,
And Horace looks with Indignation down:
My blushing Muse with confcious Fear retires,
And whom they like, -implicitly admires.
On sure foundations let your Fabrick rise,
And with attractive Majesty surprise.
Not by affected, meretricious Arts,
But strict harmonious Symmetry of Parts,
Which through the Whole insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to animate the Mass.
A pure, an active, an auspicious Flame,
And bright as Heav'n, from whence the Blessing
But few, oh few Souls, preordain'd by Fate,
The Race of Gods, have reach'd that envy'd
No Rebel-Titan's facrilegious Crime,
By heaping Hills on Hills can thither climb.
The grizly Ferry-man of Hell deny'd
Aeneas Entrance, 'till he knew his Guide;
How justly then will impious Mortals fall,
Whose Pride wou'd foar to Heav'n without a
Pride (of all others the most dang rous Fault,)
Proceeds from want of Senfe, or want of Thought.
The Men, who labour and digeft things most,
Will be much apter to despond, than boast.
For if your Author be profoundly good,
'Twill cost you dear, before he's understood.
How many Ages fince has Virgil writ?
How few are they who understand him yet?
Approach his Altars with religious Fear,
No vulgar Deity inhabits there:
Heav'n Ihakes not more at Jove's imperial Nod,
Than Poets shou'd before their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty Maro! may that sacred Name
Kindle my Breast with thy celestial Flame!
Sublime Ideas, and apt Words infuse,
The Muse instruct my Voice, and thou inspire the
What I have instanc'd only in the best,
Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.
Take pains, the genuine Meaning to explore;
There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious Oar:
Romscomon, Search ev'ry Comment that your Care can find,
Some here, some there, may hit the Poet's
Yet be not blindly guided by the Throng;
The Multitude is always in the Wrong.
When Things appear unnatural or hard,
Confult your Author, with himself compar'd.
Who knows what Blessing Phoebus may bestow,
And future Ages to your Labour owe?
Such Secrets are not easily found out,
But once discover'd, leave no room for doubt.
Truth stamps Conviction in your ravish'd Breast,
And Peace and Joy attend the glorious Guest.
Von dem oben (B. I. S. 449.) vorgekommenen Schäfers dichter Ambrose Philips ist der, vornehmlich in der Lehrgats tung berühmte, englische Dichter John Philips zu unters scheiden, der von 1676 bis 1708 lebte. Auch von ihm hat man nur wenige Gedichte, unter welchen die komische Parodie der Miltonschen Schreibart, The Splendid Shilling, und das Lehrgedicht, The Cyder, oder von der Bereitung des Aes pfelmostes, die beruhmtesten sind. Dief leßtre ist Nachahs mung des Virgilischen Gedichts vom Landbau, und hat, außer dem poetischen Verdienste, auch noch den Vorzug odle liger Wahrheit und Richtigkeit der darin ertheilten Anweis sungen. Der auch unter uns berühmte Botanist und Gar tenkenner Miller äußerte darüber gegen Dr. Johnson vas Urtheil, es gebe manche Bucher in Prose über die nämliche Materie, die nicht so viel Wahres enthielten, als dieses Gedicht, welches sich auch durch die geschickte Anlegung des Plans, und durch eine wirklich Virgilische Verflechtung des Angenehmen und Gefühlvollen mit dem Nüzlichen und Unterrichtenden empfiehlt. Von minder vortheilhafter Wirs kung ist, der, den Englåndern sonst in Lehrgedichten nie gewdhnliche, Gebrauch reimloser Verse, den auch Dr. Johnz son tadelt, weil diese Versart zu sehr an den feierlichen Gang des Heldengedichts erinnert, und leicht den poetischen Ausdruck über die hier weit engern Gränzen hinaus führt. S. auch Dusch's Briefe, 1. 9.
A thousand accidents the farmer's hopes
Subvert, or check; uncertain all his toil,
'Till lusty autumn's luke warm days allay'd
With gentle colds, insensibly confirm
His ripening labours: autumn to the fruits
Earth's various lap produces, vigour gives
Equal, intenerating milky grain,
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