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Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve.

As things seem large which we through mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,

And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality,
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;

As oft the learn'd by being singular;

So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux ;
But sense survived when merry jests were past;
For rising merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise:
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true;
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known
The' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
But ev❜n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend :
His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.

Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 't is but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years.
Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
Atones not for that envy which it brings.
In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
But soon the short-lived vanity is lost!
Like some fair flower the early spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
If wit so much from ignorance undergo,
Ah, let not learning, too, commence its foe!
Of old, those met rewards who could excel,
And such were praised who but endeavour'd well :
Though triumphs were to generals only due,
Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to spurn some others down;
And, while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise!
Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human; to forgive, Divine.

Learn, then, what morals critics ought to show; For 't is but half a judge's task, to know. "Tis not enough, wit, art, and learning join; In all you speak let truth and candour shine: That not alone what to your judgment's due All may allow, but seek your friendship too.

Be silent always when you doubt your sense, And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence. Some positive, persisting fops we know, That, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.

"T is not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do: Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot.

Without good breeding truth is disapproved;
That only makes superior sense beloved.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
For the worst avarice is that of sense.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ;
Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.
'Tis well sometimes your censure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain :

Your silence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,
And, lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
False steps but help them to renew the race,
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
Such shameless bards we have; and yet 't is true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
And always listening to himself appears.
All books he reads, and all he reads assails,
From Dryden's Fables down to D'Urfey's Tales.
With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,

Nay, show'd his faults; but when would poets mend?
No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,

Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Church

yard.

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk

you dead;

For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

But where's the man who counsel can bestow,

Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know?

Unbiass'd or by favour or by spite;

Not dully prepossess'd, or blindly right;

Though learn'd, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sincere;

Modestly bold, and humanely severe;

Who to a friend his faults can freely show,

And gladly praise the merit of a foe?

Such once were critics; such the happy few

Athens and Rome in better ages knew.

The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star.
Poets, a race long unconfined and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,

Received his laws; and stood convinced 't was fit,
Who conquer'd nature should preside o'er wit.
Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense;
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who, supreme in judgment as in wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ;

Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
Fancy and art in gay Petronius meet,
The scholar's learning, with the courtier's wit.
In grave Quintilian's copious work we find
The justest rules and clearest method join'd.
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
Whose own example strengthens all his laws,
And is himself that great sublime he draws.

Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd,
Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd.
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew.
From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom;
And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome.
With tyranny then superstition join'd,
As that the body, this enslaved the mind:
Much was believed, but little understood,
And to be dull was construed to be good;
A second deluge learning thus o'erran,
And the monks finish'd what the Goths began.
At length Erasmus, that great injured name,
(The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!)
Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barbarous age,
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

But, see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days, Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays!

Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread,
Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head.
Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live ;
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida* sung.
Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow
The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow,
Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

DESCRIPTION OF JUNO.

SWIFT to her bright apartment she repairs,
Sacred to dress and beauty's pleasing cares:
With skill divine had Vulcan form'd the bower,
Safe from access of each intruding power.
Touch'd with her secret key, the doors unfold:
Self-closed, behind her shut the valves of gold.
Here, first, she bathes, and round her body pours
Soft oils of fragrance, and ambrosial showers:
The winds, perfumed, the balmy gale convey
Through heaven, through earth, and all the aërial way:
Spirit divine! whose exhalation greets

The sense of gods with more than mortal sweets.
Thus, while she breathed of heaven, with decent pride
Her artful hands the radiant tresses tied;
Part on her head in shining ringlets roll'd,
Part o'er her shoulders waved like melted gold.
Around her, next, a heavenly mantle flow'd.
That rich with Pallas' labour'd colours glow'd;
Large clasps of gold the foldings gather'd round;
A golden zone her swelling bosom bound.
Far-beaming pendants tremble in her ear,
Each gem illumined with a triple star.

Then o'er her head she casts a veil more white
Than new-fall'n snow, and dazzling as the light.
Last, her fair feet celestial sandals grace.

Thus, issuing radiant with majestic pace,
Forth from the dome the' imperial goddess moves,
And calls the mother of the smiles and loves.

* An excellent Latin poet, who wrote an Art of Poetry in verse.

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