Still he perfifts; regrets no toil nor pain,
And still the task, he tried before in vain,
Plies with unweary'd diligence again.
For oft' unmanageable thoughts appear,
That mock his labour, and delude his care;
Th' impatient bard, with all his nerves apply'd,
Tries all the avenues on every fide;
Refolv'd and bent the precipice to gain;
Though yet he labours at the rock in vain ;
By his own ftrength and heaven, with conquest grac'd,
He wins th' important victory at last;
Stretch'd by his hands the vanquish'd monster lies,
And the proud triumph lifts him to the skies.
But when ev'n chance and all his efforts fail,
Nor toils, nor vigilance, nor cares prevail;
His past attempts in vain the boy renews,
And waits the fofter seasons of the Mufe;
He quits his work; throws by his fond desires;
And from his task reluctantly retires.
Thus o'er the fields the swain pursues his road,
Till stopt at length by some impervious flood,
That from a mountain's brow, o'ercharg'd with rains,
Burfts in a thundering tide, and foams along the plains ;
With horror chill'd, he traverses the shore,
Sees the waves rife, and hears the torrent roar ;
Then griev'd returns; or waits with vain delay,
Till the tumultuous deluge rolls away.
But in no Iliad let the youth engage
His tender years, and unexperienc'd age;
Let him by just degrees and steps proceed,
Sing with the fwains, and tune the tender reed:
He with fuccefs an humbler theme may ply,
And, Virgil-like, immortalize a fly:
Or fing the mice, their battles and attacks,
Against the croaking natives of the lakes:
Or with what art her toils the spider sets,
And fpins her filmy entrails into nets.
And here embrace, ye teachers, this advice;
Not to be too inquifitively nice,
But, till the foul enlarg'd in ftrength appears,
Indulge the boy, and spare his tender years ;
Till, to ripe judgment and experience brought,
Himself difcerns and blufhes at a fault;
For if the critics eyes too ftrictly pierce,
To point each blemish out in every verse,
Void of all hope the ftripling may depart,
And turn his ftudies to another art.
But if refolv'd his darling faults to fee,
A youth of genius fhould apply to me,
And court my elder judgment to peruse
Th' imperfect labours of his infant Mufe
I fhould not fcruple, with a candid eye,
To read and praife his poem to the sky;
With feeming rapture on each line to pause,
And dwell on each expreffion with applause.
But when my praises had inflam'd his mind,
If fome lame verfe limp'd flowly up behind;
One, that himself, unconscious, had not found,
By numbers charm`d, and led away by found;
I fhould not fear to minister a prop,
And give him ftronger feet to keep it up;
Teach it to run along more firm and fure;
Nor would I fhow the wound before the cure.
For what remains; the poet I enjoin
To form no glorious fcheme, no great defign,
Till free from bufinefs he retires alone,
And flies the giddy tumult of the town;
Seeks rural pleasures, and enjoys the glades,
And courts the thoughtful filence of the fhades,
Where the fair Dryads haunt their native woods,
With all the orders of the fylvan gods.
Here in their foft retreats the poets lye,
Serene, and bleft with chearful poverty;
No guilty schemes of wealth their fouls moleft,
No cares, no profpects, difcompofe their reft;
No fcenes of grandeur glitter in their view;
Here they the joys of innocence purfue,
And tafte the pleafures of the happy few.
From a rock's entrails the barbarian sprung,
Who dares to violate the facred throng
By deeds or words---The wretch, by fury driven,
Affaults the darling colony of heaven!
Some have look'd down, we know, with fcornful eyes
On the bright Mufe who taught them how to rife,
And paid, when rais'd to grandeur, no regard
From that high station to the facred bard.
Uninjur'd, mortals, let the poets lye,
Or dread th' impending vengeance of the sky;
Y 4
The gods ftill liften'd to their constant prayer,
And made the poets their peculiar care.
They, with contempt, on fortune's gift look down,
And laugh at kings who wear an envy'd crown.
Rais'd and transported by their foaring mind,
From their proud eminence they view mankind
Loft in a cloud; they fee them toil below,
All busy to promote their common woe.
Of guilt unconscious, with a steady foul,
They fee the lightnings flash, and hear the thunders roll.
When, girt with terrors, Heaven's Almighty Sire
Launches his triple bolts, and forky fire,
When o'er high towers the red destroyer plays,
And strikes the mountains with the pointed blaze;
Safe in their innocence, like Gods, they rife,
And lift their fouls ferenely to the skies.
Fly, ye profane ;---the facred Nine were given
To blefs thefe lower worlds by bounteous heaven:
Of old, Prometheus, from the realms above,
Brought down thefe daughters of all-mighty Jove,
When to his native earth the robber came,
Charg'd with the plunder of ethereal flame.
As due compaffion touch'd his generous mind,
To fee the favage ftate of human kind;
When, led to range at large the bright abodes,
And share th' ambrofial banquets of the Gods;
In many a whirl he faw Olympus driven,
And heard th' eternal harmony of heaven.
Turn'd round and round the concert charm'd his ears
With all the inufic of the dancing spheres;
The facred Nine his wondering eyes behold,
As each her orb in just divisions roll'd ;'
The thief beholds them with ambitious eyes,
And, bent on fraud, he meditates the prize;
A prize the nobleft gift he could bestow
(Next to the fire) on human race below;
At length th' immortals reconcil'd refign'd
The fair celeftial fifters to mankind;
Though bound to Caucafus with folid chains,
Th' afpiring robber groan'd in endless pains;
By which deterr'd, for ages lay fupine
The race of mortals, nor invok'd the Nine:
Till heaven in verfe fhew'd man his future ftate,
And open'd every diftant scene of fate.
First, the great father of the Gods above
Sung in Dodona and the Libyan grove;
Next, to th' enquiring nations Themis gave,
Her facred anfwers from the Phocian cave;
Then Phoebus warn'd them from the Delphic dome,
Of future time, and ages yet to come;
And reverend Faunus utter'd truths divine
To the firft founders of the Latian line.
Next the great race of hallow'd prophets came,
With them the Sibyls of immortal fame,
Infpir'd with all the God; who rapt on high
With more than mortal rage unbounded fly,
And range the dark receffes of the sky.
Next, at their feafts, the people fung their lays
(The fame their prophets fung in former days);
Their theme an hero, and his deathlefs praife.
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