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But still, while virtue kindled his delight,
And claim the palm for purity of song,
In front of these came Addison. In him
650 E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. But he, (his musical finesse was such, So nice his ear, so delicate his touch,) Made poetry a mere mechanick art; And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart.
655 Nature imparting her satirick gift, Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, With droll sobriety they rais'd a smile At Foily's cost, themselves unmov'd the while. That constellation set, the world in vain
660 Must hope to look upon their like again.
A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark ;
670 Short his career, indeed, but ably run ; Churchill, himself unconscious of his powits, In penury consumid bis id'e hours ;
And like a scatter'd seed at random sown,
685 He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, And so disdain'd the rules he understood, The laurel seem'd to wait on his command, He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. Nature, exorting an unwearied pow'r,
690 Forms, opens, and gives scent to ev'ry flower ; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads. She fills profuse ten thousand little throats With musick, modulating all their notes;
695 And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown, With artless airs and concerts of her own; But seldom, (as if fearful of expense,) Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence Fervency, freedomn, fluency of thought,
700 Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky, Brings colours dipp'd in Heav'n, that never die ; A soul exalted above earth, a mind Skill'd in the characters that form mankind; 705 And as the sun in rising beauty dressid, Looks to the westward from the dappled east, And marks whatever clouds rmy interposo, Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; And eye like his to catch the distant goal ; iso Or, ere the wheels of verge begin to roll,
Like his to shed illuminating rays
Pity Religion has so seldom found,
725 The shelves are full, all other themes are sped; Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread, Satire has long since done his best ; and curst And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst ; Fancy has sported all her pow'rs away
730 In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ; And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. T'were new indeed to see a bard all fire, Touch'd with a coal from Heav'n, assume the lyre, 7:15 And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal musick on his tongue, That He, who died below, and reigns above, Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. For, after all, if merely to beguile,
740 By flowing numbers, and a flow'ry style, The tedium that the lazy rich endure, Which now and then sweet poetry may cure Or, if to see the name of idle self, Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf, 745 To float a bubble on the breath of Fame, Prompt tis endeavour and engage his aim, Dobas'd to servile purposes of pride, How ar. the pow'rs of genius misapplied !
The gift whose office is the Giver's praise, 750
759 A. Hail, Sternhold, then; and, Hopkins, hail !-B. If flatt’ry, folly, lust, employ the pen; (Amen. If acrimony, slander, and abuse, Give it a charge to blacken and traduce ; Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's case, With all that fancy can invent to please,
765 Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall, One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.
4. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetick tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe.
B. No matter-we could shift when they were not ; And should, no dc ubt, if they were all forgot.