For truths, divine and human; well advised
That wisdom here, as at the fountain head,

Her pure streams poured, her richest verdure spread.
Bright child of fancy! sporting on the verge
Of utmost sense, 'tis thine, at will, to stray,
Familiar through all bounds, nor lose thy way;
Or, haply lost, yet quickly to emerge
From seeming darkness to unclouded day;
Broad as man's nature, thy capacious soul
Surveyed all worlds, and harmonized the whole.

POPE.

Late, very late, correctness was our care-
E'en copious Dryden knew not, or forgot,
The last and greatest art, the art to blot.

IMITATIONS OF HORACE.

With rays refulgent, in the realms of fame,

Shines Pope's bright star.

Albeit not first in place,

Yet high, among the mighty, stands that name,

By few surpassed. What though there fail the race.
Of giant genius, in their stead we trace

No pigmy brood; and Pope o'er these may claim
Justly preeminence. With judgment clear,
Bright wit, and satire keen, if daring thought
And lofty fancy less in him appear,

His aim not less was worthy; wisely taught,
"He stooped to truth, and moralized his song;"
And hence his muse, in strains that will not die,

Breathes love of virtue, manly, generous, strong, With scorn for vice, though throned, or mitred high.

POETIC INSPIRATION.

I.

The vision and the faculty divine. WORDSWORTH.

Tis the prerogative of genius still

To waken imitation; to infuse

In others kindred feelings, and produce In all like ardour.

At the muses' rill

Not long I drink, delighted, ere the thrill
Of transport fires me. How can I refuse
When Homer calls, or Maro? Milton's muse
Speaks, monarch-like, with potency of will,

That brooks not question; Shakspeare's magic strain
Of deep enchantment, never heard in vain,
Wakes kindling thoughts; nor soon, nor long forgot,
Is Moore's bright fancy, Byron's stormful power,
Burns, Southey, Campbell, Crabbe, the minstrel Scott,
Nor Wordsworth, thoughtful in his rural bower.

Hence not with borrowed lustre, but from fire
Self-kindled, in his own pure heart to burn,
The bard must warm his fancies; nor can turn
For aid to others' thoughts, who would aspire

To strike, with fearless hand, the living lyre.

The fountains of deep thought within, unsealed, Must pour their treasures forth. Bright truths lie hid, Pure, unadulterate, in depths concealed

Of self-confiding souls; and spring, unbid,

In music forth, to earnest hearts revealed,
That heed their promptings: not the parrot strain
Of mock-bird imitation, weak as vain ;

But truths of thought and feeling, such as rise,
Spontaneous springing in the good and wise.

III.

Yet was poetic impulse given

By the green hill, and clear blue heaven. SCOTT.

What wonder if, so nurtured mid the quire
Of heaven-throned poets, my young hopes would fain
Grasp kindred power, ambitious to attain
The rare found honors of the sounding lyre.
Not that my muse presumptuous dared aspire,
In wildest dream, to swell the epic strain :
The love of nature waked a gentler train

Of milder contemplations; while the fire

Of youthful feeling, warm in passion's glow,

Fused my rough verse, and taught its strains to flow.

Lone walks in autumn, joyous sports in spring,
Soft twilight's balmy breath, old ocean's roar,
The wild wood's wilder music, and far more,
Thy smile, O Beauty! taught my heart to sing.

IV.

Oft have I bade the Muse farewell;
And sought as oft her haunted cell;
Oft lingered, till her partial smile
Could grief assuage, and care beguile.

True liegeman of the Muse did ne'er proclaim
Her favours few, or worthless. Though on few
Her richest gifts she showers, to such is due
Justly the recompence of lasting fame.
Earth knows no splendour purer than the flame
That radiates from the brow of bard divine,
When, from the fount within, clear, sparkling, strong,
He pours o'er life's dull wastes the tide of song.
Yet not to such the muse's gifts confine,

Nor deem to these alone her joys belong :

The ocean tides, on each wide shore that beat,
Have yet their smaller waves, and streams that fill
Each creek and inlet haply some bright rill
May reach, at times, e'en this my far retreat.

Truth dwells with reason, in the pure

Of free inquiry; Error in the den

clear light

Of power despotic, where the minds of men, By force, by fraud, by superstition's might,

Are dwarfed, and dwindle from their native height.
Man's primal attribute, which tongue and pen
Alike should vindicate, is fearless thought.

All else is false, or worthless life is vain,

If custom, creed, opinion's galling chain,
Bow down the soul, with fear of change inwrought.
Force wounds the mind, worse than the body's pain,
With sense of wrong intolerable fraught.

Claim then, O man! as birthright of mankind,
Freedom of thought, and fearlessness of mind.

Doubts spring, full oft, with knowledge; and extend
Furthest in strongest minds; the minds that soar
Highest for truth, and subtlest thoughts explore:
Hence new inquiries, questions without end,
And doubts, still springing, as their issues tend

To adverse answers; marring oft the store
Of past acquirements, valued now no more,
Deemed false, uncertain, or of small avail.

Yet fear not thence the issue, so thy mind,
On truth intent, to virtue be inclined.
The winds of doubtful doctrine may assail
Truth's flexile branches; but the trunk and root
Gain strength by agitation, and the fruit,
Mid storms of error ripened, ne'er can fail.