His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the sacred wires. Was lumber in an age so void of taste: Nor ceas'd, till, ever anxious to redress In him In front of these came Addison. In verse well disciplin'd, complete, compact, That, quite eclipsing Pleasure's painted face, Ev'n on the fools that trampled on their laws. And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart. Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, At Folly's cost, themselves unmov'd the while. That constellation set, the world in vain A. Are we then left-B. Not wholly in the dark; Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, Sufficient to redeem the modern race From total night and absolute disgrace. While servile trick and imitative knack Confine the million in the beaten track, Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one; Short his career indeed, but ably run; Churchill; himself unconscious of his pow'rs In penury consum'd his idle hours; And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown, Was left to spring by vigour of his own. Lifted at length, by dignity of thought And dint of genius, to an affluent lot, He laid his head in Luxury's soft lap, And took, too often, there his easy nap. If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, "Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. Surly, and slovenly, and bold, and coarse, Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, Spendthrift alike of money and of wit, Always at speed, and never drawing bit, He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, And so disdain'd the rules he understood, D The laurel seem'd to wait on his command, With music, modulating all their notes; And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown, With artless airs and concerts of her own: ; Skill'd in the characters that form mankind; Pity Religion has so seldom found The flow'rs would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely penn'd; But, unattir'd in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd, Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn. 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 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. "Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, Touch'd with a coal from Heav'n, assume the lyre, And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music 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, By flowing numbers and a flow'ry style, The tædium that the lazy rich endure, Which now and then sweet poetry may cure; |