Like him unnoticed, I, and such as I, Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly: Had faded, poetry was not an art; Not prompted as in our degenerate days, And yet magnificent-A God the theme; That theme on earth exhausted, though above 'Tis found as everlasting as his love, Man lavished all his thoughts on human things The feats of heroes, and the wrath of kings: But still, while virtue kindled his delight, The song was moral, and so far was right. 'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind To joys less innocent, as less refined; Then genius danced a bacchanal; he crowned The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound His brows with ivy, rushed into the field Of wild imagination, and there reeled, The victim of his own lascivious fires, And dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred wires. Anacreon, Horace played in Greece and Rome This bedlam part; and others nearer home. When Cromwell fought for power, and while he reigned The proud protector of the power he gained, Religion harsh, intolerant, austere, Parent of manners like herself severe, Drew a rough copy of the Christian face Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace; The dark and sullen humour of the time Judged every effort of the muse a crime; Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast, Was lumber in an age so void of taste; But, when the second Charles assumed the Then, like a bow long forced into a curve, sway, The mind, released from too constrained a nerve, That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, From these a long succession, in the rage Of rank obscenity, debauched their age; Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, And claim the palm for purity of song, That lewdness had usurped and worn so long. Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense, That neither gave nor would endure offence, Whipped out of sight, with satire just and keen, The puppy pack that had defiled the scene. In front of these came Addison. Humour in holiday and sightly trim, In him To polish, furnish, and delight, the mind. In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, Even on the fools that trampled on their laws. So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) Made poetry a mere mechanic art; And every warbler has his tune by heart. Nature imparting her satiric gift, Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, Must hope to look upon their like again. 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. Confine the million in the beaten track, Short his career, indeed, but ably run; And, like a scattered seed at random sown, Was left to spring by vigour of his own. |