Then marble, foften'd into life, grew warm,
And yielding metal flow'd to human form:
Lely on animated canvas stole

The fleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.
No wonder then, when all was love and fport,
The willing Muses were debauch'd at court :
On each enervate ftring they taught the note
To pant, or tremble thro' an eunuch's throat,
But Britain, changeful as a child at play,
Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate;
Now all for pleasure, now for church and state;
Now for prerogative, and now for laws;
Effects unhappy! from a noble cause.

Time was, a fober Englishman would knock
His fervants up, and rife by five o'clock,
Inftru&t his family in ev'ry rule,

And fend his wife to church, his son to school.
To worship like his fathers, was his care;
To teach their frugal virtues to his heir;
To prove, that luxury could never hold;
And place, on good fecurity, his gold.
Now times are chang'd, and one poetic itch
Has feiz'd the court and city, poor and rich:
Sons, fires, and grandfires, all will wear the bays,
Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays,
To theatres, and to Rehearsals throng,
And all our grace at table is a fong.
I, who so oft renounce the Mufes, lye,
Not 's felf e'er tells more fibs than I;

When fick of Mufe, our follies we deplore,

And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; We wake next morning in a raging fit,

And call for pen and ink to show our wit.

He ferv'd a 'prenticeship, who fets up shop; Ward try'd on puppies, and the poor, his drop; Ev'n Radcliff's doctors travel first to France, Nor dare to practise till they've learn❜d to dance. Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile ? (Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile) But thofe who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and ferawl, and feribble, to a man. Yet, Sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; Thefe madmen never hurt the church or state: Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind. Allow him but his plaything of a pen, He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men : Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; And knows no loffes while the Mufe is kind. To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter; The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then a perfect hermit in his diet.

Of little use the man you may suppose, Who fays in verfe what others fay in profe; Yet let me show, a poet's of fome weight, And (tho' no foldier) useful to the state. What will a child learn fooner than a fong? What better teach a foreigner the tongue ? What's long or short, each accent where to place, And speak in public with some sort of grace.

-

I fcarce can think him fuch a worthiefs thing,
Unless he prai'e fome monter of a king ;
Or virtue, or religion turn to sport,
To please a lewd, or unbelieving court.
Unhappy Dryden! In all Charles's days,
Rofcommon only boaits unfpotted bays;
And in our own (excufe fome courtly stains)
No whiter page than Addison remains.
He, from the tafte obfcene reclaims our youth,
And fets the paffions on the fide of truth,
Forms the foft bofom with the gentleft art,
And pours each human virtue in the heart.
Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause,
Her trade fupported, and fupplied her laws
And leave on Swift this grateful verse iv grav'å,
>> The rights a court attack'd, a poer fav'a «.
Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure,
Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor,
Proud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn,
And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.
Not but there are, who merit other palms ;
Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with pfalms:
The boys and girls whom charity maintains,
Implore your help in these pathetic strains :
How could devotion touch the country pews,
Unless the Gods beftow'd a proper Mufe?

Verfe chears their leifure, verfe aflifts their work,
Verfe prays for peace, or fings down pope and Turk,
The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain,
And feels that grace his pray'r befought in vain ;

The bleffing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng,

And heav'n is won by violence of fong.

Our rural ancestors, with little bleft,
Patient of labour when the end was reft,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
With feafts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain:
The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants share,
Ease of their toil, and partners of their care:
The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl,
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry foul:
With growing years the pleafing licence grew,
And taunts alternate innocently flew.
But times corrupt, and nature iil-inclin'd,
Produc'd the point that left a fting behind;
Till friend with friend, and families at ftrife,
Triumphant malice rag'd thro' private life.
Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm,
Appeal'd to law, and juftice lent her arm.
At length, by wholsome dread of statutes bound,
The
poets learn'd to please, and not to wound;
Moft warp'd to flatt'ry's fide; but some, more nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.
Hence fatire rofe, that juft the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.
We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's charms
Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft refinements lefs a foe,

Wit grew polite, and rumbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full-refounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.
Tho' ftill fome traces of our rustic vein,

And fplay-foot verse remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
Show'd us that France had something to admire.
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway shone:
But Otway fail'd to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakespear scarce effac'd a line.
Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire
The humbler Mufe of comedy require.
But in known images of life, I guess
The labour greater, as th' indulgence less.
Obferve how feldom ev'n the best fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed?
What pert,
low dialogue has Farqu'ar writ!
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loosely does Afiræa tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause!
But fill their purse, our poet's work is done,
Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.

O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys
On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise,
With what a shifting gale your course you ply
For ever funk too low, or born too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose,
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.