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. 200 Of little use the man you may suppose Who says in verse what others say in prose;

Yet let me show a Poet's of some weight, And (tho' no soldier) useful to the State. What will a child learn sooner than a song? 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 scarce can think him such a worthless

The boys and girls whom charity maintains

Implore your help in these pathetic strains: How could Devotion touch the country pews

Unless the Gods bestow'd a proper Muse? Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work,

Verse prays for peace, or sings down pope and Turk.

The silenced preacher yields to potent strain,

And feels that Grace his prayer besought in vain;

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

And Heav'n is won by violence of song. 240 Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labour when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain

With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful

Exact Racine and Corneille's noble fire Show'd us that France had something to admire.

Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway, shone;

But Otway fail'd to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a
line.

Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 280
The last and greatest art- -the art to blot.
Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire
The humbler Muse of Comedy require.
But in known images of life I
guess
The labour greater, as th' indulgence less.
Observe how seldom ev'n the best succeed:
Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools in-
deed?

What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
How Van wants grace, who never wanted

309

Call for the Farce, the Bear, or the Blackjoke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords! Ever the taste of Mobs, but now of Lords: (Taste! that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes.)

The play stands still; damn action and discourse!

Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse;

Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn;

The Champion too! and, to complete the jest,

319

Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's
breast.
With laughter sure Democritus had died,
Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.
Let bear or elephant be e'er so white,
The people sure, the people are the sight!
Ah, luckless Poet! stretch thy lungs and

We Poets are (upon a poet's word)

Of all mankind the creatures most absurd: The season when to come, and when to go, To sing, or cease to sing, we never know; And if we will recite nine hours in ten, 362 You lose your patience just like other men. Then, too, we hurt ourselves when, to de

fend

A single verse, we quarrel with a friend; Repeat, unask'd; lament, the wit's too fine For vulgar eyes, and point out every line: But most when straining with too weak a wing

We needs will write epistles to the King;

Besides, my father taught me from a lad The better art, to know the good from bad (And little sure imported to remove, To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove).

But knottier points we knew not half so well,

Deprived us soon of our paternal cell; And certain laws, by suff'rers thought unjust,

60

Denied all posts of profit or of trust.
Hopes after hopes of pious papists fail'd,
While mighty William's thund'ring arm
prevail'd;

For right hereditary tax'd and fin'd
He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me, the Muses help'd to undergo it;
Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet.
But (thanks to Homer) since I live and
thrive,

Indebted to no prince or peer alive,

Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, 70

If I would scribble rather than repose. Years foll'wing years steal something ev'ry

day,