And toil mechanical, the more with them
The merit; and the more of natural gift
And inspiration, less to be distinguish'd,

Or pass'd without some scoff, or taunt, or bitterness,
Or wicked and malign misrepresentation.

With them, who works for fame, is or a fool,
Or a most dangerous miscreant, who must be
Crush'd for the common benefit of the trade!
Does chance or hard necessity e'er press
The genuine son of Genius to the faction?
But in those cells of mean intrigue, amid
Foul lucre's birds of prey he draws his breath;
Clouds, vapours, pestilence, absorb his faculties,
And turn his powers to poison and corruption.

Yet there's an outward and most plausible semblance
Oft in this hot-bed produce, which has poignancy
For vicious tastes: but soon it rots, and dies;
Has no revival; and is heard no more:

For it has naught of native life in it;

And only breathes by fashion, and caprice.

But the true strain will live for ever;-frost

And snow and blight and tempest cannot injure it,

Or paralyse the force and glow of spirit,

That circuit thro its arteries and elements.

After the lapse of ages still it lives

And breathes, e'en as at first it liv'd and breath'd.

No artificial poet;-none whose flame

Was secondary and derivative,

Has ever liv'd in fame for half a century

Beyond his mortal life, though many an one

Of this inferior merit has obtain'd

A temporary reputation.

The days and hours are drawing to an end,
When I approach the close of my farewell.
My Muse has freely flow'd without or effort,
Or artifice, or polish, or disguise.

It has no claim upon the ground of ornament,
Or illustration, or concinnity

And happiness of phrase, or harmony

Of metre: nor can place its hope of favour
But in the force and rectitude of thought,

And purity of native sentiment.

If, though these thoughts and sentiments be true,
They yet be stale and trite, they claim no mercy
And I well know they will not, cannot, have it!
The matter may be found conformable

To much of many an author, who precedes me.
Not therefore is it borrow'd: if it has
The stamp of truth, but little can it differ;
For truth is constant and immutable.

Yet not the less, e'en though already said,
May be the use of saying it again,
Grounded upon concurrence of observance,
And sympathy of bosom, if there be
The charm of novel language, and fresh life.-
The borrower is ever known by technical
Marks of his theft; and artificial phrases
Identical; and trains of thought the same,
When not allied by nature but by whim.

But in the paths of lonely meditation

For sixty years have I explor'd my way;
Nor sought a guide, nor trod upon the steps
Of others;-oft in darkness; oft in storms;
Oft by the fairy lights of silver moonbeams;
And sometimes in the garish glow of day,
Beneath meridian suns. The stores we gather,
We are not willing should exhaust themselves,
Pent up within the bosom's dark abode :
That which is sought in solitude, is sought
Full oft for social purposes;-alone

We do the task, which is for fellow-man;

And but retire to think with more intenseness
Upón humanity;-its griefs and joys!

"Tis only by incessant pondering,

That we can know the mysteries of man's nature: And by the unrelaxing exercise

Of all the mental faculties, can gain

Precision of ideas, and command

Of language, to express them properly.

Much it imports us all, the lights and shades
Of moral science, deeply and precisely

To be familiar with; the human character a
In all its passions and varieties

To see reflected, as upon a mirror,
And all the tribes of just association

To clear and strengthen in our feeble minds.
We do not love to think exclusively,
And have no sympathy with fellow-beings.
But few are they, who in their riper years
Care for the tricks or gems of poetry.

'Tis only in the essence of the matter,
The spirit of the Muse, an audience sound
Can take delight, and in the simplest words,
And plainest dress, and rudest numbers, may
That spirit live, and be communicated!-

If the strain be too long; of dull reflection
Too copious,-in sentiment affected,
Or false, unvirtuous, and inanimate;
If imagery in portion due be wanting,
And if too intellectual, immaterial,
In incident deficient, and in pathos;
Beyond the requisite limits of a poem
Didactic, which pretends not to the charms
Of vulgar fable,-let it have the fate

It shall in candour merit!

Not on one

Task of the mind do I rely for favour!

Much have I labour'd, and in various walks,
E'en though but rarely cheer'd by human praise.
And now, when at the age of man arriving,
I do not find my humble faculties clouded,
But can from midnight to the seventh hour
Prolong the task unwearied, then be ready
For the day's ordinary occupations;
It is a load thrown off my bosom;-lighter
I feel at the discharge; and if no day
Passes without some innocent toil perform'd,
I feel a joy that I can shew the progress
Of my existence by some visible sign,

That marks the course of one day from another.
There was a time when the disorder'd current

Of my blood, like a weight upon my brain
Sat, and oppress'd it;-thus for two sad years
And more, my faculties were dull and stagnant:
But all at once the vapour broke away;
And in an instant my o'er-mantled brain
Burst to a flame, that ever since has blaz'd!

And still, O Leman Lake, on thy beloved
Waters I daily look; and see the sun
Rise over Alpine mountains; nor has once
Sleep overpower'd me at its earliest dawn,
For thirteen months successively. And now,
For nine and forty nights uninterrupted,
Have I the strain continued;-and I close.

END OF BOOK VI.