The laurel feem'd to wait on his command;

He fnatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand.
Nature, exerting an unwearied pow'r,
Forms, opens, and gives fcent to, ev'ry flow'r;
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads:
She fills profufe ten thousand little throats

With mufic, modulating all their notes;

And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown,
With artless airs and concerts of her own:
But feldom (as if fearful of expense)
Vouchfafes to man a poet's just pretence-
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, ftrength, words exquifitely fought;
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky
Brings colours, dipt in heav'n, that never die;
A foul exalted above earth, a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;

And, as the fun in rifing beauty dress'd,

Looks to the weftward from the dappled east,

And marks, whatever clouds may interpofe,

Ere

yet his race begins, its glorious close; An eye like his to catch the distant goal;

Or, ere the wheels of verfe begin to roll,
Like his to fhed illuminating rays

On ev'ry scene and subject it furveys:

Thus grac'd, the man afferts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
Pity religion has fo feldom found

A skilful guide into poetic ground!

The flow'rs would fpring where'er fhe deign'd to ftray,

And ev'ry mufe attend her in her way.

Virtue indeed meets many a rhiming 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 defert, fhiv'ring and forlorn,
A wint'ry figure, like a wither'd thorn.

The fhelves are full, all other themes are fped;

Hackney'd and worn to the laft flimfy thread,

Satire has long fince done his best; and curft
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 fad 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, affume the lyre,
And tell the world, ftill kindling as he fung,
With more than mortal mufic on his tongue,
That He, who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the fong, 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;
Or, if to see the name of idle felf,

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the fhelf,

To float a bubble on the breath of fame,

Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,

Debas'd to fervile purpofes of pride,

How are the pow'rs of genius mifapplied!

The gift, whofe office is the Giver's praise,
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways!
Then spread the rich discov'ry, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight.
Distorted from its ufe and juft defign,
To make the pitiful poffeffor fhine,
To purchase, at the fool-frequented fair
Of vanity, a wreath for felf to wear,
Is profanation of the basest kind-

Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

A. Hail Sternhold, then; and Hopkins, hail! B. Amen.

If flatt'ry, folly, luft, employ the pen;

If acrimony, flander, and abuse,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease,

With all that fancy can invent to please,

Adorn the polifh'd periods as they fall,

One madrigal of their's is worth them all.

A. "Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that through all that you proscribe.

B. No matter we could fhift when they were not; And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.