Classic Poem

Thus ancient heroes pass'd their golden days,
Thus train'd, the poet wak'd the sweetest lays,
Hence Rome, the queen of states, in virtue strong,
And tuneful Maro poured the richest song.

But happiest thou, should sylvan strains delight,
And rural cares, and rural scenes invite,
If, where thou choosest thy sequester'd seat,
There love shall deign to fix his blest retreat,
And, she, the gentle mistress of thy heart,
In care and bliss divide her equal part;
While playful babes the lingering hours beguile,
Hang on thy lips, and live upon thy smile:
Thus blest by heav'n, what canst thou wish beside,
Peace in thy heart, and beauty at thy side?

Tibullus (such as never lov'd may blame),
Thus sunk to glory, and yet rose to fame,
In vain to him war lifts the standard high,
And points to wealth beneath an eastern sky;
Arms he relinquished, fir'd with rural charms,
And found his treasure in his Delia's arms;
Caught at her eye the soul-bewitching pain,
And wak'd, as beauty taught, th' elegiac strain;
Love saw him labouring mid the rustic throng,
And clapp'd the wing, and triumph'd in his song.

But live there such, whose breasts were doom'd to prove
The restless cares of ill-requited love?
For them shall pity shed her softest sigh,
And drop her pearly tear of sympathy:
Ah! such too oft have been the tuneful throng,
And hence have bloom'd the sweetest flowers of song.

Thus Petrarch, vanquish'd by his lovely foe,
Breath'd the soft sonnet to beguile his woe;
Hence the wild fires, in Cowley's verse that play,
Hammond's meek strain, and Shenstone's past'ral lay.

But, ah! fond youth, beware the fev'rish dreams,
And the slow languor of too am'rous themes;
Left, like the snows that feel the solar ray,
And into dribbling currents melt away,
So the soft power enslave thy yielding heart,
And all the soul of man from thee depart,
Till a mere wandering exile thou be found,
The idle tale of all the country round.

But think not rashly that my counsels mean
To bind the poet to the silvan scene:
No; various is the lot of human kind,
And as the features differ, so the mind:
A city some, and some the country please,
Those active walks, these unambitious ease.

Should the gay town allure thy curious eyes,
Go, watch its manners, changeful as the skies:
But oh! beware, ere yet thy name be known,
To throw thyself at random on the town,
Poor in resource, and desperate of purse,
A mere adventurer in gainless verse,
To curse in penury, and spleen'd with woe,
All our good friends in Pater-noster-Row.
Ah! think of Chatterton, that child of care,
Ploughing in hope, and reaping in despair.

There are who say, and bards of fairest fame,
That prudence, though in poets, is no shame;
Who quit not bus'ness for an airy flight,
But deem it just, to work, as well as write:
Who draw a line, and mark the separate plan,
To please, as poet, and to thrive as man;
Thinking, that verse, however rich and rare,
Like a sweet sauce, but helps more solid fare;
Thus Independence soars on eagles wings,
And pities wriggling bards, who pipe to kings.

But if, and Fortune sometimes aids the bold,
You still resolve your daring course to hold,
Jeering at madam Prudence, and refuse
All counsel, save the warbling of your muse;
Then heav'n protect thee, and with vigour bless,
And to thy daring equal thy success:
Still I, at modest distance must attend,
Still to the last will act the poet's friend.

As the wise general, ere he braves the field,
Or dares in martial feat the sword to wield,
Marks the position of the threat'ning foe,
Plans a retreat, then meditates the blow:
So thou, too wildly ere thou dare to stray,
Well know thy strength, nor dare a doubtful way,
Nor sigh for profit, if you pant for same,
Content, if you deserve the poet's name;
Ask Milton, if you burn with epic rage,
What the reward of his Heroic page:
Read his advent'rous song, and what it cost,
Then own, his Paradise indeed was lost;
Ah! lost; ah! doubly lost, if grosser pence
Were the just estimate of matchless sense;
If pride of science crav'd a fool's applause,
And towering genius could be paid with straws.
Ask you the value of the Lyric lay?
Speak, mighty Dryden, and majestic Gray:
And say, oh! Collins, 'mid thy dazzling page,
How dull the organs of a tasteless age.
Critiques, reports, puns, essays, scraps of news,
All earn their penny but the lyric muse.

Should you the goosequill dip again in ink,
Like an old tippler eager still for drink,
Or, as with wing already sing'd, the fly
Still hovers round the candle, tho' he die,
The flame that sing'd his wing, now fires his head,
Till the bold flutterer sleeps among the dead;
Should you, still smarting, dare to write again,
Oh! may you never wake the lyric strain,
In fruitless Sonnet prattling griefs relate,
Nor in Elegiacs mourn the P OET'S Fate .

Seek thou the Stage — and keep the town alive —
The blessed Stage, where lucky authors thrive,
Or dash at satire — there a feeble wit,
If a bold coxcomb, has a chance to hit,
May strike unseen, though half-inclin'd to dose,
With rude rough rhymes and stiff pedantic prose —
With odds and ends of learning daze the great,
And let some man of quality translate.
Then sleep high-bolster'd on some downy trope,
And dream yourself to be the S HADE OF P OPE .

Or wrap your soul in deep poetic trance,
Then soar at Eastern Tales, and bold Romance,
Saddle the Hyppogryf, and speed your way,
Make danger smile, and Hell itself obey;
Bid all around the pomp terrific rise,
Screams rend our ears, and visions fill our eyes;
Let ghostly lovers, fiend-like forms appear;
Impel no passion of the soul but fear:
Thus a knight-errant minstrel drive along,
In all the dread magnificence of song;
Till Germans — you so well can imitate —
Wonder, that you their horrors should translate:
Spain, Portugal, shall meet you on the way,
Rivals of Lope de Viga's rapid lay.

There are who scorn each creeping chirping thing,
Who needs must soar on metaphysic wing;
Soon in the clouds, and fairly out of sight,
They think the world all wondering at their flight:
Mistaken bards! I wonder much, I own,
But ah! such flights but rarely charm the town:
Tho' pure as heav'n's own beam the nice-spun lay,
The sensual town must see for what they pay:
Blackmore's Creation did but make them doze,
And Cowley's Davideis they sell for prose.

Well weigh your powers, and well your subject choose,
Whether you woo the gay, or solemn muse.
Light-lacquer'd fiction shall beguile the sense;
But truth with dulness is the great offence.
A serious theme, well polish'd may prevail;
But genuine wit is sure to find a sale.
— And take it with you for a constant rule,
That vice and folly claim your ridicule.
Near folly let your standard be display'd,
Near vice your light artillery well be laid;
If nought but sport you mean, then sport with ease;
The wit is less than nought, that fails to please;
Try — if with humour you the page can fill —
Bath Guides, or Eloise en Dishabille:
Yet, as your serious thoughts must be refin'd,
Not always diving in the depths of mind;
So must your wit be classic, sparkling, keen;
Tho' bold, not blustering; free, but not obscene.
If am'rous, still on offals scorn to feed,
And dread to write, what others blush to read.

Now ponder well Cornaro's sober page,
The Æsculapius of a temp'rate age;
Who warns you, if you prize Pierian lore,
Shun the mad rout, and Bacchanalian roar:
Or hear some deep learn'd Plutarch well define
The vine of Bacchus, and the Muse's vine;
This fires the soul, and purifies the sense,
Yields copious pleasures, and at small expence;
That but inflames the passions, drowns the soul;
And ruin follows fast the flowing bowl.

Ah! think not thou poetic fury reigns
In none but groveling hearts, and drunken brains: —
Say, Plato, whence perennial springs arise,
Where the least temp'rate are the truly wise;
How by a sacred furor onward driv'n,
Minds mix with minds, and find a mystic heav'n:
Still the soul feels a symmetry divine —
Still truth irradiates the harmonious line —
While yet the enthusiast poet rolls along,
In thought ecstatic, and sublime of song.
Ah! different he, whose Muse is but a punk,
Never inspir'd, but when she's mad or drunk.

But think not thou too rashly, that I pass
The bigot censure on the social glass:
No — with Sir William would I recommend
Health to yourself, your enemy, your friend;
Three glasses thus may sparkle; and one more
A pure libation to good humour pour.

And now the work is done: — now rise to view
The hero-poet, to his genius true!
Too proud, to tremble at the poet's fate,
Too great, to need each feeble critic's hate;
Too fixt, to truckle a mere statesman's tool,
No rhyming villain, yet no simpering fool;
Too brave, to give to modest worth offence,
Too pure, to sink himself the slave of sense.

Wish you the world your writings to commend?
Be sure you make the bookseller your friend:
And know, a bookseller will oft'ner choose,
With luckier stars a subject, than your muse;
Seek his advice, who, sometimes, best can tell,
How stands the market, and what books will sell.
His interest study, then, nor blush to find,
That tradesmen, sometimes, can be just and kind.
Indeed, some reckon it a truth confest,
That of all patrons booksellers are best:
But drones hive not, — as all the learned know, —
In Paul's Church-yard, or Paternoster-Row.

Wish you a patron? rather seek a friend,
Who knows your worth, nor blushes to commend;
Who in your heart may hold the foremost place,
And whom to rev'rence, ne'er shall be disgrace;
Who forms himself by virtue's steady rule,
Will blush to find his poet knave or fool.

Wish you a patron? Learn what diff'rence lies
'Twixt one, whom while you flatter, you despise;
And one, whom wisdom's self might well approve;
You need not flatter, where you needs must love.

Oh! might I, then, in parting, but commend
My youthful poet to some valued friend!
Prudent, yet warm, though learn'd, of soul sincere,
Still prone to praise, and yet of taste severe;
No smooth dissembler who sits purring by,
Of soul insidious, though of smiling eye,
Pouring his loathsome flatt'ries in your face,
Calling your verse the paragon of grace;
But who, departing, shall with treach'rous pains,
Blast your fair hopes, and damn your youthful strains;
But such as knows to trace the rude design,
Mark the crude thought, and point th' unpolish'd line,
Who your full stretch of song shall take in view,
True to your faults, and to your genius true;
Who, strict to honour, still reveres your name,
And, far from envying, points the road to fame.

Thus would thy modest merit take no fright,
Though folly scorn, and envy's tooth should bite;
Catch no disorder from the flatt'rer's art;
And dread no secret villain's venom'd dart:
As the wild flocks, that rang'd the lofty brow
Of Ida, frowning on the vale below,
If wounded by some archer, quickly flew,
And from the neighb'ring plant a virtue drew;
So wouldst thou learn each little fault to mend,
Cheer'd by the guidance of some critic friend;
So learn to know, how far the censure's just,
How far, hereafter, still thyself to trust.

Go now, — whoe'er may shoot his shaft of blame, —
Truth be thy balm, and justice shield thy fame!