Classic Poem

In ancient days (as jovial Horace sings)
When laurell'd bards were lawgivers and kings,
Bold was the comic muse, without restraint,
To name the vicious, and the vice to paint;
Th' enliven'd picture from the canvas flew,
And the strong likeness crowded on the view.
Our author practices more general rules,
He is no niggard of his knaves and fools.
Both small and great, both dull and pert he shews,
That every gentleman may pick and chuse.
The laws dramatic, tho', he scarcely knows
Of time and place, and all the piteous prose
Which pedant Frenchmen snuffle thro' their nose.
Fools!—who prescribe what Homer shou'd have done,
Like tattling watches, they correct the sun
Critics, like posts, undoubtedly may shew
The way to Pindus—but they cannot go:
For to delight and elevate the mind,
To heav'n-directed GENIUS is assign'd
Whene'er immortal Shakespear's works we read,
He wins the heart, before he strikes the head;
Swift to the soul the piercing image flies,
More swift than Celia's wit, or Celia's eyes,
More swift than some romantic trav'ler's thought,
More swift than British fire, where Marlbro' fought
Fancy precedes and conquers all the mind,
Deliberating judgment slowly lags behind,
Comes to the field with blunderbuss and gun,
Like heavy Falstaff when the work is done;
Fights when the battle's o'er, with wond'rous pain,
By Shrewsbury clock, and nobly slays the slain.—
But critic censures are beneath his care,
Who strives to please the honest and the fair.
Their approbation is much more than fame,
He speaks—he writes—he breathes not—but for THEM.