The Mufe but ferv'd to ease fome friend, not Wife,
To help me through this long disease, my Life,
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preserv'd to bear.
But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of Senfe?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate ftill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did fome more fober Critic come abroad;
wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence, And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and sense.
Commas and points they fet exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds :
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty in amber to obferve the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's fecret standard in his mind,
That Cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;
He, who, ftill wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who, now to fenfe, now nonsense leaning, 185
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whose fuftian's fo fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
All thefe, my modest Satire bad translate,
And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe !
And swear, not Addison himself was safe.
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the reft to fneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers befieg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
After ver. 208. in the MS.
Who, if two Wits on rival themes contest,
Approves of each, but likes the worft the best.
Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Tranflation of the first Book of the Iliad.
What though my name stood rubric on the walls, 215
Or plaifter'd posts, with claps, in capitals ?
Or smoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I fought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long)
No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town,
To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide;
But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in fong,
His Library (where bufts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask’d, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and some days eat;
After ver. 234. in the MS.
To Bards reciting he vouchfaf'd a nod,
And fnuff'd their incense like a gracious god.
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praife,
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:
But ftill the Great have kindness in reserve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofe quill!
May every
So when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Bavius have his Bufo ftill!
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Senfe,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bleft be the Great! for those they take away,
And those they left me; for they left me Gay :
Left me to fee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb :
Of all thy blameless life the fole return
My Verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 Oh let me live my own, and die fo too!
(To live and die is all I have to do :)
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please:
Above a Patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a Minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;
|