The reprobated race grows judgment proof: Earth shakes beneath them, and Heav'n roars above; 460 But nothing scares them from the course they love: Down to the gulf, from which is no return. 470 When He commands, in whom they place no trust. Gives Liberty the last, the mortal shock: Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock. A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach? 479 B. I know the mind, that feels indeed the fire The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her soft attention claim, A tender sympathy pervades the frame, She pours a sensibility divine Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, 489 The strings are swept with such a pow'r, so loud, The storm of musick shakes th' astonish'd crowd. So, when remote futurity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms; And, arm'd with strength surpassing human pow'rs, Seizes events as yet unknown to man, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd, I play with syllables, and sport in song. A. At Westminster, where little poets strive, To set a distich upon six and five, 501 Where Discipline helps th' op'ning buds of sense, And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, I was a poet too: but modern taste Is so refin'd, and delicate, and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, And truth cut short to make a period round, 510 I judg'd a man of sense could scarce do worse, Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, 520 And some wits flag through fear of losing it. When Labour and when Dulness, club in hand, Exact and regular the sounds will be; But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 530 All birks and braes, though he was never there; Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains, Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke— So that the jest is clearly to be seen, Not in the words-but in the gap between: The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. To dally much with subjects mean and low Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. Neglected talents rust into decay, And ev'ry effort ends in pushpin play. 540 The man, that means success, should soar above A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove; Else, summoning the muse to such a theme, The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream. As if an eagle flew aloft, and then 550 Stoop'd from it's highest pitch to pounce a wren. Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard: |