To Truth's plain fare no palate will fubmit,
Each reader grows an Epicure in Wit;
And Knowdlege must his nicer taste beguile
With all the poignant charms of Attic style.
The curious Scholar, in his judgment choice,
Expects no common Notes from Hiftory's voice;
But all the tones, that all the paffions fuit,
From the bold Trumpet to the tender Lute:
Yet if thro' Mufic's fcale her voice should range
Now high, now low, with many a pleafing change,
Grace must thro' every variation glide,

In every movement Majefty prefide:

With ease not careless, tho' correct not cold;
Soft without languor, without harshness bold.

Tho' Affectation can all works debafe,
In Language, as in life, the bane of Grace!
Regarded ever with a scornful fmile,
She most is cenfur'd in th' Hiftoric ftyle:
Yet her infinuating power is such,

Not ev❜n the Greeks efkap'd her baleful touch;
Hence the fictious Speech, and long Harangue
Too oft, like weights, on ancient Story hang.
Lefs fond of labour, modern pens devise
Affected beauties of inferior fize:

They in a narrower compafs boldly strike
The fancied Portrait, with no feature like;
And Nature's fimple colouring vainly quit
To boaft the brilliant glare of fading Wit.
Those works alone may that bleft fate expect
To live thro' time, unconfcious of neglect,
That catch, in fpringing from no fordid source,
The ease of Nature, and of Truth the force.

hayley.

hayley.

د.

ESSAY ON EPIC POETRY.
Ep. I. v. 187 ff.

Say ye! whofe curious philofophic eye
Searches the depth where Nature's fecrets lie;
Ye, who can tell how her capricious fit
Directs the flow and ebb of human wit,
And why, obedient to her quick command,
Spring-tides of Genius now enrich her fav'rite land,
Now fink, by her to different climes affign'd,
And only leave fome worthlefs weeds behind!
Say! why in Greece, unrival'd and alone,
The fovereign Poet grac'd his Epic throne?
Why did the realm that echoed his renown,
Produce no kindred heir to claim his crown?
If, as the liberal mind delights to think,
Fancy's rich flow'rs their vital effence drink
From Liberty's pure ftreams, that largely roll
Their quick'ning virtue thro' the Poet's foul;
Why, in the period when this Friend of Earth
Made Greece the model of heroic worth,

And faw her votaries act, beneath her fway,
Scenes more fublime than Fiction can difplay,
Why did the Epic Mufe's filent lyre

Shrink from thofe feats that fummon'd all her fire?
Or if, as courtly Theorifts maintain,

The Mufes revel in a Monarch's reign;

Why, when young Ammon's foul, athirst for
fame,

Call'd every Art to celebrate his name;
When ready Painting, at his fovereign nod,
With aweful thunder arm'd this mimic God!
Why did coy Poefy, tho' fondly woo'd,
Refufe that dearer fmile for which he fued,
And fee him fhed, in martial Honor's bloom,
The tear of envy on Achilles' tomb?

In vain would Reafon thofe nice queftions, hayley.

folve,

Which the fine play of mental powers involve:
In Bards of ancient time, with genius fraught,
What mind can trace how thought engender'd
thought,

How little hints awak'd the large defign,
And fubtle Fancy ipun her variegated line?
Yet fober Critics, of no vulgar note,

But fuch as Learning's fons are proud to quote,
The progrefs of Homeric verfe explain,
As if their fouls had lodg'd in Homer's brain.
Laughs not the spirit of poetic frame,
However ftightly warm'd by Fancy's flame,
When grave Boffu by Syftem's ftudied laws
The Grecian Bard's ideal picture draws,
And wifely tells us, that his Song arose
As the good Parfon's quiet fermon grows;
Who, while his eafy thoughts no pressure find
From hofts of images that croud the mind,
First calmly fettles on fome moral text,

Then creeps
from one divifion - to the next?
Nor, if poetic minds more flowly drudge
Thro' the cold comments of this Gallic judge,
Will their indignant spirit lefs deride

That fubtle Pedant's more prefumptive pride,
Whofe bloated page, with arrogance replete,
Imputes to VIRGIL his own dark conceit; *)
And from the tortur'd Poet dares to draw
That latent fenfe, which HORACE never faw;
Which, if on folid proof more strongly built,
Muft brand the injur'd Bard with impious guilt.

While fuch Dictators their vain efforts wafte In the dark vifions of diftemper'd Tafte,

*) Dr. WARBUTON, in his Differtation on the VIth Book of the Aeneid, refuted by the ingenious Author of Critical Observations etc. Lond. 1770. 8.

hayley. Let us that pleafing, happier light purfue,
Which beams benignant from the milder few,
Who, juftly confcious of the doubts that start
In all nice questions on each finer Art,
With modeft doubt affign each likely cause,
But dare to dictate no decifive laws.

'Tis faid by one, who, with this candid claim,
Has gain'd no fading wreath of critic fame,
Who, fondly lift'ning to her various rhyme,
Has mark'd the Mufe's ftep thro' many a clime;
That, where the fettled Rules of Writing spread,
Where Learning's code of Critic Law is read,
Tho' other treafures deck th' enlighten'd fhore,
The germs of Fancy ripen there no more.
Are critics then, that bold, imperious tribe!
The Guards of Genius, who his path prescribe;
Are they like Visirs in an Eastern court,
Who fap the very power they should support?
Whofe fpecious wiles the royal mind unnerve,
And fink the monarch they pretend to serve.
No of their value higher far I deem;
And prize their ufeful toil with fond efteem.-
When LOWTH's firm fpirit leds him to explore
The hallow'd confines of Hebraic lore;
Whem his free pages, luminous and bold,
The glorious end of Poefy unfold,
Affert her powers, her dignity defend,
And speak her, as fhe is, fair Freedom's friend;
When thus he fhines his mitred Peers above,
I view his warmth with reverential love;
Proud, if my verfe may catch reflected light
From the rich fplendor of a mind fo bright.
Bleft be the names, to no vain fyftem tied,
Who render Learning's blaze an useful guide,
A friendly beacon, rais'd on high to teach
The wand'ring bark to fhun the fhallow beach.
But o ye noble, and afpiring few,

Whofe ardent fouls poetic fame purfue,

Ye, on whom fmiling Heaven, perfection's fource,
Stems to bestow unlimitable force,

The

The inborn vigor of your fouls defend,
Nor lean too fondly on the firmest friend!
Genius may fink on Criticism's breast,
By weak dependance on her truth oppreft
Sleep on her lap, and stretch his lifeless length
Shorn by her foothing hand of all his strength.
Thou wilt not, MASON! thou, whofe

heart

generous

Muft feel that Freedom is the foul of Art,
Thou wilt not hold me arrogant or vain,
If I advise the young poetic train
To deem infallible no Critic's word;
Not e'en the dictates of thy Attic HURD:
No! not the Stagyrite's unqueftion'd page,
The Sire of Critics, fanctified by age!
The nobleft minds, with folid reafon bleft,
Who feel that faculty above the reft,
Who argue on those arts they never try,
Exalt that Reason they so oft apply,
Till in its pride, with tyrannous controul,
It crufh the kindred talents of the foul;
And hence, in every Art, will fystems rife,
Which Fancy muft furvey with angry eyes;
And at the lightning of her fcornful fmile,
In frequent ruin finks the labor'd pile.

Hayley.