Let th' undaunted Grecian teach
The use and dignity of speech,
At whose thunders nobly thrown
Shrunk the man of Macedon.

If the storm of words must rise,
Let it blast our enemies.
Sure and nervous be it hurl'd
On the Philips of the world.

Learn not vainly to despise
(Proud of Edward's victories!)
Warriors wedg'd in firm array,
And navies powerful to display
Their woven wings to every wind,
And leave the panting foe behind.
Give to France the honours due,
France has chiefs and statesmen too.
Breasts which patriot-passions feel,
Lovers of the common-weal.
And when such the foes we brave,
Whether on the land or wave,
Greater is the pride of war,
And the conquest nobler far.

Agincourt and Cressy long
Have flourish'd in immortal song;
And lisping babes aspire to praise
The wonders of Eliza's days.
And what else of late renown
Has added wreaths to Britain's crown;
Whether on th' impetuous Rhine
She bade her harness'd warriors shine,
Or snatch'd the dangerous palm of praise
Where the Sambre meets the Maese;
Or Danube rolls his watry train;
Or the yellow-tressed Mayne
Through Dettingen's immortal vale,-
Ev'n Fontenoy could tell a tale,
Might modest worth ingenuous speak,
To raise a blush on victory's cheek;
And bid the vanquish'd wreaths display
Great as on Culloden's day.

But glory which aspires to last
Leans not meanly on the past.
"T is the present now demands
British hearts, and British hands.
Curst be he, the willing slave,
Who doubts, who lingers to be brave.
Curst be the coward tongue that dare
Breathe one accent of despair,
Cold as Winter's icy hand,
To chill the genius of the land.

Chiefly you, who ride the deep,
And bid our thunders wake or sleep
As pity pleads, or glory calls-
Monarchs of our wooden walls!
Midst your mingling seas and skies
Rise ye Blakes, ye Raleighs rise!
Let the sordid lust of gain

Be banish'd from the liberal main.
He who strikes the generous blow
Aims it at the public foe.

Let glory be the guiding star,

Wealth and honours follow her.

See! she spreads her lustre wide

O'er the vast Atlantic tide!

Constant as the solar ray

Points the path, and leads the way!

Other worlds demand your care,

Other worlds to Britain dear;

Where the foe insidious roves

O'er headlong streams, and pathless groves;

And justice' simpler laws confounds
With imaginary bounds.

If protected commerce keep
Her tenour o'er yon heaving deep,
What have we from war to fear?
Commerce steels the nerves of war;
Heals the havoc rapine makes,

And new strength from conquest takes.
Nor less at home, O deign to smile,
Goddess of Britannia's isle!

Thou, that from her rocks survey'st
Her boundless realms, the watry waste;
Thou, that rov'st the hill and mead,
Where her flocks and heifers feed;
Thou, that cheer'st th' industrious swain,
While he strows the pregnant grain;
Thou, that hear'st his caroll'd vows
When th' expanded barn o'erflows;
Thou, the bulwark of our cause,
Thou, the guardian of our laws,
Sweet Liberty!-O deign to smile,
Goddess of Britannia's isle !

If to us indulgent Heaven
Nobler seeds of strength has given,
Nobler should the produce be;
Brave, yet gen'rous, are the free,
Come then, all thy powers diffuse,
Goddess of extended views!
Every breast which feels thy flame
Shall kindle into martial fame,

Till shame shall make the coward bold,
And indolence her arms unfold:
Ev'n avarice shall protect his hoard,
And the ploughshare gleam a sword.

Goddess, all thy powers diffuse !---
And thou, genuine British Muse,
Nurs'd amidst the Druids old
Where Deva's wizard waters roll'd,
Thou, that bear'st the golden key
To unlock eternity,

Summon thy poetic guard

Britain still has many a bard,

Whom, when time and death shall join

T' expand the ore, and stamp the coin,
Late posterity shall own

Lineal to the Muse's throne-

Bid them leave th' inglorious theme
Of fabled shade, or haunted stream,
In the daisy painted mead

'T is to peace we tune the reed;
But when war's tremendous roar
Shakes the isle from shore to shore,
Every bard of purer fire,
Trytæus-like, should grasp the lyre;
Wake with verse the hardy deed,

Or in the generous strife like Sydney' bleed.

A CHARGE TO THE POETS.

FIRST PRINTED, 1762.

Quasi ex cathedrâ loquitur.

FULL twenty years have roll'd, ye rhyming band, Since first I dipp'd in ink my trembling hand,

Sir Philip Sydney, mortally wounded in an action near Zutphen, in Gelderland.

For much it trembled, though th' obliging few,
Who judge with candour, prais'd the sketch I drew ';
And Echo, answering from the public voice,
Indulg'd as genius, what I fear'd was choice.

At length, arriv'd at those maturer years
So rarely rais'd by hope, or sunk by fears,
I rest in peace; or scribble if I please:
In point of wealth not affluent, but at ease;
(For ease is truly theirs who dare confine
Their wishes to such moderate views as mine)
In point of what the world and you call fame,
(I judge but by conjecture) much the same.

But whether right or wrong I judge, to you
It matters not: the following fact is true.
From nobler names, and great in each degree,
The pension'd laurel has devolv'd to me.
To me, ye bards; and, what you'll scarce conceive,
Or, at the best, unwillingly believe,
Howe'er unworthily I wear the crown,
Unask'd it came, and from a hand unknown.
Then, since my king and patron have thought fit
To place me on the throne of modern wit,
My grave advice, my brethren, hear at large;
As bishops to their clergy give their charge,
Though many a priest, who listens, might afford
Perhaps more solid counsel to my lord.

To you, ye guardians of the sacred fount, Deans and archdeacons of the double mount, That through our realms intestine broils may cease, My first and last advice is," Keep the peace!" What is 't to you, that half the town admire False sense, false strength, false softness, or false fire? Through Heav'n's void concave let the meteors blaze, He hurts his own, who wounds another's bays. What is 't to you, that numbers place your name First, fifth, or twentieth, in the lists of fame? Old Time will settle all your claims at once, Record the genius, and forget the dunce.

It boots us much to know, observers say,
Of what materials Nature form'd our clay;
From what strange beast Prometheus' plastic art
Purloin'd the particle which rules the heart.
If milky softness, gliding through the veins,
Incline the Muse to panegyric strains,
Insipid lays our kindest friends may lull,
Be very moral, yet be very dull.

If bile prevails, and temper dictates satire,
Our wit is spleen, our virtue is ill-nature;
With its own malice arm'd we combat evil,
As zeal for God's sake sometimes plays the devil.
O mark it well! does pride affect to reign
The solitary tyrant of the brain?
Or vanity exert her quick'ning flame,
Stuck round with ears that listen after fame?
O to these points let strict regard be given,
Nor" Know thyself "" in vain descend from Heaven.
Do critics tease you?-with a smile I speak,
Nor would suppose my brethren were so weak.
"T is on ourselves, and not our foes, or friends,
Our future fame, or infamy, depends.
Let envy point, or malice wing the darts,
They only wound us in our mortal parts.
Besides, 't is much too late to go to school,
Grown men will judge by Nature's noblest rule,

Admire true beauties, and slight faults excuse,
Not learn to dance from journals and reviews 3.

If fools traduce you, and your works decry,
As many fools will rate your worth too high;
Then balance the account, and fairly take
The cool report which men of judgment make.
In writing, as in life, he foils the foe,
Who, conscious of his strength, forgives the blow.
They court the insult who but seem afraid :
And then, by answering, you promote the trade,
And give them, what their own weak claims deny,
A chance for future laughter, or a sigh.

You, who as yet, unsullied by the press, Hang o'er your labours in their virgin dress; And you, who late the public taste have hit, And still enjoy the honey-moon of wit, Attentive hear me: grace may still abound, Whoever preaches, if the doctrine 's sound.

If nature prompts you, or if friends persuade,
Why, write; but ne'er pursue it as a trade.
And seldom publish manuscripts disarm
The censor's frown, and boast an added charm,
Enhance their worth by seeming to retire,
For what but few can prate of, all admire.
Who trade in verse, alas! as rarely find
The public grateful, as the Muses kind.
From constant feasts like sated guests we steal,
And tir'd of tickling loose all power to feel.
'T is novelty we want; with that in view,
We praise stale matter, so the bard be new;
Or from known bards with ecstasy receive
Each pert new whim they almost blush to give.
A life of writing, unless wondrous short,
No wit can brave, no genius can support.
Some soberer province for your business choose,
Be that your helmet, and your plume the Muse.
Through Fame's long rubric, down from Chaucer's
time,

Few fortunes have been rais'd by lofty rhyme.
And, when our toils success no longer crowns,
What shelter find we from a world in frowns?
O'er each distress, which vice or folly brings,
Though charity extend her healing wings,
No maudlin hospitals are yet assign'd
For slip-shod Muses of the vagrant kind;
Where anthems might succeed to satires keen,
And hymns of penitence to songs obscene.

What refuge then remains?—with gracious grin Some practis'd bookseller invites you in.

Where luckless bards, condemn'd to court the

town,

(Not for their parents' vices, but their own!)
Write gay conundrums with an aching head,
Or earn by defamation daily bread,
Or, friendless, shirtless, penny less, complain,
Not of the world's, but " Cælia's cold disdain."
Lords of their workhouse see the tyrants sit,
Brokers in books, and stock-jobbers in wit,
Beneath whose lash, oblig'd to write or fast,
Our confessors and martyrs breathe their last!
And can ye bear such insolence ?-away,
For shame; plough, dig, turn pedlars, drive the
dray;

3 This is not intended as a reflection on either masters, but the scholars, the grown gentlemen, at the journals or the reviews. They are not the whom the author smiles; and who, he thinks, had much better not pretend to judge at all, than borrow opinions which never sit easy upon them.

With minds indignant each employment suits,
Our fleets want sailors, and our troops recruits;
And many a dirty street, on Thames's side,
Is yet by stool and brush unoccupied.

Time was when poets play'd the thorough game, Swore, drank, and bluster'd, and blasphem'd for fame.

The first in brothels with their punk and Muse;
Your toast, ye bards? "Parnassus and the stews!"
Thank Heaven the times are chang'd; no poet now
Need roar for Bacchus, or to Venus bow.
'T is our own fault if Fielding's lash we feel,
Or, like French wits, begin with the Bastile.
Ev'n in those days some few escap'd their fate,
By better judgment, or a longer date,

And rode, like buoys, triumphant o'er the tide.
Poor Otway in an ale-house dos'd, and died!
While happier Southern, though with spots of yore,
Like Plato's hovering spirits, crusted o'er,
Liv'd every morta! vapour to remove,
And to our admiration join'd our love.

Light lie his funeral turf!-for you, who join
His decent manners to his art divine,
Would ye (while, round you, toss the proud and vain
Convuls'd with feeling, or with giving pain)
Indulge the Muse in innocence and ease,
And tread the flowery path of life in peace?
Avoid all authors." What! th' illustrious few,
Who, shunning Fame, have taught her to pursue,
Fair Virtue's heralds?"-yes, I say again,
Avoid all authors, till you 've read the men.
Full many a peevish, envious, slandering elf,
Is, in his works, benevolence itself.

For all mankind unknown, his bosom heaves,
He only injures those with whom he lives.
Read then the man: does truth his actions guide,
Exempt from petulance, exempt from pride?
To social duties does his heart attend,
As son, as father, husband, brother, friend?
Do those who know him love him? if they do,
You've my permission, you may love him too.

But chief avoid the boist'rous roaring sparks, The sons of fire!-you'll know them by their marks.

Fond to be heard, they always court a crowd,
And, though 't is borrow'd nonsense, talk it loud.
One epithet supplies their constant chime,
Damn'd bad, damn'd good, damn’d low, and damn'd
sublime!

But most in quick short repartee they shine
Of local humour; or from plays purloin
Each quaint stale scrap which every subject hits,
Till fools almost imagine they are wits. [rage!
Hear them on Shakspeare! there they foam, they
Yet taste not half the beauties of his page,
Nor see that Art, as well as Nature, strove
To place him foremost in th' Aonian grove.
For there, there only, where the sisters join,
His genius triumphs, and the work 's divine.

Or would ye sift more near these sons of fire, 'T is Garrick, and not Shakspeare, they admire. Without his breath, inspiring every thought, They ne'er perhaps had known what Shakspeare wrote;

[feel,

Without his eager, his becoming zeal,
To teach them, though they scarce know why, to
A crude unmeaning mass had Jonson been,
And a dead letter Shakspeare's noblest scene.
O come the time, when diffidence again
Shall bind our youth in Nature's modest chain!

Born in a happier age, and happier clime,
Old Sophocles had merit in his time;
And so, no doubt, howe'er we flout his plays,
Had poor Euripides, in former days.
Not like the moderns, we confess; but yet
Some seeming faults we surely might forget,
Because 't would puzzle even the wise to show
Whether those faults were real faults, or no.
To all true merit give its just applause,
The worst have beauties, and the best have flaws.
Greek, French, Italian, English, great or small,
I own my frailty, I admire them all.

There are, mistaking prejudice for taste,
Who on one species all their rapture waste.
Though, various as the flowers which paint the year,
In rainbow charms the changeful Nine appear,
The different beauties coyly they admit,
And to one standard would confine our wit.
Some manner'd verse delights; while some can raise
To fairy fiction their ecstatic gaze,
Admire pure poetry, and revel there
On sightless forms, and pictures of the air!
Some hate all rhyme; some seriously deplore
That Milton wants that one enchantment more.
Tir'd with th' ambiguous tale, or antique phrase,
O'er Spenser's happiest paintings, loveliest lays,
Some heedless pass: while some with transport
view

Each quaint old word, which scarce Eliza knew;
And, eager as the fancied knights, prepare
The lance, and combat in ideal war
Dragons of lust, and giants of despair.

Why, be it so; and what each thinks the test
Let each enjoy: but not condemn the rest.
Readers there are of every class prepar'd:
Each village teems; each hamlet has its bard,
Who gives the tone; and all th' inferior fry,
Like the great vulgar here, will join the cry,
But be it mine with every bard to glow,
And taste his raptures genuine as they flow,
Through all the Muses' wilds to rove along
From plaintive elegy to epic song:
And, if the sense be just, the numbers clear,
And the true colouring of the work be there,
Again, subdu'd by truth's ingenuous call,
I own my frailty, I admire them all.

Nor think I, with the mob, that Nature now
No longer warms the soil where laurels grow.
'Tis true, our poets in repose delight,

And, wiser than their fathers, seldom write.
Yet I, but I forbear for prudent ends,
Could name a list, and half of them my friends,
For whom posterity its wreaths shall twine,
And its own bards neglect, to honour mine.

Their poets in their turn will grieve, and swear,
Perhaps with truth, no patron lends an ear.
Complaints of times when merit wants reward
Descend like similies from bard to bard;
We copy our distress from Greece and Rome;
As in our northern lays their flowrets bloom.
We feel their breezes, with their heats we burn,
And plead prescription to rejoice or mourn.

All present times are bad: then cast your eyes Where fairy scenes of bliss in prospect rise. As fond enthusiasts o'er the western main With eager ken prophetical in vain, See the mixt multitudes from every land Grow pure by blending, virtuous by command; Till, phenix-like, a new bright world of gold Springs from the dregs and refuse of the old.

O Halcyon days! 'T was Nature's reign,
'T was Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain,
The fields assum'd unusnal bloom,
And ev'ry Zephyr breath'd perfume.
The laughing Sun with genial beams
Danc'd lightly on th' exulting streams;
And the pale regent of the night,
In dewy softness shed delight.
'T was transport not to be exprest;
'T was Paradise!-But mark the rest.
Two smiling springs had wak'd the flow'rs
That paint the meads, or fringe the bow'rs,
(Ye lovers, lend your wond'ring ears,
Who count by months, and not by years)
Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude, and love:
When lo, they find, they can 't tell how,
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were chang'd; the place
Had, some how, got a diff'rent face.
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene;
The lawns, the woods were not so green.
The purling rill, which murmur'd by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish, reedy pool:
The days grew hot, the ev'nings cool.
The Moon with all the starry reign
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter night-
They could not read by candle-light.

Full oft, unknowing why they did,
They call'd in adventitious aid.
A faithful fav'rite dog ('t was thus
With Tobit and Telemachus)
Amus'd their steps; and for awhile
They view'd his gambols with a smile.
The kitten too was comical,
She play'd so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleas'd to find
Another cat, and peep'd behind.

A courteous neighbour at the door
Was deem'd intrusive noise no more.
For rural visits, now and then,

Are right, as men must live with men.
Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,

A new recruit, a dear delight!
Made many a heavy hour go down,

At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, She was so sprightly, and so clever!

Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at homeThe dog grew dull, or troublesome. The cat had spoil'd the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. -" And then, my dear, I can 't abide This always saunt'ring side by side." "Enough!" he cries, "the reason's plain: For causes never rack your brain. Our neighbours are like other folks, Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, Are still delightful, still would please, Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. Look round, with an impartial eye, On yonder fields, on yonder sky; The azure cope, the flow'rs below, With all their wonted colours glow.

The rill still murmurs; and the Moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sun.

No change has made the seasons fail,

No comet brush'd us with his tail.

The scene 's the same, the same the weather-
We live, my dear, too much together."

Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
And added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.
But here, by strict poetic laws,
Description claims its proper pause.

The rosy Morn had rais'd her head
From old Tithonus' saffron bed;
And embryo sun-beams from the east,
Half chok'd, were struggling through the mist,
When forth advanc'd the gilded chaise,
The village crowded round to gaze.
The pert postillion, now promoted
From driving plough, and neatly booted,
His jacket, cap, and baldric on,
(As greater folks than he have done)
Look'd round; and, with a coxcomb air,
Smack'd loud his lash. The happy pair
Bow'd graceful, from a sep'rate door,
And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes New objects ev'ry moment rise. Each carriage passing on the road, From the broad waggon's pond'rous load To the light car, where mounted high The giddy driver seems to fly, Were themes for harmless satire fit, And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. Whate'er occur'd, 't was all delightful, No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. The dash and splash through thick and thin, The hair-breadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, (Where well-bred landlords were so ready To welcome in the 'squire and lady.) Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, Determin'd to be pleas'd, and please.

Now nearer town and all agog They know dear London by its fog. Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, Leave Hounslow's dang'rous heath behind, Through Brentford win a passage free By roaring," Wilkes and Liberty !" At Knightsbridge bless the short'ning way, (Where Bays's troops in ambush lay) O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, (With palaces to grace its side) Till Bond-street with its lamps a-blaze Concludes the journey of three days.

Why should we paint, in tedious song,
How ev'ry day, and all day long,
They drove at first with curious haste
Through Lud's vast town; or, as they pass'd
Midst risings, fallings, and repairs

Of streets on streets, and squares on squares,
Describe how strong their wonder grew
At buildings-and at builders too?

Scarce less astonishment arose
At architects more fair than those-
Who built as high, as widely spread
Th' enormous loads that cloth'd their head.
For British dames new follies love,
And, if they can 't invent, improve.
Some with erect pagodas vie,
Some nod, like Pisa's tow'r, awry,