Till Admiration, satiate with delight,
Forgets this world, and thinks all trouble light.
But let not Dulness' leaden sons intrude,

To mar the calm symposion of the good;
To blot the fine sensations of the mind
For strains of classic purity inclin'd;

O'er the free breast their Gothic clouds to shed,
And chase the projects of the heart and head.
Keep me, oh! keep me from the pedant beau,
That mortal frightfullest of frights below,
Who oft disturbs the minstrel's holy rest,
And breaks his scull to break a foolish jest;
Damns every work of merit or of wit,
To reign perpetual censor of the pit.
Ah! wretch abhorr'd by ev'ry gen'rous soul,
Mixture uncouth of monkey and of owl,
How can your plaudit ever meet success,

Who when you please us most, but please us less?
In vain the dark saliva on thy tongue

Wrong turns to right, and right transforms to wrong;
Though stunn'd by Malice and her hideous peal,
Still we assert our thoughts, and still we feel.
Hail glorious freedom of the purer soul,
Above the muffled murderer's base control,
Who stabs the guiltless bosom with a smile,
And bathes the wound with vinegar, not oil;

Who nips young Merit in her primal bloom,
And scatters to the wind the sweet perfume
Which Attic bees with honey'd lip exhal'd,
Till the green bud felt his cold hand, and fail'd!
Lo! squint-ey'd Malice triumphs still elate
O'er luckless Chatterton's disastrous fate;
Still shews, insensible, that matchless youth,
Nor dares to vindicate his fame by truth.
Wit, like true beauty, needs no foreign aid:
Each nat'ral lustre has a natʼral shade.
But some, unconscious of her native grace,
Deck her, like belles, with tinsel and with lace
That glare a while in Folly's garish ray,—
But, seen through Judgment's optic, fade away.
Beware false ornaments, for all expect
Such care exorbitant must hide defect.
The gaudy style, the prim conjunction shun:
They make true wit a quibble or a pun;
They sink the sense bencath the jingling sound
That labours like a mole to burst the ground,
But all in vain; while leaden Dulness throws
New cumbrances on verse, new chains on prose,
Till like a cart creaks the rough rumbling song,
And Prose scarce trails her period-length along.
Long in the mine the beamy diamond lies,
Hid by the conscious earth from mortal eyes;

But when the sun, with all-reviving light,
Flings his hot ray, and summons it to sight,
Then twinkling gleams around it glittʼring play,
Till the full lustre burst upon the day.

So should true wit emerge by slow degrees,
And suit each taste with unaffected ease;
Sport round the heart, in frolic mazes rove,
And 'stead of baleful Hate, awaken Love.
But without fancy, how can wit appear,
Or modulate its tone to ev'ry ear?
Fancy, fair Empress of the Elfin shore,
Who, deeply versed in legendary lore,

"Could glance from carth to heav'n, from heav'n to earth,"

And give to contraries a mutual birth;

Whence, mingling in one blaze the magic light,
Springs real wit, the soul's refin❜d delight.
Think you, did Fancy carelessly desert,
In peevish mood, the courtly Roman's heart,
When to his touch awoke the silver chord,
And great Augustus hung on ev'ry word?
Did Fancy, smiling sorceress, discard,
For witless dunces, fair Belinda's bard,
When mimic battles swell his sportive page,
And sylphs with sylphs contend in epic rage?

Did she not bless mild Parnell's ev'ning hour, And on each line her brightest influence show'r? What has she, in her high profusion done For frolic Swift, sweet Gay, and manly Addison ? And Judgment too, a sage severe, must come, With envious shears to prune the hasty bloom; Exub'rant Nature's embryo buds to form, And bid them rise superior to the storm. For as the sire his infant race must chide, To check wild Folly's growth, or Genius' pride, Yet nurse each darling in his aged breast, And leave to powerful Nature all the rest : So must keen Judgment, with a candid hand, Expel each weed from Wit's luxuriant land; Or, when in seemly rows the flow'rs arise, View the soft offspring with a parent's eyes. Matured by his sage skill, the roots remain, And mock the summer sun, and wint'ry rain; While weaker natives, though of gaudier form, Droop ev'ry leaf, and close each fading charm. And lo, what troops o'erspread th' ideal plain! Riddles, acrostics, crotchets of the brain; Rude sons of folly on false taste begot, Abhorr'd by genius, and devoid of thought. What motley patches on each garb are seen! How leaps each quibble, like a harlequin !

Charades, the last in modish grandeur march,
With garments varying as the wat❜ry arch,
When o'er the heav'n it spreads a glitt'ring dye,
Yet fading disappoints the curious eye.

Chief of the band a pigmy warrior comes;
Sound forth, yon jackalls, to the deaf'ning drums:
At every step a hundred feet he gets,

At every look his tongue incessant frets,

Till o'er the plain his giant-bulk descends,

And each hoarse word the vocal welkin rends.
"What can this monster be?" some belle exclaims,
While her own bosom feels his mining flames.
Know, beauteous maid (if such peruse my song),
This wicked contrariety is Ton :

Ton, the fierce pest from Gallia's hated shore,
Ton, the great king of ev'ry knave and whore,
Who sanctifies the gamester's curs'd pretence,
And raises fashion on the throne of sense.

But change the theme from folly's tinsel train
To the great masters of th' instructive strain ;
Who, still unconscious of cach meaner claim,
Exalt their country to applause and fame.
Nor I the last in glory's godlike course,
To lash a vicious age with nervous force;
Or, rising to a pitch supremely high'r,
Cast a bold hand around the living lyre;