Grant I fucceed, like Horace rise,
And strike my head against the skies,
Common experience daily fhews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we shall find in every town
Goffips enough to cry them down ;
Who meet in pious converfation
T'anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.
Their idle cenfures I despise :
Their niggard praises won't suffice.
Tempt me no more then to the crime
Of dabbling in the font of rhime.
My Muse has answer'd all her end,
If her productions please a friend.
The world is burthen'd with her store,
Why need I add one fcribbler more?
Spoken on a public Occafion at Westminster-school.
OR at Apollo's vaunted shrine,
Nor to the fabled Sifters Nine,
Offers the youth his ineffectual vow.
Far be their rites! - Such worship fits not now;
When at Eliza's facred name
Each breast receives the present flame:
While eager genius plumes her infant wings,
And with bold impulse strikes th' accordant strings,
Reflecting on the crouded line
Of mitred fages, bards divine,
Of patriots, active in their country's cause,
Who plan her councils, or direct her laws.
Oh Memory! how thou lov'st to stray,
Delighted, o'er the flow'ry way
Of childhood's greener years! when fimple youth
Pour'd the
pure dictates of ingenuous truth!
'Tis then the fouls congenial meet,
Infpir'd with friendships genuine heat,
E'er intereft, frantic zeal, or jealous art,
Have taught the language foreign to the heart.
'Twas here, in many an early strain
Dryden first try'd his claffic vein,
Spurr'd his ftrong genius to the distant goal,
In wild effuffions of his manly foul;
When Busby's skill, and judgment fage,
Reprefs'd the poet's frantic rage,
Cropt his luxuriance bold, and blended taught
The flow of numbers with the ftrength of thought.
Nor, Cowley, be thy Muse forgot! which strays
In wit's ambiguous flowery maze,
With many a pointed turn and ftudied art:
Tho' affectation blot thy rhyme,
Thy mind was lofty and fublime,
And manly honour dignified thy heart:
Though fond of wit, yet firm to virtue's plan,
The Poet's trifles ne'er difgrac'd the Man.
Well might thy morals fweet engage Th' attention of the Mitred Sage, Smit with the plain fimplicity of truth. For not ambition's giddy ftrife,
The gilded toys of public life, Which fnare the gay unstable youth,
Cou'd lure Thee from the fober charms,
Which lapt thee in retirements' arms, Whence Thou, untainted with the pride of state, Coud'ft fmile with pity on the bustling Great.
Such were Eliza's fons. Her foft'ring care
Here bad free genius tune his grateful song;
Which elfe had wafted in the defart air,
Or droop'd unnotic'd 'mid the vulgar throng.
Ne'er may her youth degenerate shame
The glories of Eliza's name!
But with the poet's frenzy bold,
Such as infpir'd her bards of old,
Pluck the green laurel from the hand of fame!
CTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws
AGTING, dear its
From no obfervance of mechanic laws:
No fettled maxims of a fav'rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd we Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone ?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius must our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.
K
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