Profan'd by them, the Muse's laurels fade, New cares appear, new terrors swell the train, Just to itself the jealous world will claim Behold th' Athenian sage, whose piercing mind Had trac'd the wily labʼrinths of mankind, When now condemn'd, he leaves his infant care To all those evils man is born to bear. 240 Not to his friends alone the charge he yields, But nobler hopes on juster motives builds; Bids ev'n his foes their future steps attend, And dar'd to censure, if they dar'd offend. Would thus the poet trust his offspring forth, Or bloom'd our BRITAIN with ATHENIAN Worth: Would the brave foe th' imperfect work engage With honest freedom, not with partial rage, What just productions might the world surprize! But since by foes, or friends alike deceiv'd, 250 Where humble peace, and sweet contentment reign; If not thy precepts, thy example own, And steal through life not useless, though unknown. EPISTLE V. ΤΟ LORD MELCOMBE. FROM RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ. I'VE often thought, my Lord, the thing now true, Said by Lord Bute, but what I've learn'd from you: "We shall lose poetry :" In this alone Too short, he might have added, "Wit is gone." How came this prime delight of man thus lessen’d of wit, 10 Whose deeds we wonder at, and hide our own; Whom but to copy in their idle fits, Would break the backs of puny modern wits. To set this matter in the clearest light, 20 Let it run thus: "See all Parnassus mourn, 30 With all that either broach'd, the world content, Believ'd still farther than they could invent, All irrealities came forth reveal'd By pow'rful Fancy into fact congeal'd. And not restrain'd, as now, for want of stuff; And nothing solid rose above the flood. 110 A new Religion spreading ev'ry where, The stock of Poetry fell under par; For Oracles grew dumb, as men grew wise, None saw for those, who saw with their own eyes. But the new doctrines being found too pure, Some able doctors undertook its cure; It serv'd no purposes but saving sinners, They added that by which themselves were winners; The world grown old, its youthful follies past, Reason assumes her reign, tho' late, at last. By slow degrees, and laboring up the hill, Step after step, yet seeming to stand still, She wins her way, wherever she advances; Satyr no more, nor Fawn, nor Dryad dances. The groves, tho' trembling to a natural breeze, Dismiss their horrors, and shew nought but trees. Before her, Nonsense, Superstition fly; We burn no Witch, let her be e'er so dry: |