And DORSET's lines all palates hit,
BURGUNDY of wit.
But when, obedient to the mode
Of panegyric, courtly ode,
The bard beftrides his annual hack,
In vain I tafte, and fip and fmack,
I find no flavour of the SACK.
But while I ramble and refine
On flavour, Style, and Wit and Wine,
Your Claret, which I would not wafte,
Recalls me to my proper tafte e;
So ending, as 'tis more than time,
At once my Letter, glafs and rhyme,
I take this bumper off to you,
'Tis SHEPERD's health-dear friend, adieu.
No author ever fpar'd a brother :
"Wits are game cocks to one another."
But no antipathy so strong,
Which acts fo fiercely, lafts fo long
As that which rages in the breast
Of critic, and of wit profeft:
When, eager for fome bold emprize,
WIT, Titan-like, affects the fkies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the nine,
Bids his kite foar on paper wing,
The critic comes, and cuts the string;
Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verfe, and man of profe;
While profe-man deems the verfe-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;
While genius, which too oft difdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
(Such as a sheriff's self might wear,
Or grace the wisdom of a may'r)
Turns rebel to dame REASON's throne
And holds no judgment like his own.
Yet while they fpatter mutual dirt,
In idle threats that cannot hurt,
Methinks they waste a deal of time,
Both fool in profe, and fool in rhyme,
And when the angry bard exclaims,
And calls a thousand paltry names,
He doth his critic mighty wrong,
And hurts the dignity of song.
The prefatory matter past The tale, or story comes at laft.
A candle stuck in flaring ftate
Within the nozel of French plate,
Tow'ring aloft with fmoaky light,
The fnuff and flame of wondrous height,
(For, virgin yet of amputation,
No force had check'd its inclination)
Sullen addrefs'd with confcious pride,
The dormant fnuffers at its fide.
"Mean vulgar tools, whofe envious aim "Strikes at the vitals of my flame,
"Your rude affaults fhall hurt no more, "See how my beams triumphant foar ! "See how I gayly blaze alone
"With strength, with luftre all my own.
"Luftre, good fir!" the fnuffers cried, "Alas! how ignorant is pride!
"Thy light which wavers round the room,
"Shews as the counterfeit of gloom,
"Thy fnuff which idly tow'rs fo high
"Will waste thy effence by and by,
"Which, as I prize thy luftre dear
"I fain would lop to make thee clear.
"Boaft not, old friend, thy random rays,
Thy wafting strength, and quiv'ring blaze, "You fhine but as a beggar's link,
"To burn away, and die in ftink,
"No merit waits unsteady light,
"You must burn true as well as bright.
Poets like candles all are puffers, And critics are the candle fnuffers.
THO' pilot in the ship no more,
To bring the cargo fafe to shore;
Permit, as time and place afford,
A paffenger to come aboard.
The fhepherd who furvey'd the deep,
When all its tempefts were asleep,
Dreamt not of danger; glad was he
To fell his flock, and put to sea.
The confequence has soP told,
He loft his venture, fheep and gold.
So fares it with us fons of rhyme,
From doggrel wit, to wit fublime;
On ink's calm ocean all feems clear,
No fands affright, no rocks appear;
No lightnings blast, no thunders roar ;
No furges lafh the peaceful fhore;
Till, all too vent'rous from the land,
The tempefts dash us on the strand:
Then the low pirate boards the deck,
And sons of theft enjoy the wreck.
|