Rofe up, and with a graceful air
Addrefs' the vifionary fair;
Excus'd his morning-difhabille,
Complain'd of late he had been ill.
In thort, he gaz'd, he bow'd, he figh'd,
He fung, he flatter'd, prefs'd, and ly'd,
With fuch a witchery of art,
That Fancy gave him all her heart,
Her catechifm quite forgot,
And waited on him to his grot.

In length of time the bore a fon,
As brilliant as his fire, the Sun.
Pure æther was the vital ray
That lighted up his finer clay;
The nymphs, the rofy-finger'd hours,
The dryads of the woods and bow'rs,
The graces with their loofen'd zones,
The mufes with their harps and crowns,
Young zephyrs of the foft wing,
The loves that wait upon the spring,
Wit with his gay aleciate Mirth,
Attended at the infant's birth,
And faid, Let Genius be his name,
And his the faireft wreath of fame.

The gollips gone, the chift'ning o'er,
And Genius now 'twixt three and four,
Phoebus, according to the rule,
Refolv'd to fend his fon to fchool:
And, knowing well the tricks of youth,
Reign'd him to the matron Truth,
Whofe hut, unknown to pride and pelf, was
Near his own oracle at Delphos.**
The rev'rend dame, who found the child
A little mifchievous and wild,
Taught him at firft to fpell and read,
To fay his prayers, and get his creed—
Would often tell him of the fky,
And what a crime it is to Ive.
She chid him when he did amifs,
When well, fhe blefs'd him with a kiss.
Her fifter Temp'rance, fage and quiet,
Prefided at his meals and diet :

She watch'd him with religious care,
And fed him with the fimpleft fare;
Would never let the urchin eat
Of pickled pork, or butcher's meat;
But what of aliment earth vields
In gardens, orchards, woods, and fields;
Whare'er of vegetable wealth

Was cultur'd by the hand of Health,
She cropp'd and drefs'd it, as the knew well,
In many a mess of foup and gruel;
And now and then, to cheer his heart,
Indulg'd him with a Sunday's tart.

A luty peafant chanc'd to dwell
Hard by the folitary cell:

His name was Labour.-Ere the dawn
Had broke upon the upland-lawn,
He hied him to his daily toil,
To turn the glebe, or mend the foil.
With him young Genius oft wou'd go
O'er dreary waftes of ice and fnow
With capture climb the cloud-topt hill,
Or wall across the fhallow fills

Or thro' th'entangled wood purfue
The foouteps of a dragging ewe.
isy thefe fatigues he got at length
Robufticis and athiene ftrength,
Spirits as light as fies the gale
Along the my-filver'd vale.
The cherub health, of dimple fleck,
Sat radiant on his rofy check,
And gave each nerve's elaftic spring
The vigour of an eaglet's wing.

Time now had roll'd, with mooth career,
Our hero thro' his fevent. year.
Tho' in a ruftic cottage bed,

The buty np had thought and read:
He knew th'adventures, one by one,
Of Robin Hood and Little John;
Could fing with fpirit, warmth, and grace,
The woeful hunt of Chevy Chace;
And how St. George, his fiery nag on,
Destroy'd the vaft Egyptian dragon.
Chief he admir'd that learned piece
Wrote by the fabulift of Greece,
Where wildom fpeaks in crows and cocks,,
And cunning fneaks into a fox.
In thort, as now his op'ning parts,
Ripe for the culture of the arts,
Became in ev'ry hour acuter,
Apollo look'd out for a tutor;
But had a world of pains to find
This artift of the human mind.

For, in good truth, full many an afs was
Among the doctors of Parnaffus,
Who fcarce had ikill enough to teach
Old Lilly's elements of 1peech;

And knew as much of men and morals

As doctor Rock of ores and corals.

At length, with much of thought and care, He found a mafter for his heir;

A learned man, adroit to speak

Pure Latin, and your attic Greek;
Well known in all the courts of fame,
And Criticifin was his name.

Beneath a tutor keen and fine as

Or Ariftotle or Longinus,
Beneath a lynx's eye that faw
The lightest literary flaw,

Young Genius trod the path of knowledge,
And grew the wonder of the college.
Old authors were his bofom friends--
He had them at his fingers ends-
Became an acc'rate imitator
Of truth, propriety, and nature;
Diplay'd in every just rema k
The ftrong fagacity of Clark;
And pointed out the falfe and true,
With all the fun-beams of Bossu.

But though this critic-fage refin'd
His pupil's intellectual mind,
And gave him all that keen difcerning
Which marks the character of learning
Yet, as he read with much of glee
The trifles of antiquity,
And, Bentley-like, would write epiftles
About the origin of whistles!

The

The scholar took his master's trim,
And grew identically him;
Employ'd a world of pains to teach us
What nation firft invented breeches;
Afferted that the Roman focks
Were broider'd with a pair of clocks;
That Capua ferv'd up with her victuals
An olio of Venafran pickles;
That Sifygambis drefs'd in blue,
And wore her treffes in a queue.
In short, he knew what Paulus Jovius,
Salmafius, Grævius, and Gronovius
Ha e faid in fifty folio volumes,
Printed by Elzevir in columns.
Apollo faw, with pride and joy,
The vaft improvement of his boy;
But
yet had more than flight fufpicion,
That all this load of erudition
Migh overlay his parts at once,
And turn him out a letter'd dunce.
He faw the lad had fill'd his fenfe
With things of little confequence;
That tho' he read, with application,
The wits of every age and nation,
And could, with nice precifion, reach
The boldeft metaphors of fpeech;
Yet warp'd too much, in truth's defiance,
From real to fictitious fcience,

He was, with all his pride and parts,

A mere mechanic in the arts,

That measures with a rule and line
What nature meant for great and fine,
Phoebus, who faw it right and wife was
To counteract this fatal bias,

Took home his fon with mighty hafte,
And fent him to the fchool of Taste.
This fchool was built by wealth and peace,
Some ages fince, in Elder Greece,
Juft when the Stagyrite had writ
His lectures on the pow'rs of wit.
Here, flush'd in all the bloom of youth,
Sat Beauty in the fhrine of truth.

Here
all the finer arts were feen
Affembl'd round their virgin-queen.
Here fculpture, on a bolder plan
Ennobled marble into man.
Herc, mufic, with a foul on fire,
Impaflion'd, breath'd along the lyre;
And here, the painter-mufe difplay'd
Diviner forms of light and fhade.

But fuch the fate, as Hefiod fings,
Of all our fublunary things,

When now the Tuik, with fword and halters,
Had drove religion from her altars,
And delug'd with a fea of blood
The academic dome and wood;
Affrighted Tafte, with wings unfurl'd,
Took refuge in the western world;
And fettled on the Tufcan main,
With all the mufes in his train.

In this calm fcene, where Tafte wirldrew,
And Science trimm'd her lamp anew;
Young Genius rag'd in every part
The vifionary worlds of art,

And from their finifh'd forms refin'd
His own congenial warmth of mind,
And learn'd with happy fkill to trace
The magic pow'rs of cafe and grace:
His ftyle grew delicately fine,
His numbers flow'd along his line,
His periods manly, full, and ftrong,
Had all the harmony of fong.
Whene'er his images betray'd
Too ftrong a light, too weak a fhade,
Or in the graceful and the grand
Confefs'd inelegance of hand,
His noble mafter, who could fpy
The fighteft fault with half an eye,
Set right by one ethereal touch,
What feem'd too little or too much;
Till ev'ry attitude and air
Arofe fupremely full and fair.

GENIUS was now among his betters
Diftinguifh'd as a man of letters.
There wanted ftill, to make him pleafe,
The fplendor of address and ease,
The foul-enchanting mien and air,
Such as we fee in Grofvenor-Square,
When Lady Charlotte fpeaks and moves,
Attended by a fwarm of loves.

GENIUS had got, to fay the truth,
A manner aukward and uncouth;
Sare fate of all who love to dwell
In wifdom's folitary cell :
So much a clown in gait and laugh,
He wanted but a fcrip and staff;
And fuch a beard as hung in candles
Down to Diogenes's fandals,
And planted all his chin fo thick,
To be like him a dirty cynic.

Apollo, who to do him right
Was always perfectly polite,
Chagrin'd to fee his fon and heir
Dishonour'd by his gape and ftare,
Refolv'd to fend him to Verfailles,
To learn a minuet of Marfeilles :
But Venus, who had deeper reading
In all the myfteries of breeding,
Obferv'd to Phoebus, that the name
Of Ip and Frenchman was the fame.
French manners were, the faid, a thing which
Thofe grave mifguided fools, the English,
Had, in defpite of common fenfe,
Miftook for nianly excellence;

By which their nation ftrangely funk is,
And half their nobles turn'd to monkies.
She thought it better, as the cafe was,
To fend young Genius to the graces:
Thofe fweet divinities, fhe faid,
Would form him in the myrtle fhade;
And teach him more, in half an hour,
Than Lewis or his Pompadour.

Phoebus agreed-the Graces took
Their noble pupil from his book,
Allow'd him at their fide to rove
Along their own domeftic grove,
Amidst the found of melting lyres,
Soft wreathing fimiles, and young defires:

And

And when confin'd by winds or show'rs,
Within their amaranthine bow'rs,
They taught him with addrefs and skill
To thine at ombre and quadrille;
Or let him read an ode or play,
To wing the gloomy hour away.
GENIUS was charm'd-divinely plac'd
'Midft beauty, wit, politeness, taste;
And, having every hour before him
The fineft models of decorum,
His manners took a fairer ply,
Expreffion kindled in his eye;
His gefture difengag'd, and clean,
Set off a fine majestic mien;
And gave his happy pow'r to please
The nobleft elegance of cafe.

Thus, by the difcipline of art,
Genius fhone out in head and heart.
Form'd from his first fair bloom of youth,
By Temp'rance and her fifter Truth,
He knew the fcientific page
Of every clime and every age;
Had learnt with critic-fkill to rein
The wildness of his native vein;
That critic-fkill, tho' cool and chafte,
Refin'd beneath the eye of Tafte;
His unforbidding mien and air,
His aukward gait, his haughty stare,
And every ftain that wit debafes,
Were melted off among the graces;
And Genius rose, in form and mind,
The first, the greatest of mankind.

§ 94. The Enthufiaft. An Ode. WHITEHEAD. ONCE, I remember well the day,

'Twas ere the blooming fweets of May
Had loft their fresheft hues,
When every flower on every hill,
In every vale had drank its fill

Of funfhine and of dews.

In fhort, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
When Spring gives up the reins of Time
To Summer's glowing hand,
And doubting mortals hardly know,
By whofe command the breezes blow
Which fan the fmiling land.
'Twas then, befide a green-wood shade,
Which cloath'd a lawn's afpiring head,
I urg'd my devious way.
With loit'ring steps regardless where,
So foft, fo genial was the air,

So wond'rous bright the day.
And now my eyes with tranfport rove
O'er all the blue expanfe above,

Unbroken by a cloud!
And now beneath delighted pafs,
Where winding thro' the deep green graf,
A full-brim'd river flow'd.

I ftop, I gaze; in accents rude,

To thee, ferencft folitude,

Burft forth th'unbidden lay;

Begone, vile world, the learn'd, the wife, The great, the bufy, I defpife,

And pity c'en the gay.

These, these are joys alone, I cry; 'Tis here, divine Philofophy,

Thou deign'ft to fix thy throne! Here Contemplation points the road Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God! Thefe, thefe are joys alone! Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, Ye human hopes and human fears, Ye pleasures and ye pains!" While thus I fpake, o'er all my foul A philofophic calmness stole, A ftoic ftilnefs reigns. The tyrant paffions all fubfide, Fear, anger, pity, shame and pride No more my bofom move; Yet ftill I felt, or feem'd to feel, A kind of vifionary zeal

Of univerfal love.

When lo! a voice, a voice I hear! 'Twas Reafon whisper'd in my car Thefe monitory strains:

"What mean'ft thou man? would'ft the The ties which conftitute thy kind,

The pleafures and the pains?
The fame Almighty Power unfeen,
Who fpreads the gay or folemn fcene
To Contemplation's eve,
Fix'd every movement of the foul,
Taught every with its deftin'd goal,
And quicken'd every joy.
He bids the tyrant paffions rage,
He bids them war eternal wage,

And combat each his foe:
Till from diffenfions concords rife,
And beauties from deformities,

And happiness from woe.

Art thou not man, and dar'ft thou find
A blifs which leans not to mankind?
Prefumptuous thought and vain!
Each blifs unfhar'd is uncnjoy'd,
Each power is weak, unless employ'd
Some focial good to gain.

Shall light and shade, and warmth and air,
With thofe exalted joys compare

Which active Virtue feels!
When on the drags as lawful prize,
Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice,
At her triumphant wheels.
As reft to labour still fucceeds
To man, whilst Virtue's glorious deeds
Employ his toilfome day;
This fair variety of things,
Are merely Life's refreshing fprings,
To footh him on his way.
Enthusiast go, unftring thy lyre,
In vain thou fing'ft if none admire,
How fweet foe'er the strain.
And is not thy o'erflowing mind,
Unless thou mixeft with thy kind,
Benevolent in vain?
Enthufiaft

go, try every fenfe,
If not thy blifs, thy excellence,
Thou yet haft learn'd to fcan;
At leaft thy wants, thy weakness know,
And fee them all uniting fhow,

That man was made for man."

Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yif thatt you are refolv'd to lett "Charles Baw din die to daie." Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile, The kynge ynne fury fayde; Before the cv'ning ftarre doth fheene, • Bawdin fhall loose hys hedde: Juftice docs loudlic for hym calle,

And hee thall have hys meede :
Speke, Maifter Canynge! Whatte thynge clfe
Att prefent doe you neede?'

"My nobile liege!' goode Canynge fayde,
"Leave juftice to our Godde,
"And laye the yronne rule afyde;
"Be thyne the olyve rodde."

"Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines,

"The best were fynners grete; "Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne, "Ynne alle thys mortall ftate: "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, “Twyle faste thye crowne fulle fure; "From race to race thy familie

"Alle fov'reigns fhall endure:

"But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne,

66

"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows

Wylle never lonng remayne."

Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vilė
Has fcorn'd my power and mee;

Howe can't thou thenne for fuch a manne
Intreate my clemencye >

"My nobile liege! the truly brave
"Wylle val'rous actions prize;
"Refpect a brave and nobile mynde,
"Altho' ynne enemies."

Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n,

That dydd mee beinge gyve,

I wylle not tafte a bitt of breade

Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

By Maric, and all Scinctes ynne Ileav'n,
Thy's funne fhall be hys lafte.'
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie
teare,
And from the prefence pafte.

With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Ser Charles dydd goe,
And fatt hymnm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

And fhall I now, for feere of dethe,
Looke wanne and bee dyfmayde ?
Ne! fromm my herte fie childy the feere,
Bee alle the manne difplay'd.

Ah, goddelyke Herrie! Godde forefende,
And guaide thee and thye fonne,

Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,

Why thenne hys wylle be donne.

'My honefte friende, my faulte has beene
To ferve Godde and mye prynce;
And that I no tyme-ferver am,
My dethe wylle foone convynce.
Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadyre dydd a nobile arms
Emblazon onne hy's cote:

I make ne doubte butt hec ys gone
Where foone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever thall bee bleft,

From oute the reech of woe:

'Hee taught mec juftice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite; And eke hec taughte mee howe to knows

The wronge cause fromm the ryghte:
Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hands
To fecde the hungrie poere,
Ne lette mye fervants drive awaie

The hungrie fromme my doore:
And none can faye, butt all mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes aye kept;
And fumm'd the actions of the daie
Eche nyghte before I flept.

I have a fpoufe, goe afke of her,

Yff I defyl'd her bedde?

I have a kynge, and none can laie
'Blacke treafon onne my hedde.
Ynne Lent, and onne the holic eve,
Fromm flethe I dydd refrayne;
Whie fhould I thenne appeare difmay'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?

Ne!