Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know; Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock, No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r, With supple acts to supple minds repair; Learn of the base, in soft grimace to deal, And deck thee with the livery genteel; Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite, Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write. Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw, Give nations language, and great cities law; Whom gods, they said—and surely gods-inspired, Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired-Now common grown, they awe mankind no more, But vassals are, who judges were before; Blockheads on wits their little talents waste, As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste: Though still some good, the trial may produce, To shape the useful to a nobler use. Some few of these, a statue and a stone Has Fame decreed- but deals out bread to none. Of children stinted in their daily meal! No! thank my stars, my misery 's all my own, To friends to family to foes unknown: Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design, Shall wound no peace-shall grieve no heart but mine. And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep. No. III. THE CANDIDATE; A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW. (1) Multa quidem nobis facimus mala sæpe poetæ, (Ut vineta egomet cædam mea) cum tibi librum HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. 1. AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS. YE idler things, that soothed my hours of care, Where princely POPES, and mighty MILTONS lie? (1) [For particulars respecting the original edition of this Poem, sec antè, Vol. I. p. 55.] But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript, Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth, And thou, the first of thy eccentric race, Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand, And beg our passage through the fairy land: Beg more-to search for sweets each blooming field, And crop the blossoms, woods and valleys yield; To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow; And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow; Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop, Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope. TO THE READER. THE following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its author supposes it can require but little preface. It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid and judicious reader, on the merits of the writer, as a poet; very few, he apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to decide for themselves. It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and sufficient plea for the preference. Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent. However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to his readers some entertainment, and is assured, that however little in the ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits contempt. TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW. THE pious pilot, whom the Gods provide, |