Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore

The billow sweeps him, and he 's found no more. Oh! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair Midway betwixt presumption and despair!

"Has then some friendly critic's former blow Taught thee a prudence authors seldom know?"

Not so! their anger and their love untried, A wo-taught prudence deigns to tend my side: Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow poor, And though they flatter, yet they charm no more; Experience points where lurking dangers lay, And as I run, throws caution in my way.

There was a night, when wintry winds did rage, Hard by a ruin'd pile, I met a sage;

Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd,
Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard;
Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's dome,
Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home.
His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast,
And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past,
His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound,
And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground,
Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow,
He shook, from locks as white, December's snow;
Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease,
But lock'd within him meditated peace.

Father, I said for silver hairs inspire, And oft I call the bending peasant SireTell me, as here beneath this ivy bower That works fantastic round its trembling tower, We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar, Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor;

For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu,
And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you.

There was a time when, by Delusion led, A scene of sacred bliss around me spread, On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood, And saw my Canaan there, my promised good; A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd, And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd; As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd, And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd : On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand, Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land. "Son," said the Sage - "be this thy care suppress'd; "The state the Gods shall choose thee, is the best : "Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more, "And would thy patience when they make thee poor; "But other thoughts within thy bosom reign, "And other subjects vex thy busy brain, "Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite, "And thy sad stars have destined thee to write. "Then since that task the ruthless fates decree, "Take a few precepts from the Gods and me'

"Be not too eager in the arduous chace; "Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race: "Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth, "And let thy labours one by one go forth: "Some happier scrap capricious wits may find "On a fair day, and be profusely kind; "Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng, "Had pleased as little as a new-year's song, "Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet, "Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet. "Merit not always Fortune feeds the bard, "And as the whim inclines bestows reward:

"None without wit, nor with it numbers gain ;
"To please is hard, but none shall please in vain :
"As a coy mistress is the humour'd town,
"Loth every lover with success to crown;
"He who would win must every effort try,
"Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly;
"Must gay or grave to every humour dress,
"And watch the lucky Moment of Success;
"That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost;
"But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost."

Thus said the God; for now a God he grew,
His white locks changing to a golden hue,
And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue.
His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed
Of dove-like Delia when her doubts reposed;
Mira's alone a softer iustre bear,

When wo beguiles them of an angel's tear;
Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood,
Then sought on airy wing his blest abode.

Ah! truth, distasteful in poetic theme,
Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream?
Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line,
I only wish to make its moral mine.

Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed,
May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed?
Say, shall my name, to future song prefix'd,
Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd?
Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage,
My graver numbers move the silver'd sage,
My tender themes delight the lover's heart,
And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart ?

For Oh! thou Hope's, thou Thought's eternal King, Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing

Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar,
And in my happier transports I adore ;
Mercy! thy softest attribute proclaim,
Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name;
That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray,
As the full moon-beam gilds the watery way.
And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord,
Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford,
To all the soil of sooty passions blind,
Pure as embracing angels, and as kind;
Our Mira's name in future times shall shine,
And though the harshest-Shepherds envy mine.

Then let me, (pleasing task!) however hard, Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard; If not, ah! shield me from the dire disgrace, That haunts the wild and visionary race; Let me not draw my lengthen'd lines along, And tire in untamed infamy of song, Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page, I stand the CIBBER of this tuneless age; Lest, if another POPE th' indulgent skies Should give, inspired by all their deities, My luckless name, in his immortal strain, Should, blasted, brand me as a second Cain ; Doom'd in that song to live against my will, Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could kill.

The youth, resisted by the maiden's art,
Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart;
To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow,
As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow;
Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky,
And heaven is won by importunity;
Ours, a projecting tribe, pursue in vain,
In tedious trials, an uncertain gain;

Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat,
And with our ruin only, find the cheat.

"And why then seek that luckless doom to share ?" Who, I?-To shun it is my only care.

I grant it true, that others better tell

Of mighty WOLFE, who conquer'd as he fell; (1)
Of heroes born, their threaten'd realms to save,
Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave;
Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array,
Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay;
Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream,
Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream;
When Rodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing,
We hail the victor, whom we fear to sing;
Nor tell we how each hostile chief goes on,
The luckless Lee, or wary Washington;
How Spanish bombast blusters-they were beat,
And French politeness dulcifies defeat.
My modest Muse forbears to speak of kings,
Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings;
For who-the tenant of the beechen shade,
Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade?
Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring God
Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood?
No; let me, free from Cupid's frolic round,
Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound;

Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell,

And paint the dark-brow'd grove, where wood-nymphs

dwell;

Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel,

And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal.

(1) IMIT. Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium

Victor, Mæonii carminis alite,

Quam rem cumque ferox navibus, aut equis

Miles, te duce, gesserit, &c. &c.

HOR. Lib. i. Od.