A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit ;
Ev'n fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unfeen, yet all things by it fhown,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.
Where doft thou dwell? what caverns of the brain
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ?

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abfence mourn,
Oh! where doft thou retire? and why doft thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away,
From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?
Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain

To check thy course, and use the needful rein,
As all is dulnefs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad :
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fenfe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men ;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen ;
Reafon is that fubftantial useful part,

Which gains the head, while t' other wins the heart.
Here I fhall all the various forts of verse,

And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at beft, all we can say is vain ;
Dull the defign, and fruitlefs were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with cafe;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,

Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new abfurdities infpire new thoughts;
What need has fatire then to live on theft,
When fo much fresh occafion ftill is left ?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools fhall have no caufe to fear;
'Tis wit and fenfe that is the fubje&t here:

Defects of witty men deserve a cure,

And those who are fo, will ev'n this endure.

First then, of Songs; which now so much abound, Without his fong no fop is to be found ;

A most offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Though nothing feems more eafy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The leaft of which defects is plainly shown
In one fmall ring, and brings the value down :
So fongs fhould be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expreffion eafy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,
As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall.

F4

}

Here,

Here, as in all things elfe, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous fongs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.
Not that warm thoughts of the tranfporting joy
Can fhock the chasteft, or the nicest cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move defire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deferves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, Elegy, of sweet, but folemn voice,
And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there too oft' despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov❜d?
That phoenix-fhe deferves to be belov'd;
But noify nonfense, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raife the value of the few.
But here (as all our fex too oft' have try’d)
Women have drawn my wandering thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;

But fhould this Muse harmonious numbers yield,
And every couplet be with fancy fill'd;

*The Earl of Rochefter.---It may be obferved, however, that many of the worft fongs afcribed to this nobleman were fpurious. N.

If yet a juft coherence be not made

Between each thought; and the whole model laid
So right, that every line may higher rise,

Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies :
Such trifles may perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last ;
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an elegy, nor writ with fkill,
No * Panegyrick, nor a + Cooper's-Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Mufes' moft unruly horfe,
That bounds fo fierce, the rider has no rest,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poffcfd.
The poet here must be indeed inspir'd,

With fury too, as well as fancy fir’d.

Cowley might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;

But fometimes diction mean, or verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ftill must foft and easy run.
Thefe laws may found a little too severe ;
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here,
Which, though extravagant, this Mufe allows,
And makes the work much easier than it fhows.
Of all the ways that wifeft men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has moft fuccefsful prov'd,
And cures, becaufe the remedy is lov'd.

'Tis hard to write on fuch a fubject more,
Without repeating things faid oft' before:
Some vulgar errors only we 'll remove,
That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chofen words fome take not care enough,
And think they should be as the fubject rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,

And fharpeft thoughts in smootheft words convey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only business was to rail :
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diftinguishes a fatyr from a scold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A fatyr's fimile is sharper than his frown;
So while you feem to flight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pafs fometimes for truth.

*

The Laureat here may juftly claim our praise,

Crown'd by Mack-Fleckno † with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus ‡ has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpish minifter of state.

Here reft, my Mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile,
A more important task attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle, that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and feas fhe is to foar,

* Mr. Dryden.

A famous fatirical Poem of his.
A poem call'd The Hind and Panther.

Doubts