But that must fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And fenfe no longer will fubmit to fools.
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whofe bright airy top
The Epick pocts fo divinely fhow,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a juft pretence
To be the utmost ftretch of human fenfe;
A work of fuch ineftimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth !
Homer and Virgil! with what facred awe,
Do thofe mere founds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling feems below the reft
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beaft;
So thefe gigantic fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the reft of human kind!
Nature's whole ftrength united! endless fame,
And univerfal fhouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear fo mean, fo poor,
Verfe will feem profe; but full perfist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Boffu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill;
As fomething of divine the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be inftructed, but infpir'd :
But he, difclofing facred myfteries,
Has fhewn where all the mighty magic lies;
Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vast proportion grown.
Sure from fome angel he the fecret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To fee this promis'd land, yet stay behind ?
The way
is fhewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whofe fancy flies beyond weak Reason's fight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such
Never to fay too little or too much?
Let fuch a man begin without delay ;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Must above Tafso's lofty flights prevail,
Succced where Spenfer, and ev'n Milton fail.
IS faid, that favourite, mankind, Was made the lord of all below; yet the doubtful are concern'd to find,. 'Tis only one man tells another fo.
And, for this great dominion here, Which over other beasts we claim, Reafon our beft credential does appear, By which indeed we domineer,
But how abfurdly, we may fee with fhame.
Reason, that folemn trifle! light as air,
Driven up and down by cenfure or applause;
By partial love away 'tis blown,
Or the leaft prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high privilege becomes our fnare.
In any nice and weighty caufe,
How weak, at beft, is Reafon ! yet the grave
Impofe on that fmall judgment which we have.
In all thofe wits, whofe names have fpread fo wide, And ev❜n the force of time defy'd,
Some failings yet may be defcry'd. Among the reft, with wonder be it told,
That Brutus is admir'd for Cæfar's death;
By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal breath.
Brutus, ev'n he, of all the rest,
In whom we should that deed the most deteft,
Is of mankind esteem'd the best.
As fnow defcending from fome lofty hill,
Is by its rolling courfe augmenting still,
So from illuftrious authors down have roll'd
Thofe
great encomiums he receiv'd of old :
Republic orators will fhew esteem,
And gild their eloquence with praise of him :
But Truth, unveil'd, like a bright fun appears,
To shine away this heap of seventeen hundred years.
In vain 'tis urg'd by an illuftrious wit,
(To whom in all befides I willingly submit)
That Cæfar's life no pity could deserve
From one who kill'd himself, rather than ferve.
Had Brutus chofe rather himself to flay,
Than any mafter to obey,
Happy for Rome had been that noble pride;
The world had then remain'd in peace, and only Brutus dy'd.
For he, whofe foul difdains to own
Subjection to a tyrant's frown,
And his own life would rather end,
Would fure much rather kill himfelf, than only hurt
his friend.
To his own fword in the Philippian field
Brutus indeed at laft did yield:
But in thofe times felf-killing was not rare,
And his proceeded only from defpair:
He might have chofen elfe to live,
In hopes another Cæfar would forgive;
Then, for the good of Rome, he could once more
Confpire against a life which had fpar'd his before.
d Our country challenges our utmost care,
And in our thoughts deferves the tenderest share;
Her to a thousand friends we should prefer,
Yet not betray them, though it be for her.
Hard is his heart, whom no defert can move,
A miftrefs or a friend to love,
Above whate'er he does befides enjoy;
But may he, for their fakes, his fire or fons deftroy!
For facred juftice, or for public good,
Scorn'd be our wealth, our honour, and our blood :
In fuch a caufe, want is a happy state,
Ev'n low difgrace would be a glorious fate;
And death itself, when noble fame furvives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives.
But 'tis not furely of fo fair renown
To fpill another's blood, as to expose our own:
Of all that's ours we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to friendship, oh! 'tis facrilege to touch.
Can we ftand by unmov'd, and fee
Our mother robb'd and ravifh'd?
Excus'd, if in her caufe we never stir,
Pleas'd with the ftrength and beauty of the ravisher?
Thus fings our bard with heat almost divine;
'Tis pity that his thought was not as ftrong as fine.
Would it more juftly did the cafe express,
Or that its beauty and its grace were lefs.
(Thus a nymph fometimes we fee,
Who fo charming seems to be,
That, jealous of a foft furprize,
We fcarce durft truft our eager eyes)
Such a fallacious ambush to efcape,
It were but vain to plead a willing rape;
A valiant fon would be provok'd the more;
A force we therefore must confefs, but acted long before;
A marriage fince did intervene,
With all the folemn and the facred scene;
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