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ΑΝ

ESSAY

ON

POETRY.

No kind of Work requires fo nice a Touch,
And if well finifh'd, nothing fhines fo much.
But Heav'n forbid we fhould be fo profane,
To grace the Vulgar with that noble Name.
'Tis not a Flash of Fancy, which fometimes
Dazling our Minds, fcts off the flightcft Rhimes;
Bright as a Blaze, but in a Moment done:

-True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;

Which, tho' fometimes behind a Cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.

Number and Rhime, and that harmonious Sound,
Which not the niceft Ear with Harfhnefs wound,

Are neceffary, yet but vulgar Arts ;
And all in vain thefe fuperficial Parts
Contribute to the Structure of the Whole,
> Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul:
A Spirit which infpires the Work throughout,
As that of Nature moves the World about ;
A Flame that glows amidft Conceptions fit;
Ev'n fomething of Divine, and more than Wit;

It felf unfeen, yet all things by it shown,

Describing all Men, but describ'd by none.

Where doft thou dwell? What Caverns of the Brain Can fuch a vaft 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 pow'rful Charms to hurry me away, From Pleasures of the Night, and Bus'nefs of the Day? Ev'n now too far tranfported, I am fain

To check thy Courfe, and use the needful Rein,

As all is Dulness 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 Sense,
But on the World, on Manners, and on Men,
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;

Reafon is that fubftantial, ufeful part,

Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.

Here I fhould all the various forts of Verse,

And the whole Art of Poetry rehearse;

VOL. I.

K

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