Thence rolls the mighty Pow'r his broad survey, And seals the nations' awful doom: He sees proud Grandeur's meteor ray ; He yields to joy the festive day; Then sweeps the length'ning shade, and marks them for the tomb. ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE TO HIMSELF. WELL, this poetic itch creeps on ; Instead of purple and the coif, Curll prints your works, and writes your life. If Mævius scribble, 'tis to feed A bard inspir'd by daring need: But, having wherewithal to dine, What vengeance damns thee to the Nine? Some, wit and thought can scarce endure ; Swift is too vulgar, Pope obscure; Whim, Weather, Envy, Party, Spite, To mark his progress through the skies; He perishes from vulgar sight. Yet, spite of folly or caprice, Suppose ('tis but hypothesis) Your Muse could win her way to praise, And Chesterfield to prove the lays: Now sudden wreaths your temples crown, Proclaim'd a poet-about town, Thee, toasts admire, and peers caress; Peers treat their poets as their whores, Enjoy, then turn them out of doors; For wit (if always in your power) Awhile you set the town agape; We wonder when he means to shine. With all the fair and all the great? Mark whom their favours are bestow'd onCibber, and Heidegger, and Boden. Poets are arbiters of fame: True; but who loves or fears a name? Is it for fame, Sir For fame that Such hate a poet, or despise; Their prospect in oblivion lies. Search far and wide where Virtue dwells, In camps, or colleges, or cells; Heroes alike, and bards, instead Or call forth all the powers of fable, Our leagues and wars, and Spithead fleet: A jury finds your words in print, To curb the time, can poets hope? Peter but sneers, though lash'd by Pope. Would you from dice or pox reclaim, Brand this or that flagitious name: What boots it, sharpers and intriguers? But ask, were Chartres, Oldfield, beggars? No, born for modern imitation, Worthies that throve in their vocation. Not e'en thy Horace, happy bard, Was by the barren Muse preferr'd, |