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Indulgent to all merit but thy own!

Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame,

Exults in Virtue's pure ethereal flame;

Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high,
The Muse adorns, but cannot dignify;

As northern lights, in glittering legions driven,
Embellish, not exalt, the starry Heaven:
Say Thou, for well thou know'st the art divine
To guide the fancy, and the soul refine,
What heights of excellence must he ascend,
Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend;
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art;

But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.

Like Thee, with sweet ineffable control,
Teach me to rouse or soothe th' impassion'd soul,
And breathe the luxury of social woes;
Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows.
Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan,
For know, 'tis Sympathy exalts the man.
But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall,
Can Riot listen to soft Pity's call?
Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest,
And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast.
Teach me thine artless harmony of song,
Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along

30

Arcadia's myrtle groves; ere art began,
With critic glance malevolent, to scan
Bold nature's generous charms, display'd profuse
In each warm cheek, and each enraptur'd muse.
Then had not Fraud impos'd, in Fashion's name,
For freedom lifeless form, and pride for shame;
And, for th' o'erflowings of a heart sincere,
The feature fix'd, untarnish'd with a tear;
The cautious, slow, and unenliven'd eye,
And breast inur'd to check the tender sigh.
Then love, unblam'd, indulg'd the guiltless smile;
Deceit they fear'd not, for they knew not guile.
The social sense unaw'd, that scorn'd to own
The curb of law, save nature's law alone,
To godlike aims, and godlike actions fir'd;
And the full energy of thought inspir'd;
And the full dignity of pleasure, given
T'exalt desire, and yield a taste of heaven.

Hail, redolent of heaven, delights sublime!
Hail, blooming days, the days of nature's prime !
How throbs the tir'd and harass'd heart, to prove
Your scenes of pure tranquillity and love!
But even to fancy fate that bliss denies ;
For lo, in endless night the vision dies!
Ah, how unlike these scenes of rage and strife,
Darkening to horror the bleak waste of life!
Where, all inverted nature's kindly plan,
Man domineers, the scourge and curse of man.
Where, haply, bosom'd in tempestuous floods,
Or dark untrodden maze of boundless woods,

If yet some land inviolate remain,

Nor dread th' oppressor's rod, nor tyrant's chain;
Nor dread the more inglorious fetters, wrought
By hireling sophistry t' enslave the thought:
'Tis there, 'tis only there, where boastful fame
Ne'er stunn'd the tingling ear with Europe's name.
Too long, O Europe, have thy oceans roll'd,
To glut thy lust of power, and lust of gold;
Too long, by glory's empty lure decoy'd,
Thy haughty sons have triumph'd and destroy'd:
Or led by reasoning pride afar to roam, [gloom,
Where truth's false mimic haunts the sheltering
Have plunged in cheerless night the wilder'd mind,
Th' abodes of peace for ever left behind.
Unwise, unblest, your own, and nature's foes,
O yet be still, and give the world repose!
Say, is it fame to dare the deed of death?
Is glory nought but flattery's purchas'd breath?
True praise, can trembling slaves, can fools bestow?
Can that be joy, which works another's woe?
Can that be knowledge, which in doubt decays ?
Can truth reside in disappointment's maze?-

But quench thy kindling zeal, presumptuous strain ;

Thy zeal how impotent! thy plaint how vain!
Hope not thy voice can tame the tempest's rage,
Or check in prone career a headlong age.
Far different themes must animate their song,
Who pant to shine the favourites of a throng.
Go, thou fond fool, thou slave to Nature's charms,

Whose heart the cause of injur'd Truth alarms;
Go, herd in Fashion's sleek and simpering train;
And watch the workings of her pregnant brain,
Prepar'd a sycophant's applause to pay,
As each abortive monster crawls to day.
Smit with the painted puppet-show of state,
Go learn to gaze, and wonder at the great.
Go learn with courtly reverence to admire
A taste in toys, a genius in attire,
Music of titles, dignity of show,

The parrot-courtier, and the monkey-beau ;
And all the equipage of sticks, and strings,
And clouts, and nicuames-merchandise of kings.
Or, to amuse the loitering hour of peace,
When slander, wit, and spleen from troubling

cease,

Warble th' unmeaning hymn in Folly's ear;
Such hymns unthinking Folly loves to hear.
Smooth flow thy lays, infusing as they roll
A deep oblivious lethargy of soul:

Let rill and gale glide liquidly along,
While not one ruffling thought obstructs the song;
So shall the gallant and the gay rehearse
The gentle strain, and call it charming verse.
But if an ampler field thine ardor claim,
Even realms and empires to resound thy name;
Strive not on Fancy's soaring wing to rise;
The plodding rabble gaze not on the skies;
Far humbler regions bound their groveling view,
And humbler tracts their minion must pursue.

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There are, who, grabbling in the putrid lake,
The glittering ore from filth and darkness rake;
Like spoils from Politicks thou may'st derive :
The theme is dirty, dark, and lucrative.

Yet ah! even here the spoils are hard to win,
For strong and subtle are thy foes within.
The pangs of sentiment, the qualms of taste,
And shame, dire inmate of the Scribbler's breast,
The stings of conscience, and the throbs of pride,
(Hard task) must all be vanquish'd or defy'd.
Then go, whate'er thy wit, whate'er thy style,
Defame the good, and deify the vile;
Fearless and frontless flounce into renown,
For mobs and prudes by impudence are won.
Though Providence, still merciful and just,
Who dooms the snake to wallow in the dust,
Oft curb with groveling impotence of mind
The venal venom of the rancorous kind;

Yet fear not; Faction's torch of sulphurous gleam
Shall fire the heart that feels not Fancy's beam.
Thus
arose distinguish'd in the throng,

Thus Bufo plied a profitable song.

Proceed, Great Years, with steady glare to shine
Where guilt and folly bend at Fashion's shrine;
And ye, the vain and shameless of our days,
Approach with songs, and worship in the blaze.
For him, alas! who never learn'd the art
To stifle conscience, and a throbbing heart;
Who, though too proud to mingle in the fray
Whence truth and virtue bear no palms away,