POEMS.

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.

M

Y works are advertis'd for fale,

And cenfures fly as thick as hail;

While my poor scheme of publication
Supplies the dearth of converfation.

What will the World fay?

That's your cry.

Who is this World? and what am I?

Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er,

And perfecution reigns no more,

One man, one hardy man alone,
Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither tafte or wit,
By powerful catcall from the pit,

Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down.

Who pass'd the sentence then? — the Town.
So now each upstart puny elf

Talks of the world, and means himself.

Yet in the circle there are those
Who hurt e'en more than open foes:
Whose friendship serves the talking turn,
Just fimmers to a kind concern,
And with a wond'rous foft expreffion

Expatiates upon indiscretion;

Flies from the Poems to the Man,

And gratifies the favourite plan
To pull down other's reputation,

And build their own on that foundation.

The Scholar grave, of tafte discerning, Who lives on credit for his learning,

And

And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ,
With pitying kindness, friendly fear,
Whispers conjectures in your ear.

“ I'm sorry — and he's much to blame
"He might have publifh'd- but his name!
"The thing might please a few, no doubt,
"As handed privately about-

"It might amuse a friend or two,
"Some partial friend, like me or you;
"But when it comes to press and print
"You'll find, I fear, but little in't.
"He stands upon a dangerous brink
"Who totters o'er the fea of ink,
"Where reputation runs aground,
« The author cast away, and drown'd,

" And then 'twas wilful and abfurd, "(So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd,)

Abruptly thus a place to quit, "A place which moft his genius hit, "The theatre for Latin wit!

"With critics round him chafte and terfe, "To give a plaudit to his verfe!"

Latin, I grant, shews college breeding, And some school-common-place of reading. But has in Moderns fmall pretenfion

To real wit or strong invention.

The excellence you critics praise

Hangs on a curious choice of phrase ;
Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From profe or verse, no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,

Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You fet the claffic hodge-podge on

For pedant wits to feed upon.

Your wou'd-be Genii vainly feek

Fame from their Latin verfe, or Greek;

Who would for that be most admir'd

Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd.

A mere mechanical connection

Of favourite words,

Of phrases,

a bare collection

where the labour'd cento

Presents you with a dull memento,

How

How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
These only strain their motley wits
In gathering patches, shreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a claffic Harlequin.

- Were I at once impower'd to fhew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremeft rigour,
I could inflict no pennance bigger
Than ufing him as learning's tool,
To make him Ufher of a school..
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren foil,
And lab'ring with inceffant pains.
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill befit

The love of letters, arts, or wit..
For whofoe'er, tho' flightly, fips
Their grateful flavour with his lips,
Will find it leave a fmatch behind,
Shall fink fo deeply in the mind,

It