In these the spleen of Pope we find ;
But where the greatness of his mind?
His numbers are their whole pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.
Some few, the fav'rites of the Muse,
Whom with her kindeft eye fhe views;
Round whom Apollo's brightest rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze;
Some few, my friend, have fweetly trod
In Imitation's dangerous road.
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he smokes,
And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O* Brown, fhall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays;
And whofoe'er thy verse shall fee,
Shall fill another Pipe to thee.
Ifaac Hawkins Brown, Efq. author of a piece call'd the Pipe of
Tobacco, a moft excellent imitation of fix different authors.
EPISTLE to J. B. Efq. 1757.
GAIN I urge my old objection,
A That modern
That modern rules obstruct perfection,
And the feverity of Tafte
Has laid the walk of genius waste.
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Our authors creep instead of foaring,
And all the brave imagination
Is dwindled into declamation.
But ftill you cry in fober sadness,
"There is discretion e'en in madness.”
A pithy fentence, which wants credit!
Because I find a poet faid it:
Their verdict makes but small impreffion,
Who are known liars by profeffion.
Rife what exalted flights it will,
True genius will be genius still;
And say, that horse wou'd you prefer,
Which wants a bridle or a spur?
The mettled fteed may lose his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.
Had Shakespeare crept by modern rules,
We'd loft his Witches, Fairies, Fools:
Inftead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
A garden trim, and all inclos'd,
In nicest fymmetry difpos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond the border:
Now like a forest he appears,
The growth of twice three hundred years,
Where many a tree aspiring shrouds
Its airy fummit in the clouds,
While round its root ftill love to twine
The ivy or wild eglantine.
"But Shakespeare's all-creative fancy
"Made others love extravagancy,
"While cloud-capt nonsense was their aim,
"Like Hurlothrumbo's mad lord Flame."
True who can ftop dull imitators?
Those younger brothers of tranflators,
Those infects, which from genius rife,
And buzz about, in fwarms, like flies?
Fashion, that sets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the press:
As formerly the fons of rhyme
Sought Shakespeare's fancy and fublime,
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praife of Pope.
But Pope and Shakespeare both disclaim
These low retainers to their fame.
What task can dulnefs e'er affect
So eafy, as to write correct?
Poets, 'tis faid, are fure to split
By too much or too little wit;
So, to avoid th' extremes of either,
They miss their mark and follow neither;
They fo exactly poise the scale
That neither measure will prevail,
And mediocrity the Muse
Did never in her fons excufe.
'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd
With all the charms of modern taste,
And every fenfeless line is dreft
In quaint expreffion's tinfel veft.
Say did you never chance to meet
A monfieur-barber in the ftreet,
Whose ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers' ends,
His olive-tan'd complexion graces
With little dabs of Drefden laces,
While for the body Monfieur Puff,
Wou'd think e'en dowlas fine enough?
So fares it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes.
For lace, and fringe, and tawdry cloaths,
Sure never yet were greater beaux ;
But fairly strip them to the fhirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.
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