SECUNDUM ARTEM

I

S HALL I begin with Ah , or Oh ?
Be sad? Oh! yes. Be glad? Ah! no.
Light subjects suit not grave Pindaric ode,
Which walks in metre down the Strophic road.
But let the sober matron wear
Her own mechanic sober air:
Ah me! ill suits, alas! the sprightly jig,
Long robes of ermine, or Sir Cloudsley's wig.
Come, placid Dullness , gently come,
And all my faculties benumb,
Let thought turn exile, while the vacant mind
To trickie words and pretty phrase confin'd,
Pumping for trim description's art,
To win the ear, neglects the heart.
So shall thy sister T ASTE 's peculiar sons,
Lineal Descendants from the G OTHS and H UNS ,
Struck with the true and grand sublime
Of rythm converted into Rime ,
Court the quaint Muse; and con her lessons o'er,
When sleep the sluggish waves by Granta's shore:
There shall each poet pare and trim,
Stretch, cramp, or lop the verse's limb,
While rebel W IT beholds them with disdain,
And Fancy flies aloft, nor heeds their servile chain.

II

Oh Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Where have thy vagrant footsteps stray'd?
For ah! I miss thee midst thy wonted haunt,
Since silent now th' enthusiastic chaunt,
Which erst like frenzy roll'd along,
Driv'n by th' impetuous tide of song,
Rushing secure where native genius bore,
Not Cautious Coasting by the Shelving Shore.
Hail to the sons of modern Rime,
Mechanic dealers in sublime,
Whose lady Muse full wantonly is dress'd,
In light expressions quaint, and tinsel vest,
Where swelling epithets are laid
(Art's ineffectual parade)
As varnish on the cheek of Harlot light;
The rest thin sown with profit or delight,
But ill compares with antient song,
Where Genius pour'd its flood along;
Yet such is Art's presumptuous idle claim,
She marshals out the way to modern fame;
From Grecian fables' pompous lore,
Description's studied, glittering store,
Smooth, Soothing Sounds, and sweet alternate rime,
Clinking like change of bells, in tingle tangle chime.

III

The lark shall soar in ev'ry Ode,
With flow'rs of light description strew'd,
And sweetly, warbling Philomel, shall flow
Thy Soothing Sadness in mechanic woe.
Trim Epithets shall spread their gloss,
While ev'ry Cell's o'ergrown with moss:
Here Oaks shall rise in chains of ivy bound,
There Smould'ring Stones o'er-spread the rugged ground.
Here forests brown, and azure hills,
There babbling fonts, and prattling rills;
Here some gay river floats in crisped streams,
While the bright Sun now gilds his morning beams,
Or sinking to his Thetis' breast,
Drives in description down the west.
— Oh let me boast, with pride becoming skill,
I crown the summit of Parnassus' Hill:
While Taste with Genius shall dispense,
And sound shall triumph over sense;
O'er the gay mead with curious steps I'll stray;
And, like the Bee, steal all its sweets away,
Extract its beauty, and its pow'r,
From every new poetic flow'r,
Whose sweets collected may a wreath compose,
To bind the Poet's brow, or please the Critic's nose.