And brought down all his passions till they met
The sympathies of cens'ring mechanism,*
The spleen of crampt cold-blooded pedantry→

H. Perdition-what a loss had Time deplor'd Through all his ages—

A.

then the human heart,

That wond'rous labyrinth, had ne'er been trac'd
(This clue withheld), nor Wisdom thence acquir'd
The richest boon which Genius ever gave.

H. The like neglected Genius gives no more,
But mourns in solitudes his glory fallen.
When Virgil liv'd the thund'ring Theatre
Receiv'd him as it wont the God Augustus
(I heard the roar, I seem e'en now to hear it),
Old Tiber trembled through his vaulted shores,
And Echo early caught his praise from Fame,

A. But in a cold and hypercritic age, An age diseas'd by lucrative designs,

This accommodation is idle; for if men of this description will blame because they cannot sympathize, they are as illiberal as the mere poet, who, for the same No REASON, would blame the deductions of the metaphysician: the latter is not obliged to relish Milton, or the former Locke. The characteristic excellencies of different lines are not to be sacrificed to this desire of universal sympathy; yet, the individual who can best sympathize with all forms of excellency, testifies the best heart and the best head.

By mean ambitions and by mean delights,
Wit nods, and Folly's only rous'd by spleen;
Then Learning's equal radiance, far diffus'd,

Bids many wish to be what few are born.

H. The fists of Dulness bruise the Muse's shell,
Mechanics mount the Stagyrite's tribunal,
And, sitting at her frame, the prating maid
Carps at a word, nor heeds the dulcet chime
Which in Elysium charms our purged ears,
Makes soft Prosèrpine's snowy bosom heave,
And darts a thrill thro' Pluto's iron cheek.

A. But, hark? th' Orphean lyre, and by the Bard Mæonides and Maro raptur'd stand!

H. The Greek Tragedians hasten from the groves ! A. And Petrarch hurries from his laurel bower!

H. Lo! from yon temple Milton's march majestic !

A. And Shakspere's from yon cliff! he lifts his lyre!

H. See how the breezes back his ringlets blow, And play their sweet pranks with his glittering robe!

A. Mark Ariosto's desultory stepThe tender Spencer pacing by his side!

H. Tasso comes forward from the vale of palms, And Dante rises from his gloomy glade !

A. Ah! Pindar's self has seiz'd his golden lyre, Sinks all his soul into the sounding chords,

And chants aloud, and joins the Muse's son !

H. Oh! God of verse, these numbers might bring down Thee and the Nine from Heaven!

A.

O God of

verse,

Thine edict from the first assign'd the Bard
An energy to fire the sons of men
To highest worth, and give sublimest Truth
The richest robing of persuasive speech,
Where Music, Passion, and Invention spread
Before the wond'ring earth their bright array,
To lift us high above these jarring scenes,
Within the view of that harmonious Grace
Which fills, and forms, and beautifies the Heavens.

AN

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

MATHO.

You blame, sage Matho, my presumptuous speech
That made the Sabine* his own laws unteach,
And ask me whether Genius can alone
For want of Art and Industry atone?
Perversely question'd; but 'tis man's to stray,
Like you, for ever from the middle way.
'Tis Faction all, and each on Folly's tide,
With party-colours, sails to some wrong side.
Can Hottentots write verse-from rumbling wain
Can carters warble forth a Dryden's strain,
Though into life their spirit sprang endow'd
With all the fire that penn'd the peerless ode,
That fire unfann'd by Culture, left to die
Beneath the chilling fog of Penury?
The rolling rivers, if their tide is clear,

The lucid mirrors of their banks appear,

* The Sabine Horace, in the supposed dialogue between him and Addison.

And, if the banks with Nature's riches glow,
Present a second paradise below.

The pause of Cowley oft produc'd conceit,
But at an instant Dryden's noble heat

Struck out the peerless ode:* his practis'd lyre,
Smote in the moment of heav'n-darted fire,
Won for the Briton the bright lyric crown,
Whose blaze-eclips'd the raptur'd Greeks renown.
What tho' the hero who presumes to climb
Parnassus, needs an energy subli.ne

(His aim demands it)—would you thence conclude
I wish this master-soul, unletter'd, rude?

This Ode, says Dr. Johnson, is allowed to stand without a rival. The poet Young directly challenges Antiquity to produce its equal. It seems indeed in ease and melody of unparalleled excellence, and eminently, as well as variously, powerful as an address to the passions. The design of it is exquisite; but I do not think with Dr. Johnson, that it exhibits the highest flight of Fancy, for it seems not that the design of the Ode admitted, or that the execution has unwisely exhibited the last outstretching of Imagination. For this we may seek with propriety, nor shall we seek in vain, in Gray's Odes. Dryden's Ode captivates a wider description of readers than that which admits and receives the highest flight of Fancy. This is not addressed to the MANY. From Dryden's habits of writing, and from his genius, this admirable poem might be considered as, not improbably, the production of one night, according to the report of some. Its predominating excellences-the manner in which its several parts melt into each other—their diversifying continuity, connected by simplicity of design, and their numbers so seemingly and so probably (in such a practitioner) dictated by changing passion, appear internal evidences that the work was the effort of one unbroken application. The few straws rolled along in the torrent, might have been picked out in an after and cooler hour; but, it seems, this memorable work of genius was substantially intire without the mechanical revision. Perhaps instead of the reprobation (in toto) of the

M