On Poetry: a Rhapsody

1733

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's universal passion, pride,[1] Was never known to spread so wide. Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most? Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges. What reason can there be assign'd For this perverseness in the mind? Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A founder'd horse will oft debate, Before he tries a five-barr'd gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide. But man we find the only creature Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs.

Not empire to the rising sun By valour, conduct, fortune won; Not highest wisdom in debates, For framing laws to govern states; Not skill in sciences profound So large to grasp the circle round, Such heavenly influence require, As how to strike the Muse's lyre.

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not bastard of a pedler Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The spawn of Bridewell[2] or the stews; Not infants dropp'd, the spurious pledges Of gipsies litter'd under hedges; Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Has blasted with poetic fire. What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware? Where you have nothing to produce For private life, or public use? Court, city, country, want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. For poets, law makes no provision; The wealthy have you in derision: Of state affairs you cannot smatter; Are awkward when you try to flatter; Your portion, taking Britain round, Was just one annual hundred pound; Now not so much as in remainder, Since Cibber[3] brought in an attainder; For ever fix'd by right divine (A monarch's right) on Grub Street line.

Poor starv'ling bard, how small thy gains! How unproportion'd to thy pains! And here a simile comes pat in: Though chickens take a month to fatten, The guests in less than half an hour Will more than half a score devour. So, after toiling twenty days To earn a stock of pence and praise, Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea; Gone to be never heard of more, Gone where the chickens went before. How shall a new attempter learn Of different spirits to discern, And how distinguish which is which, The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? Then hear an old experienced sinner, Instructing thus a young beginner.

Consult yourself; and if you find A powerful impulse urge your mind, Impartial judge within your breast What subject you can manage best; Whether your genius most inclines To satire, praise, or humorous lines, To elegies in mournful tone, Or prologue sent from hand unknown. Then, rising with