To nurse with quick reflection be your strife,
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life :
When most unsought, such inspirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise:
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.

Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er;
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream;
And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same.
Letters admit not of a half renown;

They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.

Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse,
Clear be the style, the very sound of force;
Easy the conduct, simple the design,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine :
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed :
Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau :
And when your genius exquisitely shines,

Live up to the full lustre of your lines :
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit;
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;

And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rise to worthy men.

"Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would re

strain?

Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain?
Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete ?
As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?'
Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,
And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In prose a duller could excuse the crime:
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.

At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe:
Time is the judge; time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die ;

While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.
Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign:
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray

In all his might, and damns me—for a day.

As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite,

So war their quills, when sons of dulness write.

THOUGH Strength of genius, by experience taught, Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, To trace the various workings of the mind,

And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind; (Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend

Can aught of use impart, though void of skill,
And win attention by sincere good-will;
For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies,
The heart may furnish what the head denies

As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides,
To grace old ocean's court, in triumph rides,
Tho' rich his source, he drains a thousand springs,
Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings.

So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend.

When first a generous mind surveys the great, And views the crowds that on their fortune wait; Pleas'd with the show (though little understood)

He only seeks the power, to do the good;
Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose,
And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows;
That every grant sincere affection wins,

And where our wants have end, our love begins:
But those who long the paths of state have trod,
Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd,
Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates be-
'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige.

[siege,
This of thy conduct seems the nicest part,
The chief perfection of the statesman's art,
To give to fair assent a fairer face,
Or soften a refusal into grace:

But few there are that can be truly kind,
Or know to fix their favours on the mind;
Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend,
And while they make the fortune, lose the friend ;
Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow;
For great men want not, what to give, but how.

The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true,
Think all they get, and more than all, their due;
Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts,
And measure by their interest, not their parts:
From this mistake so many men we see
But ill become the thing they wish'd to be;
Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise,
More power, more favour in the great man's eyes;
All feel a want, though none the cause suspects,
But hate their patron, for their own defects;
Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,
And, when he gives them places, gives them parts.

As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great

May sell their favour at too dear a rate;
When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd,
And long attachment waits among the herd;
When no distinction, where distinction's due,
Marks from the many the superior few;

When strong cabal constrains them to be just,
And makes them give at last-because they must;
What hopes that men of real worth should prize,
What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys?
The man who justly o'er the whole presides,
His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides;
Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad-
vance,

Nor gives through importunity or chance;
But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,
When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.

When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd
Surround the great, importunate, and loud;
Through such a tumult, 'tis no easy task
To drive the man of real worth to ask:
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show,
'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow;
From hence so few are skill'd, in either case,
To ask with dignity, or give with grace.

Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; Till we forget the hand that made us great, And grow to envy, not to emulate :