Nor are those figures given without a cause,
But fixt and settled by determin'd laws;
All claim and wear, as their deserts are known,
A voice, a face, and habit of their own.
Lo when the sailors steer the ponderous ships",
And plough, with brazen beaks, the foamy deeps,
Incumbent on the main that roars around;
Beneath their labouring oars the waves resound,
The prows wide echoing thro' the dark profound:
To the loud call each distant rock replies,
Tost by the storm the frothy surges rise;
While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore,
Dash'd from the strand, the flying waters roar,
Flash at the shock, and gathering in an heap,
The liquid mountains rise, and overhang the
deep.

See thro' her shores Trinacria's realms rebound,
Starting and trembling at the bellowing sound;
High towering o'er the waves the mountains ride,
And clash with floating mountains on the tide,
But when bln Neptun from his car surveys,
And calms at one regard the raging seas,
Stretch'd like a peaceful lake the deep subsides,
And o'er the level light the galley glides.
The poet's art and conduct we admire,
When angry Vulcan rolls a flood of fire;
When on the groves and fields the deluge preys,
And wrap the crackling stubble in the blaze.
Nor less our pleasure, when the flame divides,
And climbs aspiring round the caldron's sides;
From the dark bottom work the waters up,
Swell, boil, and hiss, and bubble to the top.
Thus in smooth lines, smooth subjects we rehearse,
But the rough rock roars in as rough a verse 1⁄44.
If gay the subject, gay must be the song,
And the brisk numbers quickly glide along :
When the fields flourish, or the skies unfold
Swift from the flying hinge their gates of gold.
If sad the theme, then each grave line moves slow,
The mournful numbers languishingly flow,
And drag, and labour, with a weight of woe:
If e'er the boding bird of night, who mourns
O'er ruins, desolation, graves, and urns,
With piercing screams the darkness should invade,
And break the silence of the dismal shade.
When things are small, the terms should still be so:
For low words please us, when the theme is low.
But when some giant, horrible and grim,
Enormous in his gait, and vast in every limb,
Stalks towering on; the swelling words must rise
In just proportion to the monster's size.

If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,
The verse too labours; the throng'd words scarce

When night descends; or, stunn'd by numerous

strokes,

And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;
The line too sinks with correspondent sound,
Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.
When the wild waves subside, and tempests cease,
And hush their roarings and their rage to peace;
So oft we see the interrupted strain
Stopp'd in the midst,—and with the silent main,
Pause for a space-at last it glides again.
When Priam strains his aged arm, to throw
His unavailing javelin at the foe;

(His blood congeal'd, and every nerve unstrung),
Then with the theme complies his artful song;
Like him the solitary numbers flow
Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow.
Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force
Beats down embattled armies in his course:
The raging youth on trembling llion falls,
Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls;
Provokes his flying courser to his speed,

In full career to charge the warlike steed;
He piles the field with mountains of the slain;
He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain,
In this the poet's justest conduct lies,
When with the various subjects he complies,
To sink with judgment, and with judgment rise.
We see him now, remissive of his force,
Glide with a low, and inoffensive course;
Stript of the gawdy dress of words he goes,
And scarcely lifts the poem up from prose:
And now he brings with loosen'd reins along
All in a full career the boundless song;
In wide array luxuriantly he pours
A crowd of words, and opens all his stores:
The lavish eloquence redundant flows,
Thick as the fleeces of the winter-snows,
When Jove invests the naked Alps, and sheds
The silent tempest on their hoary heads.
Sometimes the godlike fury he restrains,
Checks his impetuous speed, and draws the reins;
Balanc'd and pois'd, he neither sinks nor soars,
Ploughs the mid space, and steers between the
shores,

And shaves the confines; till, all dangers past,
He shoots with joy into the port at last.

For what remains unsung; I now declare
What claims the poet's last and strictest care.
When, all adventures past, his labours tend
In one continued order to their end;
When the proud victor on his conquest smiles,
And safe enjoys the triumph of his toils;
Let him by timely diffidence be aw'd,
Nor trust too soon th' únpolish'd piece abroad.
Oh! may his rash ambition ne'er inflame
His breast, with such a dangerous thirst of fame!
But let the terrour of disgrace control
The warm, the partial foudness of the soul;
And force the bard to throw his passion by,
Nor view his offspring with a parent's eye,
Till his affections are by justice crost,
And all the father in the judge is lost.
He seeks his friends, nor trusts himself alone,
But asks their judgment, and resigns his own;
Begs them, with urgent prayers, to be sincere,
Just and exact, and rigidly severe;
Due verdict to pronounce on every thought,
Nor spare the slightest shadow of a fault;
But, bent against himself, and strictly nice;
fle thanks each critic that detects a vice;

Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
The piece thrown by; the careful bard reviews
The long-forgotten labours of his Muse:
Lo! on all sides far different objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wondering eyes,
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engross'd,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuine stamp, and image of his mind.
This thought and that, indignant he rejects;
When most secure, some danger he suspects;
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects.
With kind severities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of every part;
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From every line to wipe out every blot,
Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinish'd numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sovereign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.
In different lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of every verse.
In this persist; for oft one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft, without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errours you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft, to improve his Muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a different sky.
For thus his genius takes a different face
From every different genius of a place.
The soul too changes, and the bard may find
A thousand various motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will every moment rise,
While from each part the scattering darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amiss,
He adds new flowers to beautify the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such,
Who with excess of care correct too much :
Whose barbarous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dangerous than the wound;
Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die, the limbs appear
Rough and deform'd with one continued scar.
No fixt determin'd number I enjoin,
But when some years shall perfect the design,
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish'd piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heavenly song,
The theme of every hand and every tongue.

god.

But art alone, and human means, must fail,
Nor these instructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the gods their present aid supply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths that lead
The panting youth to steep Parnassus' head;
And show'd the tuneful Muses from afar,
Mixt in a solemn choir, and dancing there.
Thither forbidden by the fates to go,

I sink and grovel in the world below.
Deterr'd by them, in vain I labour up,
And stretch these hands to grasp the distant top.
Enough for me, at distance if I view
Some bard, some happier bard, the path pursue ;
Who, taught by me to reach Parnassus' crown,
Mounts up, and calls his slow companions on.
But yet these rules, perhaps, these humble lays,
May claim a title to a share of praise;

When, in a crowd, the gathering youths shall hear

My voice and precepts with a willing ear;
Close in a ring shall press the listening throng,
And learn from me to regulate their song.
Then, if the pitying fates prolong my breath,
And from my youth avert the dart of Death;
Whene'er I sink in life's declining stage,
Trembling and fainting on the verge of age,
To help their wearied master shall they run,
And lend their friendly hands to guide him on;
Through blooming groves his tardy progress wait,
And set him gently down at Phoebus' gate,
The while he sings, before the hallow'd shrine,
The sacred poets, and the tuneful Nine.
Here then in Roman numbers will we rise,
And lift the fame of Virgil to the skies;
Ausonia's pride and boast; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my song:
First how the mighty bard transported o'er
The sacred Muses from the Aonian shore;
Led the fair sisters to th' Hesperian plains,
And sung in Roman towns the Grecian strains;
How in his youth to woods and groves he fled,
And sweetly tun'd the soft Sicilian reed;
Next, how, in pity to th' Ausonian swains,
He rais'd to Heaven the honours of the plains;
Rapt in Triptolemus's car on high,

He scatter'd peace and plenty from the sky;
Fir'd with his country's fame, with loud alarms,
At last he rous'd all Latium up to arms;
In just array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a god.
Father of verse! from whom our honours spring;
See! from all parts, our bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear proud trophies from the spoils of Greece,
Low, in Elysian fields, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy laurels, and adore thy song:

On thee alone thy country turns her eyes;
On thee her poets' future fame relies.

See! how in crowds they court thy aid divine
(For all their honours but depend on thine);
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of every verse.
Unrivall'd bard! all ages shall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rise;
Such heavenly numbers in thy song we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phoebus' hands impart
His soul, his genius, and immortal art.
What help or merit in these rules are shown,
The youth must owe to thy support alone.

The youth, whose wandering feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er steep Parnassus' sacred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths which thou hast trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For whom, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
And with rich incense bid the temples blaze;
Our solemn hymns shall still resound thy praise.
Hail, holy bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thyself alone,
Requires no song, no numbers, but thy own.
Look down propitious, and my thoughts inspire;
Warm my chaste bosom with thy sacred fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
Deep in my breast, and kindle all my soul !