His eyes, for Pallas, and for Laufus, flow,
Mourn with their fires, and weep another's woe.
But when Uryalus, in all his charms,
Is fnatch'd by fate from his dear mother's arms,
And as he rolls in death, the purple flood
Streams out, and ftains his fnowy limbs with
blood,

His foul the pangs of generous sorrow pierce,
And a new tear steals out at every verse.
Meantime with bolder steps the youth proceeds,
And the Greek poets in fucceffion reads;
Seasons to either tongue his tender ears;
Compares the heroes glorious characters ;
Sees, how Æneas is himself alone,
The draught of Peleus' and Laertes' fon;
How, by the poet's art, in one, confpire
Ulyffes' conduct, and Achilles' fire.

But now, young bard, with ftrict attention hear,
And drink my precepts in at either ear;
Since mighty crowds of poets you may find,
Crowds of the Grecian and Aufonian kind,
Learn hence what bards to quit or to pursue,
To fhun the falfe, and to embrace the true;
Nor is it hard to cull each noble piece,
And point out every glorious son of Greece;
Above whose numbers Homer fits on high,
And shines fupreme in distant majesty;
Whom with a reverend eye the reft regard,
And owe their raptures to the fovereign bard;
Through him the god their panting fouls infpires,
Swells every breast, and warms with all his fires,
Bleft were the poets with the hollow'd rage,
Train'd up in that and the fucceeding age:
As to his time each poet nearer drew,
His fpreading fame in juft proportion grew,
By like degrees the next degenerate race
Sunk from the height of honour to disgrace.
And now the fame of Greece extinguish'd lies,
Her ancient language with her glory dies.
Her banish'd princes mourn their ravish'd crowns,
Driven from their old hereditary thrones;
Her drooping natives rove o'er worlds unknown,
And weep their woes in regions not their own;
She feels through all her ftates the dreadful blow,
And mourns the fury of a barbarous foc.

[maids But when our bards brought o'er th' Aonian From their own Helicon to Tyber's fhades; When first they fettled on Hefperia's plains, Their numbers ran in rough unpolish'd strains. Void of the Grecian art their measures flow'd; Pleas'd the wild fatyrs, and the sylvan crowd. Low fhrubs and lofty forefts whilom rung, With uncouth verfe, and antiquated fong; Nor yet old Ennius fung in artless strains, Fights, arms, and hofts embattel'd on the plains, Who first afpir'd to pluck the verdant crown From Grecian heads and fix it on his own. New wonders the fucceeding bards explore, Which flept conceal'd in nature's womb before; Her awful fecrets the bold poet fings, And fets to view the principles of things; Each part was fair, and beautiful the whole, And every line was nectar to the foul. By fuch degrees the verfe, as ages roll'd,

Was ftam,'d to form, and took the beauteous

Aufonia's bards drew off from every part
The barbarous dregs, and civiliz'd the art.
Till, like the day, all fhining and serene,
That drives the clouds, and clears the gloomy
scene,

Refines the air, and brightens up the skies,
See the majestic head of Virgil rise;
Phœbus' undoubted fon !-who clears the ruft
Of the rough ancients, and shakes off their duft.
He on each line a nobler grace bestow'd;
He thought, and spoke in every word a god.
To grace this mighty bard, ye muses, bring
Your choiceft flowers, and rifle all the spring;
See! how the Grecian bards, at diftance thrown,
With reverence bow to this distinguish'd son;
Immortal founds his golden lines impart,
And nought can match his genius but his art.
Ev'n Greece turns pale, and trembles at his fame,
Which shades the luftre of her Homer's name.
'Twas then Aufonia faw her language rise
In all its ftrength and glory to the skies;
Such glory never could the boast before,
Nor could fucceeding poets make it more.
From that bleft period the poetic state
Ran down the precipice of time and fate;
Degenerate fouls fucceed, a wretched train,
And her old fame at once drew back again.
One, to his genius trufts, in every part,
And fcorns the rules and difcipline of art.
While this, an empty tide of found affords,
And roars and thunders in a storm of words.
Some, mufically dull, all methods try
To win the ear with sweet stupidity;
Unruffled ftrains for folid wit difpenfe,
And give us numbers, when we call for fenfe.
Till from th' Hefperian plains and Tyber chas'd,
From Rome the banish'd fifters fled at laft;
Driven by the barbarous nations, who from far
Burst into Latium with a tide of war.
Hence a vast change of their old manners fprung;
The flaves were forc'd to speak their masters

tongue;

No honours now were paid the facred muse,
But all were bent on mercenary views;
Till Latium saw with joy th' Aonian train
By the great Medici reftor'd again;
Th' illuftrious Medici, of Tufcan race,
Were born to cherish learning in disgrace,
New life on every science to bestow,
And lull the cries of Europe in her woe.
With pity they beheld thofe turns of fate,
And propp'd the ruins of the Grecian state;
For left her wit should perish with her fame,
Their care fupported still the Argive name;
They call'd the afpiring youths from diftant parts,
To plant Aufonia with the Grecian arts;
To bafk in eafe, and science to diffuse,
And to restore the empire of the mufe;
They fent to ravag'd provinces with care,
And cities wafted by the rage of war,

To buy the ancients works of deathless fame,
And fnatth th' immortal labours from the flame;
To which the foes had doom'd each giōrious piece,
Who reign and lord it in the realms of Greece.
but we, ye gods, would raise a foreign 1 rd,

Through many a period this has been the fate, And this the lift of the poetic ftate.

Hence facred Virgil from thy foul adore Above the reft, and to thy utmost power Pursue the glorious paths he struck before. If he fupplies not all your wants, peruse Th' immortal ftrains of each Auguftan muse. There ftop-nor rafhly feek to know the reft, But drive the dire ambition from thy breast, Till riper years and judgment form thy thoughts To mark their beauties, and avoid their faults. Meantime, ye parents, with attention hear, And thus advis'd exert your utmost care; The blameless tutor from a thousand choose, One from his foul devoted to the mufe; Who, pleas'd the tender pupil to improve, Regards and loves him with a father's love. Youth, of itself to numerous ills betray'd, Requires a prop, and wants a foreign aid; Unless a master's rules his mind incline To love and cultivate the facred nine, His thoughts a thousand objects will employ, And from Parnaffus lead the wandering boy. So trufts the fwain the faplings to the earth; So hopes in time to see the sprouting birth; Against the winds defenfive props he forms, To fhield the future foreft from the storms, That each embolden'd plant at length may rife In verdant pride, and fhoot into the skies,

But let the guide, if e'er he would improve His charge, avoid his hate, and win his love; Left in his rage wrong measures he may take, And lothe the muses for the teacher's fake. His foul then flacken'd from her native force, Flags at the barrier, and forgets the course. Nor by your anger be the youth o'er-aw'd, But fcorn th' ungenerous province of the rod; Th' offended mufes never can fuftain To hear the fhriekings of the tender train, But flung with grief and anguifi: hang behind; Damp'd is the fprightly vigour of the mind. The boy no daring images infpire, No bright ideas fet his thoughts on fire: He drags on heavily th' ungrateful load, Grown obftinately dull, and feafon'd to the rod.

I know a pedant, who to penance brought His trembling pupils for the lightest fault; His foul tranfported with a storm of ire, And all the rage that malice could infpire: By turns the torturing fcourges we might hear, By turns the fhrieks of wretches ftunn'd the ear. Still to my mind the dire ideas rise, When rage unusual sparkled in his eyes; When with the dreadful fcourge infulting loud, The tyrant terrify'd the blooming crowd; A boy the fairest of the frighted train, Who yet scarce gave the promise of a man, Ah! difmal object! idly past the day In all the thoughtlefs innocence of play; When lo! th' imperious wretch inflam d with rage, Fierce, and regardless of his tender age, With fury forms; the fault his clamours urge: His hand high-waving brandishes the fcourge. Tears, vows, and prayers, the tyrant's ears affail;

The trembling innocent from deep despair
Sicken'd, and breath'd his little foul in air.
For him, beneath his poplar, mourns the Po;
For him the tears of hoary Serius flow;
For him their tears the watery fifters shed,
Who lov'd him living, and deplor'd him dead.
The furious pedant, to restrain his rage,
Should mark th' example of a former age;
How fierce Alcides, warm'd with youthful ire,
Dash'd on his master's front his vocal lyre.
But yet, ye youths, confefs your masters sway,
And their commands implicitly obey.

Whoever then this arduous task pursues, To form the bard, and cultivate the mufe, Let him by fofter means, and milder ways, Warm his ambition with the love of praise; Soon as his precepts fhall engage his heart, And fan the rifing fire in every part, Light is the task;-for then the eager boy Purfues the voluntary toil with joy; Difdains th' inglorious indolence of reft, And feeds th' immortal ardour in his breast. And here the common practice of the schools By known experience justifies my rules, The youths in focial studies to engage; For then the rivals burn with generous rage, Each foul the ftings of emulation raise, And every little bofom beats for praife. But gifts propos'd will urge them best to rife; Fir'd at the glorious profpect of a prize, With noble jealousy the blooming bard Reads, labours, glows, and strains for the reward Fears left his happy rival win the race, And raise a triumph on his own difgrace.

But when once feafon'd to the rage divine, He loves and courts the raptures of the nine; The sense of glory, and the love of fame, Serve but as fecond motives to the flame; The thrilling pleasure all the bard fubdues, Lock'd in the ftrict embraces of the muse. See when harsh parents force the youth to quit For meaner arts the dear delights of wit, If e'er the wonted warmth his thoughts inspire, And with past pleasures fet his mind on fire, How from his foul he longs, but longs in vain, To haunt the groves and purling streams again! No ftern commands of parents can controul, No force can check the fallies of his foul. So burns the courfer season'd to the rein, That fpies his females on a diftant plain, And longs to act his pleasures o'er again. Fir'd with remembrance of his joys, he bounds, He foams and ftrives to reach the well-known grounds;

}

The goring fpurs his furious flames improve,
And roufe within him all the rage of love;
Ply'd with the scourge he still neglects his hafte,
And moves reluctant when he moves at laft;
Reverts his eye, regrets the diftant mare,
And neighs impatient for the dappled fair.

How oft the youth would long to change his fate,

Who, high advanc'd to all the pomp of state,
With grief his gaudy load of grandeur views,

How oft he fighs by warbling streams to rove,
And quit the palace for the fhady grove!
How oft in Tybur's cold retreats to lye,
And gladly ftoop to cheerful poverty,
Beneath the rigour of the wintery sky!
But yet how many curfe their fruitless toil,
Who turn and cultivate a barren foil?
This, ere too late, the matter may divine
By a fure omen and a certain fign;
The hopeful youth, determin'd by his choice,
Works without precept, and prevents advice,
Confults his teacher, plies his task with joy,
And a quick fenfe of glory fires the boy.
He challenges the crowd;-the conquest o'er,
He ftruts away the victor of an hour. [care,
Then vanquish'd in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with
He weeps, he pines, he fickens with despair;
Nor looks his little rivals in the face,
But flies for fhelter to fome lonely place,
To mourn his shame, and cover his difgrace.
His master's frowns impatient to fuftain,
Streight he returns, and wins the day again.
This is the boy his better fates defign
To rife the future darling of the nine;
For him the mufes weave the facred crown,
And bright Apollo claims him for his own.
Not the leaft hope th' unactive youth can raife,
Dead to the profpect and the sense of praise;
Who your juft rules with dull attention hears,
Nor lends his understanding, but his ears,
Refolv'd his parts in indolence to keep,
He lulls his drowfy faculties afleep;
The wretch your best endeavours will betray,
And the fuperfluous care is thrown away.

I fear for him who ripens ere his prime;
For all productions there's a proper time.
Oh! may no apples in the fpring appear,
Out-grow the feasons, and prevent the year,
Nor mellow yet till autumn ftains the vine,
And the full preffes foam with floods of wine.
Torn from the parent-tree too foon, they lie
Trod down by every fwain who paffes by.

}

Nor fhould the youth too strictly be confin'd,
'Tis fometimes proper to unbend his mind;
When tir'd with study, let him feek the plains,
And mark the homely humours of the fwains;
Or pleas'd the toils to fpread, or horns to wind,
Hunt the fleet mountain-goat or foreft-hind.
Meantime the youth, impatient that the day
Should pafs in pleasures unimprov'd away,
Steals from the fhouting crowd, and quits the
plains,

To fing the fylvan gods in rural strains;
Or calls the mufes to Albunea's fhades,
Courts and enjoys the vifionary maids.
So labour'd fields, with crops alternate bleft,
By turns lie fallow, and indulge their reft;
The fwain contented bids the hungry foil
Enjoy a fweet viciffitude from teil,
Till earth renews her genial powers to bear,
And pays his prudence with a bounteous year.

On a ftrict view your folid judgment frame,
Nor think that genius is in all the fame:
How oft the youth, who wants the facred fire,

Courts the coy mufes, though rejected still,
Nor nature feconds his milguided will:
He ftrives, he toils with unavailing care;
Nor heaven relents, nor Phoebus hears his prayer.
He with fuccefs perhaps may plead a cause,
Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws;
Perhaps difcover Nature's fecret springs,
And bring to light th' originals of things.
But fometimes precept will fuch force impart,
That nature bends beneath the power of art.

Befides, 'tis no light province to remove
From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love;
Till, ripe in years, and more confirm'd in age,
He learns to hear the flames of Cupid's rage;
Oft hidden fires on all his vitals prey,
Devour the youth, and meit his foul away.
By flow degrees;-blot out his golden dreams,
The tuneful pocts, and Castalian streams;
Struck with a fecret wound, he weeps and fighs;
In every thought the darling phantoms rife;
The fancy'd charmer fwims before his fight,
His theme all day, his vifion all the night:
The wandering object takes up all his care,
Nor can he quit th' imaginary fair.
Meantime his fire, unconscious of his pain,
Applies the temper'd medicines in vain;
The plague, fo deeply rooted in his heart,
Mocks every flight attempt of Pæan's art;
The flames of Cupid all his breaft inspire,
And in the lover's quench the poet's fire.

When in his riper years, without controul, The nine have took poffeffion of his foul; When, facred to their god, the crown he wears, To other authors let him bend his cares; Confult their ftyles, examine every part, And a new tinclure take from every art. First study Tully's language and his fenfe, And range that boundless field of eloquence. Tully, Rome's other glory, ftill affords The best expreffions and the richest words; As high o'er all in eloquence he stood, As Rome o'er all the nations she fubdu'd. Let him read men and manners, and explore The fite and distances from shore to shore; Then let him travel, or to maps repair, And fee imagin'd cities rifing there; Range with his eyes the earth's fictitious ball, And pafs o'er figur'd worlds that grace the wall. Some in the bloody fhock of arms appear, To paint the native horrors of the war; Through charging hosts they rufh before they write, And plunge in all the tumult of the fight. But fince our lives, contracted in their date By fcanty bounds and circumfcrib'd by fate, Can never launch through all the depths of arts, Ye youths, touch only the material parts; There ftop your labour, there your fearch controul, And draw from thence a notion of the whole. From diftant climes when the rich merchants

come,

To bring the wealth of foreign regions home; Content the friendly harbours to explore, They only touch upon the winding fhore; Nor with vain labour wander up and down

That would but call them from their former road,
To spend an age in banishment abroad;
Too late returning from the dangerous main,
To fee their countries and their friends again.
Still be the facred poets your delight;
Read them by day, confult them in the night;
From thofe clear fountains all your raptures
bring,

And draw for ever from the mufes' spring.
But let your fubject in your bofom roll,
Claim every thought, and draw in all the foul.
That conftant object to your mind difplay,
Your toil all night, your labour all the day.

I need not all the rules of verse disclose,
Nor how their various measures to difpofe;
The tutor here with eafe his charge may guide
To join the parts and numbers, or divide.
Now let him words to ftated laws fubmit,
Or yoke to measures, or reduce to feet;
Now let him foftly to himself rehearse
His first attempts and rudiments of verfe;
Fix on those rich expreffions his regard,
To ufe made facred by fome ancient bard;
Toft by a different guft of hopes and fears,
He begs of heaven an hundred eyes and ears.
Now here, now there, coy nature he pursues,
And takes one image in a thousand views.
He waits the happy moment that affords
The nobleft thoughts, and moft expreffive words;
He brooks no dull delay; admits no reft;
A tide of paffion ftruggles in his breast;
Round his dark foul no clear ideas play,
The most familiar objects glide away.
All fix'd in thought, aftonish'd he appears,
His foul examines, and confults his ears;
And racks his faithlefs memory, to find
Some traces faintly sketch'd upon his mind.
There he unlocks the glorious magazine,
And opens every faculty within;
Brings out with pride their intellectual fpoils,
And with the noble treafure crowns his toils;
And oft mere chance fhall images difplay,
That ftrike his mind engag'd a different way.
Still he perfifts; regrets no toil or pain,
And still the task, he tried before in vain,
Plies with unweary'd diligence again.
For oft unmanageable thoughts appear,
That mock his labour, and elude his care;
'Th' impatient bard, with all his nerves apply'd,
Tries all the avenues on every fide;
Refolv'd and bent the precipice to gain;
Though yet he labours at the rock in vain;
By his own ftrength and heaven, with conqueft
grac'd,

He wins th' important victory at last;
Stretch'd by his hands the vanquiîh'd monster lies,
And the proud triumph lifts him to the kies.
But when ev'n chance and all his efforts fail,
Nor toils, nor vigilance, nor cares prevail;
His paft attempts in vain the boy renews,
And waits the fofter feafons of the mufe;
He quits his work; throws by his fond defires :
And from his task reluctantly retires.

Thus o'er the fields the fwain pursues his road, Till ftopt at length by fome impervious flood,

That from a mountain's brow, o'ercharg'd with
rains,
[plains;

Burfts in a thundering tide, and foams along the
With horror chill'd, he traverfes the fhore,
Sees the waves rife, and hears the torrent roar;
Then griev'd returns; or waits with vain delay,
Till the tumultuous deluge rolls away.

But in no Iliad let the youth engage
His tender years, and unexperienc'd age;
Let him by juft degrees and steps proceed,
Sing with the fwains, and tune the tender reed:
He with fuccefs an humbler theme may ply,
And, Virgil-like, immortalize a fly :
Or fing the mice, their battles and attacks,
Against the croaking natives of the lakes:
Or with what art her toils the spider fets,
And fpins her filmy entrails into nets.

And here embrace, ye teachers, this advice;
Not to be too inquifitively nice,

But, till the foul enlarg'd in ftrength appears,
Indulge the boy, and fpare his tender years;
Till, to ripe judgment and experience brought,
Himfelf difcerns and blufhes at a fault
For if the critic's eyes too ftrictly pierce,
To point each blemish out in every verfe,
Void of all hope the ftripling may depart,
And turn his ftudies to another art.
But if refolv'd his darling faults to fee,
A youth of genius fhould apply to me,
And court my elder judgment to perufe
Th' imperfect labours of his infant mufe;
I should not fcruple, with a candid eye,
To read and praife his poem to the fky;
With feeming rapture on each line to paufe,
And dwell on each expreffion with applaufe.
But when my praises had inflam'd his mind,
If fome lame verfe limp'd flowly up behind;
One, that himself, unconscious, had not found,
By numbers charm'd, and led away by found,
I should not fear to minifter a prop,
And give him fronger feet to keep it up;
Teach it to run along more firm and fure;
Nor would I fhow the wound before the cure.
For what remains; the poet I enjoin
To form no glorious fcheme, no great defign,
Tili free from bufinefs he retires alone,
And flies the giddy tumult of the town;
Seeks rural pleafures, and enjoys the glades,
And courts the thoughtful filence of the fhades,
Where the fair Dryads haunt their native
woods,

With all the orders of the fylvan gods.
Here in their foft retreats the poets lie,
Serene, and bleft with cheerful poverty;
No guilty fchemies of wealth their fouls moleft,
No cares, no profpects, difcompose their reft;
No fchemes of grandeur glitter in their view;
Here they the joys of innocence purfue,
And tafte the pleafures of the happy few.
From a rock's entrails the barbarian fprung,
Who dares to violate the facred throug
By deeds or words-The wretch by fury driven,
Affaults the darling colony of heaven!
Some have look'd down, we know, with fcernful
On the bright muse who taught them how to rife,

[eyes

How oft he fighs by warbling ftreams to rove,
And quit the palace for the fhady grove!
How oft in Tybur's cold retreats to lye,
And gladly floop to cheerful poverty,
Beneath the rigour of the wintery sky!
But yet how many curfe their fruitless toil,
Who turn and cultivate a barren foil?
This, ere too late, the mafter may divine
By a fure omen and a certain fign;
The hopeful youth, determin'd by his choice,
Works without precept, and prevents advice,
Confults his teacher, plies his task with joy,
And a quick fenfe of glory fires the boy.
He challenges the crowd;-the conquest o'er,
He ftruts away the victor of an hour. [care,
Then vanquish'd in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with
He weeps, he pines, he fickens with despair;
Nor looks his little rivals in the face,
But flies for fhelter to fome lonely place,
To mourn his fhame, and cover his difgrace.
His master's frowns impatient to fuflain,
Streight he returns, and wins the day again.
This is the boy his better fates design
To rife the future darling of the nine;
For him the mufes weave the facred crown,
And bright Apollo claims him for his own.
Not the leaft hope th' unactive youth can raife,
Dead to the profpect and the fenfe of praife;
Who your just rules with dull attention hears,
Nor lends his understanding, but his ears,
Refolv'd his parts in indolence to keep,
He lulls his drowfy faculties afleep;
The wretch your best endeavours will betray,
And the fuperfluous care is thrown away.

I fear for him who ripens ere his prime;
For all productions there's a proper time.
Oh! may no apples in the fpring appear,
Out-grow the feafons, and prevent the year,
Nor mellow yet till autumn ftains the vine,
And the full preffes foam with floods of wine.
Torn from the parent-tree too foon, they lie
Trod down by every fwain who paffes by.

}

Nor fhould the youth too ftrictly be confin'd,
'Tis fometimes proper to unbend his mind;
When tir'd with ftudy, let him feek the plains,
And mark the homely humours of the fwains;
Or pleas'd the toils to fpread, or horns to wind,
Hunt the fleet mountain-goat or foreft-hind.
Meantime the youth, impatient that the day
Should pafs in pleasures unimprov'd away,
Steals from the fhouting crowd, and quits the
plains,

To fing the fylvan gods in rural strains;
Or calls the mufes to Albunea's fhades,
Courts and enjoys the vifionary maids.
So labour'd fields, with crops alternate blest,
By turns lie fallow, and indulge their reft;
The fwain contented bids the hungry foil
Enjoy a fweet viciffitude from toil,
Till earth renews her genial powers to bear,
And pays his prudence with a bounteous year.
On a ftrict view your folid judgment frame,
Nor think that genius is in all the fame :
How oft the youth, who wants the facred fire,

Courts the coy mufes, though rejected ftill,
Nor nature feconds his mifguided will:
He ftrives, he toils with unavailing care;
Nor heaven relents, nor Phoebus hears his prayer.
He with fuccefs perhaps may plead a caufe,
Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws;
Perhaps difcover Nature's fecret springs,
And bring to light th' originals of things.
But fometimes precept will fuch force impart,
That nature bends beneath the power of art.

Befides, 'tis no light province to remove
From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love;
Till, ripe in years, and niore confirm'd in age,
He learns to bear the flames of Cupid's rage;
Oft hidden fires on all his vitals prey,
Devour the youth, and melt his foul away.
By flow degrees;-blot out his golden dreams,
The tuneful poets, and Caftalian ftreams;
Struck with a fecret wound, he weeps and fighs;
In every thought the darling phantoms rife;
The fancy'd charmer fwims before his fight,
His theme all day, his vifion all the night:
The wandering object takes up all his care,
Nor can he quit th' imaginary fair.
Meantime his fire, unconscious of his pain,
Applies the temper'd medicines in vain;
The plague, fo deeply rooted in his heart,
Mocks every flight attempt of Pæan's art;
The flames of Cupid all his breaft inspire,
And in the lover's quench the poet's fire.

When in his riper years, without controul, The nine have took poffeffion of his foul; When, facred to their god, the crown he wears, To other authors let him bend his cares; Confult their ftyles, examine every part, And a new tinclure take from every art. First study Tully's language and his sense, And range that boundless field of eloquence. Tully, Rome's other glory, ftill affords The best expreffions and the richest words; As high o'er all in eloquence he stood, As Rome o'er all the nations fhe fubdu'd. Let him read men and manners, and explore The fite and distances from shore to shore; Then let him travel, or to maps repair, And see imagin'd cities rifing there; Range with his eyes the earth's fictitious ball, And pafs o'er figur'd worlds that grace the wall. Some in the bloody fhock of arms appear, To paint the native horrors of the war; Through charging hofts they rufh before they write, And plunge in all the tumult of the fight. But fince our lives, contracted in their date By fcanty bounds and circumfcrib'd by fate, Can never launch through all the depths of arts, Ye youths, touch only the material parts; There ftop your labour, there your search controul, And draw from thence a notion of the whole. From diftant climes when the rich merchants

come,

To bring the wealth of foreign regions home; Content the friendly harbours to explore, They only touch upon the winding shore; Nor with vain labour wander up and down