A poet's fame and fortune sure to gain,

If long their beards, incurable their brain.

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Ah! luckless I! who purge in spring my spleenElse sure the first of bards had Horace been. But shall I then in mad pursuit of fame, Resign my reason for a poet's name? No! let me sharpen others, as the hone Gives edge to razors, though itself has none. Let me the poet's worth and office show, And whence his true poetic riches flow; What forms his genius, and improves his vein; What well or ill becomes each different scene; How high the knowledge of his art ascends, And to what faults his ignorance extends.

Good sense, the fountain of the muse's art,

Let the strong page of Socrates impart,
And if the mind with clear conceptions glow,
The willing words in just expression flow.

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The poet, who with nice discernment knows 425
What to his country and his friends he owes ;
How various nature warms the human breast,
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest;
What the great offices of judges are,
Of senators, of generals sent to war;
He surely knows, with nice, well-judging art,
The strokes peculiar to each different part.
Keep nature's great original in view,
And thence the living images pursue;
For when the sentiments and diction please,
And all the characters are wrought with ease,
Your play, though void of beauty, force, and art,
Most strongly shall delight, and warm the heart,
Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears,
And with sonorous trifles charms our ears.

To her loved Greeks the muse indulgent gave,
To her loved Greeks, with greatness to conceive,
And in sublimer tone their language raise-
Her Greeks were only covetous of praise.

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Our youth, proficients in a nobler art,
Divide a farthing to the hundredth part;
"Well done, my boy," the joyful father cries,
"Addition and subtraction make us wise."

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But when the rust of wealth pollutes the soul,
And moneyed cares the genius thus control,
How shall we dare to hope, that distant times
With honour shall preserve our lifeless rhymes?
Poets would profit or delight mankind,
And with the pleasing have th' instructive join'd.
Short be the precept, which with ease is gain'd 455
By docile minds, and faithfully retain'd.
If in dull length your moral is express'd,
The tedious wisdom overflows the breast.
Would you divert? the probable maintain,
Nor force us to believe the monstrous scene,
That shows a child, by a fell witch devour'd,
Dragg'd from her entrails, and to life restored.
Grave age approves the solid and the wise;
Gay youth from too austere a drama flies.
Profit and pleasure, then, to mix with art,
To inform the judgment, nor offend the heart,
Shall gain all votes; to booksellers shall raise
No trivial fortune, and across the seas

To distant nations spread the writer's fame,
And with immortal honours crown his name.

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Yet there are faults which we may well excuse,

For oft the strings the intended sound refuse;
In vain his tuneful hand the master tries,
He asks a flat, and hears a sharp arise;

Nor always will the bow, though famed for art, 475
With speed unerring wing the threat'ning dart.

But where the beauties more in number shine,

I am not angry when a casual line

(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
À careless hand, or human frailty shows.
But as we ne'er those scribes with mercy treat
Who though advised, the same mistakes repeat;

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Or as we laugh at him who constant brings
The same rude discord from the jarring strings,
So, if strange chance a Chœrilus inspire

With some good lines, I laugh, while I admire;
Yet hold it for a fault I can't excuse,

If honest Homer slumber o'er his muse;
Although, perhaps, a kind indulgent sleep
O'er works of length allowably may creep.

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Poems like pictures are; some charm when nigh, Others at distance more delight your eye; That loves the shade, this tempts a stronger light, And challenges the critic's piercing sight: That gives us pleasure for a single view; And this, ten times repeated, still is new.

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Although your father's precepts form your youth,

And add experience to your taste of truth,
Of this one maxim, Piso, be assured,
In certain things a medium is endured.
Who tries Messala's eloquence in vain,
Nor can a knotty point of law explain
Like learn'd Cascellius, yet may justly claim,
For pleading or advice, some right to fame;
But God, and man, and letter'd post denies
That poets ever are of middling size.
As jarring music at a jovial feast,
Or muddy essence, or th' ungrateful taste
Of bitter honey, shall the guests displease,
Because they want not luxuries like these;

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501 Messala Corvinus, who inherited the eloquence, as well as courage of his ancestors. A little before his death he so lost his memory, as to forget his own name.

503 Cascellius Aulus was a Roman knight, one of the great est lawyers of his time. But his having courage to preserve his liberty in an age of universal slavery, raises his character with greater honour than all his wit and learning. The triumvirs, Lepidus, Antony, and Augustus, could not compel him to draw up their edict of proscription; nor is it less glorious to Augus tus, that a man of such a spirit of freedom should be mentioned with applause by a poet of his court.

So poems, form'd alone to yield delight,
Give deep disgust, or pleasure to the height.

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The man who knows not how with art to wield The sportive weapons of the martial field, The bounding ball, round quoit, or whirling troque, Will not the laughter of the crowd provoke: But every desperate blockhead dares to writeWhy not? his fortune's large to make a knight; The man's freeborn; perhaps of gentle strain; His character and manners pure from stain. But thou, dear Piso, never tempt the muse, If wisdom's goddess shall her aid refuse; And when you write, let candid Metius hear, Or try your labours on your father's ear,

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Or even on mine; but let them not come forth 525 Till the ninth ripening year mature their worth. You may correct what in your closet lies;

If publish'd, it irrevocably flies.

The wood-born race of men when Orpheus tamed, From acorns and from mutual blood reclaim'd, 530 This priest divine was fabled to assuage The tiger's fierceness, and the lion's rage. Thus rose the Theban wall; Amphion's lyre, And soothing voice the list'ning stones inspire. Poetic wisdom mark'd, with happy mean, Public and private; sacred and profane ; The wand'ring joys of lawless love suppress'd; With equal rights the wedded couple bless'd: Plann'd future towns, and instituted laws:

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So verse became divine, and poets gain'd applause.
Homer, Tyrtæus, by the muse inspired,

To deeds of arms the martial spirit fired.
In verse the oracles divine were heard,
And nature's secret laws in verse declared;

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526 Cinna was nine years composing his poem called Smyrna; Isocrates was ten years correcting his Panegyric; but Horace does not positively limit the time, which depends on the judgment and labour of each author; for too much correction may weaken the force, and enervate the spirit of his work.-Dac. VOL. II.-H

Monarchs were courted in Pierian strain,
And comic sports relieved the wearied swain;
Apollo sings, the muses tune the lyre,
Then blush not for an art which they inspire.
'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim
From art or nature their best right to fame;
But art, if not enrich'd by nature's vein,
And a rude genius of uncultured strain,
Are useless both; but when in friendship join'd,
A mutual succour in each other find.

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A youth who hopes th' Olympic prize to gain, All arts must try, and every toil sustain; Th' extremes of heat and cold must often prove, And shun the weakening joys of wine and love. Who sings the Pythic song, first learn'd to raise Each note distinct, and a stern master please; 560 But now" Since I can write the true sublime, Curse catch the hindmost!" cries the man of rhyme. "What! in a science own myself a fool, Because, forsooth, I learn'd it not by rule?” As artful criers, at a public fair, Gather the passing crowd to buy their ware, So wealthy poets, when they deign to write, To all clear gains their flatterers invite. But if the feast of luxury they give, Bail a poor wretch, or from distress relieve, When the black fangs of law around him bend, How shall they know a flatterer from a friend? If e'er you make a present, or propose To grant a favour; while his bosom glows With grateful sentiments of joy and praise, Never, ah! never let him hear your lays; Loud shall he cry, "How elegant! how fine!" Turn pale with wonder at some happier line; Distil the civil dew from either eye, And leap, and beat the ground in ecstasy.

As hirelings, paid for their funereal tear, Outweep the sorrows of a friend sincere,

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