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Ye chiefs of Rome, who have not eyes behind,
Prevent all insults on the side that's blind.

What say the people? "What," the flatterer cries,
"But that your verse the critic's spleen defies;
"That taste and judgment mark each flowing line,
"The sound harmonious, and the sense divine :
"That whether feasts or battles be the theme,
"A hero's glory, or a lover's dream,

"Thy golden numbers by the Muse inspired,
"By art are polish'd, and by genius fired."
Heroic verse unletter'd dunces write,
And scribbling schoolboys dictate and indite—
Some praise the fields; yet wanting skill to sing,
Confound the tints of autumn and of spring;
Forgetting nature, paint a garish scene,

Of cloudless skies, and groves for ever green:
Or with rude pencil rustic manners draw,

Where swarms the village round the kindling straw,
Where pigs and panniers crowd the bustling street,
And merry hinds to honour Pales meet;

Or show the spot whence Rome's great
whence Rome's great founders' sprung:

Nor, gallant Quintus, dost thou rest unsung,
When the dictator's laurel graced thy brow,
And thine own lictors bore away thy plough.
Are there not some who love the turgid strain,
Of drunken Accius, in his moody vein ?
For whom a tragic rant can yield delight,
Nor ev'n Pacuvius is too dull to write?

Cum videas, quærisne unde hæc sartago loquendi
Venerit in linguas ? unde istud dedecus, in quo
Trossulus exultat tibi per subsellia lêvis ?
Nilne pudet, capiti non posse pericula cano

Pellere, quin tepidum hoc optes audire? DECENTER!
Fur es, ait Pedio. Pedius quid? crimina rasis
Librat in antithetis, doctus posuisse figuras

Laudatur, bellum hoc, hoc bellum? an Romule ceves?
Men' moveat quippe, et cantet si naufragus, assem
Protulerim cantas cum fracta te in trabe pictum
Ex humero portes? verum, nec nocte paratum
Plorabit, qui me volet incurvasse querela.
Sed numeris decor est, et junctura addita crudis.
Claudere sic versum didicit, Berecynthius Attin,
Et qui cæruleum dirimebat Nerea delphin,
Sic costam longo subduximus Apennino.

ARMA VIRUM, nonne hoc spumosum et cortice pingui ?

Do you demand, whence the disease has sprung?
What stains, corrupts, contaminates our tongue ?
False taste through all our books and writings runs,
And in the evil sires confirm their sons.
Pale Affectation quits her sickly bed,

Opes her dull eye, and lifts her languid head;
Ascends the rostrum, the tribunal seeks,
Rants on the stage, and in the senate speaks.
Is Pedius charged? his own vile cause he pleads!
For pardon sues, and skill'd in tropes, succeeds;
Vices with figures weighs in well-poised scales,
And shines in metaphor, where logic fails.

What should we give; what alms? if on the shore,
While round his neck the pictured storm he wore,
The shipwreck'd sailor, destitute of aid,

Sung as he begg'd, and jested as he pray'd?
'Tis not enough that wit and skill be proved;
Who means to move me, must himself be moved.
1 Poet. But if you blame what orators compose,
Their flowery diction, and their measured prose,
You must at least confess that song divine,
Where Berecynthian Atyn swells the line;
Where famed Arion swims on glassy waves,
And daring dolphin azure Nereus cleaves;

Where from the broad-back'd mountain's monstrous chine The hero carves a rib of Apennine.

P. Compared with this, what could poor Virgil write? His style is turgid, and his sense is trite :

C

Ut ramale vetus prægrandi subere coctum.
Quidnam igitur tenerum, et laxa cervice legendum?
Torva Mimalloneis implerunt cornua bombis,
Et raptum vitulo caput ablatura superbo
Bassaris, et lyncem Mænas flexura corymbis
Evion ingeminat: reparabilis adsonat Echo.
Hæc fierent, si testiculi vena ulla paterni
Viveret in nobis summa delumbe saliva

Hoc natat in labris: et in udo est Mænas, et Attin:
Nec pluteum cædit, nec demorsos sapit ungues. -
Sed quid opus teneras mordaci radere vero
Auriculas vide sis, ne majorum tibi fortè

Limina frigescant? sonat heic de nare canina
Littera? Per me equidem sint omnia protinus alba.
Nil moror: euge, omnes, omnes bene miræ eritis res.
Hoc juvat: heic, inquis, veto quisquam faxit oletum.

His wither'd laurel, faded, shrivell'd, shrunk,
Stands on the blasted wild a leafless trunk.
But when descending from this lofty strain,
How sing our poets in their tender vein ?

2 Poet. To Mimallonean measures blow the horn;
The victim's head let Bassaris adorn;
Let Manas lead the lynx with ivy bound,
Evoe cry, while echo helps the sound.

P. Enough, enough. I can no more endure
This pompous stuff, affected and obscure.
Where is the spirit of our fathers fled,

Where the stern virtue by our country bred ;
Where the exalted genius which inspired,

The force which nerved it, or the pride which fired?
Are these all gone? Does nature give offence,
Or chaste simplicity, or manly sense,

That themes like these, by poetasters sung,
Charm every ear, and hang on every tongue?
M. Do you not tremble, my unguarded friend,
Lest some Patrician poet you
offend?
Still will you wear that most uncourtly scowl,
Still snarl a critic, still a Cynic growl?
P. 'Tis well, 'tis well. Be all their doggerel read;
Let courts applaud, and princes nod the head;
The same dead colour runs through all they write,
A trackless waste of snow, where all is white.
But I no more their faults and failings blame,
Admired their works, immortal be their fame;

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