It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and sufficient plea for the preference. Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent. However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to his readers some entertainment, and is assured that, however little in the ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits contempt. TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW. The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide, Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide, Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep, Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep; But, whilst with nicest skill he steers his way, The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray. Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome, The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb. Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer, I dread the storm, that ever rattles here; 10 Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul Has felt the Muse's soft, but strong, control; Nor think enough that manly strength and ease, Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please; But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow, Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow; That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er, And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more. And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain, Affecting modest hopes or poor disdain, 20 Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean, Despises each extreme, and sails between; Who fears; but has, amid his fears confess'd, The conscious virtue of a Muse oppressed; A Muse in changing times and stations nursed, By nature honour'd and by fortune cursed. No servile strain of abject hope she brings, Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings; But, pruned for flight--the future all her care-- Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear. 30