"Be not too eager in the arduous Chase: Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race; Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth, And let thy labours one by one go forth; Some happier scrap capricious wits may find On a fair day, and be profusely kind; Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng, Had pleased as little as a new-year's song, Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet, Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet. 140 Merit not always--Fortune feeds the bard, And, as the whim inclines, bestows reward; None without wit, nor with it numbers gain; To please is hard, but none shall please in vain. As a coy mistress is the humour'd town, Loth every lover with success to crown; He who would win must every effort try, Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly; Must gay or grave to every humour dress, And watch the lucky Moment of Success; 150 That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost; But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost." Thus said the God; for now a God he grew, } His white locks changing to a golden hue, } And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue. } His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed Of dove-like Delia, when her doubts reposed; Mira's alone a softer lustre bear, When wo beguiles them of an angel's tear; Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood, 160 Then sought on airy wing his blest abode. Ah! truth distasteful in poetic theme, Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream? Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line, I only wish to make its moral mine. Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed, May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed? Say, shall my name, to future song prefix'd, Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd? Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage, 170 My graver numbers move the silver'd sage, My tender themes delight the lover's heart, And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart? For O! thou, Hope's--thou, Thought's eternal King, Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing, Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar, And in my happier transports I adore; Mercy thy softest attribute proclaim, Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name; That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray, 180 As the foil moon-beam gilds the watery way. And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord, Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford, To all the soil of sooty passions blind, Pure as embracing angels, and as kind; Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, And--though the harshest--Shepherds envy mine.