'Tis more than death to think of a divorce. What wills the poet of the favouring gods, Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes? What when he fills the glass, and to each youth Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth? Not India's spoils, the splended nabob's pride, Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside, Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves, Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves; Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array, Which the more noble Thames bears far away; Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee? Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee; Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly, Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy; Favour'd by Fate, let such in joy appear, Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year; Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look, And crop my beverage at the mantled brook. O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray, My humble prayers with sacred joys repay! Health to my limbs may the kind gods impart, And thy fair form delight my yielding heart! Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road, To see thy way, and trace each moral good: If more--let Wisdom's sons my page peruse, And decent credit deck my modest Muse. Nor deem it pride that prophesies my song Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long. Say ye! to whom my Muse submissive brings Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings, May she not hope in future days to soar, Where fancy's sons have led the way before? Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower To snatch with agile hand the opening flower? To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow, What humbler blossoms crown the vales below? To blend with these the stores by art refined, And give the moral Flora to the mind? Far other scenes my timid hour admits, Relentless critics and avenging wits; E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen, And to each "Let him perish," cry Amen! And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry, For if they please not, let the trifles die: Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore, And never rise to vex their author more. I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line, Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine; Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be, From every fault and every beauty free, Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity. Some have I found so thick beset with spots, 'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their blots; And these, as tapers round a sick man's room Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb! O! if you blast, at once consume my bays, And damn me not with mutilated praise. With candour judge; and, a young bard in view, Allow for that, and judge with kindness too; Faults he must own, though hard for him to find, Not to some happier merits quite so blind; These if mistaken Fancy only sees, Or Hope, that takes Deformity for these: If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title falls His lot, and Dulness her new subject calls, To the poor bard alone your censures give -