At weekly club to flourish, where he rules, The glorious president of grosser fools. But cease, my Muse! of those or these enough, The fools who listen, and the knaves who scoff; The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God, Defies his power, and sets at nought his rod; The empty laugh, discretion's vainest foe, From fool to fool re-echoed to and fro; The sly indecency, that slowly springs From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings: Enough of these, and all the charms of wine, Be sober joys and social evenings mine; Where peace and reason, unsoil'd mirth, improve The powers of friendship and the joys of love; Where thought meets thought ere words its form array, And all is sacred, elegant, and gay: Such pleasure leaves no sorrow on the mind, Too great to fall, to sicken too refined; Too soft for noise, and too sublime for art, The social solace of the feeling heart, For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high, 'Tis virtue's pleasure, and can never die! "THE CANDIDATE" {2} A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW. AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS. Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe poetae, (Ut vineta egomet caedam mea) cum tibi librum Sollicito damus, aut fesso, &c. HORACE, Epistle 1. Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care, Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where? As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote, On the tair type, or the embroider'd coat; Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly Where princely Popes and mighty Miltons lie? Taught but to sing, and that in simple style, Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile; - Go then! and taste a yet unfelt distress, The fear that guards the captivating press; Whose maddening region should ye once explore, No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more. But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript, "Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!" Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee, - For few will read, and none admire like me. - Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe, Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job; Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform, Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm; Then sent disgraced--the unpaid printer's bane - To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane, On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire, Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire, Who half reluctant has his care resign'd, Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind. Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth, View the strange land, and tell us of its worth; And should he there barbarian usage meet, The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat. And thou, the first of thy eccentric race, A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place, Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard, Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard; Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize, The Muses yield, as the Hesperides; Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done, For every maid is willing to be won.