A sacred standard rule we find, By poets held time out of mind, To offer at Apollo's shrine, And call on one, or all the Nine. This custom, through a bigot zeal, Which moderns of fine taste must feel For those who wrote in days of yore, Adopted stands, like many more; Though every cause which then conspired To make it practised and admired, 10 Yielding to Time's destructive course, For ages past hath lost its force. With ancient bards, an invocation Was a true act of adoration, Of worship an essential part, And not a formal piece of art, Of paltry reading a parade, A dull solemnity in trade, A pious fever, taught to burn An hour or two, to serve a turn. 20 They talk'd not of Castalian springs, By way of saying pretty things, As we dress out our flimsy rhymes; 'T was the religion of the times; And they believed that holy stream With greater force made Fancy teem, Reckon'd by all a true specific To make the barren brain prolific: Thus Romish Church, (a scheme which bears Not half so much excuse as theirs) 30 Since Faith implicitly hath taught her, Reveres the force of holy water. The Pagan system, whether true Or false, its strength, like buildings, drew From many parts disposed to bear, In one great whole, their proper share. Each god of eminent degree To some vast beam compared might be; Each godling was a peg, or rather A cramp, to keep the beams together: 40 And man as safely might pretend From Jove the thunderbolt to rend, As with an impious pride aspire To rob Apollo of his lyre. With settled faith and pious awe, Establish'd by the voice of Law, Then poets to the Muses came, And from their altars caught the flame. Genius, with Phoebus for his guide, The Muse ascending by his side, 50 With towering pinions dared to soar, Where eye could scarcely strain before. But why should we, who cannot feel These glowings of a Pagan zeal, That wild enthusiastic force, By which, above her common course, Nature, in ecstasy upborne, Look'd down on earthly things with scorn; Who have no more regard, 'tis known, For their religion than our own, 60 And feel not half so fierce a flame At Clio's as at Fisher's[202] name; Who know these boasted sacred streams Were mere romantic, idle dreams, That Thames has waters clear as those Which on the top of Pindus rose, And that, the fancy to refine, Water's not half so good as wine; Who know, if profit strikes our eye, Should we drink Helicon quite dry, 70 The whole fountain would not thither lead So soon as one poor jug from Tweed: Who, if to raise poetic fire, The power of beauty we require, In any public place can view More than the Grecians ever knew; If wit into the scale is thrown, Can boast a Lennox[203] of our own; Why should we servile customs choose,