It was the hour, when housewife Morn With pearl and linen hangs each thorn; When happy bards, who can regale Their Muse with country air and ale, Ramble afield to brooks and bowers, To pick up sentiments and flowers; When dogs and squires from kennel fly, And hogs and farmers quit their sty; When my lord rises to the chase, And brawny chaplain takes his place. 10 These images, or bad, or good, If they are rightly understood, Sagacious readers must allow Proclaim us in the country now; For observations mostly rise From objects just before our eyes, And every lord, in critic wit, Can tell you where the piece was writ; Can point out, as he goes along, (And who shall dare to say he's wrong?) 20 Whether the warmth (for bards, we know, At present never more than glow) Was in the town or country caught, By the peculiar turn of thought. It was the hour,--though critics frown, We now declare ourselves in Town, Nor will a moment's pause allow For finding when we came, or how. The man who deals in humble prose, Tied down by rule and method goes; 30 But they who court the vigorous Muse Their carriage have a right to choose. Free as the air, and unconfined, Swift as the motions of the mind, The poet darts from place to place, And instant bounds o'er time and space: Nature (whilst blended fire and skill Inflame our passions to his will) Smiles at her violated laws, And crowns his daring with applause. 40 Should there be still some rigid few, Who keep propriety in view, Whose heads turn round, and cannot bear This whirling passage through the air, Free leave have such at home to sit, And write a regimen for wit; To clip our pinions let them try, Not having heart themselves to fly. It was the hour when devotees Breathe pious curses on their knees; 50 When they with prayers the day begin To sanctify a night of sin; When rogues of modesty, who roam Under the veil of night, sneak home, That, free from all restraint and awe, Just to the windward of the law, Less modest rogues their tricks may play, And plunder in the face of day. But hold,--whilst thus we play the fool, In bold contempt of every rule, 60 Things of no consequence expressing, Describing now, and now digressing, To the discredit of our skill, The main concern is standing still. In plays, indeed, when storms of rage Tempestuous in the soul engage, Or when the spirits, weak and low, Are sunk in deep distress and woe, With strict propriety we hear Description stealing on the ear, 70 And put off feeling half an hour To thatch a cot, or paint a flower; But in these serious works, design'd To mend the morals of mankind, We must for ever be disgraced With all the nicer sons of Taste, If once, the shadow to pursue, We let the substance out of view. Our means must uniformly tend