Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, In couplets first taught straggling sense to close. In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows. E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. Nature, through all her works, in great degree, 370 Borrows a blessing from variety. Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires. Still in one key, the nightingale would tease; Still in one key, not Brent would always please. Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine! What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep? Still, when his subject rises proud to view, 380 With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine. But what are numbers, what are bards to me, Forbid to tread the paths of poesy? A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen-- 390 Priests must not hear nor see like other men-- Far higher themes should her ambition claim: Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame! Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn, Let Reason for a moment take her turn. When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings, And blindly walk in paper leading-strings, What if a man delight to pass his time In spinning reason into harmless rhyme, Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? 400 Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say? No two on earth in all things can agree; All have some darling singularity: Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys. Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent Reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse. What the grave triflers on this busy scene, 410 When they make use of this word Reason, mean, I know not; but according to my plan, 'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man; Equally form'd to rule in age or youth, The friend of virtue and the guide to truth; To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel; To her decision make my last appeal; Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain Should tempt me to take up the pen again; By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: 420 If Reason's for me, God is for me too. * * * * * Footnotes: [83] For occasion, &c. of this, see Life. [84] 'Hamilton:' Archibald Hamilton, printer of the 'Critical Review.' [85] 'Voltaire:' Smollett had changed his opinion of Voltaire, and from praising, had begun to abuse him.