When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye, The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens, Receives the wound, and wonders what it means; His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire; Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views, And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse. So to the sacred mount he takes his way, Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10 His oaten reed to rural ditties frames, To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims, In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains, The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains. Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore, In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more-- Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies-- Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies. From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20 The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays, Fast by her side his amorous descant plays. Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream, And the full chorus dies a-down the stream: The streams, with music freighted, as they pass Present the fair Lardella with a glass; And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan, Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan. But when maturer Judgment takes the lead, These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30 Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe, Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law; Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears, And founds his merit on our servile fears; Then we discard the workings of the heart, And nature's banish'd by mechanic art; Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown; Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown: Then Ostentation marches to our aid, And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40 Beneath their care behold the work refine, Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line; Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear The robes of ancients with a modern air; Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced, And passes current with the stamp of taste. Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er, And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore; Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam, Easy and free as if they were at home; 50 Nymphs, naïads, nereïds, dryads, satyrs, fauns, Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns; Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome, More fair revive in England's meads to bloom; Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn, And roses blush, but blush without a thorn; Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise, And new creations strike our wondering eyes. For bards like these, who neither sing nor say, Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60 Whose numbers in one even tenor flow, Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe; Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,