I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, Who to your country owe your swords and cares, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For rich ill poets are without excuse; 'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, The profit's small, and you have much to lose; For though true wit adorns your birth or place, Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. No poet any passion can excite, But what they feel transport them when they write. Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: With words not hers, and more than human sound, She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, And man in vain the sacred call withstands, Beware what spirit rages in your breast; For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: Thus make the proper use of each extreme, And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, Your pulse advises, and begins to beat Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: So when a Muse propitiously invites, Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; But when you find that vigorous heat abate, Leave off, and for another summons wait. Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, Appear not meaner than mere human lines, Compared with those whose inspiration shines: These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; Whose lazy waters without motion lay, While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way. CHARLES COTTON. Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:-- 'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby dilly, with its six insides.'