Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening-prayer, He gathers all the parish there, Points out the place of either yew: 'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn cut Baucis down. At which 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.' ON POETRY. All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's Universal Passion, pride, Was never known to spread so wide. Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most? Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges. What reason can there be assigned For this perverseness in the mind? Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A foundered horse will oft debate Before he tries a five-barred gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- But man we find the only creature, Who, led by folly, combats nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs. Not empire to the rising sun By valour, conduct, fortune won; Not highest wisdom in debates For framing laws to govern states; Not skill in sciences profound So large to grasp the circle round, Such heavenly influence require, As how to strike the Muse's lyre. Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges Of gipsies littering under hedges, Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Hath blasted with poetic fire. What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware? Where you have nothing to produce For private life or public use? Court, city, country, want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. For poets, law makes no provision; The wealthy have you in derision; Of state affairs you cannot smatter, Are awkward when you try to flatter; Your portion, taking Britain round, Was just one annual hundred pound; Now not so much as in remainder, Since Gibber brought in an attainder, For ever fixed by right divine, (A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line.