As Denham sings, mysterious 'twas, the same Should be the prophet's and the poet's name[C]; But while the sons of genius join to praise, What thine presaging dictates to their lays, The things they sweetly sing, and you foreshow, Open the Sampson riddle to our view; Strong are thy prophecies, their numbers sweet, And with the lion combs of honey meet. Late on fantastic cabalistic schemes, Of waking whimsies, or of feverish dreams, New cobweb threads of poetry were spun, In gaudy snares, like flies, were witlings won, Their brains entangled, and our art undone. Pope, first, descended from a monkish race, Cheapens the charms of art, and daubs her face; From Gabalis[D] his mushroom fictions rise, Lop off his sylphs--and his Belinda[E] dies; The attending insects hover in the air, No longer than they're present is she fair; Some dart those eyebeams, which the youths beguile, And some sit conquering in a dimpling smile. Some pinch the tucker, and some smooth the smock. Some guard an upper, some a lower lock; But if these truant body-guards escape, In whip the gnomes and strait commit a rape; The curling honours of her head they seize, Hairs less in sight, or any hairs they please; But if to angry frowns her brow she bends, Upon her front some sullen gnome descends, Whisks through the furrows with its airy form, Bristles her eyebrows and 'directs the storm.' As wide from these are Addisonian themes, As angels' thoughts are from distempered dreams; Spenser and he, to image nature, knew, Like living persons, vice and virtue drew: At once instructed and well pleas'd we read, While in sweet morals these two poets lead, No less to wisdom than to wit pretence, They led by music, but they led to sense. But Pope scarce ever force to fancy joins, With dancing-master's feet equips his lines, Plumes empty fancy, and in tinsel shines. Or if by chance his judgment seems to lead, Where one poor moral faintly shows its head, 'Tis like a judge, that reverently drest, Peeps through the pageants at a lord may'r's feast; By starts he reasons, and seems wise by fits, Such wit's call'd wisdom, that has lost its wits. Unnam'd by me this witling bard had been, Had not the writer's caused the reader's sin; But less by comedies and lewd romances, Are ruin'd, less by French lascivious dances, Than by such rhymers' masqueraded fancies. From such the root of superstition grew, Whose old charms fertile, daily branch'd in new; From such chimeras first inspired, the fair The conj'rer's ring approach'd, and Jesuit's chair; Throng'd to the doors where magic rogues divin'd, And sold out _ignes fatui_ to the mind.