Our genii, Campbell, shall be all divine, Shall high o'er theirs as much distinguish'd shine, As o'er such priests or chiromancers, thine. Thine, which does future time's events command To leap to sight, and in thy presence stand; Thine, whose eyes glowing with a gifted ray, New roads of life o'er wisdom's Alps survey, And guide benighted travellers to day. Let me, for once, a daring prophet be, Mark from this hour--and poetry thoul't see Date a new era from thy book and thee; Thy book, where, thro' the stories, thou hast laid, All moral wisdom's to the mind convey'd; And thus far prophecies each page, that all Must rise by virtues, or by vices fall. Poets shall blush to see their wit outdone, Resume their reason and assert its throne, Shall fables still for virtue's sake commend; And wit the means, shall wisdom make its end. Who hopes to please, shall strive to please by pains, Shall gaining fame, earn hard whate'er he gains And Denham's morals join to Denham's strains. Here paint the Thames[H] 'when running to the sea Like mortal life to meet eternity.' There show both kings and subjects 'one excess, Makes both, by striving, to be greater, less.' Shall climb and sweat, and falling, climb up still, Before he gains the height of Cooper's Hill. In Windsor Forest, if some trifling grace Gives, at first blush, the whole a pleasing face, 'Tis wit, 'tis true; but then 'tis common-place. The landscape-writer branches out a wood, Then digging hard for't finds a silver flood. Here paints the woodcock quiv'ring in the air, And there, the bounding stag and quaking hare. Describes the pheasant's scarlet-circled eye, And next the slaught'ring gun that makes him die. From common epithets that fame derives, By which his most uncommon merit lives. 'Tis true! if finest notes alone could show, (Tun'd justly high or regularly low,) That we should fame to these mere vocals give, Pope more, than we can offer, should receive. For, when some gliding river is his theme, His lines run smoother than the smoothest stream; Not so when thro' the trees fierce Boreas blows, The period blust'ring with the tempest grows. But what fools periods read for periods' sake? Such chimes improve not heads, but make 'em ache; Tho' strict in cadence on the numbers rub, Their frothy substance is whip-syllabub; With most seraphic emptiness they roll, Sound without sense, and body without soul.