Untouched--(said Jove)--remain the place! In days to come I'll form a race, Born to betray their country's cause, And aid an alien monarch's laws. When traitors to their country die, To lands, like this, their phantoms fly; But when the brave by death decay The mind explores a different way. Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand-- Let fogs and tempests chill the land; While this degenerate work of thine To knaves and knapsacks I resign. [313] Text follows the edition of 1809. EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS[314] On the Folly of Writing Poetry Of all the fools that haunt our coast The scribbling tribe I pity most: Their's is a standing scene of woes, And their's no prospect of repose. Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim To light your torch at Clio's flame? To few she shews sincere regard, And none, from her, should hope reward. A garret high, dark dismal room, Is still the pensive poet's doom: Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot, Yet bear the curse, to be forgot. Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove, And draw their bills on banks above: Yet stand abashed, with all their fire, When brought to face some country 'squire. To mend the world, is still their aim: The world, alas! remains the same, And so must stand to every age, Proof to the morals of the page! The knave that keeps a tippling inn, The red-nosed boy that deals out gin, If aided by some paltry skill May both be statesmen when they will. The man that mends a beggar's shoes, The quack that heals your negro's bruise, The wretch that turns a cutler's stone, Have wages they can call their own: The head, that plods in trade's domains, Gets something to reward its pains; But Wit--that does the world beguile, Takes for its pay--an empty smile! Yet each presumes his works will rise, And gain a name that never dies; From earth, and cold oblivion freed, Immortal, in the poets' creed! Can Reason in that bosom reign Which fondly feeds a hope so vain, When every age that passes by Beholds a crowd of poets die! Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know-- His scenes of grief and tales of woe No honours, that all Europe gave, No merit--shall from ruin save. To all that write and all that read Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed! Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears May sink beneath this weight of years. Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine The music of each moving line Scarce bribes an age or two to stay, Admire your strain--then flit away. The people of old Chaucer's times Were once in raptures with his rhymes, But Time--that over verse prevails, To other ears tells other tales. Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends-- One common fate on both attends, The bards that sooth the statesman's ear, And him--who finds no audience there.