And from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow, As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below; Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride, Sees his young streams run warbling at his side; Though some, by art cut off, no longer run, And some are lost beneath the summer sun - Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves, Its power increases and its use improves; While plenty round its spacious waves bestow, Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow. THE NEWSPAPER E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures: Hi narrata ferunt alio; mensuraque ficti Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor: Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error, Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique Timores, Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri. OVID, Metamorphoses THE ARGUMENT This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and why-- Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--Their Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effect upon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The Village Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and the Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articles of Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical--Advice to the latter--Conclusion. A time like this, a busy, bustling time, Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme: Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong, And mightier madness checks the flowing song: Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield Her feeble arms amid the furious field, Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain; And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine, Till serious vengeance pays an idle line: For party-poets are like wasps, who dart Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart. Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose, Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse; Or should we sing the subject of the day, To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. More blest the bards of that poetic time, When all found readers who could find a rhyme; Green grew the bays on every teeming head, And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read. Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline; Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine? Alas! new charms the wavering many gain, And rival sheets the reader's eye detain; A daily swarm, that banish every Muse, Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS: For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie; For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die; Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate. Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes, The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose; Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride, And sing our rivals with a rival's pride. Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain That foul neglect is all your labours gain; That pity only checks your growing spite