Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15] Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourished side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110 A polished nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. Then CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY'S melt; [16] For Nature then an English audience felt-- But why these names, or greater still, retrace, When all to feebler Bards resign their place? Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. 120 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that please the age; This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. [ix] The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x] And Printers' devils shake their weary bones; While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi] And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17] Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19] In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air! Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii] Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140 Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]