Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass, Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 400 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, Who from our couplet lopped two final feet; Nor less in merit than the longer line, This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain [lxi], Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, And, varied skilfully, surpasses far Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War, 410 Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme. But many a skilful judge abhors to see, What few admire--irregularity. This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard When such a word contents a British Bard. And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine, [lxii] Lest Censure hover o'er some faulty line? Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, To gain the paltry suffrage of "Correct"? 420 Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, To fly from Error, not to merit Praise? Ye, who seek finished models, never cease [lxiii], By day and night, to read the works of Greece. But our good Fathers never bent their brains To heathen Greek, content with native strains. The few who read a page, or used a pen, Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben; The jokes and numbers suited to their taste Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste; 430 Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules, It will not do to call our Fathers fools! Though you and I, who eruditely know To separate the elegant and low, Can also, when a hobbling line appears, Detect with fingers--in default of ears. In sooth I do not know, or greatly care To learn, who our first English strollers were; Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 440 But this is certain, since our Shakespeare's days, There's pomp enough--if little else--in plays; Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne [lxiv] Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. Old Comedies still meet with much applause, Though too licentious for dramatic laws; At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest [lxv]. Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried; 450 Nor do they merit slight applause who choose An English subject for an English Muse, And leave to minds which never dare invent French flippancy and German sentiment. Where is that living language which could claim Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, If all our Bards, more patient of delay, Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? [43]