Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510 Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts. [lxx] Our boys (save those whom public schools compel To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell) From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, "A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take [lxxi] The third, how much will the remainder make?-- "A groat."--"Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum! [lxxii] He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum." [47] 520 They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes; And Locke will tell you, that the father's right Who hides all verses from his children's sight; For Poets (says this Sage [48], and many more,) Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore: [lxxiii] And Delphi now, however rich of old, Discovers little silver, and less gold, Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine, Is poor as Irus, [49] or an Irish mine. [lxxiv] [50] 530 Two objects always should the Poet move, Or one or both,--to please or to improve. Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design For our remembrance your didactic line; Redundance places Memory on the rack, For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. [lxxv] Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth, And fairy fables bubble none but youth: Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540 Young men with aught but Elegance dispense; Maturer years require a little Sense. To end at once:--that Bard for all is fit [lxxvi] Who mingles well instruction with his wit; For him Reviews shall smile; for him o'erflow The patronage of Paternoster-row; His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass (Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 550 But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, And wayward voices, at their owner's call, With all his best endeavours, only squall; Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. [lxxvii] [51]