Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, We must not quarrel for a blot or two; But pardon equally to books or men, The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, Despises all advice too much to mend, But ever twangs the same discordant string, Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. Let Havard's [52] fate o'ertake him, who, for once, Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: At first none deemed it his; but when his name Announced the fact--what then?--it lost its fame. Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, [lxxviii] In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 570 As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand The critic eye, and please when near at hand; [lxxix] But others at a distance strike the sight; This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new. Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice, [lxxx] Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580 Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede Reward to very moderate heads indeed! In these plain common sense will travel far; All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar: [lxxxi] [53] But Poesy between the best and worst No medium knows; you must be last or first; For middling Poets' miserable volumes Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns. [lxxxii] Again, my Jeffrey--as that sound inspires, [54] How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, Or mild Eclectics, [55] when some, worse than Turks, Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works." Such are the genial feelings them canst claim-- My Falcon flies not at ignoble game. Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase! For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, "Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." [56] Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine? Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs, Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs? If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed? What! not a word!--and am I then so low? Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent? No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, [57] Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, And thought of Homer less than Holyrood? On shore of Euxine or Ægean sea,