EXTRACTED
FROM
MR.
W.
WHITEHEAD's
CHARGE
to
the
POETS
.
TIME
was
when
poets
play'd
thorough
the
game
,
Swore
,
drank
,
and
bluster'd
,
and
blasphem'd
for
fame
,
The
first
in
brothels
with
their
punk
and
Muse
;
Your
toast
,
ye
bards
?
'
Parnassus
and
the
stews
!
'
Thank
heav'n
,
the
times
are
chang'd
;
no
poet
now
Need
roar
for
Bacchus
,
or
to
Venus
bow
.
'Tis
our
own
fault
if
Fielding's
lash
we
feel
,
Or
,
like
French
wits
,
begin
with
the
Bastile
.
Ev'n
in
those
days
some
few
escap'd
the
fate
,
By
better
judgment
,
or
a
longer
date
,
And
rode
,
like
buoys
,
triumphant
o'er
the
tide
.
Poor
Otway
,
in
an
ale-house
dos'd
and
dy'd
!
While
happier
Southern
,
tho'
with
sports
of
yore
,
Like
Plato's
hov'ring
spirits
,
crusted
o'er
,
Liv'd
every
mortal
vapour
to
remove
,
And
to
our
admiration
,
join'd
our
love
.
Light
lie
his
funeral
turf
!
—
For
you
,
who
join
His
decent
manners
to
his
art
divine
,
Would
ye
(
whilst
,
round
you
,
toss
the
Proud
and
Vain
Convuls'd
with
feeling
,
or
with
giving
pain
)
,
Indulge
the
muse
in
innocence
and
ease
,
And
tread
the
flow'ry
path
of
life
in
peace
?
Avoid
all
authors
,
—
"
What
!
th'
illustrious
Few
,
Who
shunning
Fame
have
taught
her
to
pursue
Fair
Virtue's
heralds
?
"
—
Yes
,
I
say
again
,
Avoid
all
authors
,
till
you've
read
the
men
.
Full
many
a
peevish
,
envious
,
slandering
elf
,
Is
in
his
works
,
Benevolence
itself
.
For
all
mankind
,
unknown
,
his
bosom
heaves
,
He
only
injures
those
with
whom
he
lives
.
Read
then
the
Man
:
Does
truth
his
actions
guide
,
Exempt
from
petulance
,
exempt
from
pride
?
To
social
duties
does
his
heart
attend
,
As
son
,
as
father
,
husband
,
brother
,
friend
?
Do
those
who
know
him
love
him
?
if
they
do
,
You've
my
permission
,
you
may
love
him
too
.
But
chief
avoid
the
boist'rous
roaring
sparks
,
The
sons
of
fire
!
—
you'll
know
them
by
their
marks
.
Fond
to
be
heard
they
always
court
a
croud
,
And
,
tho'
'tis
borrow'd
nonsense
,
talk
it
loud
.
One
epithet
supplies
their
constant
chime
,
Damn'd
bad
,
damn'd
good
,
damn'd
low
,
and
damn'd
sublime
!
But
most
in
quick
short
repartee
they
shine
Of
local
humour
:
or
from
plays
purloin
Each
quaint
stale
scrap
which
every
subject
hits
,
Till
fools
almost
imagine
they
are
wits
.
Hear
them
on
Shakespear
!
there
they
foam
,
they
rage
!
Yet
taste
not
half
the
beauties
of
HIS
page
,
Nor
see
that
art
,
as
well
as
Nature
,
strove
To
place
him
foremost
in
th'
Aonian
grove
.
For
there
,
there
only
,
where
the
sisters
meet
,
His
Genius
triumphs
,
and
the
work's
complete
.
Or
would
ye
sift
more
near
these
sons
of
fire
,
'Tis
Garrick
,
and
not
Shakespear
,
they
admire
:
Without
his
breath
,
inspiring
every
thought
,
They
ne'er
perhaps
had
known
what
Shakespear
wrote
,
Without
his
eager
,
his
becoming
zeal
,
To
teach
them
,
tho'
they
scarce
know
why
,
to
feel
,
A
crude
unmeaning
mass
had
Johnson
been
,
And
a
dead
letter
Shakespear's
noblest
scene
.
...............
I'm
no
enthusiast
,
yet
with
joy
can
trace
Some
gleams
of
shun-shine
,
for
the
tuneful
race
.
If
Monarchs
listen
when
the
Muses
woo
,
Attention
wakes
,
and
nations
listen
too
.
The
Bard
grows
rapturous
,
who
was
dumb
before
,
And
every
fresh
plum'd
eagle
learns
to
soar
!
Friend
of
the
finer
arts
,
when
Egypt
saw
Her
second
Ptolemy
give
science
law
,
Each
genius
waken'd
from
his
dead
repose
,
The
column
swell'd
,
the
pile
majestic
rose
,
Exact
proportion
borrow'd
strength
from
ease
,
And
use
was
taught
by
elegance
to
please
,
Along
the
breathing
walls
,
as
fancy
flow'd
,
The
sculpture
soften'd
,
and
the
picture
glow'd
,
Heroes
reviv'd
in
animated
stone
,
The
groves
grew
vocal
,
and
the
The
seven
poets
patronised
by
Ptolemy
Philadelphus
,
are
usu
ally
called
by
the
name
of
the
constellation
.
Pleiads
shone
!
Old
Nilus
rais'd
his
head
,
and
wond'ring
,
cry'd
,
"
Long
live
the
king
!
my
patron
!
and
my
pride
!
"
Secure
of
endless
praise
,
behold
,
I
bear
My
grateful
suffrage
to
my
sovereign's
ear
.
Tho'
war
shall
rage
,
tho'
time
shall
level
all
,
Yon
colours
sicken
,
and
yon
columns
fall
,
Tho'
art's
dear
treasures
feed
the
wasting
flame
,
And
the
proud
volume
sinks
,
an
empty
name
;
Tho'
Plenty
may
desert
this
copious
vale
,
My
streams
be
scatter'd
,
or
my
fountains
fail
,
Yet
Ptolemy
has
liv'd
:
the
world
has
known
A
king
of
arts
,
a
patron
on
the
throne
,
Ev'n
utmost
Britain
shall
his
name
adore
,
"
And
Nile
be
sung
when
Nile
shall
be
no
more
.
"
One
rule
remains
.
Nor
shun
nor
court
the
great
;
Your
truest
centre
is
that
middle
state
,
From
whence
with
ease
th'
observing
eye
may
go
To
all
which
soars
above
,
or
sinks
below
.
'Tis
yours
all
manners
to
have
try'd
,
or
known
,
T'
adopt
all
virtues
,
yet
retain
your
own
;
To
stem
the
tide
,
where
thoughtless
crouds
are
hurl'd
;
The
firm
spectators
of
a
bustling
world
!
Thus
arm'd
,
proceed
:
The
breezes
court
your
wing
:
Go
range
all
Helicon
,
taste
every
spring
;
From
varying
nature
cull
th'
innoxious
spoil
,
And
,
whilst
amusement
sooths
the
generous
toil
,
Let
puzzled
critics
with
suspicious
spite
Descant
on
what
you
can
,
or
cannot
write
;
True
to
yourselves
,
not
anxious
for
renown
,
Nor
court
the
world's
applause
,
nor
dread
its
frown
,
Guard
your
own
breasts
,
and
be
the
bulwark
there
,
To
know
no
envy
,
and
no
malice
fear
.
At
last
you'll
find
,
thus
stoic-like
prepar'd
,
That
verse
and
virtue
are
their
own
reward
.