In the black form of cinder-wench she came,

When love, the hour, the place, had banish'd fhame; To the dark alley arm in arm they move:

O may no link-boy interrupt their love.

When the pale moon had nine times fill'd her space, The pregnant Goddefs (cautious of difgrace) Defcends to earth; but fought no midwife's aid, Nor midft her anguish to Lucinda pray'd ; No cheerful goffip wifh'd the mother joy, Alone, beneath a bulk fhe dropt the boy.

The child through various rifqués in years improv'd, At first a beggar's brat, compaffion mov'd; His infant tongue foon learnt the canting art, Knew all the pray'rs and whines to touch the heart. Oh happy unown'd youths, your limbs can bear The fcorching dog-ftar, and the winter's air, While the rich infant, nurs'd with care and pain, Thirfts with each heat, and coughs with ev'ry rain! The Goddess long had mark'd the child's diftress, And long had fought his fuff'rings to redress; She prays the Gods to take the fondling's part, To teach his hands fome beneficial art Practis'd in streets: the Gods her suit allow'd, And made him useful to the walking croud, To cleanse the miry feet, and o'er the fhoe With nimble skill the gloffy black renew, Each power contributes to relieve the poor : With the strong briftles of the mighty boar Diana forms his bruth; the God of day A tripod gives, amid the crouded way To raise the dirty foot, and ease his toil; Kind Neptune fills his vafe with fetid oil Preft from th' enormous whale : the God of fire, From whofe dominions fmoky clouds afpire, Among thefe gen'rous prefents joins his part, And aids with foot the new japanning art; Pleas'd the receives the gifts; the downward glides, Lights in Fleet-ditch, and fhoots beneath the tides. Now dawns the morn, the sturdy lad awakes, Leaps from his ftall, his tangled hair he fhakes, Then leaning o'er the rails, he mufing ftood, And view'd below the black canal of mud, K

Where common fhores a lulling murmur keep,
Whose torrents rush from Helbourn's fatal steep :
Penfive through idleness, tears flow'd apace,
Which eas'd his loaded heart, and wash'd his face;
At length he fighing cry'd; That boy was bleft,
Whose infant lips have drain'd a mother's breast ;
But happier far are those, (if fuch be known)
Whom both a father and a mother own:
But I, alas! hard fortune's utmost scorn,
Who ne'er knew parent, was an orphan born!
Some boys are rich by birth beyond all wants,
Belov'd by uncles, and kind good old aunts;
When times comes round, a Christmas box they bear,
And one day makes them rich for all the year.
Had I the precepts of a father learn'd,
Perhaps I then the coachman's fare had earn'd,
For leffer boys can drive; I thirsty stand
And fee the double flaggon charge their hand,
See them puff off the froth, and gulp amain,
While with dry tongue I lick my lips in vain.
While thus he fervent prays, the heaving tide
In widen'd circles beats on either fide;
The Goddess rofe amid the inmoft round,
With wither'd turnip-tops her temples crown'd;
Low reach'd her dripping treffes, lank, and black
As the fmooth jet, or gloffy raven's back;
Around her waift a circling eel was twin'd,
Which bound her robe that hung in rags behind.
Now beck'ning to the boy; fhe thus begun;
Thy prayers are granted; weep no more, my fon :
Go thrive. At fome frequented corner ftand,
This brush I give thee, grafp it in thy hand.
Temper the foot within this vafe of oil,
And let the little tripod aid thy toil;

On this methinks I fee the walking crew,
At thy request support the miry fhoe,

The foot grows black that was with dirt embrown'd,
And in thy pocket gingling halfpence found.
The Goddess plunges fwift beneath the flood,
And dafhes all around her fhow'rs of mud;

The youth ftraight chofe his poft; the labour ply'd,
Where branching ftreets from Charing-cross divide;

His treble voice refounds, along the Meufe,
And Whitehall echoes Clean your bonour's fhoes.

Episodes, and poetical fictions, properly introduc'd, have a most admirable effect in preceptive poetry; for they take off the attention of the mind, when fatigued with dry precepts, and lead it to fubjects that are entertaining. They may, in this respect, be compared to inns placed at proper distances on the road, where, when a man is tired, he may ftop to refresh himself.

But the humour and art of this author is so powerful, that he can make us laugh even at circumftances that should excite a different fenfation; as will appear by the following description.

O roving muse, recal that wondrous year,
When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted ofiers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound,
The waterman, forlorn along the shore,
Penfive reclines upon his useless oar,

See harness'd fteeds defert the stony town;
And wander roads unstable, not their own:
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters smoothly glide,
And raise with whiten'd tracks the flipp'ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire.
Booths fudden hide the Thames, long ftreets appear,
And num'rous games proclaim the crouded fair,
So when a gen'ral bids the martial train
Spread their incampment o'er the spacious plain;
Thick-rifing tents a canvas city build,

And the loud dice refound thro' all the field.
'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate:

Let elegiac lay the woe relate,

Soft as the breath of diftant flutes, at hours
When filent ev'ning clofes up the flow'rs;
Lulling as falling water's hollow noife;

Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.

Doll ev'ry day had walk'd these treach'rous roads ;

Her neck grew wrapt beneath autumnal loads

Of various fruits; fhe now a basket bore,
That head alas! fhall basket bear no more.
Each booth the frequent paft, in queft of gain,
And boys with pleasure heard her thrilling ftrain.
Ah Doll! all mortals must resign their breath,
And industry itself submit to death!

The cracking cryftal yields, fhe finks, fhe dies,
Her head chopt off, from her loft shoulders flies;
Pippins the cry'd, but death her voice confounds,
And Pip pip-pip along the ice refounds.

We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many. that deferve particular attention; but we have anticipated our defign, and render'd any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this work. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients, who wrote precepts for poetry in verfe, at least his epiftle to the Pijo's is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect it seems almost to have precluded the neceffity of any other. Among the moderns we have feveral that are juftly admired, which the reader will find, occafionally mentioned in different parts of this volume.

We are now to speak of those precepts that refpe&t criticism; and here we shall be obliged to draw all our examples from Mr. Pope, who is, perhaps, the only author that has laid down rules in this manner for the direction of the judgment. His effay is of a mix'd nature, and may not improperly be called the Art of Poetry as well as Criticifm. This, however, is not to be confidered as a blemish, but a beauty in his production.

Mr. Pope introduces his poem with this very juft obfervation, that it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and more dangerous to the publick. He then proceeds to fhew, that a true tafte is as difficult to be found as a true genius; and obferves, that tho' most men are born with fome tafte, yet it is generally spoiled by a falfe education, He takes notice of the multitude of critics, and tells us in the following lines that we ought to study our

own taste, and know the limits of our genius, and judg. ment, before we attempt to criticise on others.

But you who seek to give and merit fame,
And juftly bear a critic's noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, tafte, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.

And in the following beautiful lines he refers us to nature as the best, and indeed, the only unerring guide to the judgment.

First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
By her juft ftandard, which is still the fame;
Unerring nature, ftill divinely bright,

One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart,
At once the fource, and end, and test of art.
Art from that fund, each juft fupply provides;
Works without fhow, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th' informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftains;
Itself unfeen, but in th' effects, remains.

But the judgment, he obferves, may be improved by the rules of art, which rules, if juft and fit, are only nature methodised; and as these rules are derived from the practice of the ancient poets, the ancients, particularly Homer and Virgil, ought to be ftudy'd by the critic.

You then whofe judgment the right courfe wou'd fteer,
Know well each ANCIENT's proper character;
His fable, fubject, fcope in ev'ry page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.

Be HOMER's works your study, and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night;

Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
And trace the muses upward to their spring,