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For me,

Will find it leave a smatch behind,
Shall sink so deeply in the mind,
It never thence can be eras'd
But, rising up, you call it Taste.

"Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse
A gusto which he cannot use.
Better discard the idle whim,
What's He to Taste? or Taste to Him?

it hurts me to the soul To brook confinement or controul ; Still to be pinion'd down to teach The syntax and the parts of speech; Or, what perhaps is drudging worse, The links, and joints, and rules of verse ; To deal out Authors by retale, Like penny pots of Oxford ale;

-Oh! 'Tis a service irksome more
Than tugging at the slavish oar.

Yet such his task, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And sees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas ! his toil beguile-
His own lies fallow all the while.

“ Yet still he's in the road, you say, “ Of learning."-Why, perhaps, he may. But turns like horses in a mill, Nor getting on, nor standing still: For little way his learning reaches, Who reads no more than what he teaches.

" Yet you can send advent'tous youth, " In search of letters, taste, and truth,

“ Who ride the highway road to knowledge

Through the plain turnpikes of a college,” True. -Like way-posts, we serve to shew The road which travellers should go; Who jog along in easy pace, Secure of coming to the place, Yet find, return whene'er they will, The Post, and it's direction still: Which stands an useful unthank'd guide, To many a passenger beside.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's self to eat. Though, be it always understood, Our appetites are full as good.

But there have been, and proofs appear, 4 Who bore this load from year to year; " Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit, " The world has ne'er disputed yet. 6. Whether the flowing mirth prevail 66 In Westley's song, or humorous tale; • Or bappier Bourne's expression please “ With graceful turms of classic ease; • Or Oxford's well-read poet sings * Pathetic to the ear of Kings : “ These have indulg'd the muses’ Aight, u Nor lost their time or credit by't; “ Nor suffer'd fancy's dreams to prey “ On the due business of the day. " Verse was to them a recreation Us'd but by way of relaxation.”

Your instances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:

Still let the graceful foliage spread

greenest honours round their head,
Blest, if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,-I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of sight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indiscreet.
Yet tell me, while you censure me,
Are you from error sound and free?
Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind aside ?

All have their hobby-horse, you see,
From Tristram down to you and me.
Ambition, splendour, may be thine;
Ease, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,
And set their hedges up before 'em,
Some Sprouts will branch, and straggle o’er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,
And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools shall cackle out reproof,
The very ass shall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his possession
The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no, overflow of spirit,
Whose want of passions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgement flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and seem wise.

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Acting, dear Thornton, its perfection draws
From no observance of mechanic laws:
No settled maxims of a fav’rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age;
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to sit,
Is he pleased more because 'twas acted so
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago ?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone ?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.


A Garrick's genius must our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.

Thrice happy Genius, whose unrivald name Shall live for ever in the yoice of Fame! 'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill, The train of captive passions at thy will; To bid the bursting tear spontaneous flow In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe; Through ev'ry vain I feel a chilness creep, When horrors such as thine have murder'd sleep; And at the old man's look and frantic stare 'Tis Lear alarms me, for I see him there, Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone, The Comic Muse too claims thee for her own. With each delightful requisite to please, Taste, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Ease, Familiar Nature forms thy only rule, From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool. With powers so pliant, and so various blest, That what we see the last, we like the best. Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence, But burst outrageous with the laugh of sense.

Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain, "Tis genius only that can bope to gain.

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