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From just remarks on earliest time, In the first infancy of rhyme, It may be fairly understood There were two sects—the Bad, the Good. Both fell together by the ears, And both beat up for volunteers. By interest, or by birth allied, Numbers flock'd in on either side. Wit to his weapons ran at once, While all the cry was “down with Dunce!" Onward he led his social bands, The common cause had join'd their hands. Yet even while their zeal they show, And war against the gen'ral foe, Howe'er their


flam'd fierce and cruel,
They'd stop it all to fight a duel.
And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.

Jealous of every puff of fame,
The idle whistling of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's yours or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an age.

But diffident and modest wit
Is always ready to submit ;
Fearful of press and publication,
Consults a brother's observation,
Talks of the maggot of his brains,
As hardly worth the critic pains ;
If ought disgusts the sense or ear,
“ You cannot, sir, be too severe.

Expunge, correct, do what you will,

Į leave it to superior skill; “ Exert the office of a friend, You may oblige, but can't offend.”

This Bard too has his private clan, Where He's the great, the only man. Here, while the bottle and the bowl Promote the joyous flow of soul, (And sense of mind, no doubt, grows stronger When failing legs can stand no longer) Emphatic judgment takes the chair, And damns about her with an air. Then each, self-puff'd, and hero grown, Able to cope with hosts alone, Drawcansir like, his murders blends, First slays his foes, and then his friends.

While your good word, or conversation, Can lend a brother reputation; While verse or preface quaintly penn'd, Can raise the consequence of friend, How visible the kind affection ! How close the partial fond connection! Then He is quick, and I'm discerning, And I have wit, and He has learning, My judgment's strong, and His is chaste, And BOTH-ay BOTH, are men of taste.

Should you not steal nor borrow aid,
And set up for yourself in trade,
Resolv'd imprudently to show
That’tis not always Wit and Co.
Feelings, before unknown, arise,
And Genius looks with jealous eyes.
Tho' thousands may arrive at fame,
Yet never take one path the same.
An Author's vanity or pride
Can't bear a neighbour by his side,
Altho' he but delighted goes
Along the track which nature shows,
Nor ever madly runs astray,
To cross his brother in his way.

And some there are, whose narrow minds,
Center'd in self, self always blinds,
Who, at a friend's re-echoed praise,
Which their own voice conspir'd to raise,
Shall be more deep and inly hurt,
Than from a foe's insulting dirt.

And some, too timid to reveal That glow of heart, and forward zeal, Which words are scanty to express, But friends must feel from friends' success, When full of hopes and fears, the Muse, Which every breath of praise pursues, Wou'd open to their free embrace, Meet her with such a blasting face, That all the brave imagination, Which seeks the sun of approbation, No more it's early blossoms tries, But curls it's tender leaves, and dies.

Is there a man, whose genius strong,
Rolls like a rapid stream along,
Whose Muse, long hid in chearless night,
Pours on us like a flood of light,
Whose acting comprehensive mind
Walks Fancy's regions, unconfin'd;

Whom, nor the surly sense of pride,
Nor affectation, warps aside;
Who drags no author from his shelf,
To talk on with an eye to self;
Careless alike, in conversation,
Of censure, or of approbation;
Who freely thinks, and freely speaks,
And meet the Wit he never seeks;
Whose reason calm, and judgment cool,
Can pity, but not bate a fool;
Who can a hearty praise bestow,
If merit sparkles in a foe;
Who bold and open, firm and true,
Flatters no friends--yet loves them too:
CHURCHILL will be the last to know
His is the portrait I would show.

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