Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England’s fame! 
  Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton’s name,
  Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,
  Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times! 
  Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
  Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
  Let Wit, condemn’d the feeble war to wage
  With close Malevolence, or Public Rage;
  Let Study, worn with virtue’s fruitless lore,
  Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. 10
  This night, distinguish’d by your smiles, shall tell
  That never Briton can in vain excel: 
  The slightest arts futurity shall trust,
  And rising ages hasten to be just.

   At length our mighty bard’s victorious lays
  Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
  And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
  Yields to Renown the centuries to come;
  With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
  Ambitious, catches at his towering name; 20
  He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
  Those pageant honours which he scorn’d below. 
  While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,
  Or trace his form on circulating gold,
  Unknown—­unheeded, long his offspring lay,
  And Want hung threatening o’er her slow decay. 
  What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
  No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire? 
  Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
  Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; 30
  Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
  The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife. 
  Thus graced with humble Virtue’s native charms,
  Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia’s arms;
  Secure with peace, with competence to dwell,
  While tutelary nations guard her cell. 
  Yours is the charge, ye fair! ye wise! ye brave! 
  ’Tis yours to crown desert—­beyond the grave.

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

  TO GOLDSMITH’S COMEDY OF ‘THE GOOD-NATURED MAN,’ 1769.

  Press’d by the load of life, the weary mind
  Surveys the general toil of human kind;
  With cool submission joins the labouring train,
  And social sorrow loses half its pain. 
  Our anxious bard without complaint may share
  This bustling season’s epidemic care;
  Like Caesar’s pilot, dignified by Fate,
  Toss’d in one common storm with all the great;
  Distress’d alike the statesman and the wit,
  When one the borough courts, and one the pit. 10
  The busy candidates for power and fame
  Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same;
  Disabled both to combat, or to fly,
  Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
  Unchecked, on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
  As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 
  The offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
  For that blest year when all that vote may rail. 
  Their schemes of spite the poet’s foes dismiss,
  Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 20