Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
  To pile a sacred altar here;
  Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
  You reach’d the plays that Dennis writ;
  You reach’d me Philips’ rustic strain;
  Pray take your mortal bards again.

   Come, bind the victim,—­there he lies,
  And here between his numerous eyes 50
  This venerable dust I lay,
  From manuscripts just swept away.

   The goblet in my hand I take
  (For the libation’s yet to make),
  A health to poets! all their days
  May they have bread, as well as praise;
  Sense may they seek, and less engage
  In papers fill’d with party rage. 
  But if their riches spoil their vein,
  Ye Muses! make them poor again. 60

   Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
  With which my tuneful pens are made. 
  I strike the scales that arm thee round,
  And twice and thrice I print the wound;
  The sacred altar floats with red;
  And now he dies, and now he’s dead.

   How like the son of Jove I stand,
  This Hydra stretch’d beneath my hand! 
  Lay bare the monster’s entrails here,
  To see what dangers threat the year:  70
  Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench! 
  What lean translations out of French! 
  ’Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,
  S—­ prints before the months go round.

   But hold, before I close the scene,
  The sacred altar should be clean. 
  Oh, had I Shadwell’s[1] second bays,
  Or, Tate![2] thy pert and humble lays! 
   (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
  I never miss’d your works till now)
  I’d tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 80
  (That only way you please the Nine)
  But since I chance to want these two,
  I’ll make the songs of Durfey[3] do.

   Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin
  I hang the scales that braced it in;
  I hang my studious morning gown,
  And write my own inscription down.

   ’This trophy from the Python won,
  This robe, in which the deed was done, 90
  These, Parnell glorying in the feat,
  Hung on these shelves, the Muses’ seat. 
  Here Ignorance and Hunger found
  Large realms of wit to ravage round;
  Here Ignorance and Hunger fell—­
  Two foes in one I sent to hell. 
  Ye poets, who my labours see,
  Come share the triumph all with me! 
  Ye critics, born to vex the Muse,
  Go mourn the grand ally you lose!’ 100

[Footnote 1:  ‘Shadwell:’  Dryden’s rival.]

[Footnote 2:  ‘Tate:’  Nahum.  See Life of Dryden.]

[Footnote 3:  ‘Durfey:’  the well-known wit of the time.]

* * * * *

  AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.

  A thoughtful being, long and spare,
  Our race of mortals call him Care;
  (Were Homer living, well he knew
  What name the gods have call’d him too)
  With fine mechanic genius wrought,
  And loved to work, though no one bought.