For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu,
And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. 
   There was a time when, by Delusion led,
A scene of sacred bliss around me spread,
On Hope’s, as Pisgah’s lofty top, I stood,
And saw my Canaan there, my promised good;
A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow’d,
And wine and oil through vision’s valleys flow’d;
As Moses his, I call’d my prospect bless’d,
And gazed upon the good I ne’er possess’d: 
On this side Jordan doom’d by fate to stand,
Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land. 
“Son,” said the Sage—­“be this thy care suppress’d;
The state the gods shall chose thee is the best: 
Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,
And would thy patience when they make thee poor;
But other thoughts within thy bosom reign,
And other subjects vex thy busy brain,
Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite,
And thy sad stars have destined thee to write. 
Then since that task the ruthless fates decree,
Take a few precepts from the gods and me! 
   “Be not too eager in the arduous chase;
Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race: 
Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth,
And let thy labours one by one go forth: 
Some happier scrap capricious wits may find
On a fair day, and be profusely kind;
Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng,
Had pleased as little as a new-year’s song,
Or lover’s verse, that cloy’d with nauseous sweet,
Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair’d feet. 
Merit not always—­Fortune feeds the bard,
And as the whim inclines bestows reward: 
None without wit, nor with it numbers gain;
To please is hard, but none shall please in vain: 
As a coy mistress is the humour’d town,
Loth every lover with success to crown;
He who would win must every effort try,
Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly;
Must gay or grave to every humour dress,
And watch the lucky Moment of Success;
That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost;
But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost.” 
   Thus said the god; for now a god he grew
His white locks changing to a golden hue,
And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue. 
His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed
Of dove-like Delia when her doubts reposed;
Mira’s alone a softer lustre bear,
When woe beguiles them of an angel’s tear;
Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood,
Then sought on airy wing his blest abode. 
   Ah! truth, distasteful in poetic theme,
Why is the Muse compell’d to own her dream? 
Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line,
I only wish to make its moral mine. 
   Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed,
May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed? 
Say, shall my name, to future song prefixed,
Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix’d? 
Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage,
My graver numbers move the silver “d sage,