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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530108" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,<br>Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.<br>Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,<br>And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,<br>And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,<br>An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)<br>Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.<br>Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,<br>And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.<br>Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,<br>Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song<br>From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes<br>To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high<br>The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:<br>Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,<br>By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,<br>A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,<br>Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,<br>Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.<br>Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,<br>Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun. <br>Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,<br>Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;<br>Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,<br>And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;<br>Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,<br>On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;<br>And by Confinement in their Work controul<br>The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.<br>Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire<br>Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,<br>Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew<br>Will pay their undeserving Praises too;<br>While on the rack his poor disjointed Name <br>Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.<br>And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)<br>The lab'ring Writers of a future Age<br>Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,<br>To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.<br>Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,<br>His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,<br>The closing Sounds of all the vain Device,<br>Select by trouble frivolously nice,<br>Resound through Verse, and with a false Pretence<br>Support the Dialogue, and pass for Sense.<br>Can things like these to lasting Praise pretend?<br>Can any Muse the worthless Toil befriend?<br>Ye sacred Virgins, in my Thoughts ador'd,<br>Ah, be for ever in my Lines deplor'd!<br>If Tricks on Words acquire an endless Name,<br>And Trifles merit in the Court of Fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'At this the Poet stood concern'd a while,<br>'And view'd his Objects with a scornful Smile:<br>'Then other Images of diff'rent kind,<br>'With diff'rent Workings enter'd on his Mind;<br>'At whose Approach he felt the former gone,<br>'And shiver'd in Conceit, and thus went on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By a cold Region next the Rider goes,<br>Where all lies cover'd in eternal Snows; <br>Where no bright Genius drives the Chariot high,<br>To glitter on the Ground, and gild the Sky.<br>Bleak level Realm, where Frigid Stiles abound,<br>Where never yet a daring Thought was found,<br>But counted Feet is Poetry defin'd;<br>And starv'd Conceits that chill the Reader's Mind<br>A little Sense in many Words imply,<br>And drag with loit'ring numbers slowly by.<br>Here dry sententious Speeches half asleep,<br>Prolong'd in Lines, o'er many Pages creep;<br>Nor ever shew the Passions well exprest,<br>Nor raise like Passions in another's Breast.<br>Here flat Narrations fair Exploits debase,<br>In Measures void of ev'ry shining Grace;<br>Which never arm their Hero for the Field,<br>Nor with Prophetick Story paint the Shield,<br>Nor fix the Crest, or make the Feathers wave,<br>Or with their Characters reward the Brave;<br>Undeck'd they stand, and unadorn'd with Praise,<br>And fail to profit while they fail to please.<br>Here forc'd Description is so strangely wrought,<br>It never stamps its Image on the Thought;<br>The liveless Trees may stand for ever bare,<br>And Rivers stop, for ought the Readers care;<br>They see no Branches trembling in the Woods,<br>Nor hear the Murmurs of encreasing Floods,<br>Which near the Roots with ruffled Waters flow,<br>And shake the shadows of the Boughs below.<br>Ah sacred Verse, replete with heav'nly Flame,<br>Such cold Endeavours wou'd invade thy Name!<br>The Writer fondly wou'd in these survive,<br>Which wanting Spirit never seem'd alive:<br>But if Applause or Fame attend his Pen,<br>Let breathless Statues pass for breathing Men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Here seem'd the Singer touch'd at what he sung,<br>'And Grief a while delay'd his Hand and Tongue:<br>'But soon he check'd his Fingers, chose a Strain,<br>'And flourish'd shrill, and thus arose again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pass the next Region which appears to show,<br>'Tis very open, unimprov'd, and low;<br>No noble Flights of elevated Thought, <br>No nervous strength of Sense maturely wrought,<br>Possess this Realm; but common Turns are there,<br>Which idely sportive move with childish Air.<br>On callow Wings, and like a Plague of Flies,<br>The little Fancies in a Poem rise,<br>The jaded Reader ev'ry where to strike,<br>And move his Passions ev'ry where alike.<br>There all the graceful Nymphs are forc'd to play<br>Where any Water bubbles in the way:<br>There shaggy Satyrs are oblig'd to rove<br>In all the Fields, and over all the Grove:<br>There ev'ry Star is summon'd from its Sphear,<br>To dress one Face, and make Clorinda fair:<br>There Cupids fling their Darts in ev'ry Song,<br>While Nature stands neglected all along:<br>Till the teiz'd Hearer, vex'd at last to find<br>One constant Object still assault the Mind,<br>Admires no more at what's no longer new,<br>And hastes to shun the persecuting View.<br>There bright Surprizes of Poetick Rage,<br>(Whose Strength and Beauty more confirm'd in Age<br>For having lasted, last the longer still)<br>By weak Attempts are imitated ill,<br>Or carry'd on beyond their proper Light,<br>Or with Refinement flourish'd out of sight.<br>There Metaphors on Metaphors abound,<br>And Sense by differing Images confound:<br>Strange injudicious Management of Thought,<br>Not born to Rage, nor into Method brought.<br>Ah, sacred Muse! from such a Realm retreat,<br>Nor idly waste the Infl'ence of thy Heat<br>On shallow Soils, where quick Productions rise,<br>And wither as the Warmth that rais'd them dies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Here o'er his Breast a sort of Pity roll'd,<br>'Which something lab'ring in the Mind controul'd,<br>'And made him touch the loud-resounding Strings,<br>'While thus with Musick's stronger Tones he sings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mount higher still, still keep thy faithful Seat,<br>Mind the firm Reins, and curb thy Courser's Heat;<br>Nor let him touch the Realms that next appear,<br>Whose hanging Turrets seem a Fall to fear, <br>And strangely stand along the Tracts of Air<br>Where Thunder rolls, and bearded Comets glare.<br>The Thoughts that most extravagantly soar,<br>The Words that sound as if they meant to roar;<br>For Rant and Noise are offer'd here to Choice,<br>And stand elected by the Publick Voice.<br>All Schemes are slighted which attempt to shine<br>At once with strange and probable Design;<br>'Tis here a mean Conceit, a vulgar View,<br>That bears the least Respect to seeming true;<br>While ev'ry trifling turn of things is seen<br>To move by Gods descending in Machine.<br>Here swelling Lines with stalking Strut proceed,<br>And in the Clouds terrifick Rumblings breed: <br>Here single Heroes deal grim Deaths around, <br>And Armies perish in tremendous Sound: <br>Here fearful Monsters are preserv'd to die, <br>In such a Tumult as affrights the Sky;<br>For which the Golden Sun shall hide with dread, <br>And Neptune lift his sedgy-matted Head, <br>Admire the Roar, and dive with dire Dismay, <br>And seek his deepest Chambers in the Sea. <br>To raise their Subject thus the Lines devise,<br>And false Extravagance wou'd fain surprize;<br>Yet still, ye Gods, ye live untouch'd by Fear,<br>And undisturb'd at bellowing Monsters here:<br>But with Compassion guard the Brain of Men,<br>If thus they bellow through the Poet's Pen:<br>So will the Readers Eyes discern aright<br>The rashest Sally from the noblest Flight,<br>And find that only Boast and Sound agree<br>To seem the Life and Voice of Majesty,<br>When writers rampant on Apollo call,<br>And bid him enter and possess them all,<br>And make his Flames afford a wild Pretence<br>To keep them unrestrain'd by common Sense.<br>Ah, sacred Verse! lest Reason quit thy Seat,<br>Give none to such, or give a gentler Heat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">''Twas here the Singer felt his Temper wrought<br>'By fairer Prospects, which arose to Thought; <br>'And in himself a while collected sat,<br>'And much admir'd at this, and much at that;<br>'Till all the beauteous Forms in order ran,<br>'And then he took their Track, and thus began.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Above the Beauties, far above the Show<br>In which weak Nature dresses here below,<br>Stands the great Palace of the Bright and Fine,<br>Where fair Ideas in full Glory shine,<br>Eternal Models of exalted Parts,<br>The Pride of Minds, and Conquerors of Hearts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the first Arrival here, are seen<br>Rang'd Walks of Bay, the Muses ever-Green,<br>Each sweetly springing from some sacred Bough,<br>Whose circling Shade adorn'd a Poet's Brow,<br>While through the Leaves, in unmolested Skies,<br>The gentle breathing of Applauses flies,<br>And flatt'ring Sounds are heard within the Breeze,<br>And pleasing Murmur runs among the Trees,<br>And falls of Water join the flatt'ring Sounds,<br>And Murmur soft'ning from the Shore rebounds.<br>The warbled Melody, the lovely Sights,<br>The Calms of Solitude inspire Delights,<br>The dazzled Eyes, the ravish'd Ears, are caught,<br>The panting Heart unites to purer Thought,<br>And grateful Shiverings wander o'er the Skin,<br>And wondrous Ecstasies arise within,<br>Whence Admiration overflows the Mind,<br>And leaves the Pleasure felt, but undefin'd.<br>Stay, daring Rider, now no longer rove;<br>Now pass to find the Palace through the Grove;<br>Whate'er you see, whate'er you feel, display<br>The Realm you sought for, daring Rider stay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here various Fancy spreads a vary'd Scene,<br>And Judgment likes the sight, and looks serene,<br>And can be pleas'd its self, and helps to please,<br>And joins the Work, and regulates the Lays.<br>Thus on a Plan, design'd by double Care,<br>The Building rises in the glittering Air,<br>With just Agreement fram'd in ev'ry part,<br>And smoothly polish'd with the nicest Art. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here Lawrel-boughs, which ancient Heroes wore,<br>Now not so fading as they prov'd before,<br>Wreath round the Pillars which the Poets rear,<br>And slope their Points to make a Foliage there.<br>Here Chaplets pull'd in gently-breathing Wind,<br>And wrought by Lovers innocently kind,<br>Hung o'er the Porch, their fragrant Odours give,<br>And fresh in lasting Song for ever live.<br>The Shades, for whom with such indulgent care<br>Fame wreaths the Boughs or hangs the Chaplets there,<br>To deathless Honours thus preserv'd above,<br>For Ages conquer, or for Ages love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here bold Description paints the Walls within,<br>Her Pencil touches, and the World is seen:<br>The Fields look beauteous in their flow'ry Pride,<br>The Mountains rear aloft, the Vales subside,<br>The Cities rise, the Rivers seem to play,<br>And hanging Rocks repell the foaming Sea;<br>The foaming Seas their angry Billows show,<br>Curl'd White above, and darkly roll'd below,<br>Or cease their Rage, and as they calmly lie,<br>Return the pleasing Pictures of the Sky;<br>The Skies extended in an open View,<br>Appear a lofty distant Arch of Blue,<br>In which Description stains the painted Bow,<br>Or thickens Clouds, and feathers out the Snow,<br>Or mingles Blushes in the Morning ray,<br>Or gilds the Noon, or turns an Evening gray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here on the Pedestalls of War and Peace,<br>In diff'rent Rows, and with a diff'rent Grace,<br>Fine Statues proudly ride, or nobly stand,<br>To which Narration with a pointing Hand<br>Directs the Sight, and makes Examples please<br>By boldly vent'ring to dilate in Praise,<br>While chosen Beauties lengthen out the Song,<br>Yet make her Hearers never think it long.<br>Or if with closer Art, with sprightly Mien,<br>Scarce like her self, and more like Action seen,<br>She bids their Facts in Images arise,<br>And seem to pass before the Readers Eyes,<br>The Words like Charms inchanted Motion give, <br>And all the Statues of the Palace live.<br>Then Hosts embattel'd stretch their Lines afar,<br>Their Leaders Speeches animate the War,<br>The Trumpets sound, the feather'd Arrows fly,<br>The Sword is drawn, the Lance is toss'd on high,<br>The Brave press on, the fainter Forces yield,<br>And Death in differing Shapes deforms the Field.<br>Or shou'd the Shepherds be dispos'd to play,<br>Amintor's jolly Pipe beguiles the Day,<br>And jocund Ecchoes dally with the Sound,<br>And Nymphs in measures trip along the ground,<br>And e're the Dews have wet the Grass below,<br>Turn homewards singing all the way they go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, as on Circumstance Narrations dwell,<br>And tell what moves, and hardly seem to tell,<br>The Toil of Heroes on the dusty Plains,<br>Or on the Green the Merriment of Swains,<br>Reflection speaks, then all the Forms that rose<br>In Life's inchanted Scene themselves compose;<br>Whilst the grave Voice, controlling all the Spells<br>With solemn Utt'rance, thus the Moral tells:<br>So publick worth its Enemies destroys, <br>Or private innocence it self enjoys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here all the Passions, for their greater sway,<br>In all the Pow'r of Words themselves array;<br>And hence the soft Pathetick gently charms,<br>And hence the Bolder fills the Breast with Arms.<br>Sweet Love in Numbers finds a World of Darts,<br>And with Desirings wounds the tender Hearts.<br>Fair Hope displays its Pinnions to the Wind,<br>And flutters in the Lines, and lifts the Mind.<br>Brisk Joy with Transport fills the rising Strain,<br>Breaks in the Notes, and bounds in ev'ry Vein.<br>Stern Courage, glittering in the sparks of Ire,<br>Inflames those Lays that set the Breast on fire.<br>Aversion learns to fly with swifter Will,<br>In Numbers taught to represent an Ill.<br>By frightful Accents Fear produces Fears.<br>By sad Expression Sorrow melts to Tears.<br>And dire Amazement and Despair are brought <br>By words of Horror through the Wilds of Thought.<br>'Tis thus tumultuous Passions learn to roll;<br>Thus arm'd with Poetry they win the Soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pass further through the Dome, another View<br>Wou'd now the Pleasures of thy Mind renew,<br>Where oft Description for the Colours goes,<br>Which raise and animate its native Shows;<br>Where oft Narration seeks a florid Grace<br>To keep from sinking e're 'tis time to cease;<br>Where easy turns Reflection looks to find,<br>When Morals aim at Dress to please the Mind;<br>Where lively Figures are for Use array'd,<br>And these an Action, those a Passion, aid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There modest Metaphors in order sit,<br>With unaffected undisguising Wit,<br>That leave their own, and seek anothers place,<br>Not forc'd, but changing with an easy pace,<br>To deck a Notion faintly seen before,<br>And Truth preserves her shape, and shines the more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By these the beauteous Similes reside,<br>In look more open, in Design ally'd,<br>Who, fond of Likeness, from anothers Face<br>Bring ev'ry Feature's corresponding Grace,<br>With near approaches in Expression flow,<br>And take the turn their Pattern loves to show;<br>As in a Glass the Shadows meet the Fair,<br>And dress and practice with resembling Air.<br>Thus Truth, by Pleasure doth her Aim pursue,<br>Looks bright, and fixes on the doubled View.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There Repetitions one another meet,<br>Expresly strong, or languishingly sweet,<br>And raise the sort of Sentiment they please,<br>And urge the sort of Sentiment they raise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There close in order are the Questions plac'd,<br>Which march with Art conceal'd in shows of haste,<br>And work the Reader till his Mind be brought<br>To make its Answers in the Writers Thought. <br>For thus the moving Passions seem to throng,<br>And with their Quickness force the Soul along;<br>And thus the Soul grows fond they shou'd prevail,<br>When ev'ry Question seems a fair Appeal;<br>And if by just degrees of Strength they soar,<br>In Steps as equal each affects the more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There strange Commotion naturally shown,<br>Speaks on regardless that we speak alone,<br>Nor minds if they to whom she talks be near,<br>Nor cares if that to which she talks can hear.<br>The warmth of Anger dares an absent Foe;<br>The words of Pity speaks to Tears of Woe;<br>The Love that hopes, on Errands sends the Breeze;<br>And Love despairing moans to naked Trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There stand the new Creations of the Muse,<br>Poetick Persons, whom the Writers use<br>Whene'er a Cause magnificently great,<br>Wou'd fix Attention with peculiar weight.<br>'Tis hence that humbled Provinces are seen<br>Transform'd to Matrons with neglected Mien,<br>Who call their Warriors in a mournful Sound,<br>And shew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground,<br>While over Urns reclining Rivers moan<br>They shou'd enrich a Nation not their own.<br>'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd<br>To be but Rules of Reason in the Mind;<br>Their heav'nly Forms start forth, appear to breath,<br>And in bright Shapes converse with Men beneath,<br>And, as a God, in Combat Valour leads,<br>In Council Prudence as a Goddess aids.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There Exclamations all the Voice employ<br>In sudden Flushes of Concern or Joy:<br>Then seem the Sluices which the Passions bound,<br>To burst asunder with a speechless Sound;<br>And then with Tumult and Surprize they roul,<br>And shew the Case important in the Soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There rising Sentences attempt to speak,<br>Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break;<br>But so the Part directs to find the rest, <br>That what remains behind is more than ghest.<br>Thus fill'd with Ease, yet left unfinish'd too,<br>The Sense looks large within the Readers View:<br>He freely gathers all the Passion means,<br>And artful Silence more than Words explains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Methinks a thousand Graces more I see,<br>And I cou'd dwell—But when wou'd Thought be free?<br>Engaging Method ranges all the Band,<br>And smooth Transition joins them hand in hand:<br>Around the Musick of my Lays they throng,<br>Ah too deserving Objects of my Song!<br>Live wondrous Palace, live secure of Time,<br>To Senses Harmony, to Souls sublime,<br>And just Proportion all, and great Design,<br>And lively Colours, and an Air divine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis here, that guided by the Muses Fire,<br>And fill'd with sacred Thought, her Friends retire,<br>Unbent to Care, and unconcern'd with Noise,<br>To taste Repose and elevated Joys,<br>Which in a deep untroubled Leisure meet,<br>Serenely ravishing politely sweet.<br>From hence the Charms that most engage they choose,<br>And as they please the glittering Objects use;<br>While to their Genius more than Art they trust,<br>Yet Art acknowledges their Labours just.<br>From hence they look, from this exalted Show,<br>To choose their Subject in the World below,<br>And where an Hero well deserves a Name,<br>They consecrate his Acts in Song to Fame;<br>Or if a Science unadorn'd they find,<br>They smooth its Look to please and teach the Mind;<br>And where a Friendship's generously strong,<br>They celebrate the Knot of Souls in Song;<br>Or if the Verses must inflame Desire,<br>The Thoughts are melted, and the Words on fire:<br>But when the Temples deck'd with Glory stand,<br>And Hymns of Gratitude the Gods demand,<br>Their Bosoms kindle with Celestial Love,<br>And then alone they cast their Eyes above.<br>Hail sacred Verse! ye sacred Muses hail!<br>Cou'd I your Pleasures with your Fire reveal, <br>The World might then be taught to know you right,<br>And court your Rage, and envy my Delight.<br>But whilst I follow where your pointed Beams<br>My Course directing shoot in golden Streams,<br>The bright Appearance dazzles Fancy's Eyes,<br>And weary'd out the fix'd Attention lies,<br>Enough my Verses have you work'd my Breast,<br>I'll seek the sacred Grove, and sink to Rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'No longer now the ravish'd Poet sung,<br>'His Voice in easy Cadence left the Tongue;<br>'Nor o'er the Musick did his Fingers fly,<br>'The Sounds ran tingling, and they seem'd to die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Bolingbroke! O Fav'rite of the Skies,<br>O born to Gifts by which the Noblest rise,<br>Improv'd in Arts by which the Brightest please,<br>Intent to Business, and polite for Ease;<br>Sublime in Eloquence, where loud Applause <br>Hath stil'd thee Patron of a Nation's Cause.<br>'Twas there the World perceiv'd and own'd thee great,<br>Thence ANNA call'd thee to the Reins of State;<br>Go, said the Greatest Queen, with OXFORD go,<br>And still the Tumults of the World below,<br>Exert thy Powers, and prosper; he that knows<br>To move with OXFORD never shou'd repose.<br>She spoke: the Patriot overspread thy Mind,<br>And all thy Days to publick Good resign'd.<br>Else might thy Soul so wonderfully wrought<br>For ev'ry depth and turn of curious Thought,<br>To this the Poet's sweet Recess retreat,<br>And thence report the Pleasures of the Seat,<br>Describe the Raptures which a Writer knows,<br>When in his Breast a Vein of Fancy glows,<br>Describe his Business while he works the Mine,<br>Describe his Temper when he sees it shine,<br>Or say when Readers easy Verse insnares,<br>How much the Writers Mind can act on theirs:<br>Whence Images in charming Numbers set,<br>A sort of Likeness in the Soul beget,<br>And what fair Visions oft we fancy nigh<br>By fond Delusions of the swimming Eye, <br>Or further pierce through Natures Maze to find<br>How Passions drawn give Passions to the Mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh what a sweet Confusion! what Surprize!<br>How quick the shifting Views of Pleasure rise!<br>While lightly skimming, with a transient Wing,<br>I touch the Beauties which I wish to sing.<br>Is Verse a sov'raign Regent of the Soul,<br>And fitted all its Motions to controul?<br>Or are they Sisters, tun'd at once above,<br>And shake like Unisons if either move?<br>For when the Numbers sing an eager Fight,<br>I've heard a Soldier's Voice express Delight;<br>I've seen his Eyes with crowding Spirits shine,<br>And round his Hilt his Hand unthinking twine.<br>When from the Shore the fickle Trojan flies,<br>And in sweet Measures poor Eliza dies,<br>I've seen the Book forsake the Virgins Hand,<br>And in their Eyes the Tears but hardly stand.<br>I've known them blush at soft Corinna's Name,<br>And in red Characters confess a Flame:<br>Or wish Success had more adorn'd his Arms,<br>Who gave the World for Cleopatra's Charms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye Sons of Glory, be my first Appeal,<br>If here the Pow'r of Lines these Lines reveal.<br>When some great Youth has with impetuous Thought<br>Read o'er Atchievements which another wrought,<br>And seen his Courage and his Honour go<br>Through crowding Nations in Triumphant Show,<br>His Soul enchanted by the Words he reads<br>Shines all impregnated with sparkling Seeds,<br>And Courage here, and Honour there, appears<br>In brave Design that soars beyond his Years,<br>And this a Spear, and that a Chariot lends,<br>And War and Triumph he by turns attends:<br>Thus gallant Pleasures are his waking Dream,<br>Till some fair Cause have call'd him forth to Fame.<br>Then form'd to Life on what the Poet made,<br>And breathing Slaughter, and in Arms array'd,<br>He marches forward on the daring Foe,<br>And Emulation acts in ev'ry Blow. <br>Great Hector's Shade in Fancy stalks along,<br>From Rank to Rank amongst the Martial Throng,<br>While from his Acts he learns a Noble Rage,<br>And shines like Hector in the present Age.<br>Thus Verse will raise him to the Victor's Bays,<br>And Verse, that rais'd him, shall resound his Praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye tender Beauties, be my Witness too,<br>If Song can charm, and if my Song be true.<br>With sweet Experience oft a Fair may find<br>Her Passions mov'd by Passions well design'd;<br>And then she longs to meet a gentle Swain,<br>And longs to Love, and to be lov'd again.<br>And if by chance an Am'rous Youth appears,<br>With Pants and Blushes she the Courtship hears;<br>And finds a Tale that must with theirs agree,<br>And he's Septimius, and his Acme she:<br>Thus lost in Thought her melted Heart she gives,<br>And the rais'd Lover by the Poet lives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Parnell">Thomas Parnell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530108" data-title="An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry de Thomas Parnell" data-description="To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke. 


I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.

When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick F..."></div>
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