Epistles.
57
When Nature sets the noblest stores in view,
Affects to polish copper in Peru; 40
So while their seas on barren sands are cast,
The saltness of their waves offends the taste,
But when to heav'n exhal'd, in fruitful rain
And fragrant dews they fall, to cheer the swain,
Revive the fainting flow'rs, and swell the meagre grain.
Be this their care who, studious of renown, 46
Toil up th'Aonian steep to reach the crown;
Suffice it me that (having spent my prime
In picking epithets and yoking rhyme)
To steadier rule my thoughts I now compose, 50
And prize ideas clad in honest prose.
Old Dryden, emulous of Cæsar's praise,
Cover'd his baldness with immortal bays;
And Death, perhaps to spoil poetic sport,
Unkindly cut an Alexandrine short: 55
His ear had a more lasting itch than mine
For the smooth cadence of a golden line.
Should lust of verse prevail, and urge the man
To run the trifling race the boy began,
Mellow'd with sixty winters, you might see 60
My circle end in second infancy:
I might ere long an awkward humour have
To wear my bells and coral to the grave,
Or round my room alternate take a course,
Now mount my hobby, then the Muses' horse. 65
Affects to polish copper in Peru; 40
So while their seas on barren sands are cast,
The saltness of their waves offends the taste,
But when to heav'n exhal'd, in fruitful rain
And fragrant dews they fall, to cheer the swain,
Revive the fainting flow'rs, and swell the meagre grain.
Be this their care who, studious of renown, 46
Toil up th'Aonian steep to reach the crown;
Suffice it me that (having spent my prime
In picking epithets and yoking rhyme)
To steadier rule my thoughts I now compose, 50
And prize ideas clad in honest prose.
Old Dryden, emulous of Cæsar's praise,
Cover'd his baldness with immortal bays;
And Death, perhaps to spoil poetic sport,
Unkindly cut an Alexandrine short: 55
His ear had a more lasting itch than mine
For the smooth cadence of a golden line.
Should lust of verse prevail, and urge the man
To run the trifling race the boy began,
Mellow'd with sixty winters, you might see 60
My circle end in second infancy:
I might ere long an awkward humour have
To wear my bells and coral to the grave,
Or round my room alternate take a course,
Now mount my hobby, then the Muses' horse. 65
