AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.
By James De-La-Cour.
Oh! come my friends, who like with me to rove,
The flow’ry mountain, and the laurel grove;
Where god Apollo guards the limpid fount,
And the glad muses climb the vocal mount;
You whom the voice invites to taste their charms,
Whom verse transports, and tuneful fancy warms;
Before you press the syrens to your heart,
Attend a while the precepts I impart.
First let your judgment for your fancy chuse,
Of all the nine, the most unblemish’d muse;
Soft yet sublime, in love yet strictly cloy,
Prone to be grave, yet not averse to joy;
Where taste and candour, wit and manners meet,
Bold without bombast, daring but discreet;
Correct with spirit, musical with sense,
Not apt to give, nor slow to take offence;
First to commend when others thoughts are shown,
But always last delighted with her own.
When this is done, let nature be your guide,
Rise in the spring, or in the river glide;
In every line consult her as you run,
And let her Naids roll the river on:
Unless to please our nice corrupted sense,
Art be call’d in, and join’d with vast expence;
Then rivers wander thro’ the vale no more,
But boil in pipes, or spout thro’ figur’d ore;
The neighb’ring brooks their empty channels mourn,
That now enrich some artificial urn.
Thus ever suit your numbers to your theme,
And tune their cadence to the falling stream;
Or shou’d the falling stream incline to love,
Let the words slide, and like its murmers move:
Poor were the praise to paint the purling rill,
To make it music is the muses skill;
Without her voice the spring runs silent by,
Dumb are the waters, and the verse’s dry;
While chill’d with ice the cool waves creep along,
And all the fountain freezes in the song.