Classic Poem

Ne Sutor ultra Crepidam.

 No Genius can itself display
In ev'ry, or in any Way:
One Art ('tis from Experience plain!)
Is full sufficient for one Brain;
And He who made us Men, design'd
For such a Science, such a Mind.

 Hence those, who ne'er profess too much,
Give what they do the nicer Touch;
Hence he, who Horace never read,
May carry Euclid in his Head.

  Dan. Pope goes farther yet, and shows
Poor mortal Man so little knows,
That, to succeed, the Sons of Wit
A single Science oft should split;
Each taking up a Part—and brings
A learned Simile from Kings,
Who lose the Conquests gain'd before,
By striving still to conquer more.

 'Tis true, to Minds of vulgar Mold,
By Wit and Genius uncontroll'd,
Who round one beaten Circle move,
Have no new Thought, nor old improve;
To such, there can be little odds,
If wooden Stools they make, or Gods;
The Lump which animates their Frame,
In Smith and Taylor's much the same.

 But when some Giant Soul descends,
Created but for greatest Ends;
To bless a World, exalt an Age,
And shine on Life's uncertain Stage;
'Tis then a Case of great Concern
The Sense of Providence to learn;
To chuse that Character alone
Which forming Nature makes his own.

This Confirmation, William , take,
I love to prove whate'er I speak;
'Twill urge thee on to search with Care
Thy Strength, and in Proportion steer.

  Sylvio , a rural Bard, who long
Had charm'd the Country with his Song;
Nor unsuccessful sought Renown
Among th' Anonymous in Town,
Now just began to print his Name,
And stand a Candidate for Fame.

 Warm'd with Defire of Royal Praise,
And the Reversion of the Bays;
No Birth, or Coronation Day,
Unsung by Sylvio , past away.—
The Courtly Taste he knew to please,
With graceful Strength, and manly Ease;
Was Master of such fine Address,
No living Bard with more Success
The Charms of Beauty could rehearse,
Or in sublimer, smoother Verse,
Could waft his Monarch safely over,
When just embarking for Hanover ;
And quell the stormy, subject Main,
When our dread Liege return'd again.

 Yet, in his Works admir'd alone,
Still Sylvio's Person was unknown;
His Native Soil, of that pofsest,
Was thought by all supremely blest;
Her verdant Meads, and shady Groves,
Were now the Seats of Nymphs and Loves;
Each rising Hill, and River, shines
A God, or Goddess, in his Lines.

 But when the Press demands his Care,
The vocal Woods their Bard must spare,
Tho' all his gay Creation mourn'd
Its Beauty lost, 'till he return'd—
For this to Town the Poet came,
When first his Soul conceiv'd a Flame;
His Heart when Mira strongly charm'd,
And all his high Resolves disarm'd.

 Now ev'ry Post to Mira brings,
What Love inspires, and Sylvio sings:
The real Passion of his Breast,
In ev'ry Grace of Diction drest:
Each well turn'd Line was greatly fraught
With melting Tenderness of Thought;
Such moving Warmth as must controul
The Springs of Mira 's gentle Soul.

 What Verse can do on gen'rous Minds,
In Mira each Observer finds;
The rival Youths, who shar'd before
Alternate Joy, now hope no more;
Nor could the Nymph forbear to tell
How much the Charms of Wit excel.

 Th' enamour'd Bard she once had seen,
Nor then dislik'd his manly Mien:
Her Passion now the Image feeds,
And in her Soul the Youth proceeds;
The dear Idea Daily swells,
'Till Sylvio all Mankind excells;
'Till in him centres all that she
Can wish in Man, or Man can be.

 Now, join'd in Soul, the Bard and Maid
Each other's ardent Vows repaid;
While mighty Love, with equal sway,
Had fix'd the consummation Day.

 The Female Taste we so revere,
On which we build our Hope and Fear,
That no Success our Pride can move
So strongly, as Success in Love:
Sylvio , 'till now, no Woman's Prize,
Looks on himself with Mira 's Eyes;
Vainly receives the Nymph's Applause,
But all along mistakes the Cause;
No Woman's Heart was ever won,
He falsely thought, by Sense alone,
His Person, therefore, Mira priz'd,
From meaner Motives, thus disgais'd.

 This dull Mistake of vulgar Souls,
That Fancy all the Fair controuls,
Too much prevails in ev'ry Mind,
While Prejudice and Custom blind:
But who the Sex have study'd well,
Have often found their Taste excel;
That Women, with sublimest Views,
In Love and Life know how to chuse.

 Well read in Books, unread in Men,
You had all Sylvio from his Pen:
His sprightly Thoughts from Nature flow'd,
And in the Page forever glow'd;
But from his Lips they coldly fell,
Nor with enliv'ning Accents swell;
While modest Blushes paint his Cheeks,
And most, when to the Fair he speaks:
So bashful simple Nature proves,
Ere Vice informs, or Int'rest moves.

 But now the Error, rooted deep,
Fills all his Soul, and haunts his Sleep;
No more he courts the Muses Aid,
To bend an unrelenting Maid:
The Muses Flights are idle Dreams,
And Verse a vain Amusement seems:
That Charm the Conquest must improve
Which Mira 's Passion first could move;
Convinc'd that Charm was only Show,
Sudden the Scholar shines a Beau,
Sudden appears at Mira 's Feet,
In his Dishonour drest compleat.

 A Genius, like a River, flows
Serenely smooth, if nought oppose;
But, if diverted from its Course,
It errs with an uncommon Force;
Breaks violent thro' Reason's Bounds;
And the whole Man at once confounds.

 How great, how just the Nymphs' Surprise,
When his new Art the Poet tries!
When, in the fervent Lover's Place,
She finds dull Form, and low Grimace!
How awkard seems th' affected Youth,
Practic'd alone in simple Truth!
Each Word he spoke, each Step he trod,
Was all ridiculous and odd;
Unlike the first of human Kind,
Unlike the Picture in her Mind.

 Love, from some brighter Part begun,
O'er the whole Object learns to run;
That Part receives the Lover's View,
Is all we are , and all we do:
But if the Passion should decay,
Soon the new Beauties fade away;
That single Charm remains alone,
And quickly wants the Force of One.

 So o'er her Heart had Sylvio sway'd,
While with his Verse he warm'd the Maid:
By that bold Feature she could Plan
The Model of a perfect Man;
Pleas'd, in one Excellence, to trace
Politeness, Form, and ev'ry Grace.
So, now the Youth his Soul expos'd,
And all it's Weaknesses disclos'd,
With less'ning Fires she inly burn'd,
'Till to Respect her Passion turn'd;
Ev'n cold Respect could not remain,
It dwindled soon to mere Disdain.

  Bellair , who once before possess'd
The highest Seat in Mira 's Breast,
Beheld with Joy the Bard's Disgrace,
And with new Vows resum'd his Place.
Sylvio departed, to relate
In mournful Verse, his cruel Fate;
While the polite, the gay Bellair ,
Triumphant, bore away the Fair.

  That Sylvios are in ev'ry Art ,
Thy own Experience may impart;
Our Story therefore on thy Mind,
May leave this Truth, my Friend, behind——
Tho' Wit has but one common Name,
In different Modes 'tis not the same;
For those who write with greatest Ease,
May want in Life the Skill to please.