Classic Poem

Call'd by the muse the other day,
By Fancy's aid I took my way
To that fam'd hill, which bards of old
Have in their works so much extoll'd;
Where flows the clear Pierian spring,
Where oft the tuneful sisters sing,
Where Phaebus lord in chief commands
O'er all the wide poetic lands;
A palace by his fiat rais'd,
Whose beauty never can be prais'd
By mortal breath: — not all the rhyme
Produc'd by ever-fertile time,
Can paint its worth: — description fails,
And my poor verse the least prevails.
Ten thousand servants wait his call,
Within the vast capacious hall;
Their liveries charming to the view,
Their colours of the rainbow's hue.
At certain seasons here he sits,
Determining the cause of wits,
Hears their petitions, weighs each claim,
And makes his patents out for fame.

Here, with his counsellors of state,
He sat conspicuous in debate.
Dame Nature had a plaint preferr'd,
A plaint insisted to be heard;
She thus began: — In days of yore
To Hermes I a daughter bore,
Whose name was Taste — a blooming fair!
And educated with that care,
Which parents, who their children love,
Still try each talent to improve,
Twas her's to read each work of wit,
And stamp the currency of it;
'Twas her's to view each work of art,
And just proportion every part:
Hence excellence in Science sprung,
Hence painters shone, hence poets sung;
Tho' Nature first inspir'd the thought,
'Twas her's to polish as it ought;
From age to age her virtues shone,
And Taste and Nature were as one.
It happen'd on a luckless day,
That from my side she went astray;
Induc'd by folly or by pride,
Became to Novelty a bride;
To his desires resign'd her charms,
And lost her power in his arms.
Now Novelty exerts his parts,
Pretends acquaintance with the arts;
Instead of pathos and sublime,
Soft flow'ry words and tuneful rhyme
Supply their place, and glide along
Like some Italian eunuch's song:
The ears delighted with the strains,
But, ah! the heart untouch'd remains;
And every art alike is spoil'd
By this bad conduct of my child,
For which I cast her off, and swear,
My fondness she no more shall share;
And this complaint is with intent
To have some further punishment,
Which you will own is justly due;
A trait'ress she to me and you;
Now let Apollo weigh my charge,
And set her punishment at large.

The god now rising from his throne
Reply'd: — your charge is just I own:
Mark my decree — — in time shall rise
A set of men in science wise,
Who shall with truth and justice scan,
The publish'd works of every man:
Where merit fair stands forth to view,
There pour the praise to merit due;
Where folly fills the trifling page,
There pour the shafts of noble rage:
All shall await the applauding nod,
And tremble at the critic's rod,
Sir Novelty give up his reign,
And Taste return to you again;
Each art revive — the muses smile,
And Britain be their fav'rite isle.