Classic Poem

Peace then ye dull Blasphemers! who profane
Our sacred and diviner Strains,
Who cry tis all Chimerical and vain
The meer Capricios of unsettled Brains:
Wit is an Arbitrary Monarch, who
No Law, but what its self establishes, will know
Its Pow'r unlimited, — Dominion absolute
At lest tis like our well-form'd State
Where subject Art may advise and counsell give
But not encroach upon the great Prerogative


Stand off unhallow'd Rabble! these high Misteries
Are seen only by clear enlighten'd Eys:
All rude unknowing Readers they disdain,
Such, who when they'd unskillfully explain,
Wrest with false Glosses and the sacred Text profane


Great Gift of Heaven! which it vouchsafes to few
And dos alone on its best Favorites bestow:
To praise great Heros and thereby to raise
Our Names as high as theirs we are to praise
Poet, th' expensive Wonder, Heav'n but seldom makes,
Is what in Boast and Pride it undertakes,
When it intends to shew
Its utmost Skill, and best of Workmanship below:
I mean not all Pretending Fools, who claim
And impudently dare usurp the Name;
A name to base and recreant Souls neer due,
But given and vouchsaf'd to the elected few
Who are predestinate to Glory and immortal Fame.
That high exalted Genius, if we now can find
Thro the whole Race of human kind
That Man that's rais'd above the Rest of Men as far
As Seraphims above the Rank of meaner Angels are: ...


What Homer, Virgil, Tasso were,
What lofty Pindar, and his Roman Heir,
What our great Cowley and immortal Ben,
What I would be, but tis to great a Bliss for Fate t'ordain.


Am I deceiv'd? or dos my swelling Brest
Enlarge it self for some approching Guest?
'Tis so, tis surely so; I feel the entring God
Within me shed his Light and Rays abroad:
All vulgar Thoughts and what was human found
Are now in a diviner Fury drown'd:
What dos the mighty Pow'r inspire?
What new and unattempted Task require?
Sing, sing (he says) the Worth and Glories of a Muse,
What Honours to her Votaries she brings,
Once sacred thought, and crown'd as well as Kings,
What Wonders she did heretofore produce


Happy the Man! whom she thinks fit to save
From Fate, Oblivion and the Grave.


Nor are these all the Wonders thou, o Muse canst do. &c.
I oft have thought — What is this thing call'd Wit?