In thought profound, in nature's study wise,
Shews from what source our fine sensations rise;
With truth, precision, fancy's claims defines,
And throws new splendour o'er the poet's lines.[51]
When specious sophists with presumption scan
The source of evil, hidden still from man;[52]
Revive Arabian tales[53], and vainly hope
To rival St. John, and his scholar, Pope;[54]
Though metaphysicks spread the gloom of night,
By reason's star he guides our aching sight;
The bounds of knowledge marks; and points the way
To pathless wastes, where wilder'd sages stray;
Where, like a farthing linkboy, Jennings stands,
And the dim torch drops from his feeble hands.
Impressive truth, in splendid fiction drest,[55]
Checks the vain wish, and calms the troubled breast;
O'er the dark mind a light celestial throws,
And sooths the angry passions to repose;
As oil effus'd illumes and smooths the deep,[56]
When round the bark the foaming surges sweep.--
But hark, he sings! the strain ev'n Pope admires;
Indignant Virtue her own bard inspires;
Sublime as Juvenal, he pours his lays,[57]
And with the Roman shares congenial praise:--
In glowing numbers now he fires the age,
And Shakspeare's sun relumes the clouded stage.[58]
So full his mind with images was fraught,
The rapid strains scarce claim'd a second thought;
And with like ease his vivid lines assume
The garb and dignity of ancient Rome.--
Let college _versemen_ trite conceits express,
Trick'd out in splendid shreds of Virgil's dress;
From playful Ovid cull the tinsel phrase,
And vapid notions hitch in pilfer'd lays;
Then with mosaick art the piece combine,
And boast the glitter of each dulcet line:
Johnson adventur'd boldly to transfuse
His vigorous sense into the Latian muse;
Aspir'd to shine by unreflected light,
And with a Roman's ardour _think_ and write.
He felt the tuneful Nine his breast inspire,
And, like a master, wak'd the[59] soothing lyre:
Horatian strains a grateful heart proclaim,
While Sky's wild rocks resound his Thralia's name.--
Hesperia's plant, in some less skillful hands,
To bloom a while, factitious heat demands;
Though glowing Maro a faint warmth supplies,
The sickly blossom in the hot-house dies:
By Johnson's genial culture, art, and toil,
Its root strikes deep, and owns the fost'ring soil;
Imbibes our sun through all its swelling veins,
And gro