AN AUTHOR's SOLILOQUY

My leaves bound up, compact and fair, In neat array at length prepare: To pass their hour on time's broad stage, To meet the surly critic's rage, The statesman's slight, the pedant's sneer— Alas! were these my only fear I should be quiet and resign'd— What most torments my boding mind Is that no critic will be found To read my works and give the wound!

THUS, when one fleeting year is pass'd With dead men's works my book is class'd; With some to praise, but more to blame, The soul returns from whence it came, And I must wear the marks of time Who hardly flourish'd in my prime.

THRICE happy DRYDEN, who could meet Some rival bard in every street: When all were bent on writing well, It was some credit to excel, While those condemn'd to stand alone Can only by themselves be known: Thrice happy DRYDEN, who could find A Milbourne, for his sport design'd; And POPE, who saw the harmless rage Of Dennis, bursting o'er his page, Might well despise the critic's aim, Who only help'd to swell his fame.

ON these bleak climes by Fortune thrown Where rigid reason reigns, alone, Where mimic fancy holds no sway Nor golden forms around her play, Nor Nature takes her magic hue— Alas, what has the Muse to do! An age employ'd in pointing steel Can no poetic raptures feel; No fabled Love's enchanting power, Nor tale of Flora's painted bower, Nor woodland haunt, or murmuring grove, Can their prosaic bosoms move.

THE Muse of Love in no request; I'll try my fortune with the rest: Which of the Nine shall I engage To suit the humour of the age: On one, alas, my choice must fall, The least engaging of them all! So late she does her wreathes prepare I hardly think them worth my care: Her visage stern, severe her stile, A clouded brow, a cruel smile, A mind on murder'd victims plac'd— She, only she can suit the taste.