To Mr. Pope

The muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allowed
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extensive is the poet's aim,
And in each verse he draws a bill on fame.
For none have writ (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron, or a friend ;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age ;
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit.
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove ;
Whilst he who best your poetry asserts,
Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verse does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire;
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applauses by desert,
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart ;
Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warn the sage ;
Allure with tender verse the female race,
And give their darling passion courtly grace;
Describe the Forest still in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh breathing from the plains.
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the poet in that part display ;
Nor let the critic there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told.
Soothe, as you only can, each diff'ring taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shown,
Unless, since short in beauty of your own,
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you placed them there.
But envy could not against you succeed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed.