At his proud foot
The sea, pour'd out,
Immortal nourishment supplies;
Thence wealth and state,
And power and fate,
Which Europe reads in George's eyes.
From what we view,
We take the clue,
Which leads from great to greater thing
Men doubt no more,
But gods adore,
When such resemblance shines in kings.
On Lyric Poetry.
How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak
a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at
least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged;
and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration
for success in it.
To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we
undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as
also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in
speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad
poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most
vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth.
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