The Author's Epitaph for himself,
The Manfion and Garden of the Prince's Fe-
PHILO, forbear, nor wafte your time
In reading, or compofing rhyme;
Think on the low, the abject sphere
You are ordain'd to act in here,
Nor hope to raise on wings of fame
From dark obfcurity your name.
But granting this, that you fucceed,
Does any gain from it proceed?
Will fame content the hungry Mufe,
Or give the naked wretch fome cloaths?
If not, what folly 'tis to write,
Since you, my friend, get nothing by't!
Your trade, though mean, will these supply; with diligence apply,
Your real wants you may remove
By means which God and man approve.
Hunger affails, the north wind blows,
And thou haft nought to interpofe;
What rhyme or reafon wilt thou find
To cafe the fmart, or chear thy mind?
Like one that's loft in gloomy night, Uncertain if he's wrong or right,
While dangers ftir up ev'ry fear,
And all his thoughts are preft with care;
Yet humbly hopes to find the way,
And fighs for the approaching day:
My foul in such a state I find,
Thick darkness hovers o'er my mind;
Opprefs'd with doubts, perplex'd with fear,
Yet faith and hope my spirit chear.
Emerging from the dark domain,
Where ignorance and error reign,
I fee a radiant heav'nly light
Pierce through the gloomy fhade of night;
Bright and more bright its fplendors shine,
I feel its influence divine;
Wisdom's my wish, my foul's defire,
To her I ardently aspire.
However low or mean the sphere
By Providence affign'd me here,
Will that atone for ignorance?
Will that excufe my want of fenfe?
If fo, I must confefs, my friend,
Idly my precious time I spend.
Were you with learning qualify'd
For those high flights which warm your pride,
Then might I hope you would obtain
Those graces you now court in vain,
Don't think that learning I despise,
Or that all learned men are wife,
Although in Latin deeply read,
Or Grecian tutors they have had;
One spark of true celeftial fire
The foul fublimes, and raises higher
Than any human art can teach,
Or e'en the proudest science reach.
I pray observe that rugged stone
Just as 'tis from the quarry thrown-
Behold that other, form'd by art-
What beauty ftrikes from ev'ry part!
The former rough and shapeless stone
Lies unobferv'd, thought of by none.
'Tis science polishes the mind,
'Tis learning dignifies mankind.
Good Sir, is there no difference then "Twixt lifeless stones and god-like men? Is human nature funk so low,
It can no mark of wisdom show,
But what from learning it derives,
Or from the sciences receives?
His art the sculptor might display,
Yet cannot animate the clay;
Nor can the learned, proud of skill,
The pupil's mind with wifdom fill.
Is genius wanting? Arts must fail,
Nor will the niceft rules avail;
That facred fire from heav'n defcends,
"Tis God the precious gift extends.
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