So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, Till Cæsar's image is effac'd at last. The breach, though small at first, soon opening wide, In rushes folly with a full-moon tide. Then welcome errors, of whatever size, As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, The sacred implement I now employ ; Ye writers of what none with safety reads, Footing it in the dance that fancy leads; Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend, Snivelling and drivelling folly without end; Whose corresponding misses fill the ream With sentimental frippery and dream, Caught in a delicate soft silken net, By some lewd earl, or rake-hell baronet ; Ye pimps, who under virtue's fair pretence Steal to the closet of young innocence, And teach her, unexperienc'd yet and green, To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen Who, kindling a combustion of desire, With some cold moral think to quench the fire; Though all your engineering proves in vain, The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again: Oh that a verse had power, and could command Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land; Who fasten, without mercy, on the fair, And suck, and leave a craving maggot there. Howe'er disguis'd th' inflammatory tale, And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil ; Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust And relish of their pleasure all to lust. But the muse, eagle-pinion'd, has in view A quarry more important still than you; Down, down the wind she swims, and sails away; Now stoops upon it, and now grasps the prey. Petronius! all the muses weep for thee; But every tear shall scald thy memory: The graces, too, while virtue at their shrine Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine, Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, Abhor'd the sacrifice, and curs'd the priest. Thou polish'd and high-finish'd foe to truth, Gray-beard corrupter of our listening youth, To purge and skim away the filth of vice, That, so refin'd, it might the more entice, Then pour it on the morals of thy son, To taint his heart, was worthy of thine own! Now, while the poison all high life pervades, Write, if thou can'st, one letter from the shades; One, and one only, charg'd with deep-regret That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ; One sad epistle thence may cure mankind Of the plague spread by bundles left behind. 'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears, Our most important are our earliest years; The mind, impressible and soft, with ease Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees, And, through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue That education gives her, false or true. Plants rais'd with tenderness are seldom strong; Man's coltish disposition asks the thong; And, without discipline, the favorite child, Like a neglected forester, runs wild. But we, as if good qualities would grow Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow; We give some Latin, and a smatch of Greek ; From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; And thence, with all convenient speed, to Rome, With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay, To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; And every post, and where the chaise broke down ; Ere long, some bowing, smirking, smart abbé, But being canker'd now and half worn out, Models of Herculanean pots and pans; And sells them medals, which, if neither rare Nor ancient, will be so, preserv'd with care, Strange the recital! from whatever cause His great improvement and new lights he draws, The squire, once bashful, is shamefac'd no more, But teems with powers he never felt before; Whether increas'd momentum, and the force With which from clime to clime he sped his course, (As axles sometimes kindle as they go) Chaf'd him, and brought dull nature to a glow; Or whether clearer skies and softer air, That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, |