'O Cara! Cara! silence all that train: Joy to great Chaos! let division reign:[385] Chromatic[386] tortures soon shall drive them hence, Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense: One trill shall harmonise joy, grief, and rage, Wake the dull church, and lull the ranting stage;[387] To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore, And all thy yawning daughters cry, Encore! 60 Another Phoebus, thy own Phoebus, reigns, Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains. But soon, ah soon, rebellion will commence, If music meanly borrows aid from sense: Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, empress; or you sleep no more'-- She heard, and drove him to the Hibernian shore. 70
And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, And all the nations summon'd to the throne. The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head; None want a place, for all their centre found, Hung to the goddess, and cohered around. Not closer, orb in orb, conglobed are seen The buzzing bees about their dusky queen. 80
The gathering number, as it moves along, Involves a vast involuntary throng, Who, gently drawn, and struggling less and less, Roll in her vortex, and her power confess. Not those alone who passive own her laws, But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. Whate'er of dunce in college or in town Sneers at another, in toupée or gown; Whate'er of mongrel no one class admits, A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. 90
Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the great; Who, false to Phoebus, bow the knee to Baal; Or, impious, preach his word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, Withhold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull flattery in the sacred gown; Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown. And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite. 100
There march'd the bard and blockhead, side by side, Who rhymed for hire, and patronised for pride. Narcissus,[388] praised with all a parson's power, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a shower. There moved Montalto with superior air; His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side; But as in graceful act, with awful eye Composed he stood, bold Benson[389] thrust him by: 110 On two unequal crutches propp'd he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. The decent knight[390] retired with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page. But (happy for him as the times went then) Appear'd Apollo's mayor and aldermen, On whom three hundred gold-capp'd youths await, To lug the ponderous volume off in state.