Conscious of all the peril I incur, I must now leave my cause to future time, And rest in humble hope, that what I've said Posterity will sanction. Sixty years I've worn the livery of the true-born Muse; She is my rightful mistress; her I serve: Witches and goblins must be chas'd away, And truth and nature and the genuine taste For classic purity must be restor'd, Ere men shall listen to the measur'd strains Of her melodious heav'n-strung harp again.
But what is all this vision, and with whom Do I converse? — With shadows. They are gone; They vanish — I am left to pass my days With a new generation, far remov'd From these, whom in my fancy I beheld. Yes, ye departed Worthies, I have mourn'd For all, and some have follow'd to the grave. When Garrick was surrender'd to the dust I stood by Johnson, and beheld the tears Roll down his reverend cheeks; and oh! beware, All ye who knew him not, how ye decide Upon a heart with charity replete And human kindness, tho' with brow austere And stern rebuke sometimes he would reprove The vanities and vices of mankind: 'Twas such the champion of the truth should be, And such he was. The world hath ample cause To prize his virtues and to mourn his loss. His piety was humble; from his heart The pray'r went up in silence, or at most Scarce murmur'd on his lips: 'Twas so I deem The lowly Publican address'd his God.
But other tones and other teachers now Are coming into use: we are so wise, That wisdom cannot mend us; we must run To dunces for instruction, as we do To mountebanks for med'cine. Nothing serves To elevate our souls so high tow'rds Hea'n As nonsense and bad English, bellow'd forth With lungs stentorian and uplifted arms, Not quite like Raphael's painting of St. Paul; Yet less unlike than in their preaching they To that inspir'd Apostle, or the mob, That hears them, to Athenians — Each to each Is fitted: so they teach, and we are taught.
