Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find
he has mistaken his talent.

However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to
his readers some entertainment, and is assured that however little
in the ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that
merits contempt.


TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.


The pious pilot, whom the gods provide,
Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide,
Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep,
Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep;
But whilst with nicest skill he steers his way,
The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray.
Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome,
The god relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.
Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,
I dread the storm that ever rattles here,
Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul
Has felt the Muse's soft but strong control,
Nor think enough, that manly strength and ease,
Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please;
But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow,
Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow;
That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er,