Samuel Wesley - Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697)
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Samuel Wesley >> Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697)
Series Two:
_Essays on Poetry_
No. 2
Samuel Wesley's
_Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ (1700)
and the
_Essay on Heroic Poetry_ (second edition, 1697)
With an Introduction by
Edward N. Hooker
The Augustan Reprint Society
January, 1947
_Price:_ 75c
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Lithoprinted from Author's Typescript
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INTRODUCTION
We remember Samuel Wesley (1662-1735), if at all, as the father of a great
religious leader. In his own time he was known to many as a poet and a
writer of controversial prose. His poetic career began in 1685 with the
publication of _Maggots_, a collection of juvenile verses on trivial
subjects, the preface to which, a frothy concoction, apologizes to the
reader because the book is neither grave nor gay. The first poem, "On a
Maggot," is composed in hudibrastics, with a diction obviously Butlerian,
and it is followed by facetious poetic dialogues and by Pindarics of the
Cowleian sort but on such subjects as "On the Grunting of a Hog." In 1688
Wesley took his B.A. at Exeter College, Oxford, following which he became
a naval chaplain and, in 1690, rector of South Ormsby; he became rector of
Epworth in 1695. During the run of the _Athenian Gazette_ (1691-1697)
he joined with Richard Sault and John Norris in assisting John Dunton, the
promoter of the undertaking. His second venture in poetry, the _Life of
Our Blessed Lord and Saviour_, an epic largely in heroic couplets with
a prefatory discourse on heroic poetry, appeared in 1693, was reissued in
1694, and was honored with a second edition in 1697. In 1695 he dutifully
came forward with _Elegies_, lamenting the deaths of Queen Mary and
Archbishop Tillotson. _An Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_
(1700) was followed by at least four other volumes of verse, the last of
which was issued in 1717. His poetry appears to have had readers on a
certain level, but it stirred up little pleasure among wits, writers, or
critics. Judith Drake confessed that she was lulled to sleep by
Blackmore's _Prince Arthur_ and by Wesley's "heroics" (_Essay in
Defence of the Female Sex_, 1696, p. 50). And he was satirized as a
mare poetaster in Garth's _Dispensary_, in Swift's _The Battle of
the Books_, and in the earliest issues of the _Dunciad_. Nobody
today would care to defend his poetry for its esthetic merits.
For a few years in the early eighteenth century Wesley found himself in
the vortex of controversy. Brought up in the dissenting tradition, he had
swerved into conformity at some point during the 1680's, possibly under
the influence of Tillotson, whom he greatly admired (cf. _Epistle to a
Friend_, pp. 5-6). In 1702 there appeared his _Letter from a Country
Divine to his friend in London concerning the education of dissenters in
their private academies_, apparently written about 1693. This attack
upon dissenting academies was published at an unfortunate time, when the
public mind was inflamed by the intolerance of overzealous churchmen.
Wesley was furiously answered; he replied in _A Defence of a Letter_
(1704), and again in _A Reply to Mr. Palmer's Vindication_ (1707). It
is scarcely to Wesley's credit that in this quarrel he stood shoulder to
shoulder with that most hot-headed of all contemporary bigots, Henry
Sacheverell. His prominence in the controversy earned him the ironic
compliments of Defoe, who recalled that our "Mighty Champion of this very
High-Church Cause" had once written a poem to satirize frenzied Tories
(_Review_, II, no. 87, Sept. 22, 1705). About a week later Defoe,
having got wind of a collection being taken up for Wesley--who in
consequence of a series of misfortunes was badly in debt--intimated that
High-Church pamphleteering had turned out very profitably for both Lesley
and Wesley (Oct. 2, 1705). But in such snarling and bickering Wesley was
out of his element, and he seems to have avoided future quarrels.
His literary criticism is small in bulk. But though it is neither
brilliant nor well written (Wesley apparently composed at a break-neck
clip), it is not without interest. Pope observed in 1730 that he was a
"learned" man (letter to Swift, in _Works_, ed. Elwin-Courthope, VII,
184). The observation was correct, but it should be added that Wesley
matured at the end of an age famous for its great learning, an age whose
most distinguished poet was so much the scholar that he appeared more the
pedant than the gentleman to critics of the succeeding era; Wesley was not
singular for erudition among his seventeenth-century contemporaries.
The "Essay on Heroic Poetry," serving as Preface to _The Life of Our
Blessed Lord and Saviour_, reveals something of its author's erudition.
Among the critics, he was familiar with Aristotle, Horace, Longinus,
Dionysius of Halicarnasseus, Heinsius, Bochart, Balzac, Rapin, Le Bossu,
and Boileau. But this barely hints at the extent of his learning. In the
notes on the poem itself the author displays an interest in classical
scholarship, Biblical commentary, ecclesiastical history, scientific
inquiry, linguistics and philology, British antiquities, and research into
the history, customs, architecture, and geography of the Holy Land; he
shows, an intimate acquaintance with Grotius, Henry Hammond, Joseph Mede,
Spanheim, Sherlock, Lightfoot, and Gregory, with Philo, Josephus, Fuller,
Walker, Camden, and Kircher; and he shows an equal readiness to draw upon
Cudworth's _True Intellectual System_ and Boyle's new theories concerning
the nature of light. In view of such a breadth of knowledge it is somewhat
surprising to find him quoting as extensively as he does in the "Essay"
from Le Bossu and Rapin, and apparently leaning heavily upon them.
The "Essay" was composed at a time when the prestige of Rymer and
neo-Aristotelianism in England was already declining, and though Wesley
expressed some admiration for Rapin and Le Bossu, he is by no means docile
under their authority. Whatever the weight of authority, he says, "I see
no cause why Poetry should not be brought to the Test [of reason], as well
as Divinity...." As to the sacred example of Homer, who based his great
epic on mythology, Wesley remarks, "But this [mythology] being now
antiquated, I cannot think we are oblig'd superstitiously to follow his
Example, any more than to make Horses speak, as he does that of Achilles."
To the question of the formidable Boileau, "What Pleasure can it be to
hear the howlings of repining Lucifer?" our critic responds flippantly, "I
think 'tis easier to answer than to find out what shew of Reason he had
for asking it, or why Lucifer mayn't howl as pleasantly as either
Cerberus, or Enceladus." Without hesitation or apology he takes issue with
Rapin's conception of Decorum in the epic. But Wesley is empiricist as
well as rationalist, and the judgment of authority can be upset by appeal
to the court of experience. To Balzac's suggestion that, to avoid
difficult and local proper names in poetry, generalized terms be used,
such as _Ill-luck_ for the _Fates_ and the _Foul Fiend_ for _Lucifer_, our
critic replies with jaunty irony, "... and whether this wou'd not sound
extreamly Heroical, I leave any Man to judge," and thus he dismisses the
matter. Similarly, when Rapin objects to Tasso's mingling of lyric
softness in the majesty of the epic, Wesley points out sharply that no man
of taste will part with the fine scenes of tender love in Tasso, Dryden,
Ovid, Ariosto, and Spenser "for the sake of a fancied Regularity." He had
set out to defend the Biblical epic, the Christian epic, and the propriety
of Christian machines in epic, and no rules or authority could deter him.
As good an example as any of his independence of mind can be seen in a
note on Bk. I, apropos of the poet's use of obsolete words (_Life of Our
Blessed Lord_, 1697, p. 27): it may be in vicious imitation of Milton and
Spenser, he says in effect, but I have a fondness for old words, they
please my ear, and that is all the reason I can give for employing them.
Wesley's resistance to a strict application of authority and the rules
grew partly out of the rationalistic and empirical temper of Englishmen in
his age, but it also sprang from his learning. From various sources he
drew the theory that Greek and Latin were but corrupted forms of ancient
Phoenician, and that the degeneracy of Greek and Latin in turn had
produced all, or most, of the present European tongues (_ibid._, p. 354).
In addition, he believed that the Greeks had derived some of their
thought from older civilizations, and specifically that Plato had received
many of his notions from the Jews (_ibid._, p. 230)--an idea which recalls
the argument that Dryden in _Religio Laici_ had employed against the
deists. Furthermore, he had, like many of his learned contemporaries, a
profound respect for Hebrew culture and the sublimity of the Hebrew
scriptures, going so far as to remark in the "Essay on Heroic Poetry" that
"most, even of [the heathen poets'] best Fancies and Images, as well as
Names, were borrow'd from the Antient Hebrew Poetry and Divinity." In
short, however faulty his particular conclusions, he had arrived at an
historical viewpoint, from which it was no longer possible to regard the
classical standards--much less the standards of French critics--as having
the holy sanction of Nature herself.
Some light is shed on the literary tastes of his period by Wesley's two
essays here reproduced, which with a few exceptions were in accord with
the prevailing current. _The Life of Our Blessed Lord_ shows strongly
the influence of Cowley's _Davideis_. Wesley's great admiration
persisted after the tide had turned away from Cowley; and his liking for
the "divine Herbert" and for Crashaw represented the tastes of sober and
unfashionable readers. In spite of the fact that he professed unbounded
admiration for Homer as the greatest genius in nature, in practise he
seemed more inclined to follow the lead of Cowley, Virgil, and Vida.
Although there was much in Ariosto that he enjoyed, he preferred Tasso;
the irregularities in both, however, he felt bound to deplore. To
Spenser's _Faerie Queene_ he allowed extraordinary merit. If the plan
of it was noble, he thought, and the mark of a comprehensive genius, yet
the action of the poem seemed confused. Nevertheless, like Prior later,
Wesley was inclined to suspend judgment on this point because the poem had
been left incomplete. To Spenser's "thoughts" he paid the highest tribute,
and to his "Expressions flowing natural and easie, with such a prodigious
Poetical Copia as never any other must expect to enjoy." Like most of the
Augustans Wesley did not care greatly for _Paradise Regained_, but he
partly atoned by his praise for _Paradise Lost_, which was an
"original" and therefore "above the common Rules." Though defective in its
action, it was resplendent with sublime thoughts perhaps superior to any
in Virgil or Homer, and full of incomparable and exquisitely moving
passages. In spite of his belief that Milton's blank verse was a mistake,
making for looseness and incorrectness, he borrowed lines and images from
it, and in Bk. IV of _The Life of Our Blessed Lord_ he incorporated a
whole passage of Milton's blank verse in the midst of his heroic couplets.
Wesley's attitude toward Dryden deserves a moment's pause. In the "Essay
on Heroic Poetry" he observed that a speech of Satan's in _Paradise
Lost_ is nearly equalled in Dryden's _State of Innocence_. Later
in the same essay he credited a passage in Dryden's _King Arthur_
with showing an improvement upon Tasso. There is no doubt as to his vast
respect for the greatest living poet, but his remarks do not indicate that
he ranked Dryden with Virgil, Tasso, or Milton; for he recognized as well
as we that the power to embellish and to imitate successfully does not
constitute the highest excellence in poetry. In the _Epistle to a
Friend_ he affirmed his admiration for Dryden's matchless style, his
harmony, his lofty strains, his youthful fire, and even his wit--in the
main, qualities of style and expression. But by 1700 Wesley had absorbed
enough of the new puritanism that was rising in England to qualify his
praise; now he deprecated the looseness and indecency of the poetry, and
called upon the poet to repent. One other point calls for comment.
Wesley's scheme for Christian machinery in the epic, as described in the
"Essay on Heroic Poetry," is remarkably similar to Dryden's. Dryden's had
appeared in the essay on satire prefaced to his translation of Juvenal,
published late in October, 1692; Wesley's scheme appeared soon after June,
1693.
The _Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ is neither startling nor
contemptible; it has, in fact, much more to say than the rhymed treatises
on verse by Roscommon and Buckinghamshire. Its remarks on Genius are
fresh, though tantalizing in their brevity, and it defends the Moderns
with both neatness and energy. Much of its advice is cautious and
commonplace--but such was the tradition of the poetical treatise on verse.
Appearing within two years of Collier's first attack upon the stage, it
reinforces some of that worthy's contentions, but we are not aware of its
having had much effect.
The _Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ is here reproduced, with
permission, from the copy at Harvard. The "Essay on Heroic Poetry" is
reproduced, with permission, from a copy of the 1697 edition of _The
Life of Our Blessed Lord_ owned by the Henry E. Huntington Library, at
San Marino, California. Our reproduction of the second item was made from
a typescript because the printing of the original lacks the size and
clarity which are necessary for satisfactory results In lithoprinting. The
typescript follows the original accurately except that italics (crazily
profuse in the 1697 edition) are omitted, the use of quotation marks is
normalized, and three obvious typographical errors are silently emended.
Edward Niles Hooker
AN
EPISTLE
TO A
FRIEND
CONCERNING
POETRY.
By SAMUEL WESLEY.
_Fungor vice Cotis._
_LONDON_
Printed for CHARLES HARPER, at the _Flower de Luce_
in _Fleetstreet_. MDCC.
_25. Aprill_.
PREFACE.
_I have not much to say of this Poem, before I leave it to the_ Mercy _of
the Reader. There's no need of looking far into it, to find out that the
direct_ Design _of a great part of it, is to Serve the_ Cause of Religion
_and_ Virtue; _tho' 'twas necessary for that End to dispose the_ whole _in
such a manner as might be agreeable to the_ Tast _of the present Age, and
of those who usually give such sort of Books the_ Reading. _If there be
any Thoughts in it relating to_ Poetry, _that either are not known to_ all
Persons, _or are tolerably_ ranged _and_ expressed, _the Reader is welcome
to 'em for_ Over-weight: _If there are too few of these, I yet hope the
Pardon of all_ candid Judges, _because I've done the best I cou'd on this_
Argument. _I can't be angry with any Person for ranking me amongst the_
Ogylbys; _my Quarrel is with these that rank themselves amongst_ Atheists,
_and impudently defend and propagate that_ ridiculous _Opinion of the_
Eternity of the World, _and a fatal_ invincible Chain of Things, _which,
it seems, is now most commonly made use of to destroy the_ Faith, _as our_
lewd Plays _are to corrupt the_ Morals _of the_ Nation: _An Opinion, big
with more_ Absurdities _than_ Transubstantiation _it self, and of far
more_ fatal Consequence, _if receiv'd and believ'd: For besides its
extremely weakening, if not destroying, the_ Belief _of the_ Being _and_
Providence of God, _it utterly takes away any sort of_ Freedom _in_ Humane
Actions, _reduces Mankind beneath the_ Brute Creation; _perfectly_ excuses
_the greatest_ Villanies _in_ this World, _and entirely vacates all_
Retribution _hereafter. One wou'd wonder with what Face or Conscience such
a_ Sett _of Men shou'd hope to be treated by the Rules of_ Civility, _when
they themselves break through those of_ Society, _and_ common Humanity:
_How they can expect any fairer_ Quarter _than_ Wolves _or_ Tygers; _or
what Reason they can give why a_ Price _should not be sett upon their_
Heads, _as well as on the_ Others; _or at least why they should not be
securely_ hamper'd _and_ muzzled, _and led about for a_ Sight, _like
other_ Monsters. _'Tis the fatal and spreading_ Poyson _of these Mens_
Examples _and_ Principles _which has extorted these_ warm Expressions
_from me; I cannot with_ Patience _see my_ Countrey ruin'd _by the
prodigious increase of_ Infidelity _and_ Immorality, _nor forbear crying
out with some_ Vehemence, _when I am giving Warning to all honest Men to
stand up in the_ Defence _of it, when it is in greater and more eminent
danger than it wou'd have been formerly, if the_ Spanish Armada _had made
a Descent amongst us: I don't speak of these things by distant_ Hear-say,
_or only from our publick_ Prints, _but from my own_ Knowledg _and little_
Acquaintance _in the World, and therefore others must have observ'd much
more, and cannot but fear, that if things go on as they now are, without a
greater_ Check, _and more_ severe Laws _against these wide and contagious_
Mischiefs, _at least without a more general united_ Endeavour _to put
those Laws already made in_ strict Execution, _we are in a fair way to
become a_ Nation of Atheists. _'Tis now no difficult matter to meet with
those who pretend to be_ lewd _upon_ Principles; _They'll talk very_
gravely, _look as if they were in earnest, and come_ sobrii ad perdendam
Rempublicam: _they wou'd be_ Criticks _too, and_ Philosophers: _They
attack_ Religion _in_ Form _and batter it from every_ Quarter; _they wou'd
turn the very_ Scriptures _against themselves, and labour hard to remove
a_ Supreme Being _out of the World; or if they do vouchsafe him any_ room
_in it, 'tis only that they may find_ Fault _with his_ Works, _which they
think, with that_ Blasphemer _of old, might have been much better order'd,
had they themselves stood by and directed the_ Architect. _They'll tell
you the_ Errors _of_ Nature _are every where_ plain _and_ visible, _all_
monstrous, _here_ too much _and there_ too little; _or, as_ one of their
own Poets,
Here she's _too sparing_, there _profusely_ vain.
_What would these Men have, or why can't they be content to sink_ single
_into the_ bottomless Gulph, _without dragging so much Company thither
with 'em? Can they grapple_ Omnipotence, _or are they sure they can be_
too hard _for_ Heaven? _Can they_ Thunder _with a_ Voice like God, _and
cast abroad the_ Rage _of their_ Wrath? _Cou'd they_ annihilate _Hell,
indeed, or did it only consist of such_ painted Flames _as they'd fain
believe it, they might make a shift to be tolerably happy, more quietly
rake through the World, and_ sink _into_ Nothing. _There's too great
reason to apprehend, that this_ Infection _is spred among Persons of
almost all_ Ranks _and_ Qualities; _and that tho' some may think it_
decent _to keep on the_ Masque, _yet if they were search'd to the_ bottom,
_all_ their Religion _wou'd be found that which they most blasphemously
assert of_ Religion _in_ general, _only a_ State Engin _to keep the_ World
in Order. _This is_ Hypocrisie _with a Witness; the_ basest _and_ meanest
_of_ Vices; _and how come Men to fall into these_ damnable Errors _in
Faith, but by_ Lewdness _of Life? The Cowards wou'd not believe a God
because they_ dare _not do it, for Woe be to 'em if there be one, and
consequently any_ Future Punishments. _From such as these, I desire no
Favour, but that of their_ Ill Word, _as their_ Crimes _must expect_ none
_from me, whose_ Character _obliges me to declare an_ eternal War
_against_ Vice _and_ Infidelity, _tho' at the same time heartily to_ pity
_those who are_ infected _with it. If I cou'd be_ ambitious _of a_ Name
_in the World, it shou'd be that I might_ sacrifice _it in so glorious a_
Cause _as that of_ Religion _and_ Virtue: _If none but_ Generals _must
fight in this_ sacred War, _when there are such_ infernal Hosts _on the
other side, they cou'd never prevail without one of the_ antient Miracles:
_If_ little People _can but well discharge the Place of a_ private
Centinel, _'tis all that's expected from us. I hope I shall never let the_
Enemies of God and my Countrey _come on without_ Fireing, _tho' it serve
but to give the_ Alarm, _and if I dye without_ quitting _my_ Post, _I
desire no greater Glory_. _I have endeavour'd to shew that I had no_
Personal Pique _against any whose_ Characters _I may have given in this
Poem, nor think the worse of them for their_ Thoughts _of me. I hope I
have every where done 'em_ Justice, _and as well as I cou'd, have given
'em_ Commendation _where they deserve it; which may also, on the other
side, acquit me of_ Flattery _with all_ Impartial Judges; _for 'tis not
only the_ Great _whose_ Characters _I have here attempted. And if what I
have written may be any ways_ useful, _or_ innocently diverting _to the
virtuous and ingenious_ Readers, _he has his End, who is_
Their Humble Servant
S. WESLEY.
AN
EPISTLE
TO A
FRIEND
CONCERNING
POETRY.
As Brother _Pryme_ of old from Mount _Orgueil_,
So I to you from _Epworth_ and the _Isle_:
Harsh _Northern_ Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send,
Yet, since the _best_ they yield, they'll please a _Friend_.
You ask me, What's the readiest way to _Fame_,
And how to gain a _Poet's_ sacred Name?
For _Saffold_ send, your Choice were full as just,
When burning _Fevers_ fry your Limbs to Dust!
Yet, lest you _angry_ grow at your _Defeat_, }
And me as ill as that fierce _Spark_ should treat } 10
Who did the Farrier into Doctor _beat_; }
You to my little _Quantum_, Sir, are free,
Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY;
These with some grains of _Common Sense_ unite,
Then freely _think_, and as I think I write.
First _poize_ your _Genius_, nor presume to write
If _Phoebus_ smile not, or some _Muse_ invite:
Nature refuses _Force_, you strive in vain,
She will not _drag_, but struggling breaks the Chain.
How bright a Spark of _Heav'nly Fire_ must warm! 20
What _Blessings_ meet a _Poet's Mind_ to form!
How oft must he for those _Life-Touches_ sit,
_Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit_?
There's here no _Middle-State_, you must excel;
_Wit_ has no _Half-way-House_ 'twixt _Heav'n_ and _Hell_
_All cannot All things_, lest you mourn too late,
Remember _Phaeton_'s unhappy _Fate_!
Eager to guide the _Coursers_ of the _Day_, }
Beneath their _Brazen Hoofs_ he trampled lay, }
And his bright _Ruines_ mark'd their flaming Way. } 30
[Sidenote: _Genius_.]
You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and Where to find?
'Tis the full _Power_ and _Energy_ of _Mind_:
A _Reach_ of _Thought_ that skims all Nature o'er,
_Exhausts_ this narrow _World_, and asks for _more_:
Through every _Rank of Beings_ when't has flown,
Can frame a _New Creation_ of its own:
By _Possible_ and _Future_ unconfin'd:
Can stubborn _Contradictions_ yoke, and bind
Through _Fancy_'s Realms, with Number, Time and Place,
_Chimera-Forms_, a thin, an airy Race; 40
Then with a secret _conscious Pride_ surveys
The _Enchanted Castles_ which't had _Power_ to raise.
[Sidenote: _Wit_.]
As _Genius_ is the _Strength_, be WIT defin'd
The _Beauty_ and the _Harmony_ of _Mind_:
_Beauty's_ Proportion, Air, each lively Grace
The _Soul_ diffuses round the _Heav'nly Face_:
'Tis _various_, yet 'tis _equal_, still the same
In _Alpine Snows_, or _Ethiopian Flame_;
While _glaring Colours_ short-liv'd Grace supply,
Nor _Frost_ nor _Sun_ they bear, but _scorch_ and _die_. 50
[Sidenote: _Judgment_.]
Nor these alone, tho much they can, suffice,
JUDGMENT must join, or never hope the Prize:
Those _Headstrong Coursers_ scowr along the Plains,
The _Rider's_ down, if once he lose the _Reins_:
Soon the _Mad Mixture_ will to all give Law,
And for the _Laurel Wreaths_ present thee _Wreaths of Straw_.
_Judgment's_ the _Act of Reason_; that which brings
Fit _Thoughts_ to _Thoughts_, and argues _Things_ from _Things_,
True, Decent, Just, are in its _Balance_ try'd,
And thence we learn to _Range, Compound, Divide_. 60
[Sidenote: _Invention and Memory_.]
A _Cave_ there is wherein those _Nymphs_ reside
Who all the Realms of _Sense_ and _Fancy_ guide;
Nay some affirm that in the deepest _Cell_
Imperial _Reason's_ self does not disdain to dwell:
With Living _Reed_ 'tis thatch'd and guarded round,
Which mov'd by _Winds_ emit a Silver Sound:
Two _Crystal Fountains_ near its _Entrance_ play, }
Wide scatt'ring _Golden Streams_ which ne'er decay, }
Two _Labyrinths_ behind harmonious Sounds convey: }
Chiefly, within, the _Room of State_ is fam'd 70
Of rich _Mosaick Work_ divinely fram'd:
Of small _Extent_ to view, 'twill all things hide,
Heav'n's Azure _Arch_ it self not half so wide:
Here all the _Arts_ their sacred Mansion chuse,
Here dwells the MOTHER of the Heav'n-born Muse:
With wond'rous mystic _Figures_ round 'tis wrought
_Inlaid_ with FANCY, and _anneal'd_ with _Thought_:
With more than humane Skill depicted here
The various _Images of Things_ appear;
What _Was_, or _Is_, or labours yet to _Be_ 80
Within the Womb of Dark _Futurity_,
May _Stowage_ in this wondrous _Storehouse_ find,
Yet leave unnumber'd empty _Cells_ behind:
But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast,
Not _Life or Happiness are more in haste_:
Only the _First Great Mind_ himself can stay
The _Fugitives_ and at _one Glance_ survey;
But those whom he disdains not to befriend, }
_Uncommon Souls_, who nearest Heav'n ascend }
Far more, at once, than others comprehend: } 90
Whate'er within this _sacred Hall_ you find, }
Whate'er will _lodge_ in your _capacious Mind_ }
Let _Judgment_ sort, and skilful _Method_ bind; }
And as from these you draw your antient Store
Daily supply the _Magazine_ with more.
Furnish'd with such _Materials_ he'll excel
Who when he _works_ is sure to work 'em _well_;
This ART alone, as _Nature_ that bestows,
And in _Perfection_ both, th' accomplish'd _Verser_ knows.
Knows to _persuade_, and how to _speak_, and when; 100
The _Rules of Life_, and _Manners_ knows and _Men_:
Those _narrow Lines_ which _Good_ and _Ill_ divide;
[Sidenote: _Learning_.]
And by what _Balance Just_ and _Right_ are try'd:
How _Kindred-Things_ with _Things_ are closely join'd; }
How _Bodies_ act, and by what _Laws_ confin'd, }
Supported, mov'd and rul'd by th' _Universal Mind_. }
When the moist _Kids_ or burning _Sirius_ rise; }
Through what ambiguous Ways _Hyperion_ flies, }
And marks our _Upper_ or the _Nether Skies_. }
He knows those _Strings_ to _touch_ with artful Hand 110
Which rule Mankind, and all the World command:
What _moves_ the _Soul_, and every secret _Cell_
Where _Pity, Love_, and all the _Passions_ dwell.
The _Music_ of his _Verse_ can _Anger_ raise,
Which with a softer _Stroak_ he _smooths_ and _lays_:
Can _Emulation, Terror_, all excite,
_Compress_ the _Soul_ with _Grief_, or _swell_ with vast Delight.
If this you can, your _Care_ you'll well bestow,
And some new _Milton_ or a _Spencer_ grow;
If not, a _Poet_ ne'er expect to be, 120
Content to _Rime_, like _D----y_ or like me.
But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain,
To such _Impracticable Heights_ I strain
A Poet's _Notion_, that if _This_ be _He_,
There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be.
--But soft, my Friend! may we not _copy_ well
Tho far th' _Original_ our _Art_ excel?
_Divine Perfection_ we our _Pattern_ make
Th' _Idea_ thence of _Goodness_ justly take;
But they who _copy_ nearest, still must fall 130
Immensely short of their _Original_;
[Sidenote: _Converse_.]
But _Wit_ and _Genius_, _Sense_ and _Learning_ join'd,
Will all come short if _crude_ and _unrefin'd_;
'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn _Ore_
And _polishes_ the _Gold_, too rough before:
So _fierce_ the _Natural Taste_, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd,
The _Wine_ is _strong_, but never rightly _cur'd_.
[Sidenote: _Style_.]
STYLE is the _Dress_ of _Thought_; a _modest_ Dress,
_Neat_, but not _gaudy_, will true _Critics_ please:
Not _Fleckno's Drugget_, nor a worse Extream 140
All daub'd with _Point_ and _Gold_ at every Seam:
Who only _Antique Words_ affects, appears
Like old King _Harry's_ Court, all Face and Ears;
Nor in a _Load_ of _Wig_ thy Visage shrowd,
Like _Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud_:
Happy are those who here the _Medium_ know,
We hate alike a _Sloven_ and a _Beau_.
I would not follow _Fashion_ to the height
Close at the _Heels_, not yet be _out of Sight_:
_Words_ alter, like our _Garments_, every day, 150
Now _thrive_ and _bloom_, now _wither_ and _decay_.
Let those of greater _Genius_ new _invent_,
Be you with those in _Common Use_ content.
A different _Style's_ for _Prose_ and _Verse_ requir'd,
_Strong figures_ here, _Neat Plainness_ there desir'd:
A different _Set of Words_ to both belong;
What _shines_ in _Prose_, is, _flat_ and _mean_ in _Song_.
The _Turn_, the _Numbers_ must be vary'd here,
And all things in a _different Dress_ appear.
This every _School Boy_ lash'd at _Eaton_ knows, } 160
Yet _Men of Sense_ forget when they _compose_, }
And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes _Prose_. }
A _vary'd Stile_ do various Works require,
This _soft_ as _Air_, and _tow'ring_ that as _Fire_.
None than th' _Epistle_ goes more _humbly_ drest,
Tho _neat_ 'twou'd be, and _decent_ as the _best_.
Such as th' ingenious _Censor_ may invite }
Oft to return with eager _Appetite_; }
So HORACE wrote, and so I'd _wish_ to write. }
Nor _creeps_ it always, but can _mount_ and _rise_, 170
And with _bold Pinions_ sail along the Skies.
The self-same Work of _different Style_ admits,
Now _soft_, now _loud_, as best the _Matter_ fits:
So Father THAMES from unexhausted _Veins_,
Moves _clean_ and _equable_ along the _Plains_;
Yet still of different _Depth_ and _Breadth_ is found,
And _humours_ still the _Nature_ of the _Ground_.
[Sidenote: _Reading_.]
READING will mend your Style and raise it higher,
And _Matter_ find to feed th' _Immortal Fire_:
But if you would the _Vulgar Herd_ excel, 180
And justly gain the _Palm_ of _Writing well_,
Wast not your Lamp in scanning _Vulgar Lines_,
Where _groveling_ all, or _One in twenty_ shines;
With _Prudence_ first among the _Antients_ chuse,
The _noblest_ only, and the _best_ peruse;
Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's sacred Page,
Which _Death_ defie, nor yield to _Time_ or _Age_;
New _Beauties_ still their _Vigorous Works_ display,
Their _Fruit_ still _mellows_, but can ne'er _decay_.
The _Modern Pens_ not altogether slight, 190
Be _Master_ of your _Language_ e'er you write!
_Immortal_ TILLOTSON with Judgment scan,
"That _Man of Praise, that something more than Man_!"
Ev'n those who hate his _Ashes_ this advise, }
As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, }
_Unwilling Truths_ break through a _Cloud of Lies_. }
He _Words_ and _Things_ for _mutual Aid_ design'd,
Before at _Variance_, in just _Numbers_ join'd;
He always _soars_, but never's _out of sight_,
He taught us how to _Speak_, and _Think_, and _Write_. 200
If _English Verse_ you'd in _Perfection_ see,
ROSCOMMON read, and _Noble_ NORMANDY:
We _borrow_ all from their _exhaustless Store_,
Or little say they have not said _before_.
_Poor Insects_ of a _Day_, we toil and strive
To creep from _Dust_ to _Dust_, and think we _live_;
These weak _imperfect Beings_ scarce enjoy
E'er _Death's_ rude Hand our _blooming Hopes_ destroy:
With _Lynx's_ Eyes each others _Faults_ we find,
But to our _own_ how few who are not _blind_? 210
How _long is Art_, how _short_, alas! our _Time_! }
How few who can above the _Vulgar_ climb, }
Whose _stronger Genius_ reach the _True Sublime_! }
With _tedious Rules_ which we our selves transgress,
We make the _Trouble more_ who strive to make it _less_.
But meanly why do you your _Fate_ deplore,
Yet still write on?--Why do a _Thousand_ more,
Who for their _own_ or some _Forefathers_ Crime
Are _doom'd_ to wear their _Days_ in _beating Rhime_?
But this a _Noble Patron_ will redress, 220
And make you _better write_, tho you _write less_:
Whate'er a _discontented Mind_ pretends,
_Distinguish'd Worth_ can rarely miss of _Friends_:
Do but _excel_, and he'll at last arise
Who from the _Dust_ may lift thee to the _Skies_;
For his _own Sake_ will his _Protection_ grant;
What _Horace_ e'er did yet _Mecaenas_ want?
Or if the _World_ its _Favours_ should refuse,
With _barren Smiles_ alone _reward_ thy Muse;
Be thy _own Patron_, thou no more wilt need, 230
For all will _court_ thee if thy _Works succeed_;
At least the few _Good Judges_ will commend,
And _secret growing Praise_ thy Steps attend.
Who shew'd _Columbus_ where the _Indies_ lay?
True to thy self, _charge through_, and _force_ to _Fame_ the way!
If _Envy snarl_, indulge it no _Reply_,
Write _better_ still, and let it _burst_ and _die_!
Rest pleas'd if you can please the _Wiser Few_,
Since _to please all is more than Heav'n it self can do_.
There are who _can_ whate'er they _will_ believe, 240
That _Bail's_ too hard for _Beady_, _Three_ are _Five_:
That Nature, Justice, Reason, Truth must fall,
With _Clear Idea's_ they'll _confound_ 'em all:
That _Parallels_ may _travel_ till they _meet_;
_Faith_ they can find in L----, no _Sense_ in STILLINGFLEET.
Disturb 'em not, but let 'em still enjoy
Th' _unenvy'd Charms_ of their _Eternal Moi_.
If to the _craggy Top of Fame_ you rise,
Those who are _lab'ring after_ ne'er _despise_.
Nor those _above_ on _Honours_ dazling Seat } 250
Tho _disoblig'd_, with _sawcy Rudeness_ treat, }
_Revenge_ not always is _below the Great_. }
Their _Stronger Genius_ may o'er thine prevail:
_Wit, Power_ and _Anger_ join'd but rarely fail.
Tho _Eagles_ would not chuse to _hawk_ at _Flies_ }
They'd _snap_ 'em, should their _buzzing Swarms_ arise }
Importunate, and hurt their _Sun bright Eyes_. }
Nor should the _Muses Birds_ at _random_ fly,
And _strike_ at all, lest if they strike _they die_.
Why should we still be _lazily content_ 260
With thredbare _Schemes_, and nothing _new_ invent?
All _Arts_ besides _improve, Sea, Air_ and _Land_ }
Are every day with _nicer Judgment_ scan'd, }
And why should _this_ alone be at a _stand_? }
Or _Nature_ largely to the _Ancients_ gave
And little did for _younger Children_ save;
Or rather we _impartial Nature_ blame
To hide our _Sloth_, and cover o'er our _Shame_;
As _Sinners_, when their _Reason's_ drown'd in _Sense_,
Fall out with _Heav'n_, and quarrel _Providence_. 270
Yet should you our _Galenic Way_ despise,
And some _new Colbatch_ of the _Muses_ rise;
No _Quarter_ from the _College_ hope, who sit
_Infallible_ at _Will's_ and judg of _Sense_ and _Wit_:
Keep fair with these, or _Fame_ you _court_ in vain,
A strict _Neutrality_ at least _maintain_!
Speak, like the wise _Italian_, well of all;
Who knows into what _Hands_ he's doom'd to _fall_?
Write _oft_ and _much_, at _first_, if you'd _write well_,
For he who ne'er _attempts_ will ne'er _excel_; 280
_Practice_ will _file_ your _Verse_, your _Thoughts refine_,
And _Beauty_ give, and _Grace_ to every Line:
The _Gnat_ to fam'd _AEneis_ led the way,
And our _Immortal_ COWLEY once did _play_.
Let not the _Sun of Life_ in vain decline,
Or _Time_ run _waste; No Day without a Line_.
Yet learn by me, my Friend, from _Errors_ past;
O never _write_, or never _Print_ in _Haste_!
The _worst Excuse_ Ill Authors e'er advance,
Which does, like _Lies_, a _single Guilt_ enhance. 290
Lay by your _Work_, and leave it on the _Loom_,
Which if at _mod'rate distance_ you resume,
A _Father's Fondness_ you'll with Ease look through,
And _Objects_ in a proper _Medium_ view.
'Tis _Time_ alone can _Strength_ and _Ripeness_ give;
A _Hasty Birth_ can ne'er expect to _live_.
Fly, _low_ at first, you'll with Advantage _rise_;
This _pleases_ all, as that will all _surprize_.
[Sidenote: _The Subject_.]
No _Work_ attempt but where your _Strength_ you know,
Be _Master of your Subject_, _Thoughts_ will _flow_: 300
The _newer_ 'tis, the _choicer Fruit_ 'twill yield,
More _Room_ you have to work if _large_ your _Field_;
The _Sponge_ you oftner than the _Pen_ will want,
And rather _Reason_ see to _prune_ than _plant_;
Yet where the _Thoughts_ are _barren, weak_ and _thin_,
New _Cyons_ should be neatly _grafted_ in.
[Sidenote: _A Judge_.]
If you with _Friend_ or _Enemy_ are blest,
Your _Fancy's Offspring_ ne'er can want a _Test_,
Tho _Both_, perhaps may _overshoot_ the _Mark_:
First _Spite_ with _Envy_ charges in the _Dark_; 310
_Unread_ they _damn_, and into _Passion_ fall,
'Tis _Stuff_, 'tis _Blasphemy_ 'tis _Nonsense_ all;
They _sleep_ (when _doz'd before_) at every _Line_, }
While your more _dang'rous Friend_ exclaims,--'Tis fine, }
'Tis _furiously Delightful_, 'tis _Divine_; }
Th' _inspiring God's_ in ev'ry Page confess'd;
A COWLEY or a DRYDEN at the least!
Yet you'll from _both_ an _equal Judgment_ frame
And stand the _nearest Candidate_ for _Fame_:
What _Envy praises_, or what _Friends dislike_, 320
This bears the _Test_, and that the _Sponge_ should strike.
Chuse to be _absent_ when your _Cause_ is try'd,
Lest _Favour_ should the _partial Judge_ misguide;
Not _others Thoughts_ implicitly prefer,
Your _Friend's_ a _Mortal_, and like _you_, may _err_.
Upon the _last Appeal_ let _Reason_ sit,
And _here_, let _all Authority_ submit.
Divest your _self of self_ whate'er you can,
And think the _Author_ now some _other Man_.
A thousand trivial _Lumber-Thoughts_ will come, 330
A thousand _Fagot-Lines_ will crowd for room;
_Reform_ your _Troops_, and no _Exemption_ grant,
You'll gain in _Strength_, what you in _Numbers_ want.
Nor yet _Infallibility_ pretend;
He still _errs on_ who thinks he ne'er can _mend_:
Reject that _hasty_, that _presumptuous Thought_!
None e'er but VIRGIL wrote without a _Fault_;
(Or _none_ he has, or none that _I can find_,
Who, dazzled with his _Beauties_, to his _Moles_ am blind.)
Who has the _least_ is _happiest_, he the _best_, 340
Who _owns_ and _mends_ where he has once _transgrest_.
Nor will _good Writers smaller Blots_ despise,
Lest those neglected should to _Crimes_ arise;
Such _Venial Sins_ indulg'd will _mortal_ prove,
At least they from _Perfection_ far remove.
Nor _Critical Exactness_ here deride,
It looks like _Sloth_ or _Ignorance_, or _Pride_;
_Good Sense_ is spoild in _Words unapt_ exprest,
And _Beauty_ pleases more when 'tis _well drest_.
[Sidenote: _Method_.]
Forget not METHOD if the _Prize_ you'd gain, 350
'Twill cost you _Thought_, but richly pays the _Pain_;
What _first_, what _second_, or what _last_ to place,
What here will _shine_, and there the _Work_ disgrace.
Before you build, your MODEL justly lay,
And ev'ry Part in _Miniature_ survey;
Where airy _Terraces_ shall threat the _Skies_,
Where _Columns_ tow'r, or neat _Pilasters_ rise;
Where cool _Cascades_ come _roaring_ down the Hill,
Or where the _Crystal Nymph_ a _mossie Bason_ fill:
What _Statues_ are to grace the _Front_ design'd, 360
And how to throw the _meaner Rooms_ behind.
Draw the _Main Strokes_ at first, 'twill shew your _Skill_,
_Life-Touches_ you may add whene'er you will.
Ev'n _Chance_ will sometimes all our _Art_ excel,
The _angry Foam_ we ne'er can _hit_ so well.
A _sudden Thought_, all beautiful and bright,
Shoots in and _stunns_ us with _amazing Light_;
Secure the _happy Moment_ e'er 'tis past,
Not _Time_ more _swift_, or _Lightning_ flies so fast.
All must be _free_ and _easie_, or in vain 370
You _whip_ and _spur_, and the _wing'd Courser_ strain:
When _foggy Clouds_ hang _bellying_ in the _Skies_,
Or _fleety Boreas_ through th' _Horizon_ flies;
He then, whose _Muse_ produces ought that's _fine_,
His _Head_ must have a _stronger Turn_ than mine:
Like _Sybils Leaves_ the _Train of Thoughts_ are rang'd,
Which by _rude Winds_ disturb'd, are _nothing_ if they're chang'd.
Or are there too in _Writing softer Hours_?
Or is't that _Matter_ nobler _Mind_ o'erpow'rs,
Which boasts her _native Liberty_ in vain, 380
In _Mortal Fetters_ and a _Slavish Chain_?
_Death_ only can the _Gordian Knot_ divide, }
Tho by what secret wondrous _Bands_ 'tis ty'd, }
Ev'n _Reason's_ self must own she can't decide: }
For as the _rapid Tides_ of _Matter_ turn }
We're fann'd with _Pleasure_ or with _Anger_ burn, }
We _Love_ and _Hate_ again, we _Joy_ and _Mourn_. }
Now the swift _Torrent_ high and headstrong grows,
_Shoots_ through the Dykes, and all the Banks _o'erflows_;
Strait the _capricious Waters_ backward fly,
The _Pebbles_ rake and leave the Bottom _dry_; 390
Watch the _kind Hour_ and seize the _rising Flood_,
Else will your _dreggy Poem_ taste of _Mud_.
Hence old and batter'd _Hackneys_ of the _Stage_,
By long Experience render'd _Wise_ and _Sage_,
With pow'rful _Juices_ restive Nature urge,
Or else with _Bays_ of old, they _bleed_ and _purge_;
Thence, as the _Priestess_ from her _Cave_ inspir'd,
When to his _Cell_ the _rancid God_ retir'd,
_Double Entendres_ their fond _Audience_ blind,
Their _boasted Oracles_ abuse Mankind: 400
_False Joys_ around their _Hearts_ in _Slumbers_ play,
And the warm _tingling Blood_ steals fast away;
The _Soul_ grows _dizzy_, lost in _Senses Night_,
And melts in pleasing _Pain_ and vain _Delight_.
Not that the _sowrest Critick_ can reprove
The _soft_ the moving _Scenes_ of _Virtuous Love_:
_Life's Sunny Morn_, which wears, alas! too fast;
_Pity_ it e'er should _hurt_, or should not _always last_!
Has _Bankrupt Nature_ then no _more_ to give,
Or by a _Trick_ persuades Mankind to _live_? 410
No--when with _Prudence_ join'd 'tis still the _same_ }
Or _ripens_ into _Friendship's_ nobler _Name_, }
The _Matter_ pure, immortal is the _Flame_. }
No _Fool_, no _Debauchee_ could ever prove
The _honest Luxury of Virtuous Love_;
Then _curs'd_ are those who that _fair Name_ abuse,
And holy _Hymen's_ sacred _Fillets_ loose;
Who _poison Fountains_, and _infect_ the _Air_,
_Ruine_ the _Witty_, and _debauch_ the _Fair_;
With _nauseous Images_ their _Scenes_ debase 420
At once their Country's _Ruine_ and _Disgrace_.
_Weigh_ well each _Thought_ if all be _Just_ and _Right_,
For those must clearly _think_ who clearly _write_.
Nothing _obscure_, _equivocal_, or _mean_,
Much less what is or _impious_ or _obscene_:
Altho the tempting _Serpent_ play his part,
And wind in _glitt'ring Folds_ around thy _Heart_;
Reject the _trait'rous Charmer_, tear him thence,
And keep thy _Vertue_ and thy _Innocence_.
[Sidenote: _The Manchinel, or Eves Apple_.]
In wild _America's_ rank _Champaign_ grows 430
A _Tree_ which _Europe_ oft too dearly knows;
It rises high in _cool inchanting Groves_,
Whose green broad Leaves the fainting _Trav'ler_ loves;
_Fair_ is the treach'rous _Fruit_, and charms your _Eye_,
But ah! beware! for if you _taste_ you _die_.
Too well alas! it _thrives_ when _planted_ here,
Its deadly Branches shade our _Theatre_.
Of _Mesures, Numbers, Pauses_ next I sing,
And rest the breathless _Muse_ with cautious _Wing_:
Of _Embryo Thoughts_, unripen'd yet by Time, 440
The Rules of _Verse_, of _Quantity_ and _Rhime_:
With trembling Steps through _Shades_ unknown I stray,
And mark a _rugged_ and a _dubious_ way;
Yet some small _glimm'ring Light_ will hence be show'd,
And future _Trav'lers_ may enlarge the _Road_.
[Sidenote: _Measure_.]
Of CHAUCER'S Verse we scarce the _Measures_ know,
So _rough_ the _Lines_, and so _unequal_ flow;
Whether by Injury of _Time_ defac'd,
Or _careless_ at the _first_, and writ in _haste_;
Or _coursly_, like old _Ennius_, he _design'd_ 450
What After-days have _polish'd_ and _refin'd_.
SPENCER more _smooth_ and _neat_, and none than He
Could better skill of _English Quantity_;
Tho by his _Stanza_ cramp'd, his _Rhimes_ less chast,
And _antique Words_ affected all disgrac'd;
Yet _vast_ his _Genius, noble_ were his _Thoughts_,
Whence equal Readers wink at _lesser_ Faults.
From _France_ their _Alexandrins_ we receive
Which more of _Liberty_ and _Compass_ give;
Hence by our dull Translators were they us'd, 460
Nor CHAPMAN nor old STERNHOLD these refus'd;
They borrow from _Hexameters_ their _Feet_,
Which with _Asclepiads_ and _Iambicks_ meet;
Yet in the midst we still a _Weakness_ see,
Their _Music_ gives us no _Variety_.
More _num'rous_ the _Pentameter_ and _strong_,
Which to our _Saxon Fathers_ did belong.
In this their antient _Edda_[1] seems to write,
_Mysterious Rhimes_, and _horrid_ to the _sight_:
Their _Runic Staves_ in this on _Rocks_ engrav'd, 470
Which long th' Assaults of _Time_ it self have brav'd.
In this our antient _British Bards_ delight; }
And, if I measure his _rough Numbers_ right, }
In this old _Taliessin_ us'd to Write[2]. }
This still _Possession_ keeps, few else we read,
And _Right_ as well as _Fact_ may justly plead;
Altho the _French Intruders_ oft pursue
Their _baffled Title_, and their _Claim_ renew;
Too oft _Impressions_ on our _Armies_ make,
Cut off our _Straglers_ and our _Out-Guards_ take, 480
Which lazily our Authors now admit,
And call th' _Excursions of Luxuriant Wit_;
With _Badger-Feet_ the two-top'd _Mount_ we climb,
And stalk from _Peak_ to _Peak_ on _Stilts of Rime_.
Sweet WALLER'S _Dimeter_ we most approve
For cheerful _Songs_ and _moving Tales of Love_,
Which for _Heroic Subjects_ wants of _Strength_,
Too _short_, as _Alexandrins_ err in _Length_.
Our _Ear's_ the Judge of _Cadence_; nicely weigh
What _Consonants_; rebel, and what obey; 490
What _Vowels_ mixt compose a pleasing _Sound_,
And what the tender _Organs_ grate and wound.
Nor at thy Reader's _Mercy_ chuse to lie,
Nor let _his Judgment_ want of _thine_ supply:
So _easie_ let thy _Verse_ so _smoothly_ fall,
They must be read _aright_ if read at all.
[Sidenote: _Numbers_.]
Nor _equal Numbers_ will for all suffice,
The _Sock_ creeps low, the _Tragic Bushkins_ rife;
None knew this _Art_ so well, so well did use
As did the _Mantuan Shepherd's_ Heav'nly Muse: 500
He marry'd _Sound and Sense_, at odds before,
We hear his _Scylla bark, Charybdis roar_;
And when in Fields his _Fiery Coursers_ meet
The _hollow Ground_ shakes underneath their feet:
Yet nicer _Ears_ can taste a _Diff'rence_ when
Of _Flocks_ and _Fields_ he _sings_ or _Arms_ and _Men_.
If I our _English Numbers_ taste aright,
We in the grave _Iambic_ most delight:
Each _second_ Syllable the Voice should _rest_,
_Spondees_ may serve, but still th' _Iambic's_ best: 510
Th' unpleasing _Trochee_ always makes a _Blot_,
And lames the _Numbers_; or, if this forgot,
A strong _Spondaic_ should the _next_ succeed,
The feeble _Wall_ will a good _Buttress_ need:
Long _Writing, Observation, Art_ and _Pain_
Must here unite if you the _Prize_ would gain.
[Sidenote: _Pauses_.]
_Pause_ is the _Rest_ of _Voice_, the poor _Remains_
Of _antient Song_ that still our _Verse_ retains:
The _second Foot_ or _third's_ our usual _Rest_,
Tho more of _Art's_ in _varying_ oft exprest. 520
At ev'ry Word the _Pause_ is sometimes[3] made,
And wond'rous _Beauty_ every where displaid:
--But here we _guess_, and _wander_ in the _dark_;
How should a hoodwink'd _Archer_ hit the Mark?
The little _Glimpse_ that DRYDEN gives, is more
Than all our _careless Writers_ knew before;
A few _Chance Lines_ may smooth and roundly fly,
But still no Thanks to us, we know not why.
He finds _Examples_, we the _Rule_ must make,
Tho who without a Guide may not mistake? 530
[4] "_Tho deep yet clear, tho gentle yet not dull,
Strong without Rage, without o'er flowing full._"
If we that _famous Riddle_ can unty,
Their brightest _Beauties_ in the _Pauses_ lie,
To Admiration _vary'd_; next to these
The _Numbers_ justly order'd charm and please:
Each _Word_, each happy _Sound_ is big with _Sense_,
They all _deface_ who take one _Letter_ thence.
[Sidenote: _Quantity_.]
But little more of _Quantity_ we know
Than what our _Accent_ does, and _Custom_ show: 540
The _Latin Fountains_ often we forsake,
As they the _Greek_; nay _diff'rent Ages_ take
A _diff'rent Path; Perfume_ and _Envy_ now
We say, which _Ages past_ would scarce allow:
If no _Position_ make our _Accent_ strong
Most _Syllables_ are either _short_ or _long_.
[Sidenote: _Rhime_.]
_Primitive Verse_ was grac'd with pleasing _Rhimes_,
The _Blank_ a lazy Fault of _After-times_;
Nor need we other proof of this to plead
With those the sacred [5] _Hebrew Hymns_ can _read_: 550
If this to _lucky Chance_ alone be _due_,
Why _Rhime_ they not in _Greek_ and _Latin_ too?
[6] PINDAR at first his ancient _Copy_ trac'd,
And sometimes equal _Sounds_ his _Numbers_ grac'd;
Till with the more than _human Labour_ tir'd,
He _drop'd_ his _Rhime_, and own'd him _uninspir'd_.
ORPHEUS and HOMER too, who first did dream
Of _num'rous Gods_, and left the _One Supreme,
Religion_ both and _Poetry_ did wrong,
_Apostatiz'd_ from _Rhime_, and lost the _Soul of Song_. 560
Yet still some weak and glimm'ring _Sparks_ remain'd,
And still our _Great Forefathers_ this retain'd;
Nor _Inundations_ of _Barbarian Rome_,
Our ancient _Rhime_ could wholly overcome.
[Sidenote: _Vide p._ 13.]
Ne'er _cramp_ thy _Reason_ for some paltry _Chime_,
Nor sacrifice _Good Sense_ to _Numbers_ and to _Rhime_:
Both may be _sav'd_ and made _good Friends_; and here
The Poets _Art_ and _Happiness_ appear:
But when some _stubborn Word_ denies to draw
In _Numbers_, and defies the _Muses Law_, 570
Reject it strait, unworthy such a _Grace_,
Another _yoke_ which better fills the _Place_:
Much _Reading_ will thy _Poverty_ amend
And _Taggs_ without the help of _Crambo_ lend.
The _Double Rhime_ is _antiquated_ grown,
Or us'd in _Satyr_ or _Burlesque_ alone;
Nor loves our stronger _Tongue_ that tinkling _Chime_,
The _Darling_ of the _French_, a _Female Rhime_.
Now, daring _Muse_! attempt a _stronger Flight_,
Beyond a _Vulgar Verser's_ cautious Height, 580
Beyond thy self, and consecrate to _Fame_ }
Those who a _Title_ to the _Laurel_ claim, }
And may to after-times _embalm_ thy Name; }
Commend the _Good_, to all but _Vice_ be kind,
And cast the _smaller Faults_ in _shades_ behind;
Who _first_, who _next_; the _Balance_ justly hold,
As that which shines above, and flames with _Heav'nly Gold_.
Great N----BY the first, ROSCOMMON gone,
He rules our _Empire_ now of _Wit_ alone:
The _Beauties_ he of _Verse_ exactly knows, 590
The famous DRYDEN'S not more smoothly flows:
Had ORPHEUS half so sweetly mourn'd his _Fate_,
As VIRGIL sung, or _Sh----d_ did _translate_;
H' had made the _Manes_ once again _relent_,
They would again _Eurydice_ have sent:
_Death's Temple_ we with _sacred Aw_ survey,
With _Admiration_ read his _Great Essay_:
Was _Art_ or bounteous _Nature_ here more _kind_? }
_Strong Sense_! Uncommon _Learning! Thoughts_ refin'd! } 600
A _Godlike Person_, and an _equal Mind_! }
[Sidenote: _Paraphrase on_ Psal. 148 O Azure Vaults, &c.]
The _next_ in Dignity, if not the _same_,
Is Deathless Dorsot's lov'd and noble _Name_:
How did he sing, (listen'd the _Heav'nly Quire_;)
The Wond'rous Notes of DAVID's _Royal Lyre_!
Ah! _Why no more_ must we for ever long
And vainly languish for so _sweet_ a _Song_?
The next is _Tityrus_, who not disdains
To read his _Name_ among the _tuneful Swains_;
_Unweary'd_ in his _Prince's_ glorious _Cause_, 610
As he of _Faith_, Defender of the _Laws_;
_Easie_ to all but to himself, he shares
His Monarch's _Favours_, and his Monarch's _Cares_:
His flowing _Language_ cloaths his _massie Sense_, }
Nor makes with _pompous Words_ a vain pretence, }
_Sound_ without _Soul_, to _Wit_ and _Eloquence_. }
Tho _Great_, he's still the same he was before:
--I _sue for nothing_, and I'll say no more.
_Montague_ left the _Muses_ peaceful _Seat_,
And bore the _Cares_ and _Honours_ of the _Great_: 620
The _Pollio_ he of our _Augustan_ days,
Who _Wit_ rewards with more than _hungry Praise_;
_True Worth_ his _Patronage_ can never miss,
He has his _Prince's Smiles_ and _that_ has _his_.
Nor should he pass unprais'd whom all admire,
Who, mixt with _Seraphs_, rules the _Western_ Quire;
_Flowing_ and _pure_ his unexhausted _Vein_,
As Silver _Thames_, which, rolling down the _Plain_,
Salutes his _Sacred Dome_.----
But those _profane_ who meanly thus _commend_, 630
Th' _Immortal Cowley's_ and the _Muses_ Friend.
Of _matchless_ DRYDEN only _Dryden's_ Skill
Could justly say enough,--of _Good_ or _Ill_.
_Envy_ must own he has our _Tongue refin'd_,
And manly _Sense_ with tend'rest _Softness_ join'd:
His _Verse_ would _Stones_ and _Trees_ with _Soul_ inspire,
As did the _Theban_ and the _Thracian_ Lyre:
His youthful _Fire_ within, like _Etna, glows_,
Tho _Venerable Age_ around his Temples _snows_:
If from the _modern_ or the _antient_ Store 640
He _borrows_ ought, he always _pays_ 'em more:
So much _improv'd_, each _Thought_, so _fine_ appears,
WALLER or OVID scarce durst own 'em _theirs_.
The Learned _Goth_ has scowr'd all _Europe_'s Plains, }
_France, Spain_, and fruitful _Italy_ he _drains_, }
From every Realm and every Language _gains_: }
His _Gains_ a _Conquest_ are, and not a _Theft_;
He wishes still new _Worlds_ of _Wit_ were left:
Thus _haughty Rome_, when, all the _Firm_ surpass'd,
Her _Eagles_ found our _moated World_ at last; 650
Touching upon th' _unhospitable_ Coast,
_Good Laws_ bestow'd for our _wild Freedom_ lost;
With _Arts of Peace_ our stubborn Soil manur'd,
And _naked Limbs_ from _Frost_ and _Sun_ secur'd:
--But ah' how _dear_ the _Price_ of all we gain! }
What _Shoals of Vices_ with 'em cross'd the Main? }
What _Pride_, what _Luxury_, a foul, an odious Train? }
Who weighs, like _Galcacus_, the _Good_ with _Ill_,
Would wish they'd let us been _Barbarians_ still:
Such _thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands_ take 660
An _honest Pagan_ spoil, and a _bad Christian_ make.
Blest be kind Heav'n, which wrap'd me in a _Gown_,
And drew me early from the _fatal Town_!
And blest _Her Name_, to endless Ages blest,
Who gave my weary _Muse_ this calm _Retreat_ and _Rest_.
True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, }
Here, may I Life, not _wholly useless_, spend, }
_Steal_ through the World, and _smiling_ meet my _End_! }
I envy not _Great Dryden_'s loftier Strain }
Of _Arms_ and _Men_ design'd to entertain, } 670
_Princes_ and _Courts_, so I but please the _Plain_: }
Nor would I barter _Profit_ for _Delight_,
Nor would have _writ like him, like him to write_.
If there's _Hereafter_, and a last _Great Day_,
What _Fire_'s enough to _purge_ his _Stains_ away?
How will he _wish_ each _lewd_ applauded _Line_ }
Which makes _Vice pleasing_, and _Damnation shine_, }
Had been as _dull_ as honest _Quarles_ or _mine_! }
With _sixty Years of Lewdness_ rest content!
It mayn't be yet _too late_, O yet _Repent_! 680
Ev'n _Thee_ our _injur'd Altar_ will receive;
While yet there's _Hopes_ fly to its _Arms_ and live!
So shall for _Thee_ their _Harps_ the _Angels_ string,
And the _Returning Prodigal_ shall sing;
New _Joys_ through all the _Heav'nly Host_ be shown
In _Numbers_ only _sweeter_ than thy _own_.
CONGREVE from _Ireland_ wond'ring we receive, }
Would he the _Town's loose way_ of Writing leave, }
More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: }
_Justness_ of _Thought_, a _Courtly Style_, and clear, 690
And well-wrought _Passions_ in his _Works_ appear:
None knows with _finer Strokes_ our Souls to move,
And as he please we _smile_, or _weep_, or _love_.
When _Dryden_ goes, 'tis he must fill the _Chair_,
_With_ Congreve _only_ Congreve _can compare_.
Yet, tho he _natural_ is as untaught Loves,
His _Style_ as _smooth_ as _Cytherea_'s Doves,
When e'er unbyass'd _Judges_ read him o'er,
He sometimes _nodds_, as _Homer_ did before:
Some Lines his most _Admirers_ scarce would please, 700
Nor _B----_'s Verse alone could _raise Disease_.[7]
For _smooth_ and _well turn'd Lines_ we _T----_ admire,
Who has in _Justness_ what he wants in _Fire_:
Each _Rhime_, each _Syllable_ well-weigh'd and fair,
His _Life_ and _Manners_ scarce more _regular_.
With _Strength_ and _Flame_ prodigious _D----s_ writes
Of _Loves_ lost _Wars_, and cruel martial _Fights_:
Scarce LEE himself strove with a _mightier Load_,
Or _labour'd_ more beneath th' _Incumbent God_:
Whate'er of old to _Rome_ or _Athens_ known, 710
What _France_ or _We_ have _glean'd_, 'tis all his _own_.
How few can equal _Praise_ with _C----ch_ obtain,
Who made _Lucretius smooth_, and _chast_, and _plain_?
Courted by _Fame_ he could her _Charms_ despise, }
Still woo'd by that _false Fair_ he still denies, }
And press'd, for _Refuge_ to the _Altar_ flies; }
Like _votive Tablets_ offers up his _Bays_,
"_And leaves to our lewd Town the Drudgery of Plays_."
In lofty _Raptures_, born on Angels Wings }
Above the _Clouds_, above _Castalian Springs_, } 720
N---- inspir'd, of God and _Nature_ sings; }
And if one _Glance_ on this _poor World_ he throw,
If e'er he mind the _Croud_ and _Buzz_ below;
Pities our _fruitless Pains_ for _Fame_ and _Praise_,
And wonders why we _drudge_ for _Crowns_ and _Bays_.
Could _B_---- be _sober_, many he'd excel,
Few know the _Antients_, or could use so well;
But ah! his _Genius_ with his _Virtue's_ fled,
Condemn'd to _Want of Grace_ and _Want of Bread_.
Ev'n Envy _B----re's Subject_ must confess } 730
_Exact_ and _rare_, a _curious Happiness_, }
Nor many could the _Fable better dress_: }
Of _Words_ what _Compass_, and how vast a _Store_!
His _Courage_ and his _Vertue's_ only more:
More various _Scenes of Death_ his _Fights_ display
Then _Aghrim's_ Field or _London's_ fatal Day:
Let beauteous _Elda's Tears_ and _Passion_ prove
His _Soul_ is not _unknowing how to love_:
Disrob'd of _Clouds_ he view'd the _Stagyrite_
As _Nature_ he, confess'd to _Human sight_:
His _Rules_ surveys, and traces to their _Springs_, } 740
Where the _blind Bard_ of flaming _Ilium_ sings; }
Thence with the _Mantuan Swan_ in narrower Rings, }
Tho more _exact_, he, stooping from his height,
Reviews the same _fierce Wars_ and _Gods_ and _Heroes_ fight:
That beauteous antient _Palace_ he surveys }
Which _Maro's Hands_ had only Strength to raise, }
_Models_ from thence, and _copies_ every _Grace_: }
Each _Page_ is big with _Virgil's Manly Thought_,
To _follow him too near's a glorious Fault_.
He dar'd be _virtuous_ in the _World's_ Despite, 750
_While_ D----n _lives he dar'd a Modest Poem write_.
Who can th' ingenious S----y's Praise refuse,
Who serves a grateful _Prince_, and grateful _Muse_?
Or _P----r_ read unmov'd, whose every _Page_
So just a _Standard_ to the opening _Age_?
Neat _S----n_'s courtly _Vein's_ correct and clear,
Nor shall he miss his _Praise_ and _Station_ here:
Nor should the _rest_ whom I _unnam'd_ must leave,
(Tho such _Omission_ they'll with ease _forgive_:) 760
_Unknown_ to me, let each his _Works_ commend,
Since _Virtue, Praise_, as _Shame_ does _Vice_ attend.
_Poets_, like _Leaves_ and _Words_, their _Periods_ know,
Now _fresh_ and _green_, now _sear_ and wither'd grow;
Or _burnt_ by _Autumn's_ Heat, and _Winter's_ Cold,
Or a _new hasty Birth_ shoves off the _old_.
Happy are those, and such are _some_ of ours, }
Who blest by bounteous _Heav'n's_ indulgent _Show'rs_ }
Bear wholsome _Fruit_, and not gay _pois'nous Flow'rs_: }
Who would not ev'n a _Lawreat's self_ commence 770
Or at their _Virtue's_ or their _Faith's_ Expence:
Renounce their _Creed_ to save a _wretched Play_, }
And for a _crowded House_ and _full Third Day_ }
At one _bold Stroke_ throw all their _Heav'n_ away. }
What gain'd _Euripides_ by all his _Sense_,
Who madly rail'd against a _Providence_?
_Apostate Poets_ first seduc'd _Mankind_,
_But ours upon the Pagan Herd refin'd_;
They Vertue _prais'd_ at least, which ours _abuse_,
And more than _Paganize_ the Heav'n-born Muse: 780
No Signs of _Grace_, or of _Repentance_ show,
Like _Strumpets lash'd_, more _impudent_ they grow.
Now learn, my Friend, and freely I'll impart
My _little All_ in this delightful Art:
Of _Poetry_ the various _Forms_ and _Kinds_,
The widest, strongest _Grasp_ of human Minds:
Not _all_ from _all_, but _some_ from _each_ I take,
Since we a _Garland_ not a _Garden_ make.
[Sidenote: _Epic_.]
EPIC's the _first_ and _best_, which mounting sings }
In _Mighty Numbers worthy mighty Things_, } 790
Of _High Adventures, Heroes, Gods_ and _Kings_: }
By lively _Schemes_ the Mind to _Vertue_ forms,
And far beyond _unactive Precept_ warms.
The _Subject_ may be either _feign'd_ or _true_,
_Too Old_ it should not be, but less _too New_:
_Narration_ mixt with _Action_ most delights,
_Intrigues_ and _Councils_, vary'd _Games_ and _Fights_:
Nothing so _long_ as may the Reader _tire_,
But all the just well-mingled _Scenes_ admire.
Your _Heroe_ may be _virtuous_, must be _brave_;
Nothing that's _mean_ should his great Soul enslave:
Yet Heav'ns unequal _Anger_ he may _fear_,
And for his _suffering Friends_ indulge a _Tear_:
Thus when the _Trojans Navy_ scatter'd lay
He _wept_, he _trembled_, and to Heav'n did _pray_;
But when bright _Glory beckon'd_ from afar,
And _Honour_ call'd him out to meet the _War_;
Like a fierce _Torrent_ pouring o'er the _Banks_,
Or _Mars_ himself, he _thunders_ through the _Ranks_;
_Death_ walks before, while he a _Foe_ could find, 810
_Horror_ and _Ruine_ mark long frightful _Lanes_ behind.
[Sidenote: _Machines_.]
For _worn_ and _old_ MACHINES few Readers care,
They're like the _Pastboard Chaos in the Fair_:
If ought surprizing you expect to shew,
The _Scenes_ if not the _Persons_ should be _new_:
With _both_ does MILTON'S wondrous Scheme begin,
The _Pandemonium, Chaos, Death_ and _Sin_;
Which _D----s_ had with like _Success_ assay'd, }
Had not the _Porch_ of _Death's Grim Court_ been made }
Too _wide_, and there th' impatient _Reader_ staid. } 820
And _G----h_, tho _barren_ is his _Theme_ and _mean_,
By this has _reach'd_ at least the fam'd _Lutrine_.
If _tir'd_ with such a plenteous _Feast_ you call
For a far meaner _Banquet_, _Meal_ and _Wall_;
The _best_ I have is _yours_, tho 'tis too _long_,
And what's behind will into _Corners_ throng.
A _Place_ there is, if _Place_ 'tis nam'd aright, }
Where scatter'd _Rays_ of pale and sickly _Light_, }
Fringe o'er the _Confines_ of _Eternal Night_. }
_Shorn_ of their _Beams_ the _Sun_ and _Phoebe_ here 830
Like the _fix'd Stars_, through _Glasses_ view'd, appear;
Or those faint _Seeds of Light_, which just display
Ambiguous Splendor round the _milky Way_;
The _Waste_ of _Chaos_, whose _Auguster_ Reign
Does those more barren doubtful Realms disdain:
Here dwell those _hideous Forms_ which oft repair }
To breath our upper _World's_ more _chearful_ Air }
Bleak _Envy_, grinding _Pain_, and meagre _Care_; }
_Disease_ and _Death_, the _Goddess_ of the _place_,
_Death_, the _least frightful Form of all their Race_; 840
_Ambition, Pride_, false _Joys_ and _Hopes_ as vain,
_Lewdness_ and _Luxury_ compose her Train:
How large their _Interest_, and how vast their _Sway_
Amid the wide invaded Realms of _Day_!
Soon would they our frail Race of _Mortals_ end,
Did not kind _Heav'n_ auspicious _Succours_ lend;
Sweet _Angel-Forms, Peace, Virtue, Health_ and _Love_,
How near ally'd, how like to those _above_!
These often drive the _Air_, those _Furies_ chace
And fetter in their own _infernal Place_: 850
These lent at once NASSAW and ENGLAND Aid,
And bright MARIA to our _Shores_ convey'd:
Her, all their _Pow'r_ and all their _Charms_ they gave,
To _govern_ what her _Heroe_ came to _save_.
Nor _Envy_ this, who in her noisome Cell
By _Traitors_ in their swift _Descent to Hell_,
Her rising _Glories_ heard, then with a _Groan_
She crawl'd before her _Sov'reign's_ direful _Throne_:
A _Pile of Sculls_ the odious _Fantom_ bore,
With _Bones_ half-naked mixt, and dropping putrid _Gore_; 860
There thus--Shall _Heav'n_ defraud us of our _Reign_,
And BRITAIN, only BRITAIN break her _Chain_?
What can we there, while more than _mortal Grace_
Forbids our _Entrance_, and secures the _Place_?
Awhile I _gaz'd_ and _viewed_ her as I _fled_,
When first she came, till half my _Snakes_ were dead;
And had I tarry'd longer near her _Throne_,
Had soon some base _insipid Vertue_ grown:
So fast the wide _progressive Ills_ increase, }
If longer unoppos'd our _Power_ will cease; } 870
The base degenerate World _dissolve_ to Peace; }
Our boasted _Empire_ there will soon be o'er,
And _Mortals_ tremble at our _Arms_ no more.
She said, her _Tidings_ all the _Court_ affright,
And doubled _Horror_ fill'd the _Realms of Night_:
Till out foul _Lewdness_ leap'd, and shook the Place. }
The _fulsom'st Fiend_ of all th' _infernal Race_; }
A crusted _Leprosie_ deform'd her _Face_; }
With half a _bloodshot_ Eye the _Fury_ glar'd,
Yet when for _Mischief_ she above prepar'd, 880
She _painted_ and she _dress'd_, those _Arts_ she knew,
And to her _self_ her self a _Stranger_ grew,
(Thus _old_ and batter'd _Bawds_ behind the Scenes,
New _rigg'd_ and _dawb'd_, pass on the _Stage_ for _Queens_;)
Nor yet, she cries, of _Britain_ we'll _despair_ }
I've yet some _trusty Friends_ in _Ambush_ there, }
All is not lost, we've still the _Theatre_: }
I'll batter _Virtue_ thence, nor fear to gain }
New _Subjects daily_ from her _hated Reign_; }
Is not Great _D----_ ours and all his _Train_? }
He knows he has new _Laurels_ here prepar'd, } 890
For those he lost _above_, a just Reward, }
For his wide _Conquests_ he'll _command the Guard_: }
_Headed_ by him one _Foot_ we'll scorn to yield,
Tho _Virtue's_ glitt'ring _Squadrons_ drive the _Field_:
Grant me, Dread _Sov'reign_! a _Detachment_ hence }
We'll not be long alone on our _Defence_, }
But hope to drive the proud _Assailants_ thence. }
Bold _Blasphemy_ shall lead our black _Forlorn_,
With _Colours_ from _Heav'n's Crystal Ramparts_ torn,
And _Anti-Thunderrs_ arm'd; _Profaneness_ next 900
Their _Canon_ seize, and turn the _Sacred Text_
Against th' _Assailants_; brave _Revenge_ and _Rage_
Shall our _main Batt'ry_ ply, and guard the _Stage_.
--But most I on dear _Ribaldry_ depend,
We've not a _surer_ or a _stronger Friend_.
Now shall she _broad_ and _open_ to the Skie,
Now _close_ behind some _double Meaning_ lye;
Now with _sulphureous Rivers_ lave the _French_,
And choak th' _Assailants_ with infernal _Stench_;
Each nicer _Vertue_ from the _Walls_ repel, 910
And _Heav'n_ it self regale with the Perfumes of _Hell_.
This from the World our dreaded _Foe_ will drive,
As _murm'ring Bees_ are forc'd to leave their _Hive_;
_Souls_ so _refin'd_ such _Vapours_ cannot bear,
But seek their _native Heav'n_ and purer Air:
When _She_ and all her heav'nly _Guards_ are gone
And her bright _Heroe_ absent, all's our own:
If any _pious Fools_ should make a stand,
To stop our _Progress_ through the conquer'd Land,
They soon shall pass for _hot-brain'd Visionairs_, 920
We'll run 'em down with _Ridicule_ and _Farce_.
Must they _reform_ the World! A likely _Task_!
Tis _Vizard_ all, and them we'll soon _unmask_.
The rest will _tumble_ in, or if they stay
And loiter in _Damnation's_ ample Way,
I've one _Expedient_ left, which can't but take,
My last _Reserve_; From yon black _brimstone_ Lake,
Whence two _Canals_ thro _subterranean Veins_
Are drawn to _Sodom_ and _Campania's_ Plains,
My self I'll fill a _Vial_, and infuse 930
My very Soul amid the _potent Juice_:
This _Essence_ near my _Heart_ I'll with me bear, }
And this among my _dearest Fav'rites_ share, }
Already _tutor'd_ by the _Theatre_; }
Who pass'd those _Bugbears Conscience, Law_ and _Shame_
Have there been taught that _Virtue's_ but a _Name_:
_Exalted Souls_ who _vulgar Sins_ despise;
Fit for some _new discover'd_ nobler _Vice_;
One _Drop_ of this their _frozen Blood_ shall warm,
And _frighted Nature's feebler Guards_ disarm 930
Till their _chill Veins_ with hotter _Fevers_ glow }
Than any _Etna_ or _Vesuvius_ know, }
Scarce equal'd by their _Parent Flames_ below; }
Till wide around the _gen'rous Canker_ spread,
And _Vengeance_ draw on each _devoted Head_:
Impatient _Heav'n_ it self our _Arms_ shall join,
The _Skies_ again with _forky Lightnings_ shine;
Till glutted _Desolation_ pants for Breath,
And _guilty Shades_ shall croud the _Realms of Death_.
--She said, the _Motion pleas'd_ she _wings_ away 940
And in blue _pois'nous Foggs_ invades the _Day_:
Part of her _direful Threats_ too true we find,
And _Heav'n_ avert the _Plagues_ that yet remain _behind_!
[Sidenote: _Tragedy_.]
The _Path_ which _Epic_ treads the TRAGIC Muse
With _daring_ tho _unequal_ Steps pursues,
A _little Epic_ shines through every _Scene_,
Tho more of _Life_ appears, and less _Machine_;
More _Action_, less _Narration_, more _Delight_;
We _see_ the _Gods_ descend, and _Heroes_ fight.
While _Oedipus_ is _raving_ on the _Stage_, 950
Mild _Pity_ enters and dissolves our _Rage_;
We _low'r_ our _haughty Spirits_, our _Pride_ and _Hate_,
And learn to _fear_ the sad _Reverse of Fate_.
A _Tyrant's Fall_, a treach'rous _Statesman's_ End
Clear the _Just Gods_, and equal _Heav'n_ defend:
Ungrateful _Factions_ here themselves torment,
And _bring_ those very _Ills_ they would _prevent_:
Nor think the lost _Intrigues_ of _Love_ too mean
To fill the _Stage_ and grace toe _Tragic Scene_!
Who from the _World_ this _Salt of Nature_ takes, 960
_Twice Slaves of Kings_ of _Life_ a _Desart_ makes.
The _Moral_ and _Pathetick_ neatly join'd,
Are best for _Pleasure_ and for _life_ design'd.
Be this in _Tragic_ an _Eternal Law_;
_Bold Strokes_ and _larger_ than the _Life_ to draw:
Let all be _Great_; when here a _Woman's_ seen,
Paint her a _Fury_, or a _Heroine_:
_Slaves, Spendthrifts_, angry _Fathers_, better fit
The meaner _Sallies_ of COMEDIAN Wit;
But _Courtly_ HORACE did their _Stage_ refuse, 970
Nor was it trod by _Maro's_ heav'nly Muse:
A _Walk_ so _low_ their _nobler Minds_ disdain,
Where _sordid Mirth's_ exchang'd for _sordid Gain_;
Where, in false _Pleasure_ all the _Profit's_ drown'd,
Nor _Authors_ with just _Admiration_ crown'd:
Hence was the _Sock_ a Task for _servile Wit_,
Course PLAUTUS hence, and neater TERENCE writ:
Yet if you still your _Fortune_ long to take,
And long to hear the _crouded Benches_ shake; 980
If you'd _reform_ the _Mob_, lov'd _Vice restrain_,
The _Pulpits_ break, and neighb'ring _B----_ drain;
Let _Heav'n_ at least, if not its _Priests_, be free,
The _Bible_ sures's too _grave_ for _Comedy_:
If she nor _lewdly_ nor _profanely_ talk
She'll have a _cleaner_, tho a _narrower Walk_.
Our Nation's _endless Humour_ will supply
So large a _Fund_ as never can be _dry_;
Why then should _Vice_ be _bare_ and _open_ shown,
And with such _Nauseous Scenes_ affront the _Town_? 990
Why thrive the _Lewd_, their _Wishes_ seldom crost,
And why _Poetic Justice_ often lost?
They plead they copy _Nature_.--Don't abuse
Her _sacred Name_ with such a _vile Excuse_!
She wisely _hides_ what these, like Beasts _display_, }
Ev'n _Vice_ it self, less _impudent_ than they, }
Remote in _Shades_, and far from _conscious_ Day. }
From this _Retrenchment_ by strong _Reason_ beat,
They next to _poor Necessity_ retreat:
The _Murderers, Bawds_ and _Robbers_ last pretence 1000
With equal _Justice_, equal _Innocence_!
So _Crack_, in _pious Fit_, will plead she's _poor_,
'Tis a _hard Choice_, Good Sir, to _starve_ or _whore_!
--Is there no _Third_, or will such _Reas'nings_ pass
In _Bridewel's_ rigid Court, or save the _Lash_?
Where the _stern Judge_, like _Radamanth_, surveys
The _trembling Sinner_, and each Action _weighs_.
A lazy, black, encumber'd _Stream_ rolls by,
Whole thick _sulphureous Vapours_ load the Sky;
Near where, in _Caves_ from _Heav'n's_ sweet _Light_ debar'd, 1010
_Shrieks, Groans_, and _Iron Whips_, and _Clanks of Chains_ are heard.
And can't you _thrash_, or _trail_ a _Pike_ or _Pole_?
Are there no _Jakes_ in Town, or _Kennels_ foul?
No _honester Employment_, that you chuse
With such _vile Drudgery_ t'abase the heav'n born _Muse_?
The num'rous ODE in various _Paths_ delights,
_Love, Friendship, Gods_, and _Heroes, Games_ and _Fights_:
Her _Age_ with _Veneration_ is confess'd
The _first great Mother_ she of all the rest,
This [8]MOSES us'd, and DAVID'S Royal Lyre, }
This he whom wond'ring _Seraphs_ did _inspire_, } 1020
Whence PINDAR stole some _Sparks of heav'nly Fire_, }
Who now by COWLEY's happy Muse improv'd,
Is _understood_ by some, by more _belov'd_:
The _Vastness_ of his Thought, the daring _Range_,
That imperceptible and pleasing _Change_,
Our jealous _Neighbours_ must themselves confess
The _British Genius_ tracks with most Success;
But still the _Smoothness_ we of _Verse_ desire,
The _Regulation_ of our _Native Fire_:
This from experienc'd _Masters_ we receive, 1030
Sweet FLATMAN'S Works, and DRYDEN'S this will give.
If you in _pointed_ SATYR most delight,
_Worry_ not, where you only ought to _bite_:
_Easie_ your _Style_, unstudy'd all and clear.
_Prosaic Lines_ are _pardonable_ here.
There are whose _Breath_ would blast the _brightest Fame_, }
Who from _base Actions_ court an _odious Name_, }
With _Beauty_ and with _Virtue_ War proclaim; }
Who _bundle_ up the _Scandals_ of the _Town_, 1040
And in _lewd Couplets_ make it all their _own_:
_Just Shame_ be _theirs_ who thus _debauch_ a _Muse_,
To vile _Lampoons_ a _noble Art_ abuse:
As _ill_ be _theirs_, and _half of_ DATS'_s Fate_,
Who always dully rail against the _State_.
_Kings_ are but _Men_, nor are their _Councils_ more,
Those _Ills_ we can't _avert_ we must _deplore_:
Not _many Poets_ were for _Statesmen_ made,
It asks more _Brains_ than stocks the _Rhiming_ Trade:
(At least, when they the _Ministry_ receive, 1050
To _Poets Militant_ their _Muse_ they leave.)
All _sordid Flat'ry_ hate, it pleases none
But _Tyrants_ grinning on their _Iron Throne_:
Yet where wer'e rul'd with _wise_ impartial Sway,
The _Muses_ should their _grateful Homage_ pay:
'Tis _base_ alike a _Tyrant's_ Name to raise,
And grudg a _Parent Prince_ our _tributary Praise_.
No wonder those who by _Proscriptions_ gain }
In _Marian_ Days, or _Sylla's_ bloody Reign, }
Of the divine _Augustus_ should complain; } 1060
Who stoops to wear a _Crown's uneasie Weight_,
As _Atlas_ under Heav'n, to prop the _State_:
No _Glory_ strikes his Great exalted Mind,
No _Pleasure_ like obliging all Mankind;
He lets the _Factious_ their weak _Malice_ vent,
Punish'd enough while they themselves _torment_:
_Satiate_ with _Conquest_, his dread _Sword_ he sheaths,
And with a _Nod disbands ten thousand Deaths_.
Who dares _Rebellious Arms_ against him move
While his _Praetorian Guard_'s his Subjects _Love_? 1070
Admir'd by all the _bravest_ and the _best_,
Who wear a _Roman Soul within their ample Breast_:
Tho _charm'd_ with _both_, which shall they more _admire_
In _Peace_ his _Wisdom_, or in _War_ his _Fire_?
--_One Labour_ yet remains, and that they _ask_,
_Alcides_ never clear'd a _nobler Task_;
O _Father_! banish'd _Vertue_ O restore!
Let _Hydra Vice_ pollute thy _Reign_ no more!
Strike through the _Monster-Form_, which threatning stands,
Fierce with a _thousand Throats_, a _thousand Hands_! 1080
_Rescue_ once more thy _Trojans sacred Line_ }
From _slavish Chains_, so shall thy _Temples_ shine }
With _Stars_, and all _Elysium_ shall be _thine_. }
