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diff --git a/9413-h/9413-h.htm b/9413-h/9413-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cae2a7c --- /dev/null +++ b/9413-h/9413-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16167 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope, by The Rev. George Gilfillan + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-style: italic; font-size: 120%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works Of Alexander Pope, Vol. 1 +by Alexander Pope et al + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works Of Alexander Pope, Vol. 1 + +Author: Alexander Pope et al + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9413] +[This file was first posted on September 30, 2003] +[Most recently updated: October 2, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE, VOL. 1 *** + + + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, David King, and Project Gutenberg +Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE + </h1> + <h3> + VOL. I. + </h3> + <h3> + With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes + </h3> + <h2> + By The Rev. George Gilfillan + </h2> + <h3> + M.DCCC.LVI. + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> LIFE OF ALEXANDER POPE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> POPE'S POETICAL WORKS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE.[2] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> VARIATIONS IN THE AUTHOR'S MANUSCRIPT PREFACE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> PASTORALS, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> SPRING — THE FIRST PASTORAL, OR DAMON. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VARIATIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SUMMER — THE SECOND PASTORAL, OR ALEXIS. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VARIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> AUTUMN. — THE THIRD PASTORAL, Or HYLAS AND + ÆGON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> VARIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> WINTER. — THE FOURTH PASTORAL, OR DAPHNE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VARIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> MESSIAH. — A SACRED ECLOGUE, IN IMITATION + OF VIRGIL'S 'POLLIO.' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Introduction.—That 'tis as great a fault to + judge ill, as to write ill, </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE RAPE OF THE LOCK: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> CANTO I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> CANTO II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> VARIATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> CANTO III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> VARIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> CANTO IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> VARIATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> CANTO V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> VARIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> ODE ON ST CECILIA'S DAY, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO.[55] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> ODE ON SOLITUDE.[56] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.[57] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY[58] + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.[60] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> I. CHAUCER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> II. SPENSER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> III. WALLER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> IV. COWLEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> WEEPING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> V. EARL OF ROCHESTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> VI. EARL OF DORSET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> VII. DR SWIFT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> THE TEMPLE OF FAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> ELOISA TO ABELARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL + MORTIMER.[68] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ., SECRETARY OF + STATE.[69] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS, WITH MR DRYDEN'S + TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S 'ART OF PAINTING.' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT, WITH THE WORKS OF + VOITURE.[72] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT. ON HER LEAVING THE + TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION.[74] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> TO MRS M. B.[75] ON HER BIRTHDAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,[76] ON HIS BIRTHDAY, + 1742. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> VARIATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> TO MR JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED + WORM-POWDER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> TO MR C.,[80] ST JAMES'S PLACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> EPITAPHS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> AN ESSAY ON MAN: IN FOUR EPISTLES TO HENRY ST + JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> EPISTLE I. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF + MAN WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> EPISTLE II. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF + MAN WITH RESPECT TO HIMSELF AS AN INDIVIDUAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> EPISTLE III. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF + MAN WITH RESPECT TO SOCIETY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> EPISTLE IV. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF + MAN WITH RESPECT TO HAPPINESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT; OR, PROLOGUE TO THE + SATIRES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> TO AUGUSTUS.[142] </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> BOOK I. EPISTLE VII. — IMITATED IN THE + MANNER OF DR SWIFT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> BOOK II. SATIRE VI. THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN + THE YEAR 1714, BY DR SWIFT; THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> BOOK IV. ODE I. TO VENUS. </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST + PAUL'S,[171] VERSIFIED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE[177] TO THE SATIRES. IN TWO DIALOGUES. + (WRITTEN IN MDCCXXXVIII.) </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_FOOT"> FOOTNOTES: </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LIFE OF ALEXANDER POPE + </h2> + <p> + Alexander Pope was born in Lombard Street, London, on the 21st of May 1688—the + year of the Revolution. His father was a linen-merchant, in thriving + circumstances, and said to have noble blood in his veins. His mother was + Edith or Editha Turner, daughter of William Turner, Esq., of York. Mr + Carruthers, in his excellent Life of the Poet, mentions that there was an + Alexander Pope, a clergyman, in the remote parish of Reay, in Caithness, + who rode all the way to Twickenham to pay his great namesake a visit, and + was presented by him with a copy of the subscription edition of the + "Odyssey," in five volumes quarto, which is still preserved by his + descendants. Pope's father had made about £10,000 by trade; but being a + Roman Catholic, and fond of a country life, he retired from business + shortly after the Revolution, at the early age of forty-six. He resided + first at Kensington, and then in Binfield, in the neighbourhood of Windsor + Forest. He is said to have put his money in a strong box, and to have + lived on the principal. His great delight was in his garden; and both he + and his wife seem to have cherished the warmest interest in their son, who + was very delicate in health, and their only child. Pope's study is still + preserved in Binfield; and on the lawn, a cypress-tree which he is said to + have planted, is pointed out. + </p> + <p> + Pope was a premature and precocious child. His figure was deformed—his + back humped—his stature short (four feet)—his legs and arms + disproportionably long. He was sometimes compared to a spider, and + sometimes to a windmill. The only mark of genius lay in his bright and + piercing eye. He was sickly in constitution, and required and received + great tenderness and care. Once, when three years old, he narrowly escaped + from an angry cow, but was wounded in the throat. He was remarkable as a + child for his amiable temper; and from the sweetness of his voice, + received the name of the Little Nightingale. His aunt gave him his first + lessons in reading, and he soon became an enthusiastic lover of books; and + by copying printed characters, taught himself to write. When eight years + old, he was placed under the care of the family priest, one Bannister, who + taught him the Latin and Greek grammars together. He was next removed to a + Catholic seminary at Twyford, near Winchester; and while there, read + Ogilby's "Homer" and Sandys's "Ovid" with great delight. He had not been + long at this school till he wrote a severe lampoon, of two hundred lines' + length, on his master—so truly was the "boy the father of the man"—for + which demi-Dunciad he was severely flogged. His father, offended at this, + removed him to a London school, kept by a Mr Deane. This man taught the + poet nothing; but his residence in London gave him the opportunity of + attending the theatres. With these he was so captivated, that he wrote a + kind of play, which was acted by his schoolfellows, consisting of speeches + from Ogilby's "Iliad," tacked together with verses of his own. He became + acquainted with Dryden's works, and went to Wills's coffee-house to see + him. He says, "Virgilium tantum vidi." Such transient meetings of literary + orbs are among the most interesting passages in biography. Thus met + Galileo with Milton, Milton with Dryden, Dryden with Pope, and Burns with + Scott. Carruthers strikingly remarks, "Considering the perils and + uncertainties of a literary life—its precarious rewards, feverish + anxieties, mortifications, and disappointments, joined to the tyranny of + the Tonsons and Lintots, and the malice and envy of dunces, all of which + Dryden had long and bitterly experienced—the aged poet could hardly + have looked at the delicate and deformed boy, whose preternatural + acuteness and sensibility were seen in his dark eyes, without a feeling + approaching to grief, had he known that he was to fight a battle like that + under which he was himself then sinking, even though the Temple of Fame + should at length open to receive him." At twelve, he wrote the "Ode to + Solitude;" and shortly after, his satirical piece on Elkanah Settle, and + some of his translations and imitations. His next period, he says, was in + Windsor Forest, where for several years he did nothing but read the + classics and indite poetry. He wrote a tragedy, a comedy, and four books + of an Epic called "Alexander," all of which afterwards he committed to the + flames. He translated also a portion of Statius, and Cicero "De + Senectute," and "thought himself the greatest genius that ever was." His + father encouraged him in his studies, and when his verses did not please + him, sent him back to "new turn" them, saying, "These are not good + rhymes." His principal favourites were Virgil's "Eclogues," in Latin; and + in English, Spencer, Waller, and Dryden—admiring Spencer, we + presume, for his luxuriant fancy, Waller for his smooth versification, and + Dryden for his vigorous sense and vivid sarcasm. In the Forest, he became + acquainted with Sir William Trumbull, the retired secretary of state, a + man of general accomplishments, who read, rode, conversed with the + youthful poet; introduced him to old Wycherley, the dramatist; and was of + material service to his views. With Wycherley, who was old, doted, and + excessively vain, Pope did not continue long intimate. A coldness, + springing from some criticisms which the youth ventured to make on the + veteran's poetry, crept in between them. Walsh of Abberley, in + Worcestershire, a man of good sense and taste, became, after a perusal of + the "Pastorals" in MS., a warm friend and kind adviser of Pope's, who has + immortalised him in more than one of his poems. Walsh told Pope that there + had never hitherto appeared in Britain a poet who was at once great and + correct, and exhorted him to aim at accuracy and elegance. + </p> + <p> + When fifteen, he visited London, in order to acquire a more thorough + knowledge of French and Italian. At sixteen, he wrote the "Pastorals," and + a portion of "Windsor Forest," although they were not published for some + time afterwards. By his incessant exertions, he now began to feel his + constitution injured. He imagined himself dying, and sent farewell letters + to all his friends, including the Abbé Southcot. This gentleman + communicated Pope's case to Dr Ratcliffe, who gave him some medical + directions; by following which, the poet recovered. He was advised to + relax in his studies, and to ride daily; and he prudently followed the + advice. Many years afterwards, he repaid the benevolent Abbé by procuring + for him, through Sir Robert Walpole, the nomination to an abbey in + Avignon. This is only one of many proofs that, notwithstanding his waspish + temper, and his no small share of malice as well as vanity, there was a + warm heart in our poet. + </p> + <p> + In 1707, Pope became acquainted with Michael Blount of Maple, Durham, near + Reading; whose two sisters, Martha and Teresa, he has commemorated in + various verses. On his connexion with these ladies, some mystery rests. + Bowles has strongly and plausibly urged that it was not of the purest or + most creditable order. Others have contended that it did not go further + than the manners of the age sanctioned; and they say, "a much greater + license in conversation and in epistolary correspondence was permitted + between the sexes than in our decorous age!" We are not careful to try and + settle such a delicate question—only we are inclined to suspect, + that when common decency quits the <i>words</i> of male and female parties + in their mutual communications, it is a very ample charity that can + suppose it to adhere to their <i>actions</i>. And nowhere do we find + grosser language than in some of Pope's prose epistles to the Blounts. + </p> + <p> + His "Pastorals," after having been handed about in MS., and shewn to such + reputed judges as Lord Halifax, Lord Somers, Garth, Congreve, &c., + were at last, in 1709, printed in the sixth volume of Tonson's + "Miscellanies." Like all well-finished commonplaces, they were received + with instant and universal applause. It is humiliating to contrast the + reception of these empty echoes of inspiration, these agreeable <i>centos</i>, + with that of such genuine, although faulty poems, as Keat's "Endymion," + Shelley's "Queen Mab," and Wordsworth's "Lyrical Ballads." Two years + later, (in 1711), a far better and more characteristic production from his + pen was ushered anonymously into the world. This was the "Essay on + Criticism," a work which he had first written in prose, and which + discovers a ripeness of judgment, a clearness of thought, a condensation + of style, and a command over the information he possesses, worthy of any + age in life, and almost of any mind in time. It serves, indeed, to shew + what Pope's true forte was. That lay not so much in poetry, as in the + knowledge of its principles and laws,—not so much in creation, as in + criticism. He was no Homer or Shakspeare; but he might have been nearly as + acute a judge of poetry as Aristotle, and nearly as eloquent an expounder + of the rules of art and the glories of genius as Longinus. + </p> + <p> + In the same year, Pope printed "The Rape of the Lock," in a volume of + Miscellanies. Lord Petre had, much in the way described by the poet, + stolen a lock of Miss Belle Fermor's hair,—a feat which led to an + estrangement between the families. Pope set himself to reconcile them by + this beautiful poem,—a poem which has embalmed at once the quarrel + and the reconciliation to all future time. In its first version, the + machinery was awanting, the "lock" was a desert, the "rape" a natural + event,—the small infantry of sylphs and gnomes were slumbering + uncreated in the poet's mind; but in the next edition he contrived to + introduce them in a manner so easy and so exquisite, as to remind you of + the variations which occur in dreams, where one wonder seems softly to + slide into the bosom of another, and where beautiful and fantastic fancies + grow suddenly out of realities, like the bud from the bough, or the + fairy-seeming wing of the summer-cloud from the stern azure of the + heavens. + </p> + <p> + A little after this, Pope became acquainted with a far greater, better, + and truer man than himself, Joseph Addison. Warburton, and others, have + sadly misrepresented the connexion between these two famous wits, as well + as their relative intellectual positions. Addison was a more amiable and + childlike person than Pope. He had much more, too, of the Christian. He + was not so elaborately polished and furbished as the author of "The Rape + of the Lock;" but he had, naturally, a finer and richer genius. Pope found + early occasion for imagining Addison his disguised enemy. He gave him a + hint of his intention to introduce the machinery into "The Rape of the + Lock." Of this, Addison disapproved, and said it was a delicious little + thing already—<i>merum sal</i>. This, Pope, and some of his friends, + have attributed to jealousy; but it is obvious that Addison could not + foresee the success with which the machinery was to be managed, and did + foresee the difficulties connected with tinkering such an exquisite + production. We may allude here to the circumstances which, at a later + date, produced an estrangement between these celebrated men. When Tickell, + Addison's friend, published the first book of the "Iliad," in opposition + to Pope's version, Addison gave it the preference. This moved Pope's + indignation, and led him to assert that it was Addison's own composition. + In this conjecture he was supported by Edward Young, who had known Tickell + long and intimately, and had never heard of him having written at college, + as was averred, this translation. It is now, however, we believe, certain, + from the MS. which still exists, that Tickell was the real author. A + coldness, from this date, began between Pope and Addison. An attempt to + reconcile them only made matters worse; and at last the breach was + rendered irremediable by Pope's writing the famous character of his rival, + afterwards inserted in the Prologue to the Satires,—a portrait drawn + with the perfection of polished malice and bitter sarcasm, but which seems + more a caricature than a likeness. Whatever Addison's faults, his conduct + to Pope did not deserve such a return. The whole passage is only one of + those painful incidents which disgrace the history of letters, and prove + how much spleen, ingratitude, and baseness often co-exist with the highest + parts. The words of Pope are as true now as ever they were—"the life + of a wit is a warfare upon earth;" and a warfare in which poisoned + missiles and every variety of falsehood are still common. We may also here + mention, that while the friendship of Pope and Addison lasted, the former + contributed the well-known prologue to the latter's "Cato." + </p> + <p> + One of Pope's most intimate friends in his early days was Henry Cromwell—a + distant relative of the great Oliver—a gentleman of fortune, + gallantry, and literary taste, who became his agreeable and fascinating, + but somewhat dangerous, companion. He is supposed to have initiated Pope + into some of the fashionable follies of the town. At this time, Pope's + popularity roused one of his most formidable foes against him. This was + that Cobbett of criticism, old John Dennis,—a man of strong natural + powers, much learning, and a rich, coarse vein of humour; but irascible, + vindictive, vain, and capricious. Pope had provoked him by an attack in + his "Essay on Criticism," and the savage old man revenged himself by a + running fire of fierce diatribes against that "Essay" and "The Rape of the + Lock." Pope waited till Dennis had committed himself by a powerful but + furious assault on Addison's "Cato" (most of which Johnson has preserved + in his Life of Pope); and then, partly to court Addison, and partly to + indulge his spleen at the critic, wrote a prose satire, entitled, "The + Narrative of Dr Robert Norris on the Frenzy of J.D." In this, however, he + overshot the mark; and Addison signified to him that he was displeased + with the spirit of his narrative,—an intimation which Pope keenly + resented. <i>This</i> scornful dog would not eat the dirty pudding that + was graciously flung to him; and Pope found that, without having + conciliated Addison, he had made Dennis's furnace of hate against himself + seven times hotter than before. + </p> + <p> + In 1712 appeared "The Messiah," "The Dying Christian to his Soul," "The + Temple of Fame," and the "Elegy on the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady." Her + story is still involved in mystery. Her name is said to have been + Wainsbury. She was attached to a lover above her degree,—some say to + the Duke of Berry, whom she had met in her early youth in France. In + despair of obtaining her desire, she hanged herself. It is curious, if + true, that she was as deformed in person as Pope himself. Her family seems + to have been noble. In 1713, he published "Windsor Forest," an "Ode on St + Cecilia's Day," and several papers in the <i>Guardian</i>—one of + them being an exquisitely ironical paper, comparing Phillip's pastorals + with his own, and affecting to give them the preference—the extracts + being so selected as to damage his rival's claims. This year, also, he + wrote, although he did not publish, his fine epistle to Jervas, the + painter. Pope was passionately fond of the art of painting, and practised + it a good deal under Jervas's instructions, although he did not reach + great proficiency. The prodigy has yet to be born who combines the + characters of a great painter and a great poet. + </p> + <p> + About this time, Pope commenced preparations for the great work of + translating Homer; and subscription-papers, accordingly, were issued. Dean + Swift was now in England, and took a deep interest in the success of this + undertaking, recommending it in coffee-houses, and introducing the subject + and Pope's name to the leading Tories. Pope met the Dean for the first + time in Berkshire, where, in one of his fits of savage disgust at the + conflicting parties of the period, he had retired to the house of a + clergyman, and an intimacy commenced which was only terminated by death. + We have often regretted that Pope had not selected some author more + suitable to his genius than Homer. Horace or Lucretius, or even Ovid, + would have been more congenial. His imitations of Horace shew us what he + might have made of a complete translation. What a brilliant thing a + version of Lucretius, in the style of the "Essay on Man," would have been! + And his "Rape of the Lock" proves that he had considerable sympathy with + the elaborate fancy, although not with the meretricious graces of Ovid. + But with Homer, the severely grand, the simple, the warlike, the lover and + painter of all Nature's old original forms—the ocean, the mountains, + and the stars—what thorough sympathy could a man have who never saw + a real mountain or a battle, and whose enthusiasm for scenery was confined + to purling brooks, trim gardens, artificial grottos, and the shades of + Windsor Forest? Accordingly, his Homer, although a beautiful and sparkling + poem, is not a satisfactory translation of the "Iliad," and still less of + the "Odyssey." He has trailed along the naked lances of the Homeric lines + so many flowers and leaves that you can hardly recognise them, and feel + that their point is deadened and their power gone. This at least is our + opinion; although many to this day continue to admire these translations, + and have even said that if they are not Homer, they are something better. + </p> + <p> + The "Iliad" took him six years, and was a work which cost him much anxiety + as well as labour, the more as his scholarship was far from profound. He + was assisted in the undertaking by Parnell (who wrote the Life of Homer), + by Broome, Jortin, and others. The first volume appeared in June 1715, and + the other volumes followed at irregular intervals. He began it in 1712, + his twenty-fifth year, and finished it in 1718, his thirtieth year. + Previous to its appearance, his remuneration for his poems had been small, + and his circumstances were embarrassed; but the result of the + subscription, which amounted to £5320, 4s., rendered him independent for + life. + </p> + <p> + While at Binfield, he had often visited London; and there, in the society + of Howe, Garth, Parnell, and the rest, used to indulge in occasional + excesses, which did his feeble constitution no good; and once, according + to Colley Cibber, he narrowly escaped a serious scrape in a house of a + certain description,—Colley, by his own account, "helping out the + tomtit for the sake of Homer!" This statement, indeed, Pope has denied; + but his veracity was by no means his strongest point. After writing a + "Farewell to London," he retired, in 1715, to Twickenham, along with his + parents; and remained there, cultivating his garden, digging his grottos, + and diversifying his walks, till the end of his days. + </p> + <p> + Some years before, he had become acquainted with Lady Mary Wortley + Montague, the most brilliant woman of her age—witty, fascinating, + beautiful, and accomplished—full of enterprise and spirit, too, + although decidedly French in her tastes, manners, and character. Pope fell + violently in love with her, and had her undoubtedly in his eye when + writing "Eloisa and Abelard," which he did at Oxford in 1716, shortly + after her going abroad, and which appeared the next year. His passion was + not requited,—nay, was treated with contempt and ridicule; and he + became in after years a bitter enemy and foul-mouthed detractor of the + lady, although after her return, in 1718, she resided near him at + Twickenham, and they seemed outwardly on good terms. + </p> + <p> + In 1717, and the succeeding year, Pope lost successively his father, + Parnell, Garth, and Rowe, and bitterly felt their loss. He finished, as we + have seen, the "Iliad" in 1718; but the fifth and sixth volumes, which + were the last, did not appear till 1720. Its success, which at the time + was triumphant, roused against him the whole host of envy and detraction. + Dennis, and all Grub Street with him, were moved to assail him. Pamphlets + after pamphlets were published, all of which, after reading with writhing + anguish, Pope had the resolution to bind up into volumes—a great + collection of calumny, which he preserved, probably, for purposes of + future revenge. His own friends, on the other hand, hailed his work with + applause,—Gay writing a most graceful and elegant poem, in <i>ottava + rima</i>, entitled, "Mr Pope's Welcome Home from Greece," in which his + different friends are pictured as receiving him home on the shores of + Britain, after an absence of six years. Bentley, that stern old Grecian, + avoided the extremes of a howling Grub Street on the one hand, and a + flattering aristocracy on the other, and expressed what is, we think, the + just opinion when he said, "It is a pretty poem, but it is not Homer." + </p> + <p> + In 1721, he issued a selection from the poems of Parnell, and prefixed a + very beautiful dedication to the Earl of Oxford, commencing with— + </p> + <p> + "Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd + his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost, admired and mourn'd, With + softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!" + </p> + <p> + In 1722, he engaged to translate the "Odyssey." He employed Broome and + Fenton as his assistants in the work; and the portions translated by them + were thought as good as his. He remunerated them very handsomely. Of this + work, the first three quarto volumes appeared in 1725; and the fourth and + fifth, which completed the work, the following year. Pope sold the + copyright to Lintot for £600. + </p> + <p> + He was busy at this time, too, with an edition of Shakspeare,—not + quite worthy of either poet. It appeared in six volumes, quarto, in 1725. + His preface was good, but he was deficient in antiquarian lore; and his + mortification was extreme when Theobald, destined to figure in "The + Dunciad," a mere plodding hack, not only in his "Shakspeare Restored," + exposed many blunders in Pope's edition; but issued, some years + afterwards, an edition of his own, which was much better received by the + public. + </p> + <p> + In 1726, there was a great gathering of the Tory wits at Twickenham. Swift + had come from Ireland, and resided for some time with Pope. Bolingbroke + came over occasionally from Dawley; and Gay was often there to laugh with, + and be laughed at by, the rest. Swift had "Gulliver's Travels"—the + most ingenious and elaborate libel against man and God ever written—in + his pocket, nearly ready for publication; and we may conceive the grim, + sardonic smile with which he read it to his friends, and their tumultuous + mirth. Gay was projecting his "Beggars' Opera," and Pope preparing some of + his witty "Miscellanies." At the end of two months, the Dean was hurried + home by the tidings of Stella's illness. He left the "Travels" behind him, + for the copyright of which Pope procured £300,—a sum counted then + very large, and which Swift generously handed over to Pope. + </p> + <p> + In September this year, when returning in Lord Bolingbroke's coach from + Dawley, the poet was overturned in a little rivulet near Twickenhan, and + nearly drowned. The unfortunate little man! One is reminded of Gulliver's + accident in the Brobdignagian cream-pot. In trying to break the glasses of + the coach, which were down, he severely cut his right hand, and lost the + use of two of his fingers,—an addition to his other deformities not + very desirable; and we suspect that Pope thought Voltaire (who had met him + at Bolingbroke's) but a miserable comforter, when, in a letter of + pretended condolence, he asked—"Is it possible that those fingers + which have written 'The Rape of the Lock,' and dressed Homer so becomingly + in an English coat, should have been so barbarously treated? Let the hand + of Dennis or of your poetasters be cut off; yours is sacred." It was + perhaps in keeping that those mutilated fingers were soon to be employed + in attacking Dennis, and that the embittered poet was about, with the half + of his hand, but with the whole of his heart, to write "The Dunciad." + </p> + <p> + In the end of April 1727, we find Swift again in Twickenham, where his + irritation at the continued ascendancy of Sir Robert Walpole served to + infuse more venom into the "Miscellanies" concocted between him and Pope,—two + volumes of which appeared in June this year. Gay, also, and the ingenious + and admirable Dr Arbuthnot, contributed their quota to these volumes. + Swift speedily fell ill with that giddiness and deafness which were the <i>avant-couriers</i> + of his final malady; and in August he left Twickenham, and in October, + London and England, for ever. + </p> + <p> + In these "Miscellanies" there appeared the famous "Memoirs of Martinus + Scriblerus," written chiefly by Pope, in which he lashed the various + proficients in the bathos, under the names of flying fishes, swallows, + parrots, frogs, eels, &c., and appended the initials of well-known + authors to each head. This roused Grub Street, whose malice had nearly + fallen asleep, into fresh fury, and he was bitterly assailed in every + possible form. Like Hyder Ali, he now—to travesty Burke—"in + the recesses of a mind capacious of such things, determined to leave all + Duncedom an everlasting monument of vengeance, and became at length so + confident of his force, so collected in his might, that he made no secret + whatever of his dreadful resolution, but, compounding all the materials of + fun, sarcasm, irony, and invective, into one black cloud, he hung for a + while on the declivities of Richmond Hill; and whilst the authors were + idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor which blackened all their + horizon, it suddenly burst and poured down the whole of its contents on + the garrets of Grub Street. Then issued a scene of (ludicrous) woe, the + like of which no eye had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can + adequately tell. All the horrors of literary war before known or heard of—(MacFlecknoe, + the Rehearsal, &c.)—were mercy to the new tempest of havoc which + burst from the brain of this remorseless poet. A storm of universal + laughter filled every bookseller's shop, and penetrated into the remotest + attics. The miserable dunces, in part, were stricken mad with rage—in + part, dumb with consternation. Some fled for refuge to ale, and others to + ink; while not a few fell, or feared to fall, into the 'jaws of famine.'" + This singular poem was written in 1727. It was first printed + surreptitiously (<i>i.e.</i>, with the connivance of the author) in + Dublin, and then reprinted in London. The first perfect edition, however, + did not appear in London till 1729. On the day of its publication, + according to Pope, a crowd of authors besieged the publisher's shop; and + by entreaties, threats, nay, cries of treason, tried to hinder its + appearance. What a scene it must have been—of teeth gnashing above + ragged coats, and eyes glaring through old periwigs—of faces livid + with famine and ferocity; while, to complete the confusion, hawkers, + booksellers, and even lords, were mixed with the crowd, clamouring for its + issue! And as, says Pope, "there is no stopping a torrent with a finger, + out it came." The consequence he had foreseen. A universal howl of rage + and pain burst from the aggrieved dunces, on whose naked sides the hot + pitch had fallen. They pushed their rejoinders beyond the limits of + civilised literary warfare; and although Pope had been coarse in his + language, they were coarser far, and their blackguardism was not redeemed + by wit or genius. Pope felt, or seemed to feel, entire indifference as to + these assaults. On some of them, indeed, he could afford to look down with + contempt, on account of their obvious <i>animus</i> and gross language. + Others, again, were neutralised by the fact, that their authors had + provoked reprisals by their previous insults or ingratitude to Pope. Many, + however, were too obscure for his notice; and some, such as Aaron Hill and + Bentley, did not deserve to be classed with the Theobalds and Ralphs. To + Hill, he, after some finessing, was compelled to make an apology. + Altogether, although this production increased Pope's fame, and the + conception of his power, it did not tend to shew him in the most amiable + light, or perhaps to promote his own comfort or peace of mind. After + having emptied out his bile in "The Dunciad," he ought to have become + mellower in temper, and resigned satire for ever. He continued, on the + contrary, as ill-natured as before; and although he afterwards flew at + higher game, the iron had entered into his soul, and he remained a + satirist, and therefore an unhappy man, for life. + </p> + <p> + In 1731 appeared an "Epistle on Taste," which was very favourably + received; only his enemies accused him of having satirised the Duke of + Chandos in it,—a man who had befriended Pope, and had lent him + money. Pope denied the charge, although it is very possible, both from his + own temperament, and from the frequent occurrence of similar cases of + baseness in literary life, that it may have been true. Nothing is more + common than for those who have been most liberally helped, to become first + the secret, and then the open, enemies of their benefactors. In 1732 + appeared his epistle on "The Use of Riches," addressed to Lord Bathurst. + These two epistles were afterwards incorporated in his "Moral Essays." + </p> + <p> + As far back as 1725, Pope had been revolving the subject of the "Essay on + Man;" and, indeed, some of its couplets remind you of "pebbles which had + long been rolled over and polished in the ocean of his mind." It has been + asserted, but not proved, that Lord Bolingbroke gave him the outline of + this essay in prose. It is unquestionable, indeed, that Bolingbroke + exercised influence over Pope's mind, and may have suggested some of the + thoughts in the Essay; but it is not probable that a man like Pope would + have set himself on such a subject simply to translate from another's + mind. He published the first epistle of the Essay, in 1732, anonymously, + as an experiment, and had the satisfaction to see it successful. It was + received with rapture, and passed through several editions ere the author + was known; although we must say that the value of this reception is + considerably lessened, when we remember that the critics could not have + been very acute who did not detect Pope's "fine Roman hand" in every + sentence of this brilliant but most unsatisfactory and shallow + performance. + </p> + <p> + In the same year died dear, simple-minded Gay, who found in Pope a sincere + mourner, and an elegant elegiast; and on the 7th of June 1733, expired + good old Mrs Pope, at the age of ninety-four. Pope, who had always been a + dutiful son, erected an obelisk in his own grounds to her memory, with a + simple but striking inscription in Latin. During this year, he published + the third part of the "Essay on Man," an epistle to Lord Cobham, On the + Knowledge and Characters of Man, and an Imitation of the First Satire of + the Second Book of Horace. In this last, he attacks, in the most brutal + style, his former love Lady Mary W. Montague, who replied in a piece of + coarse cleverness, entitled, "Verses to the Imitator of the First Satire + of the Second Book of Horace,"—verses in which she was assisted by + Lord Harvey, another of Pope's victims. He wrote, but was prudent enough + to suppress, an ironical reply. + </p> + <p> + In 1734 appeared his very clever and highly-finished epistle to Dr + Arbuthnot (now entitled the "Prologue to the Satires"), who was then + languishing toward death. Arbuthnot, from his deathbed, solemnly advised + Pope to regulate his satire, and seems to have been afraid of his personal + safety from his numerous foes. Pope replied in a manly but self-defensive + style. He is said about this time to have in his walks carried arms, and + had a large dog as his protector; but none of the dunces had courage + enough to assail him. Dennis, who was no dunce, might have ventured on it—but + he had become miserably infirm, poor, and blind; and Pope had heaped coals + of fire on his head, by contributing a Prologue to a play which was acted + for his behoof. + </p> + <p> + Our author's life becomes now little else than a record of multiplying + labours and increasing infirmities. In 1734 appeared the fourth part of + the "Essay on Man," and the Second Satire of the Second Book of Horace. In + 1735 were issued his "Characters of Women: An Epistle to a Lady" (Martha + Blount). In this appears his famous character of Atossa—the Duchess + of Marlborough. It is said—we fear too truly—that these lines + being shewn to her Grace, as a character of the Duchess of Buckingham, she + recognised in them her own likeness, and bribed Pope with a thousand + pounds to suppress it. He did so religiously—as long as she was + alive—and then published it! In the same year he printed a second + volume of his "Miscellaneous Works," in folio and quarto, uniform with the + "Iliad" and "Odyssey," including a versification of the Satires of Donne; + also, anonymously, a production disgraceful to his memory, entitled, + "Sober Advice from Horace to the Young Gentlemen about Town," in which he + commits many gross indecorums of language, and annexes the name of the + great Bentley to several indecent notes. It is said that Bentley, when he + read the pamphlet, cried, "'Tis an impudent dog, but I talked against his + Homer, and the <i>portentous cub never forgives</i>." + </p> + <p> + The "Essay on Man" and the "Moral Epistles" were designed to be parts of a + great system of ethics, which Pope had long revolved in his mind, and + wished to incarnate in poetry. At this time occurred the strange, + mysterious circumstances connected with the publication of his letters. It + seems that, in 1729, Pope had recalled from his correspondents the letters + he had written them, of many of which he had kept no copies. He was + induced to this by the fact, that after Henry Cromwell's death, his + mistress, Mrs Thomas, who was in indigent circumstances, had sold the + letters which had passed between Pope and her keeper, to Curll the + bookseller, who had published them without scruple. When Pope obtained his + correspondence, he, according to his own statement, burned a great many + and laid past the others, after having had a copy of them taken, and + deposited in Lord Oxford's library. And his charge against Curll was, that + he obtained surreptitiously some of these letters, and published them + without Pope's consent. But, ere we come to the circumstances of the + publication, several other things require to be noticed. In 1733, Curll, + anxious to publish a Life of Pope, advertised for information; and, in + consequence, one P.T., who professed to be an old friend of Pope's and his + father's, wrote Curll a letter, giving an account of Pope's ancestry, + which tallied exactly with what Pope himself, in a note to one of his + poems, furnished the following year. P.T., in a second letter, offered to + the publisher a large collection of Pope's letters, and inclosed a copy of + an advertisement he had drawn out to be published by Curll. Strange as it + seems, Curll took no notice of the proposal till 1735, when, having + accidentally turned up a copy of P.T.'s advertisement, he sent it to Pope, + with a letter requesting an interview, and mentioning that he had some + papers of P.T.'s in reference to his family history, which he would shew + him. Pope replied by three advertisements in the papers, denying all + knowledge of P.T. or his collection of letters or MSS. P.T. then wrote + Curll that he had printed the letters at his own expense, seeking a sum of + money for them, and appointing an interview at a tavern to shew him the + sheets. This was countermanded the next day, P.T. professing to be afraid + of Pope and his "bravoes," although how Pope was to know of this meeting + was, according to Curll, "the cream of the jest." + </p> + <p> + Soon after, a round, fat man, with a clergyman's gown and a barrister's + band, called on Curll, at ten o'clock at night. He said his name was + Smith, that he was a cousin of P.T.'s, and shewed the book in sheets, + along with about a dozen of the original letters. After a good deal of + negotiation with this personage, Curll obtained fifty copies of P.T.'s + printed copies, and issued a flaming advertisement announcing the + publication of Pope's letters for thirty years, and stating that the + original MSS. were lying at his shop, and might be seen by any who chose,—although + not a single MS. seems to have been delivered. Smith, the day that the + advertisement appeared, handed over, for a sum of money, about three + hundred volumes to Curll. But as in the advertisement it was stated that + various letters of lords were included, and as there is a law amongst + regulations of the Upper House that no peer's letters can be published + without his consent, at the instance of the Earl of Jersey, and in + consequence, too, of an advertisement of Pope's, the books were seized, + and Curll, and the printer of the paper where the advertisement appeared, + were ordered to appear at the bar for breach of privilege. P.T. wrote + Curll to tell him to conceal all that passed between him and the + publisher, and promising him more valuable letters still. Curll, however, + told the whole story; and as, when the books were examined, not a single + lord's letter was found among them, Curll was acquitted, his books + restored to him, the lords saying that they had been made the tools of + Pope; and he proceeded to advertise the correspondence, in terms most + insulting to Pope, who now felt himself compelled (!) to print, by + subscription, his genuine letters, which, when printed, turned out, + strange to tell, to be identical with those published by the rapacious + bookseller! On viewing the whole transaction, we incline with Johnson, + Warton, Bowles, Macaulay, and Carruthers, to look upon it as one of Pope's + ape-like stratagems—to believe that P.T. was himself, Smith his + agent, and that his objects were partly to outwit Curll, to mystify the + public, to gratify that strange love of manoeuvring which dwelt as + strongly in him as in any match-making mamma, and to attract interest and + attention to the genuine correspondence when it should appear. Pope, it + was said, could not "drink tea without a stratagem," and far less publish + his correspondence without a series of contemptible tricks—tricks, + however, in which he was true to his nature—<i>that</i> being a + curious compound of the woman and the wit, the monkey and the genius<a + href="#linknote-1" name="linknoteref-1" id="linknoteref-1"><small>1</small></a>. + </p> + <p> + In 1737, four of his Imitations of Horace were published, and in the next + year appeared two Dialogues, each entitled "1738," which now form the + Epilogue to the Satires. One of them was issued on the same day with + Johnson's "London." In that year, too, he published his "Universal + Prayer,"—a singular specimen of latitudinarian thought, expressed in + a loose simplicity of language, quite unusual with its author. The next + year he had intended to signalise by a third Dialogue, which he commenced + in a vigorous style, but which he did not finish, owing to the dread of a + prosecution before the Lords; and with the exception of letters (one of + them interesting, as his last to Swift), his pen was altogether idle. In + 1740, he did nothing but edit an edition of select Italian Poets. This + year, Crousaz, a Swiss professor of note, having attacked (we think most + justly) the "Essay on Man" as a mere Pagan prolusion—a thin + philosophical smile cast on the Gordian knot of the mystery of the + universe, instead of a <i>sword</i> cutting, or trying to cut, it in + sunder—Warburton, a man of much talent and learning, but of more + astuteness and anxiety to exalt himself, came forward to the rescue, and, + with a mixture of casuistical cunning and real ingenuity, tried, as some + one has it, "to make Pope a Christian," although, even in Warburton's + hands, like the dying Donald Bane in "Waverley," he "makes but a queer + Christian after all;" and his system, essentially Pantheistic, contrives + to ignore the grand Scripture principles of a Fall, of a Divine Redeemer, + of a Future World, and the glorious light or darkness which these and + other Christian doctrines cast upon the Mystery of Man. If, however, + Warburton, with all his scholastic subtlety, failed to make Pope a + Christian, he made him a warm friend; Allen, Pope's acquaintance, a rich + father-in-law; and himself, by and by, the Bishop of Gloucester. Sophistry + has seldom, although sometimes, been thus richly rewarded. + </p> + <p> + The last scene of Pope's tiny and tortured existence was now at hand. But + ere it closed, it must close like Dryden's, characteristically, with an + author's quarrel. Colley Cibber had long been a favourite of Pope's ire, + and had as often retorted scorn, till at last, by laughing upon the stage + at Pope's play (partly Gay's), entitled, "Three Hours After Marriage," he + roused the bard almost to frenzy; and Pope set to work to remodel "The + Dunciad;" and, dethroning Theobald, set up Cibber as the lawful King of + the Dull,—a most unfortunate substitution, since, while Theobald was + the ideal of stolid, solemn stupidity, Cibber was gay, light, pert, and + clever; full of pluck, too, and who overflowed in reply, with pamphlets + which gave Pope both a headache and a heartache whenever he perused them. + </p> + <p> + Pope had never been strong, and for many years the variety and multitude + of his frailties had been increasing. He had habitually all his life been + tormented with headaches, for which he found the steam of strong coffee + the chief remedy. He had hurt his stomach, too, by indulging in excess of + stimulating viands, such as potted lampreys, and in copious and frequent + <i>drams</i>. He was assailed at last by dropsy and asthma; and on the + 30th of May 1744, he breathed his last, fifty-six years of age. He had + long, he said, "been tired of the world," and died with philosophic + composure and serenity. He took the sacrament according to the form of the + Roman Catholic Church; but merely, he said, because it "looked right." A + little before his death, he called for his desk, and began an essay on the + immortality of the soul, and on those material things which tend to weaken + or to strengthen it for immortality,— enumerating generous wines as + among the latter influences, and spirituous liquors among the former! His + last words were, "There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and + friendship; and, indeed, friendship itself is only a part of virtue." + Thus, "motionless and moanless," without a word about Christ—the + slightest syllable of repentance—and with a scrap of heathen + morality in his mouth, died the brilliant Alexander Pope. Who is ready to + say, "May my last end be like his"? His favourite Martha Blount behaved, + according to some accounts, with disgusting unconcern on the occasion. So + true it is, "there is no friendship among the wicked," even although the + heartless Bolingbroke, too, was by, and seems to have succeeded in + squeezing out some crocodile tears, as he bent over the dying poet, and + said, "O God! what is man?" His remains were, according to his wish, + deposited in Twickenham church, near his parents, where the single letter + P on the stone alone distinguishes the spot. + </p> + <p> + Pope's character, apart from his poetry, which we intend criticising in + our next volume, was not specially interesting or elevated. He was a + spoiled child, a small self-tormentor,—full to bursting with petty + spites, mean animosities, and unfounded jealousies. While he sought, with + the fury of a pampered slave, to trample on those authors that were + beneath him in rank or in popularity, he could on all occasions fawn with + the sycophancy of a eunuch upon the noble, the rich, and the powerful. + Hazlitt speaks of Moore as a "pug-dog barking from the lap of a lady of + quality at inferior passengers." The description is far more applicable to + Pope. We have much allowance to make for the influence exerted on his mind + by his singularly crooked frame and sickly habit of body, by his position + as belonging to a proscribed faith, and by his want of training in a + public school; but after all these deductions, we cannot but deplore the + spectacle of one of the finest, clearest, and sharpest minds that England + ever produced, so frequently reminding you of a bright sting set in the + body, and steeped in the venom, of a wasp. And yet, withal, he possessed + many virtues, which endeared him to a multitude of friends. He was a kind + son. He was a faithful and devoted friend. He loved, if not <i>man</i>, + yet many men with deep tenderness. A keen politician he was not; but, so + far as he went along with his party, he was true to the common cause. In + morals, he was greatly superior, in point of external decorum, to most of + the wits of the time; but in falsehood, finesse, treachery, and envy, he + stood at the bottom of the list, without that plea of poverty, or + wretchedness, or despair, which so many of them might have urged. Uneasy, + indeed, he always, and unhappy he often, was; but very much of his + uneasiness and unhappiness sprung from his own fault. He attacked others, + and could not bear to be attacked in return. He was a bully and a coward. + He threw himself into a thorn-hedge, and was amazed that he came out + covered with scratches and blood. While he shone in satirising many kinds + of vice, he laid himself open to retort by his own want of delicacy. He, + as well as Swift, was fond of alluding in his verse to polluted and + forbidden things. <i>There</i>, and there alone, his taste deserted him; + and there is something disgusting and unnatural in the combination of the + elegant and the obscene—the coarse in sentiment and the polished in + style. And whatever may be said for many of the amiable traits of the Man, + there is very little to be said for the general tendency—so far as + healthy morality and Christian principle are concerned—of the + writings of the Poet. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DETAILED CONTENTS + + PREFACE + PASTORALS— + Spring, the First Pastoral, or Damon + Summer, the Second Pastoral, or Alexis + Autumn, the Third Pastoral, or Hylas and Ægon + Winter, the Fourth Pastoral, or Daphne + MESSIAH + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM— + Part First + Part Second + Part Third + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK— + Canto I. + Canto II. + Canto III. + Canto IV. + Canto V. + WINDSOR-FOREST + ODE ON ST CECILIA'S DAY + TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS— + Chorus of Athenians + Chorus of Youths and Virgins + TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO + ODE ON SOLITUDE + THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL + ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY + PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO + IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS— + Chaucer + Spenser— + The Alley, + Waller— + Of a Lady Singing to her Lute + On a Fan of the Author's Design + Cowley— + The Garden + Weeping + Earl of Rochester— + On Silence + Earl of Dorset— + Artemisia + Phryne + Dr Swift— + The Happy Life of a Country Parson + THE TEMPLE OF FAME + ELOISA TO ABELARD + EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER + EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. + EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS + EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT + EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT + TO MRS M.B. ON HER BIRTHDAY + TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN, ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742 + TO MR JOHN MOORE + TO MR C., ST JAMES'S PLACE + EPITAPHS— + On Charles Earl of Dorset + On Sir William Trumbull + On the Hon. Simon Harcourt + On James Craggs, Esq. + Intended for Mr Rowe + On Mrs Corbet + On the Monument of the Honourable Robert Digby, and his Sister Mary + On Sir Godfrey Kneller + On General Henry Withers + On Mr Elijah Fenton + On Mr Gay + Intended for Sir Isaac Newton + On Dr Francis Atterbury + On Edmund Duke of Buckingham + For One who would not be Buried in Westminster Abbey + Another, on the same + On two Lovers struck dead by Lightning + AN ESSAY ON MAN— + Epistle I. + Epistle II. + Epistle III. + Epistle IV. + EPISTLE TO DR AKBUTHNOT; OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES + SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED— + Satire I. To Mr Fortescue + Satire II. To Mr Bethel + THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE— + To Lord Bolingbroke + THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE— + To Mr Murray + THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE— + To Augustus + THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE— + Book I. Epistle VII. + Book II. Satire VI. + Book IV. Ode I. + Part of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book + THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN VERSIFIED— + Satire II. + Satire IV. + EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES: IN TWO DIALOGUES— + Dialogue I. + Dialogue II. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + POPE'S POETICAL WORKS. + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE.<a href="#linknote-2" name="linknoteref-2" id="linknoteref-2"><small>2</small></a> + </h2> + <p> + I am inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers of + them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations. The + first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they produce, and + the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. + Methinks, as on the one hand, no single man is born with a right of + controlling the opinions of all the rest; so, on the other, the world has + no title to demand that the whole care and time of any particular person + should be sacrificed to its entertainment. Therefore I cannot but believe + that writers and readers are under equal obligations for as much fame, or + pleasure, as each affords the other. + </p> + <p> + Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection in + any work of man: and yet one would think the contrary was taken for + granted, by the judgment commonly passed upon poems. A critic supposes he + has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expression, + or erred in any particular point: and can it then be wondered at, if the + poets in general seem resolved not to own themselves in any error? For as + long as one side will make no allowances, the other will be brought to no + acknowledgments. + </p> + <p> + I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill-placed; poetry and + criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only + the affair of idle men who write in their closets, and of idle men who + read there. + </p> + <p> + Yet sure, upon the whole, a bad author deserves better usage than a bad + critic; for a writer's endeavour, for the most part, is to please his + readers, and he fails merely through the misfortune of an ill judgment; + but such a critic's is to put them out of humour,—a design he could + never go upon without both that and an ill temper. + </p> + <p> + I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad poets. What + we call a genius, is hard to be distinguished by a man himself from a + strong inclination: and if his genius be ever so great, he cannot at first + discover it any other way than by giving way to that prevalent propensity + which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. The only method he has + is to make the experiment by writing, and appealing to the judgment of + others: now if he happens to write ill (which is certainly no sin in + itself) he is immediately made an object of ridicule. I wish we had the + humanity to reflect, that even the worst authors might, in their endeavour + to please us, deserve something at our hands. We have no cause to quarrel + with them but for their obstinacy in persisting to write; and this too may + admit of alleviating circumstances. Their particular friends may be either + ignorant or insincere; and the rest of the world in general is too well + bred to shock them with a truth which generally their booksellers are the + first that inform them of. This happens not till they have spent too much + of their time to apply to any profession which might better fit their + talents, and till such talents as they have are so far discredited as to + be but of small service to them. For (what is the hardest case imaginable) + the reputation of a man generally depends upon the first steps he makes in + the world; and people will establish their opinion of us from what we do + at that season when we have least judgment to direct us. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, a good poet no sooner communicates his works with the + same desire of information, but it is imagined he is a vain young creature + given up to the ambition of fame; when perhaps the poor man is all the + while trembling with the fear of being ridiculous. If he is made to hope + he may please the world, he falls under very unlucky circumstances: for, + from the moment he prints, he must expect to hear no more truth than if he + were a prince, or a beauty. If he has not very good sense (and indeed + there are twenty men of wit for one man of sense), his living thus in a + course of flattery may put him in no small danger of becoming a coxcomb: + if he has, he will consequently have so much diffidence as not to reap any + great satisfaction from his praise; since, if it be given to his face, it + can scarce be distinguished from flattery, and if in his absence, it is + hard to be certain of it. Were he sure to be commended by the best and + most knowing, he is as sure of being envied by the worst and most + ignorant, which are the majority; for it is with a fine genius as with a + fine fashion, all those are displeased at it who are not able to follow + it: and it is to be feared that esteem will seldom do any man so much good + as ill-will does him harm. Then there is a third class of people, who make + the largest part of mankind, those of ordinary or indifferent capacities; + and these (to a man) will hate, or suspect him: a hundred honest gentlemen + will dread him as a wit, and a hundred innocent women as a satirist. In a + word, whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up + all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed some advantages + accruing from a genius to poetry, and they are all I can think of: the + agreeable power of self-amusement when a man is idle or alone; the + privilege of being admitted into the best company; and the freedom of + saying as many careless things as other people, without being so severely + remarked upon. + </p> + <p> + I believe, if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the dangerous + fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any consideration. + The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth; and the present spirit of the + learned world is such, that to attempt to serve it (any way) one must have + the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to suffer for its sake. I + could wish people would believe, what I am pretty certain they will not, + that I have been much less concerned about fame than I durst declare till + this occasion, when methinks I should find more credit than I could + heretofore: since my writings have had their fate already, and it is too + late to think of prepossessing the reader in their favour. I would plead + it as some merit in me, that the world has never been prepared for these + trifles by prefaces, biased by recommendations, dazzled with the names of + great patrons, wheedled with fine reasons and pretences, or troubled with + excuses. I confess it was want of consideration that made me an author; I + writ because it amused me; I corrected because it was as pleasant to me to + correct as to write; and I published because I was told I might please + such as it was a credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am + really ignorant; I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of + them at first, and too much judgment to be pleased with them at last. But + I have reason to think they can have no reputation which will continue + long, or which deserves to do so: for they have always fallen short, not + only of what I read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry. + </p> + <p> + If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect + that the ancients (to say the least of them) had as much genius as we: and + that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to produce more + complete pieces. They constantly applied themselves not only to that art, + but to that single branch of an art, to which their talent was most + powerfully bent; and it was the business of their lives to correct and + finish their works for posterity. If we can pretend to have used the same + industry, let us expect the same immortality: though if we took the same + care, we should still lie under a further misfortune: they writ in + languages that became universal and everlasting, while ours are extremely + limited both in extent and in duration. A mighty foundation for our pride! + when the utmost we can hope is but to be read in one island, and to be + thrown aside at the end of one age. + </p> + <p> + All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imitation of + the ancients; and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest + character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have been + most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good sense must + have been common sense in all times; and what we call learning is but the + knowledge of the sense of our predecessors. Therefore they who say our + thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients, may as well + say our faces are not our own, because they are like our fathers: and + indeed it is very unreasonable that people should expect us to be + scholars, and yet be angry to find us so. + </p> + <p> + I fairly confess that I have served myself all I could by reading; that I + made use of the judgment of authors dead and living; that I omitted no + means in my power to be informed of my errors, both by my friends and + enemies: but the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing + to the consideration how short a time they and I have to live: one may be + ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing sense and rhyme together; + and what critic can be so unreasonable as not to leave a man time enough + for any more serious employment, or more agreeable amusement? + </p> + <p> + The only plea I shall use for the favour of the public is, that I have as + great a respect for it as most authors have for themselves; and that I + have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing not + only many mean things from seeing the light, but many which I thought + tolerable. I would not be like those authors who forgive themselves some + particular lines for the sake of a whole poem, and <i>vice versâ</i> a + whole poem for the sake of some particular lines. I believe no one + qualification is so likely to make a good writer as the power of rejecting + his own thoughts; and it must be this (if anything) that can give me a + chance to be one. For what I have published, I can only hope to be + pardoned; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be praised. On this + account the world is under some obligation to me, and owes me the justice + in return to look upon no verses as mine that are not inserted in this + collection. And perhaps nothing could make it worth my while to own what + are really so, but to avoid the imputation of so many dull and immoral + things as, partly by malice, and partly by ignorance, have been ascribed + to me. I must further acquit myself of the presumption of having lent my + name to recommend any miscellanies or works of other men; a thing I never + thought becoming a person who has hardly credit enough to answer for his + own. + </p> + <p> + In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain whether + to look upon myself as a man building a monument, or burying the dead. If + time shall make it the former, may these poems (as long as they last) + remain as a testimony that their author never made his talents subservient + to the mean and unworthy ends of party or self-interest; the gratification + of public prejudices or private passions; the flattery of the undeserving + or the insult of the unfortunate. If I have written well, let it be + considered that 'tis what no man can do without good sense,—a + quality that not only renders one capable of being a good writer, but a + good man. And if I have made any acquisition in the opinion of any one + under the notion of the former, let it be continued to me under no other + title than that of the latter. + </p> + <p> + But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my remains, I + desire it may be known that I die in charity and in my senses, without any + murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to posterity. + I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly submit to + every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of these writings; + not so much as wishing so irrational a thing, as that every body should be + deceived merely for my credit. However, I desire it may then be considered + that there are very few things in this collection which were not written + under the age of five-and-twenty: so that my youth may be made (as it + never fails to be in executions) a case of compassion. That I was never so + concerned about my works as to vindicate them in print; believing, if any + thing was good, it would defend itself, and what was bad could never be + defended. That I used no artifice to raise or continue a reputation, + depreciated no dead author I was obliged to, bribed no living one with + unjust praise, insulted no adversary with ill language: or, when I could + not attack a rival's works, encouraged reports against his morals. To + conclude, if this volume perish, let it serve as a warning to the critics, + not to take too much pains for the future to destroy such things as will + die of themselves; and a <i>memento mori</i> to some of my vain + cotemporaries the poets, to teach them that, when real merit is wanting, + it avails nothing to have been encouraged by the great, commended by the + eminent, and favoured by the public in general. + </p> + <p> + November 10, 1716. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS IN THE AUTHOR'S MANUSCRIPT PREFACE. + </h2> + <p> + After the words 'severely remarked on,' p. 2, l. 41, it followed thus—For + my part, I confess, had I seen things in this view at first, the public + had never been troubled either with my writings, or with this apology for + them. I am sensible how difficult it is to speak of one's self with + decency: but when a man must speak of himself, the best way is to speak + truth of himself, or, he may depend upon it, others will do it for him. + I'll therefore make this preface a general confession of all my thoughts + of my own poetry, resolving with the same freedom to expose myself, as it + is in the power of any other to expose them. In the first place, I thank + God and nature that I was born with a love to poetry; for nothing more + conduces to fill up all the intervals of our time, or, if rightly used, to + make the whole course of life entertaining: <i>Cantantes licet usque</i> (<i>minus + via laedet</i>). 'Tis a vast happiness to possess the pleasures of the + head, the only pleasures in which a man is sufficient to himself, and the + only part of him which, to his satisfaction, he can employ all day long. + The Muses are <i>amicae omnium horarum</i>; and, like our gay + acquaintance, the best company in the world as long as one expects no real + service from them. I confess there was a time when I was in love with + myself, and my first productions were the children of Self-Love upon + Innocence. I had made an epic poem, and panegyrics on all the princes in + Europe, and thought myself the greatest genius that ever was. I can't but + regret those delightful visions of my childhood, which, like the fine + colours we see when our eyes are shut, are vanished for ever. Many trials + and sad experience have so undeceived me by degrees, that I am utterly at + a loss at what rate to value myself. As for fame, I shall be glad of any I + can get, and not repine at any I miss; and as for vanity, I have enough to + keep me from hanging myself, or even from wishing those hanged who would + take it away. It was this that made me write. The sense of my faults made + me correct. + </p> + <p> + After the words 'angry to find us so,' p. 3, l. 36, occurred the following—In + the first place I own that I have used my best endeavours to the finishing + these pieces. That I made what advantage I could of the judgment of + authors dead and living; and that I omitted no means in my power to be + informed of my errors by my friends and by my enemies. And that I expect + no favour on account of my youth, business, want of health, or any such + idle excuses. But the true reason they are not yet more correct is owing + to the consideration how short a time they and I have to live. A man that + can expect but sixty years may be ashamed to employ thirty in measuring + syllables and bringing sense and rhyme together. To spend our youth in + pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old; and + when we are old, we find it is too late to enjoy any thing. I therefore + hope the wits will pardon me, if I reserve some of my time to save my + soul; and that some wise men will be of my opinion, even if I should think + a part of it better spent in the enjoyments of life than in pleasing the + critics. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PASTORALS, + </h2> + <h3> + WITH A DISCOURSE ON PASTORAL POETRY.<a href="#linknote-3" + name="linknoteref-3" id="linknoteref-3"><small>3</small></a> + </h3> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCIV. + </h3> + <p> + Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes, Flumina amem, sylvasque, + inglorius! + </p> + <h3> + VIRG. + </h3> + <p> + There are not, I believe, a greater number of any sort of verses than of + those which are called Pastorals; nor a smaller, than of those which are + truly so. It therefore seems necessary to give some account of this kind + of poem; and it is my design to comprise in this short paper the substance + of those numerous dissertations the critics have made on the subject, + without omitting any of their rules in my own favour. You will also find + some points reconciled, about which they seem to differ, and a few remarks + which, I think, have escaped their observation. + </p> + <p> + The original of poetry is ascribed to that age which succeeded the + creation of the world: and as the keeping of flocks seems to have been the + first employment of mankind, the most ancient sort of poetry was probably + <i>pastoral</i>. It is natural to imagine, that the leisure of those + ancient shepherds admitting and inviting some diversion, none was so + proper to that solitary and sedentary life as singing; and that in their + songs they took occasion to celebrate their own felicity. From hence a + poem was invented, and afterwards improved to a perfect image of that + happy time; which, by giving us an esteem for the virtues of a former age, + might recommend them to the present. And since the life of shepherds was + attended with more tranquility than any other rural employment, the poets + chose to introduce their persons, from whom it received the name of + "pastoral." + </p> + <p> + A pastoral is an imitation of the action of a shepherd, or one considered + under that character. The form of this imitation is dramatic, or + narrative, or mixed of both; the fable simple, the manners not too polite + nor too rustic: the thoughts are plain, yet admit a little quickness and + passion, but that short and flowing: the expression humble, yet as pure as + the language will afford; neat, but not florid; easy and yet lively. In + short, the fable, manners, thoughts, and expressions are full of the + greatest simplicity in nature. + </p> + <p> + The complete character of this poem consists in simplicity, brevity, and + delicacy; the two first of which render an eclogue natural, and the last + delightful. + </p> + <p> + If we would copy nature, it may be useful to take this idea along with us, + that pastoral is an image of what they call the Golden Age. So that we are + not to describe our shepherds as shepherds at this day really are, but as + they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men followed the + employment. To carry this resemblance yet further, it would not be amiss + to give these shepherds some skill in astronomy, as far as it may be + useful to that sort of life. And an air of piety to the gods should shine + through the poem, which so visibly appears in all the works of antiquity: + and it ought to preserve some relish of the old way of writing; the + connexion should be loose, the narrations and descriptions short, and the + periods concise. Yet it is not sufficient, that the sentences only be + brief, the whole eclogue should be so too. For we cannot suppose poetry in + those days to have been the business of men, but their recreation at + vacant hours. + </p> + <p> + But with respect to the present age, nothing more conduces to make these + composures natural than when some knowledge in rural affairs is + discovered. This may be made to appear rather done by chance than on + design, and sometimes is best shown by inference; lest by too much study + to seem natural, we destroy that easy simplicity from whence arises the + delight. For what is inviting in this sort of poetry, proceeds not so much + from the idea of that business, as of the tranquility of a country life. + </p> + <p> + We must therefore use some illusion to render a pastoral delightful; and + this consists in exposing the best side only of a shepherd's life, and in + concealing its miseries. Nor is it enough to introduce shepherds + discoursing together in a natural way; but a regard must be had to the + subject—that it contain some particular beauty in itself, and that + it be different in every eclogue. Besides, in each of them a designed + scene or prospect is to be presented to our view, which should likewise + have its variety. This variety is obtained in a great degree by frequent + comparisons, drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by + interrogations to things inanimate; by beautiful digressions, but those + short; sometimes by insisting a little on circumstances; and lastly, by + elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers extremely sweet and + pleasing. As for the numbers themselves, though they are properly of the + heroic measure, they should be the smoothest, the most easy and flowing + imaginable. + </p> + <p> + It is by rules like these that we ought to judge of pastorals. And since + the instructions given for any art are to be delivered as that art is in + perfection, they must of necessity be derived from those in whom it is + acknowledged so to be. It is therefore from the practice of Theocritus and + Virgil (the only undisputed authors of pastoral) that the critics have + drawn the foregoing notions concerning it. + </p> + <p> + Theocritus excels all others in nature and simplicity. The subjects of his + 'Idyllia' are purely pastoral; but he is not so exact in his persons, + having introduced reapers and fishermen as well as shepherds. He is apt to + be too long in his descriptions, of which that of the cup in the first + pastoral is a remarkable instance. In the manners he seems a little + defective, for his swains are sometimes abusive and immodest, and perhaps + too much inclining to rusticity; for instance, in his fourth and fifth + 'Idyllia.' But 'tis enough that all others learnt their excellencies from + him, and that his dialect alone has a secret charm in it, which no other + could ever attain. + </p> + <p> + Virgil, who copies Theocritus, refines upon his original: and in all + points where judgment is principally concerned, he is much superior to his + master. + </p> + <p> + Though some of his subjects are not pastoral in themselves, but only seem + to be such, they have a wonderful variety in them, which the Greek was a + stranger to. He exceeds him in regularity and brevity, and falls short of + him in nothing but simplicity and propriety of style; the first of which + perhaps was the fault of his age, and the last of his language. + </p> + <p> + Among the moderns, their success has been greatest who have most + endeavoured to make these ancients their pattern. The most considerable + genius appears in the famous Tasso, and our Spenser. Tasso in his 'Aminta' + has as far excelled all the pastoral writers, as in his 'Gierusalemme' he + has outdone the epic poets of his country. But as this piece seems to have + been the original of a new sort of poem—the pastoral comedy—in + Italy, it cannot so well be considered as a copy of the ancients. + Spenser's Calendar, in Mr Dryden's opinion, is the most complete work of + this kind which any nation has produced ever since the time of Virgil. Not + but that he may be thought imperfect in some few points. His Eclogues are + somewhat too long, if we compare them with the ancients. He is sometimes + too allegorical, and treats of matters of religion in a pastoral style, as + the Mantuan had done before him. He has employed the lyric measure, which + is contrary to the practice of the old poets. His stanza is not still the + same, nor always well chosen. This last may be the reason his expression + is sometimes not concise enough: for the Tetrastic has obliged him to + extend his sense to the length of four lines, which would have been more + closely confined in the couplet. + </p> + <p> + In the manners, thoughts, and characters, he comes near to Theocritus + himself; though, notwithstanding all the care he has taken, he is + certainly inferior in his dialect: for the Doric had its beauty and + propriety in the time of Theocritus; it was used in part of Greece, and + frequent in the mouths of many of the greatest persons: whereas the old + English and country phrases of Spenser were either entirely obsolete, or + spoken only by people of the lowest condition. As there is a difference + betwixt simplicity and rusticity, so the expression of simple thoughts + should be plain, but not clownish. The addition he has made of a Calendar + to his Eclogues, is very beautiful; since by this, besides the general + moral of innocence and simplicity, which is common to other authors of + pastoral, he has one peculiar to himself—he compares human life to + the several seasons, and at once exposes to his readers a view of the + great and little worlds, in their various changes and aspects. Yet the + scrupulous division of his pastorals into months has obliged him either to + repeat the same description, in other words, for three months together; + or, when it was exhausted before, entirely to omit it: whence it comes to + pass that some of his Eclogues (as the sixth, eighth, and tenth, for + example) have nothing but their titles to distinguish them. The reason is + evident—because the year has not that variety in it to furnish every + month with a particular description, as it may every season. + </p> + <p> + Of the following eclogues I shall only say, that these four comprehend all + the subjects which the critics upon Theocritus and Virgil will allow to be + fit for pastoral: that they have as much variety of description, in + respect of the several seasons, as Spenser's: that, in order to add to + this variety, the several times of the day are observed, the rural + employments in each season or time of day, and the rural scenes or places + proper to such employments; not without some regard to the several ages of + man, and the different passions proper to each age. + </p> + <p> + But after all, if they have any merit, it is to be attributed to some good + old authors, whose works as I had leisure to study, so I hope I have not + wanted care to imitate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SPRING — THE FIRST PASTORAL, OR DAMON. + </h2> + <h3> + TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.<a href="#linknote-4" name="linknoteref-4" + id="linknoteref-4"><small>4</small></a> + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + First in these fields I try the sylvan strains, + Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains: + Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring, + While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing; + Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play, + And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay. + + You that, too wise for pride, too good for power, + Enjoy the glory to be great no more, + And, carrying with you all the world can boast, + To all the world illustriously are lost! 10 + Oh, let my Muse her slender reed inspire, + Till in your native shades you tune the lyre: + So when the nightingale to rest removes, + The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves, + But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, + And all the aërial audience clap their wings. + + Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, + Two swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse, + Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, + Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair: 20 + The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, + Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephou thus replied. + + DAPHNIS. + + Hear how the birds, on every bloomy spray, + With joyous music wake the dawning day! + Why sit we mute when early linnets sing, + When warbling Philomel salutes the spring? + Why sit we sad, when Phosphor<a href="#linknote-5" name="linknoteref-5" + id="linknoteref-5">5</a> shines so clear, + And lavish Nature paints the purple year? + + STREPHON. + + Sing then, and Damon shall attend the strain, + While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain. 30 + Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow; + Here western winds on breathing roses blow. + I'll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays, + And from the brink his dancing shade surveys. + + DAPHNIS. + + And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines, + And swelling clusters bend the curling vines: + Four Figures rising from the work appear, + The various Seasons of the rolling year; + And what is that, which binds the radiant sky, + Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie? 40 + + DAMON. + + Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing; + Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring; + Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground: + Begin, the vales shall every note rebound. + + STREPHON. + + Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise, + With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays! + A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand, + That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand. + + DAPHNIS. + + O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, + And make my tongue victorious as her eyes; 50 + No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, + Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart. + + STREPHON. + + Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, + Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; + But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, + And by that laugh the willing fair is found. + + DAPHNIS. + + The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, + She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen; + While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, + How much at variance are her feet and eyes! 60 + + STREPHON. + + O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow, + And trees weep amber on the banks of Po; + Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield, + Feed here, my lambs, I'll seek no distant field. + + DAPHNIS. + + Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves; + Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves; + If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid, + Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade. + + STREPHON. + + All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers, + Hush'd are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers; 70 + If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring, + The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing. + + DAPHNIS. + + All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair, + The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; + If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore, + And vanquish'd Nature seems to charm no more. + + STREPHON. + + In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, + At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, + But Delia always; absent from her sight, + Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. 80 + + DAPHNIS. + + Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, + More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; + Even spring displeases, when she shines not here; + But, blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year. + + STREPHON. + + Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears, + A wondrous tree<a href="#linknote-6" name="linknoteref-6" + id="linknoteref-6">6</a> that sacred monarchs bears? + Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, + And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes. + + DAPHNIS. + + Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields + The thistle<a href="#linknote-7" name="linknoteref-7" + id="linknoteref-7">7</a> springs, to which the lily<a href="#linknote-8" + name="linknoteref-8" id="linknoteref-8">8</a> yields? 90 + And then a nobler prize I will resign; + For Sylvia, charming Sylvia shall be thine. + + DAMON. + + Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree, + The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee: + Blest swains, whose nymphs in every grace excel; + Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well! + Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bowers, + A soft retreat from sudden vernal showers; + The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd. + While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around. 100 + For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend, + And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 36. And clusters lurk beneath the curling vines. + + VER. 49-52. Originally thus in the MS.— + + Pan, let my numbers equal Strephon's lays, + Of Parian stone thy statue will I raise; + But if I conquer and augment my fold, + Thy Parian statue shall be changed to gold. + + VER. 61-64. It stood thus at first— + + Let rich Iberia golden fleeces boast, + Her purple wool the proud Assyrian coast, + Blest Thames's shores, &c. + + VER. 61-68 Originally thus in the MS.— + + Go, flowery wreath, and let my Sylvia know, + Compared to thine how bright her beauties show; + Then die; and dying teach the lovely maid + How soon the brightest beauties are decay'd. + + DAPHNIS. + + Go, tuneful bird, that pleased the woods so long, + Of Amaryllis learn a sweeter song; + To Heaven arising then her notes convey, + For Heaven alone is worthy such a lay. + + VER 69-73. These verses were thus at first— + + All nature mourns, the birds their songs deny, + Nor wasted brooks the thirsty flowers supply; + If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring, + The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing. + + VER. 99, 100, was originally— + + The turf with country dainties shall be spread, + And trees with twining branches shade your head. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUMMER — THE SECOND PASTORAL, OR ALEXIS. + </h2> + <h3> + TO DR GARTH. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name) + Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame, + Where dancing sunbeams on the waters play'd, + And verdant alders form'd a quivering shade. + Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow, + The flocks around a dumb compassion show: + The Naïads wept in every watery bower, + And Jove consented in a silent shower. + + Accept, O Garth<a href="#linknote-9" name="linknoteref-9" + id="linknoteref-9">9</a> the Muse's early lays, + That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays; 10 + Hear what from love unpractised hearts endure: + From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. + + Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, + Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams, + To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing, + 'The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.'<a href="#linknote-10" + name="linknoteref-10" id="linknoteref-10">10</a> + The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay; + Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? + The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, + They parch'd with heat, and I inflamed by thee. 20 + The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, + While in thy heart eternal winter reigns. + + Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove, + While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? + In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, + Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? + As in the crystal spring I view my face, + Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass; + But since those graces please thy eyes no more, + I shun the fountains which I sought before. 30 + Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, + And every plant that drinks the morning dew; + Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, + To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! + Let other swains attend the rural care, + Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear: + But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, + Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. + That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath + Inspired when living, and bequeath'd in death; 40 + He said, 'Alexis, take this pipe—the same + That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name:' + But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, + For ever silent, since despised by thee. + Oh! were I made by some transforming power + The captive bird that sings within thy bower! + Then might my voice thy listening ears employ, + And I those kisses he receives, enjoy. + + And yet my numbers please the rural throng, + Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song: 50 + The Nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring, + Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring; + Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain. + On you their gifts are all bestow'd again. + For you the swains the fairest flowers design, + And in one garland all their beauties join; + Accept the wreath which you deserve alone, + In whom all beauties are comprised in one. + + See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! + Descending gods have found Elysium here. 60 + In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, + And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade. + Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, + When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers, + When weary reapers quit the sultry field, + And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield; + This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, + But in my breast the serpent love abides. + Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, + But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. 70 + Oh, deign to visit our forsaken seats, + The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! + Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, + Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade: + Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, + And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. + Oh, how I long with you to pass my days, + Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise! + Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove, + And winds shall waft it to the Powers above. 80 + But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain, + The wondering forests soon should dance again, + The moving mountains hear the powerful call, + And headlong streams hang listening in their fall! + + But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, + The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, + To closer shades the panting flocks remove; + Ye gods! and is there no relief for love? + But soon the sun with milder rays descends + To the cool ocean, where his journey ends: 90 + On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey, + By night he scorches, as he burns by day. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 1-4 were thus printed in the first edition— + + A faithful swain, whom Love had taught to sing, + Bewail'd his fate beside a silver spring; + Where gentle Thames his winding waters leads + Through verdant forests, and through flowery meads. + + VER. 3, 4. Originally thus in the MS.— + + There to the winds he plain'd his hapless love, + And Amaryllis fill'd the vocal grove. + + VER. 27-29— + + Oft in the crystal spring I cast a view, + And equall'd Hylas, if the glass be true; + But since those graces meet my eyes no more + I shun, &c. + + VER. 79, 80— + + Your praise the tuneful birds to heaven shall bear, + And listening wolves grow milder as they hear. + + VER. 91— + + Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AUTUMN. — THE THIRD PASTORAL, Or HYLAS AND ÆGON. + </h2> + <h3> + TO MR WYCHERLEY.<a href="#linknote-11" name="linknoteref-11" + id="linknoteref-11"><small>11</small></a> + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays, + Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays; + This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love. + And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove. + Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring; + Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing. + + Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire, + The art of Terence, and Menander's fire; + Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, + Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms! 10 + Oh, skill'd in Nature! see the hearts of swains, + Their artless passions, and their tender pains. + + Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, + And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; + When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, + Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan. + + Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! + To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. + As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, + And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores, 20 + Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, + Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn. + + Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! + For her, the feather'd choirs neglect their song: + For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny; + For her, the lilies hang their heads and die. + Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring, + Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, + Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove, + Say, is not absence death to those who love? 30 + + Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! + Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay; + Fade every blossom, wither every tree, + Die every flower, and perish all but she. + + What have I said? Where'er my Delia flies, + Let spring attend, and sudden flowers arise; + Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, + And liquid amber drop from every thorn. + + Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! + The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, 40 + The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, + And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. + Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, + Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain, + Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee, + Are half so charming as thy sight to me. + Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! + Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? + Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, + Delia, each care and echoing rock rebounds. 50 + Ye Powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind! + Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? + She comes, my Delia comes!—Now cease, my lay, + And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away! + + Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admired; + Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspired. + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! + Of perjured Doris, dying I complain: + Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, + Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies: 60 + While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat, + In their loose traces from the field retreat: + While curling smokes from village-tops are seen, + And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green. + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! + Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day: + Oft on the rind I carved her amorous vows, + While she with garlands hung the bending boughs: + The garlands fade, the vows are worn away; + So dies her love, and so my hopes decay. 70 + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! + Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain, + Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, + And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; + Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove; + Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love? + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! + The shepherds cry, 'Thy flocks are left a prey'— + Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep, + Who lost my heart—while I preserved my sheep. 80 + Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caused my smart, + Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? + What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move? + And is there magic but what dwells in love? + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains! + I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains. + From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, + Forsake mankind, and all the world—but Love! + I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred, + Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed. 90 + Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn, + Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born! + + Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! + Farewell, ye woods; adieu, the light of day! + One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains; + No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains! + + Thus sung the shepherds till the approach of night, + The skies yet blushing with departing light, + When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, + And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade. 100 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 48-5l—Originally thus in the MS.— + + With him through Libya's burning plains I'll go, + On Alpine mountains tread the eternal snow; + Yet feel no heat but what our loves impart, + And dread no coldness but in Thyrsis' heart. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WINTER. — THE FOURTH PASTORAL, OR DAPHNE. + </h2> + <h3> + TO THE MEMORY OF MRS TEMPEST.<a href="#linknote-12" name="linknoteref-12" + id="linknoteref-12"><small>12</small></a> + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LYCIDAS. + + Thyrsis, the music of that murmuring spring + Is not so mournful as the strains you sing; + Nor rivers winding through the vales below, + So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow. + Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie, + The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky, + While silent birds forget their tuneful lays, + Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise! + + THYRSIS. + + Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, + Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost. 10 + Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain, + That call'd the listening Dryads to the plain? + Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along, + And bade his willows learn the moving song. + + LYCIDAS. + + So may kind rains their vital moisture yield + And swell the future harvest of the field. + Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave, + And said, 'Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!' + Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn, + And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn. 20 + + THYRSIS. + + Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring, + Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring; + Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide, + And break your bows, as when Adonis died; + And with your golden darts, now useless grown, + Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone: + 'Let Nature change, let Heaven and Earth deplore, + Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!' + 'Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay; + See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day! 30 + Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear, + Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier. + See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie, + With her they flourish'd, and with her they die. + Ah, what avail the beauties Nature wore, + Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more! + + For her the flocks refuse their verdant food, + The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood, + The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan, + In notes more sad than when they sing their own; 40 + In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies, + Silent, or only to her name replies; + Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore; + Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more! + + No grateful dews descend from evening skies, + Nor morning odours from the flowers arise; + No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field, + Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield. + The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, + Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath; 50 + Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store; + Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more! + + No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, + Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings; + No more the birds shall imitate her lays, + Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays: + No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear, + A sweeter music than their own to hear; + But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore, + Fair Daphne's dead, and Music is no more! 60 + + Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, + And told in sighs to all the trembling trees; + The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, + Her fate remurmur to the silver flood; + The silver flood, so lately calm, appears + Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears; + The winds and trees and floods her death deplore, + Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more! + + But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high + Above the clouds, above the starry sky! 70 + Eternal beauties grace the shining scene, + Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green! + There while you rest in amaranthine bowers, + Or from those meads select unfading flowers, + Behold us kindly, who your name implore, + Daphne, our goddess, and our grief no more! + + LYCIDAS. + + How all things listen, while thy Muse complains! + Such silence waits on Philomela's strains, + In some still evening, when the whispering breeze + Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees. 80 + To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed, + If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed. + While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give, + Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live! + + THYRSIS. + + But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; + Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse; + Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay, + Time conquers all, and we must Time obey. + Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and groves; + Adieu, ye shepherds, rural lays, and loves; 90 + Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye sylvan crew; + Daphne, farewell; and all the world, adieu! + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 29, 30—Originally thus in the MS.— + + 'Tis done, and Nature's changed since you are gone; + Behold, the clouds have put their mourning on. + + VER. 83, 84. Originally thus in the MS.— + + While vapours rise, and driving snows descend, + Thy honour, name, and praise shall never end. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MESSIAH. — A SACRED ECLOGUE, IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S 'POLLIO.' + </h2> + <h3> + ADVERTISEMENT. + </h3> + <p> + In reading several passages of the Prophet Isaiah, which foretell the + coming of Christ and the felicities attending it, I could not but observe + a remarkable parity between many of the thoughts, and those in the + 'Pollio' of Virgil. This will not seem surprising, when we reflect, that + the eclogue was taken from a Sibylline prophecy on the same subject. One + may judge that Virgil did not copy it line by line, but selected such + ideas as best agreed with the nature of pastoral poetry, and disposed them + in that manner which served most to beautify his piece. I have endeavoured + the same in this imitation of him, though without admitting anything of my + own; since it was written with this particular view, that the reader, by + comparing the several thoughts, might see how far the images and + descriptions of the prophet are superior to those of the poet. But as I + fear I have prejudiced them by my management, I shall subjoin the passages + of Isaiah and those of Virgil, under the same disadvantage of a literal + translation. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ye Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: + To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. + The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, + The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, + Delight no more—O Thou my voice inspire + Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire! + + Rapt into future times, the bard begun: + A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son! + From Jesse's root behold the branch arise, + Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: 10 + The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, + And on its top descends the mystic Dove. + Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, + And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! + The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, + From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. + All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; + Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; + Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, + And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 20 + Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn! + Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! + See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, + With all the incense of the breathing spring! + See lofty Lebanon his head advance, + See nodding forests on the mountains dance: + See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, + And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! + Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; + 'Prepare the way! a God, a God appears:' 30 + 'A God, a God!' the vocal hills reply, + The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. + Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies! + Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys, rise; + With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay; + Be smooth, ye rocks, ye rapid floods, give way! + The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: + Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold! + He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, + And on the sightless eyeball pour the day: 40 + 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, + And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: + The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, + And leap exulting like the bounding roe. + No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear, + From every face he wipes off every tear. + In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, + And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. + As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, + Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 50 + Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, + By day o'ersees them, and by night protects, + The tender lambs he raises in his arms, + Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms; + Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, + The promised Father of the future age. + No more shall nation against nation rise, + Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, + Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, + The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 60 + But useless lances into scythes shall bend, + And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. + Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son + Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun; + Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, + And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field; + The swain in barren deserts with surprise + See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; + And start, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear + New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 70 + On rifted rocks, the dragons' late abodes, + The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods, + Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, + The spiry fir, and shapely box adorn: + To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, + And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. + The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, + And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead; + The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, + And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 80 + The smiling infant in his hand shall take + The crested basilisk and speckled snake, + Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, + And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. + Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise! + Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! + See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn; + See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, + In crowding ranks on every side arise, + Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 90 + See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, + Walk in thy light and in thy temple bend; + See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, + And heap'd with products of Sabean springs! + For thee Idumè's spicy forests blow, + And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. + See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display, + And break upon thee in a flood of day! + No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, + Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; 100 + But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, + One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze + O'erflow thy courts: The Light himself shall shine + Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! + The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, + Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; + But fix'd his word, his saving power remains; + Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own MESSIAH reigns! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCIX. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Introduction.—That 'tis as great a fault to judge ill, as to write + ill, + </h2> + <p> + and a more dangerous one to the public, ver. 1. That a true taste is as + rare to be found as a true genius, ver. 9-18. That most men are born with + some taste, but spoiled by false education, ver. 19-25. The multitude of + critics, and causes of them, ver. 26-45. That we are to study our own + taste, and know the limits of it, ver. 46-67. Nature the best guide of + judgment, ver. 68-87. Improved by art and rules, which are but methodised + nature, ver. 88. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets, + ver. 88-110. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a + critic, particularly Homer and Virgil, ver. 120-138. Of licences, and the + use of them by the ancients, ver. 140-180. Reverence due to the ancients, + and praise of them, ver. 181, &c. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II. + </h2> + <p> + Causes hindering a true judgment—(1.) pride, ver. 208; (2.) + imperfect learning, ver. 215; (3.) judging by parts and not by the whole, + ver. 233-288.—Critics in wit, language, versification only, ver. + 288, 305, 339, &c.; (4.) being too hard to please, or too apt to + admire, ver. 384; (5.) partiality—too much love to a sect—to + the ancients or moderns, ver. 394; (6.) prejudice or prevention, ver. 408; + (7.) singularity, ver. 424; (8.) in constancy, ver. 430; (9.) party + spirit, ver. 452, &c.; (10.) envy, ver. 466; against envy, and in + praise of good-nature, ver. 508, &c. When severity is chiefly to be + used by critics, ver. 526, &c. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III. + </h2> + <p> + Rules for the conduct of manners in a critic—(1.) candour, ver. 503; + modesty, ver. 566; good-breeding, ver. 572; sincerity, and freedom of + advice, ver. 578; (2.) when one's counsel is to be restrained, ver. 584. + Character of an incorrigible poet, ver. 600. And of an impertinent critic, + ver. 610, &c. Character of a good critic, ver. 629. The history of + criticism, and characters of the best critics—Aristotle, ver. 645; + Horace, ver. 653; Dionysius, ver. 665; Petronius, ver. 667; Quintillian, + ver. 670; Longinus, ver. 675. Of the decay of criticism, and its revival. + Erasmus, ver. 693; Vida, ver. 705; Boileau, ver. 714; Lord Roscommon, + &c., ver. 725. CONCLUSION. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FIRST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill + Appear in writing or in judging ill; + But, of the two, less dangerous is the offence + To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. + Some few in that, but numbers err in this; + Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; + A fool might once himself alone expose, + Now one in verse makes many more in prose. + + 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none + Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 + In poets as true genius is but rare, + True taste as seldom, is the critic's share; + Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, + These born to judge, as well as those to write. + Let such teach others who themselves excel. + And censure freely who have written well. + Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, + But are not critics to their judgment too? + + Yet if we look more closely, we shall find + Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind: 20 + Nature affords at least a glimmering light; + The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right. + But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, + Is by ill colouring but the more disgraced, + So by false learning is good sense defaced: + Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools, + And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools. + In search of wit these lose their common sense, + And then turn critics in their own defence: + Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, 30 + Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite. + All fools have still an itching to deride, + And fain would be upon the laughing side; + If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite, + There are who judge still worse than he can write. + + Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd, + Turn'd critics next, and proved plain fools at last. + Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, + As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. + Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle, 40 + As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile; + Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, + Their generation's so equivocal: + To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require, + Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. + + But you who seek to give and merit fame, + And justly bear a critic's noble name, + Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, + How far your genius, taste, and learning go; + Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50 + And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. + + Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, + And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit. + As on the land while here the ocean gains, + In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; + Thus in the soul while memory prevails, + The solid power of understanding fails; + Where beams of warm imagination play, + The memory's soft figures melt away. + One science only will one genius fit, 60 + So vast is art, so narrow human wit: + Not only bounded to peculiar arts, + But oft in those confined to single parts. + Like kings, we lose the conquests gain'd before, + By vain ambition still to make them more; + Each might his several province well command, + Would all but stoop to what they understand. + + First follow Nature, and your judgment frame + By her just standard, which is still the same: + Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 + One clear, unchanged, and universal light, + Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, + At once the source, and end, and test of Art. + Art from that fund each just supply provides, + Works without show, and without pomp presides; + In some fair body thus the informing soul + With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, + Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains, + Itself unseen, but in the effects, remains. + Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 80 + Want as much more to turn it to its use; + For wit and judgment often are at strife, + Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife, + 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed, + Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; + The wingèd courser, like a generous horse, + Shows most true mettle when you check his course. + + Those rules, of old discover'd, not devised, + Are Nature still, but Nature methodised; + Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd 90 + By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. + Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, + When to repress, and when indulge our flights: + High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, + And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; + Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, + And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. + Just precepts thus from great examples given, + She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. + The generous critic fann'd the poet's fire, 100 + And taught the world with reason to admire. + Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid proved, + To dress her charms, and make her more beloved: + But following wits from that intention stray'd, + Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid; + Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, + Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. + So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art, + By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, + Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, 110 + Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. + Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, + Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they. + Some drily plain, without invention's aid, + Write dull receipts how poems may be made. + These leave the sense, their learning to display, + And those explain the meaning quite away. + + You then, whose judgment the right course would steer, + Know well each ancient's proper character; + His fable, subject, scope in every page; 120 + Religion, country, genius of his age; + Without all these at once before your eyes, + Cavil you may, but never criticise. + Be Homer's works your study and delight, + Read them by day, and meditate by night; + Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, + And trace the Muses upward to their spring. + Still with itself compared, his text peruse; + And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. + When first young Maro in his boundless mind, 130 + A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd, + Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law, + And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw: + But when t' examine every part he came, + Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. + Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design, + And rules as strict his labour'd work confine, + As if the Stagyrite<a href="#linknote-13" name="linknoteref-13" + id="linknoteref-13">13</a> o'erlook'd each line. + Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; + To copy nature is to copy them. 140 + Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, + For there's a happiness as well as care. + Music resembles poetry, in each + Are nameless graces which no methods teach, + And which a master-hand alone can reach. + If, where the rules not far enough extend, + (Since rules were made but to promote their end) + Some lucky license answer to the full + The intent proposed, that license is a rule; + Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 + May boldly deviate from the common track; + Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, + And rise to faults true critics dare not mend, + From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, + And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, + Which, without passing through the judgment, gains + The heart, and all its end at once attains. + In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, + Which out of nature's common order rise, + The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. 160 + But though the ancients thus their rules invade, + (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) + Moderns, beware! or if you must offend + Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; + Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need, + And have at least their precedent to plead. + The critic else proceeds without remorse, + Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. + + I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts, + Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults. 170 + Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, + Consider'd singly, or beheld too near, + Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place, + Due distance reconciles to form and grace. + A prudent chief not always must display + His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, + But with the occasion and the place comply, + Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. + Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, + Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 + + Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, + Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; + Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, + Destructive war, and all-involving age. + See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring! + Hear in all tongues consenting paeans ring! + In praise so just let every voice be join'd, + And fill the general chorus of mankind. + Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days; + Immortal heirs of universal praise! 190 + Whose honours with increase of ages grow, + As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; + Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, + And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! + Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, + The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, + (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights, + Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) + To teach vain wits a science little known, + T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own! 200 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <h3> + VARIATIONS. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Between ver. 25 and 26 were these lines, since omitted by the author:— + + Many are spoil'd by that pedantic throng, + Who with great pains teach youth to reason wrong. + Tutors, like virtuosos, oft inclined + By strange transfusion to improve the mind, + Draw off the sense we have, to pour in new; + Which yet, with all their skill, they ne'er could do. + + VER. 80,81:— + + There are whom Heaven has bless'd with store of wit, + Yet want as much again to manage it. + + VER. 123. The author after this verse originally inserted the following, + which he has however omitted in all the editions:— + + Zoilus, had these been known, without a name + Had died, and Perault ne'er been damn'd to fame; + The sense of sound antiquity had reign'd, + And sacred Homer yet been unprofaned. + None e'er had thought his comprehensive mind + To modern customs, modern rules confined; + Who for all ages writ, and all mankind. + + VER. 130, 131:— + + When first young Maro sung of kings and wars, + Ere warning Phoebus touch'd his trembling ears +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART SECOND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of all the causes which conspire to blind + Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, + What the weak head with strongest bias rules, + Is PRIDE, the never-failing vice of fools. + Whatever Nature has in worth denied, + She gives in large recruits of needless pride; + For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find + What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind: + Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, + And fills up all the mighty void of sense: 210 + If once right reason drives that cloud away, + Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. + Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, + Make use of every friend—and every foe. + + A little learning is a dangerous thing; + Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: + There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, + And drinking largely sobers us again. + Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, + In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 220 + While from the bounded level of our mind, + Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; + But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise, + New distant scenes of endless science rise! + So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try, + Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, + The eternal snows appear already past, + And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: + But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey + The growing labours of the lengthen'd way, 230 + The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, + Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! + + A perfect judge will read each work of wit + With the same spirit that its author writ: + Survey the WHOLE, nor seek slight faults to find + Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; + Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, + The generous pleasure to be charm'd with wit. + But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, + Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 + That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep, + We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep. + In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts + Is not the exactness of peculiar parts; + 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, + But the joint force and full result of all. + Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, + (The world's just wonder, and even thine, O Rome!) + No single parts unequally surprise, + All comes united to th' admiring eyes; 250 + No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; + The whole at once is bold, and regular. + + Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, + Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. + In every work regard the writer's end, + Since none can compass more than they intend; + And if the means be just, the conduct true, + Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. + As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, + To avoid great errors, must the less commit: 260 + Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, + For not to know some trifles is a praise. + Most critics, fond of some subservient art, + Still make the whole depend upon a part: + They talk of principles, but notions prize, + And all to one loved folly sacrifice. + + Once on a time, La Mancha's knight,<a href="#linknote-14" + name="linknoteref-14" id="linknoteref-14">14</a> they say, + A certain bard encountering on the way, + Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, + As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage; 270 + Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, + Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. + Our author, happy in a judge so nice, + Produced his play, and begg'd the knight's advice; + Made him observe the subject, and the plot, + The Manners, Passions, Unities; what not? + All which, exact to rule, were brought about, + Were but a combat in the lists left out. + 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight. + 'Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.' 280 + 'Not so, by Heaven!' (he answers in a rage); + 'Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage.' + 'So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.' + 'Then build a new, or act it in a plain.' + + Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, + Curious, not knowing, not exact but nice, + Form short ideas, and offend in arts + (As most in manners) by a love to parts. + + Some to conceit alone their taste confine, + And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; 290 + Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; + One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. + Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace + The naked nature and the living grace, + With gold and jewels cover every part, + And hide with ornaments their want of art. + True wit is nature to advantage dress'd; + What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; + Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, + That gives us back the image of our mind. 300 + As shades more sweetly recommend the light, + So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. + For works may have more wit than does 'em good, + As bodies perish through excess of blood. + + Others for language all their care express, + And value books, as women men, for dress: + Their praise is still—'The style is excellent;' + The sense, they humbly take upon content. + Words are like leaves, and where they most abound, + Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. 310 + False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, + Its gaudy colours spreads on every place; + The face of Nature we no more survey, + All glares alike, without distinction gay; + But true expression, like the unchanging sun, + Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon; + It gilds all objects, but it alters none. + Expression is the dress of thought, and still + Appears more decent, as more suitable; + A vile conceit in pompous words express'd, 320 + Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: + For different styles with different subjects sort, + As several garbs with country, town, and court. + Some by old words to fame have made pretence, + Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; + Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, + Amaze the unlearn'd, and make the learnèd smile. + Unlucky, as Fungoso<a href="#linknote-15" name="linknoteref-15" + id="linknoteref-15">15</a> in the play, + These sparks with awkward vanity display + What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 330 + And but so mimic ancient wits at best, + As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd. + In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; + Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: + Be not the first by whom the new are tried, + Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. + + But most by numbers judge a poet's song; + And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: + In the bright Muse, though thousand charms conspire, + Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 340 + Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, + Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, + Not for the doctrine, but the music there. + These equal syllables alone require, + Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; + While expletives their feeble aid do join, + And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: + While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, + With sure returns of still expected rhymes; + Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze,' 350 + In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees:' + If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' + The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep:' + Then, at the last and only couplet fraught + With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, + A needless Alexandrine ends the song + That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. + Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know + What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; + And praise the easy vigour of a line, 360 + Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. + True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, + As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. + 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, + The sound must seem an echo to the sense; + Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, + And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows: + But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, + The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. + When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 + The line too labours, and the words move slow; + Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. + Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, + And bid alternate passions fall and rise! + While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove + Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; + Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, + Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: + Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 380 + And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! + The power of music all our hearts allow, + And what Timotheus<a href="#linknote-16" name="linknoteref-16" + id="linknoteref-16">16</a> was, is Dryden now. + + Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such + Who still are pleased, too little or too much. + At every trifle scorn to take offence: + That always shows great pride or little sense; + Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best + Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. + Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move, 390 + For fools admire, but men of sense approve: + As things seem large which we through mists descry, + Dulness is ever apt to magnify. + + Some, foreign writers, some, our own despise; + The ancients only, or the moderns prize. + Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied + To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. + Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, + And force that sun but on a part to shine, + Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 + But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; + Which from the first has shone on ages past, + Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; + Though each may feel increases and decays, + And see now clearer and now darker days. + Regard not then if wit be old or new, + But blame the false, and value still the true. + + Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, + But catch the spreading notion of the town; + They reason and conclude by precedent, 410 + And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. + Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then + Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. + Of all this servile herd, the worst is he + That in proud dulness joins with quality; + A constant critic at the great man's board, + To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. + What woful stuff this madrigal would be, + In some starved hackney sonnetteer, or me? + But let a lord once own the happy lines 420 + How the wit brightens! how the style refines! + Before his sacred name flies every fault, + And each exalted stanza teems with thought! + + The vulgar thus through imitation err; + As oft the learn'd by being singular: + So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng + By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: + So schismatics the plain believers quit, + And are but damn'd for having too much wit. + Some praise at morning what they blame at night, 430 + But always think the last opinion right. + A Muse by these is like a mistress used, + This hour she's idolised, the next abused; + While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, + 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. + Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say; + And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. + We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; + Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. + Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread; 440 + Who knew most sentences, was deepest read; + Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, + And none had sense enough to be confuted: + Scotists and Thomists<a href="#linknote-17" name="linknoteref-17" + id="linknoteref-17">17</a> now in peace remain, + Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.<a href="#linknote-18" + name="linknoteref-18" id="linknoteref-18">18</a> + If Faith itself has different dresses worn, + What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? + Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, + The current folly proves the ready wit, + And authors think their reputation safe 450 + Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh. + + Some valuing those of their own side or mind, + Still make themselves the measure of mankind: + Fondly we think we honour merit then, + When we but praise ourselves in other men. + Parties in wit attend on those of state, + And public faction doubles private hate. + Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, + In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; + But sense survived, when merry jests were past; 460 + For rising merit will buoy up at last. + Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, + New Blackmores and new Milbourns<a href="#linknote-19" + name="linknoteref-19" id="linknoteref-19">19</a> must arise: + Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, + Zoilus again would start up from the dead. + Envy will Merit, as its shade, pursue, + But like a shadow, proves the substance true; + For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known + The opposing body's grossness, not its own. + When first that sun too powerful beams displays, 470 + It draws up vapours which obscure its rays; + But even those clouds at last adorn its way, + Reflect new glories, and augment the day.<a href="#linknote-20" + name="linknoteref-20" id="linknoteref-20">20</a> + + Be thou the first true merit to befriend; + His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. + Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes, + And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. + No longer now that golden age appears, + When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years: + Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 480 + And bare threescore is all even that can boast; + Our sons their fathers' failing language see, + And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. + So when the faithful pencil has design'd + Some bright idea of the master's mind, + Where a new world leaps out at his command, + And ready Nature waits upon his hand; + When the ripe colours soften and unite, + And sweetly melt into just shade and light; + When mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 + And each bold figure just begins to live, + The treacherous colours the fair art betray, + And all the bright creation fades away! + + Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, + Atones not for that envy which it brings. + In youth alone its empty praise we boast, + But soon the short-lived vanity is lost: + Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, + That gaily blooms, but even in blooming dies. + What is this wit, which must our cares employ? 500 + The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; + Then most our trouble still when most admired, + And still the more we give, the more required; + Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, + Sure some to vex, but never all to please; + 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, + By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone! + + If wit so much from ignorance undergo, + Ah, let not learning too commence its foe! + Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 + And such were praised who but endeavour'd well: + Though triumphs were to generals only due, + Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. + Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, + Employ their pains to spurn some others down; + And while self-love each jealous writer rules, + Contending wits become the sport of fools: + But still the worst with most regret commend, + For each ill author is as bad a friend. 520 + To what base ends, and by what abject ways, + Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! + Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, + Nor in the critic let the man be lost. + Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; + To err is human—to forgive, divine. + + But if in noble minds some dregs remain, + Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain; + Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, + Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. 530 + No pardon vile obscenity should find, + Though wit and art conspire to move your mind; + But dulness with obscenity must prove + As shameful sure as impotence in love. + In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, + Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: + When love was all an easy monarch's care;<a href="#linknote-21" + name="linknoteref-21" id="linknoteref-21">21</a> + Seldom at council, never in a war: + Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ; + Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit; 540 + The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, + And not a mask went unimproved away: + The modest fan was lifted up no more, + And virgins smiled at what they blush'd before. + The following license of a foreign reign + Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; + Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation, + And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; + Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute, + Lest God himself should seem too absolute: 550 + Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare, + And vice admired to find a flatterer there! + Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, + And the press groan'd with licensed blasphemies. + These monsters, critics! with your darts engage, + Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! + Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, + Will needs mistake an author into vice; + All seems infected that the infected spy, + As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye. 560 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <h3> + VARIATIONS. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 225-228:— + + So pleased at first the towering Alps to try, + Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy, + The traveller beholds with cheerful eyes + The lessening vales, and seems to tread the skies. + + VER. 447. Between this and ver. 448:— + + The rhyming clowns that gladded Shakspeare's age, + No more with crambo entertain the stage. + Who now in anagrams their patron praise, + Or sing their mistress in acrostic lays? + Even pulpits pleased with merry puns of yore; + Now all are banish'd to the Hibernian shore! + Thus leaving what was natural and fit, + The current folly proved their ready wit; + And authors thought their reputation safe, + Which lived as long as fools were pleased to laugh. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART7" id="link2H_PART7"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART THIRD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Learn, then, what MORALS critics ought to show, + For 'tis but half a judge's task to know. + 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; + In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: + That not alone what to your sense is due + All may allow; but seek your friendship too. + + Be silent always when you doubt your sense; + And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: + Some positive, persisting fops we know, + Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; 570 + But you, with pleasure own your errors past, + And make each day a critique on the last. + + 'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; + Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; + Men must be taught as if you taught them not, + And things unknown proposed as things forgot. + Without good-breeding, truth is disapproved; + That only makes superior sense beloved. + + Be niggards of advice on no pretence; + For the worst avarice is that of sense. 580 + With mean complaisance ne'er betray your trust, + Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. + Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; + Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. + + 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, + But Appius<a href="#linknote-22" name="linknoteref-22" + id="linknoteref-22">22</a> reddens at each word you speak, + And stares tremendous, with a threatening eye, + Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry. + Fear most to tax an Honourable fool, + Whose right it is, uncensured, to be dull; 590 + Such, without wit, are poets when they please, + As without learning they can take degrees. + Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, + And flattery to fulsome dedicators, + Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, + Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. + 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, + And charitably let the dull be vain: + Your silence there is better than your spite, + For who can rail so long as they can write? 600 + Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, + And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep. + False steps but help them to renew the race, + As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. + What crowds of these, impenitently bold, + In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, + Still run on poets, in a raging vein, + Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, + Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, + And rhyme with all the rage of impotence! 610 + + Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true, + There are as mad, abandon'd critics too. + The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, + With loads of learnèd lumber in his head, + With his own tongue still edifies his ears, + And always listening to himself appears. + All books he reads, and all he reads assails, + From Dryden's Fables down to D'Urfey's Tales. + With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; + Garth did not write<a href="#linknote-23" name="linknoteref-23" + id="linknoteref-23">23</a> his own Dispensary. 620 + Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, + Nay, show'd his faults—but when would poets mend? + No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, + Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: + Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead: + For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. + Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, + It still looks home, and short excursions makes; + But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, + And, never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, 630 + Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide. + + But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, + Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? + Unbiass'd, or by favour, or by spite; + Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right; + Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere; + Modestly bold, and humanly severe: + Who to a friend his faults can freely show, + And gladly praise the merit of a foe? + Bless'd with a taste exact, yet unconfined; 640 + A knowledge both of books and human kind; + Generous converse; a soul exempt from pride; + And love to praise, with reason on his side? + + Such once were critics; such the happy few, + Athens and Rome in better ages knew. + The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore, + Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore; + He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, + Led by the light of the Maeonian star.<a href="#linknote-24" + name="linknoteref-24" id="linknoteref-24">24</a> + Poets, a race long unconfined, and free, 650 + Still fond and proud of savage liberty, + Received his laws; and stood convinced 'twas fit, + Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit. + + Horace still charms with graceful negligence, + And without method talks us into sense, + Will, like a friend, familiarly convey + The truest notions in the easiest way. + He who, supreme in judgment, as in wit, + Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, + Yet judged with coolness, though he sung with fire; + His precepts teach but what his works inspire. 660 + Our critics take a contrary extreme, + They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm: + Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations + By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations. + + See Dionysius<a href="#linknote-25" name="linknoteref-25" + id="linknoteref-25">25</a> Homer's thoughts refine, + And call new beauties forth from every line! + + Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, + The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease. + + In grave Quintilian's copious work we find 670 + The justest rules and clearest method join'd: + Thus useful arms in magazines we place, + All ranged in order, and disposed with grace, + But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, + Still fit for use, and ready at command. + + Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, + And bless their critic with a poet's fire. + An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, + With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; + Whose own example strengthens all his laws; 680 + And is himself that Great Sublime he draws. + + Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd, + Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd. + Learning and Rome alike in empire grew; + And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew; + From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom, + And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome. + With Tyranny then Superstition join'd, + As that the body, this enslaved the mind; + Much was believed, but little understood, 690 + And to be dull was construed to be good; + A second deluge Learning thus o'errun, + And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun. + + At length Erasmus, that great injured name, + (The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!) + Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barbarous age, + And drove those holy Vandals off the stage. + + But see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days, + Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays, + Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread, 700 + Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head. + Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive; + Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; + With sweeter notes each rising temple rung: + A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung: + Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow + The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow; + Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, + As next in place to Mantua,<a href="#linknote-26" name="linknoteref-26" + id="linknoteref-26">26</a> next in fame! + + But soon by impious arms from Latium chased, 710 + Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd; + Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance, + But critic-learning flourish'd most in France: + The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; + And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. + But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, + And kept unconquer'd and uncivilised; + Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, + We still defied the Romans, as of old. + Yet some there were, among the sounder few 720 + Of those who less presumed, and better knew, + Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, + And here restored Wit's fundamental laws. + Such was the Muse,<a href="#linknote-27" name="linknoteref-27" + id="linknoteref-27">27</a> whose rules and practice tell, + 'Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.' + Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good, + With manners generous as his noble blood; + To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, + And every author's merit, but his own. + Such late was Walsh—the Muse's judge and friend, 730 + Who justly knew to blame or to commend; + To failings mild, but zealous for desert; + The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. + This humble praise, lamented Shade! receive, + This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: + The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, + Prescribed her heights, and pruned her tender wing, + (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, + But in low numbers short excursions tries: + Content, if hence the unlearn'd their wants may view, 740 + The learn'd reflect on what before they knew: + Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; + Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame; + Averse alike to flatter, or offend; + Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <h3> + VARIATIONS. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 624. Between this and ver. 625:— + + In vain you shrug, and sweat, and strive to fly; + These know no manners but of poetry. + They'll stop a hungry chaplain in his grace, + To treat of unities of time and place. + + Between ver. 647 and 648, were the following lines, afterwards + suppressed by the author:— + + That bold Columbus of the realms of wit, + Whose first discovery's not exceeded yet. + Led by the light of the Maeonian star, + He steer'd securely, and discover'd far. + He, when all Nature was subdued before, + Like his great pupil, sigh'd, and long'd for more: + Fancy's wild regions yet unvanquish'd lay, + A boundless empire, and that own'd no sway. + Poets, &c. + + Between ver. 691 and 692, the author omitted these two:— + + Vain wits and critics were no more allow'd, + When none but saints had licence to be proud. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RAPE OF THE LOCK: + </h2> + <h3> + AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM. + </h3> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXII. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; + Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.' +</pre> + <h3> + MART. + </h3> + <h3> + TO MRS ARABELLA FERMOR. + </h3> + <p> + Madam,—It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this + piece, since I dedicate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness, it was + intended only to divert a few young ladies, who have good sense and + good-humour enough to laugh not only at their sex's little unguarded + follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the air of a + secret, it soon found its way into the world. An imperfect copy having + been offered to a bookseller, you had the good-nature for my sake to + consent to the publication of one more correct: this I was forced to, + before I had executed half my design, for the machinery was entirely + wanting to complete it. + </p> + <p> + The machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that + part which the deities, angels, or demons are made to act in a poem: for + the ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies: let an + action be never so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the + utmost importance. These machines I determined to raise on a very new and + odd foundation—the Rosicrucian doctrine of spirits. + </p> + <p> + I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but + 'tis so much the concern of a poet to have his works understood, and + particularly by your sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or + three difficult terms. + </p> + <p> + The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The best + account I know of them is in a French book called 'Le Comte de Gabalis,' + which both in its title and size is so like a novel, that many of the fair + sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the + four elements are inhabited by spirits, which they call <i>Sylphs, Gnomes, + Nymphs</i>, and <i>Salamanders</i>. The Gnomes, or Demons of Earth, + delight in mischief; but the Sylphs, whose habitation is in the air, are + the best-conditioned creatures imaginable. For they say, any mortals may + enjoy the most intimate familiarities with these gentle spirits, upon a + condition very easy to all true adepts—an inviolate preservation of + chastity. + </p> + <p> + As to the following cantos, all the passages of them are as fabulous as + the vision at the beginning, or the transformation at the end; (except the + loss of your hair, which I always mention with reverence). The human + persons are as fictitious as the airy ones; and the character of Belinda, + as it is now managed, resembles you in nothing but in beauty. + </p> + <p> + If this poem had as many graces as there are in your person, or in your + mind, yet I could never hope it should pass through the world half so + uncensured as you have done. But let its fortune be what it will, mine is + happy enough to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I am, + with the truest esteem, Madam, your most obedient, humble servant, + </p> + <h3> + A. POPE. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTO I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What dire offence from amorous causes springs, + What mighty contests rise from trivial things, + I sing—This verse to Caryll,<a href="#linknote-28" + name="linknoteref-28" id="linknoteref-28">28</a> Muse! is due: + This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view: + Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, + If she inspire, and he approve my lays. + + Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel + A well-bred lord t'assault a gentle belle? + Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, + Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 10 + In tasks so bold, can little men engage, + And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? + + Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, + And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day: + Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, + And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: + Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, + And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. + Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, + Her guardian Sylph<a href="#linknote-29" name="linknoteref-29" + id="linknoteref-29">29</a> prolong'd the balmy rest: 20 + 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed + The morning-dream that hover'd o'er her head, + A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau, + (That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow), + Seem'd to her ear his willing lips to lay, + And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say: + + 'Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care + Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! + If e'er one vision touch thy infant thought, + Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; 30 + Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, + The silver token, and the circled green, + Or virgins visited by angel-powers, + With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers; + Hear and believe! thy own importance know, + Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. + Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal'd, + To maids alone and children are reveal'd: + What though no credit doubting wits may give? + The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 + Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, + The light militia of the lower sky: + These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, + Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. + Think what an equipage thou hast in air, + And view with scorn two pages and a chair. + As now your own, our beings were of old, + And once enclosed in woman's beauteous mould; + Thence, by a soft transition, we repair + From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 + Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, + That all her vanities at once are dead; + Succeeding vanities she still regards, + And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. + Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, + And love of ombre, after death survive. + For when the fair in all their pride expire, + To their first elements their souls retire: + The sprites of fiery termagants in flame + Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. 60 + Soft yielding minds to water glide away, + And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea. + The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, + In search of mischief still on earth to roam. + The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, + And sport and flutter in the fields of air. + + 'Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste + Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embraced: + For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease + Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 70 + What guards the purity of melting maids, + In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, + Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark, + The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, + When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, + When music softens, and when dancing fires? + 'Tis but their Sylph, the wise celestials know, + Though honour is the word with men below. + + 'Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, + For life predestined to the Gnomes' embrace. 80 + These swell their prospects, and exalt their pride, + When offers are disdain'd, and love denied; + Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, + While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, + And garters, stars, and coronets appear, + And in soft sounds, 'Your Grace' salutes their ear. + 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, + Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, + Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, + And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 + + 'Oft, when the world imagine women stray, + The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, + Through all the giddy circle they pursue, + And old impertinence expel by new. + What tender maid but must a victim fall + To one man's treat, but for another's ball? + When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, + If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? + With varying vanities, from every part, + They shift the moving toyshop of their heart, 100 + Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, + Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. + This erring mortals levity may call, + Oh, blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. + + 'Of these am I, who thy protection claim, + A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. + Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, + In the clear mirror of thy ruling star + I saw, alas! some dread event impend, + Ere to the main this morning sun descend, 110 + But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where: + Warn'd by the Sylph, oh, pious maid, beware! + This to disclose is all thy guardian can: + Beware of all, but most beware of man!' + + He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, + Leap'd up, and waked his mistress with his tongue. + 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, + Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; + Wounds, charms, and ardours, were no sooner read, + But all the vision vanish'd from thy head. 120 + + And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, + Each silver vase in mystic order laid. + First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, + With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. + A heavenly image in the glass appears, + To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; + The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, + Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. + Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here + The various offerings of the world appear; 130 + From each she nicely culls with curious toil, + And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. + This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, + And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. + The tortoise here, and elephant unite, + Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. + Here files of pins extend their shining rows, + Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux. + Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; + The fair each moment rises in her charms, 140 + Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, + And calls forth all the wonders of her face; + Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, + And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. + The busy Sylphs surround their darling care, + These set the head, and those divide the hair, + Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown: + And Betty's praised for labours not her own. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <h3> + VARIATIONS. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 11,12. It was in the first editions:— + + And dwells such rage in softest bosoms then, + And lodge such daring souls in little men? + + VER. 13-18 Stood thus in the first edition:— + + Sol through white curtains did his beams display, + And op'd those eyes which brighter shone than they; + Shock just had given himself the rousing shake, + And nymphs prepared their chocolate to take; + Thrice the wrought slipper knock'd against the ground, + And striking watches the tenth hour resound. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTO II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain, + The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, + Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams + Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. + Fair nymphs and well-dress'd youths around her shone, + But every eye was fix'd on her alone. + On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, + Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. + Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, + Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those: 10 + Favours to none, to all she smiles extends; + Oft she rejects, but never once offends. + Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, + And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. + Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride + Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: + If to her share some female errors fall, + Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. + + This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, + Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind 20 + In equal curls, and well conspired to deck + With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. + Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, + And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. + With hairy springes we the birds betray, + Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, + Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, + And beauty draws us with a single hair. + + The adventurous Baron<a href="#linknote-30" name="linknoteref-30" + id="linknoteref-30">30</a> the bright locks admired; + He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 30 + Resolved to win, he meditates the way, + By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; + For when success a lover's toil attends, + Few ask if fraud or force attain'd his ends. + + For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored + Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, + But chiefly Love—to Love an altar built, + Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. + There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves; + And all the trophies of his former loves; 40 + With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, + And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. + Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes + Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: + The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer, + The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air. + + But now secure the painted vessel glides, + The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides: + While melting music steals upon the sky, + And soften'd sounds along the waters die; 50 + Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, + Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. + All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts oppress'd, + The impending woe sat heavy on his breast. + He summons straight his denizens of air; + The lucid squadrons round the sails repair; + Soft o'er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe, + That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. + Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, + Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; 60 + Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, + Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. + Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, + Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, + Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, + Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes; + While every beam new transient colours flings, + Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. + Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, + Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; 70 + His purple pinions opening to the sun, + He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: + + 'Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear, + Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons hear! + Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd + By laws eternal to the aërial kind. + Some in the fields of purest ether play, + And bask and whiten in the blaze of day: + Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, + Or roll the planets through the boundless sky: 80 + Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light + Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, + Or suck the mists in grosser air below, + Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, + Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, + Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. + Others on earth o'er human race preside, + Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: + Of these the chief the care of nations own, + And guard with arms divine the British throne.<a href="#linknote-31" + name="linknoteref-31" id="linknoteref-31">31</a> 90 + + 'Our humbler province is to tend the fair, + Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care; + To save the powder from too rude a gale, + Nor let the imprison'd essences exhale; + To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers; + To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, + A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, + Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; + Nay, oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, + To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 100 + + 'This day, black omens threat the brightest fair + That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; + Some dire disaster, or by force, or flight; + But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in night. + Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, + Or some frail China jar receive a flaw; + Or stain her honour, or her new brocade; + Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; + Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; + Or whether Heaven has doom'd that Shock must fall, 110 + Haste then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: + The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; + The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; + And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; + Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock; + Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. + + 'To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, + We trust the important charge, the petticoat: + Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, + Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale; 120 + Form a strong line about the silver bound, + And guard the wide circumference around. + + 'Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, + His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, + Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, + Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins; + Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, + Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye: + Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, + While, clogg'd, he beats his silken wings in vain; 130 + Or alum styptics with contracting power + Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flower: + Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel + The giddy motion of the whirling mill, + In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, + And tremble at the sea that froths below!' + + He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend; + Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; + Some thread the mazy ringlets of her hair; + Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; 140 + With beating hearts the dire event they wait, + Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 4. From hence the poem continues, in the first edition, to ver. 46:— + + The rest the winds dispersed in empty air; + + all after, to the end of this canto, being additional. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTO III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flowers, + Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers, + There stands a structure of majestic frame, + Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. + Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom + Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home; + Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, + Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea. + + Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, + To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 10 + In various talk the instructive hours they pass'd, + Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; + One speaks the glory of the British Queen, + And one describes a charming Indian screen; + A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; + At every word a reputation dies. + Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, + With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. + + Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, + The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 20 + The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, + And wretches hang that jurymen may dine; + The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, + And the long labours of the toilet cease. + Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, + Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, + At ombre singly to decide their doom, + And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. + Straight the three bands prepare in arras to join, + Each band the number of the sacred Nine. 30 + Soon as she spreads her hand, the aërial guard + Descend, and sit on each important card: + First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, + Then each, according to the rank they bore; + For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, + Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. + + Behold, four Kings in majesty revered, + With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; + And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a flower, + Th' expressive emblem of their softer power; 40 + Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, + Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand; + And particolour'd troops, a shining train, + Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. + + The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: + 'Let Spades be Trumps!' she said, and Trumps they were. + + Now move to war her sable Matadores, + In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. + Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! + Led off two captive Trumps, and swept the board. 50 + As many more Manillio forced to yield, + And march'd a victor from the verdant field. + Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard + Gain'd but one Trump and one plebeian card. + With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, + The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, + Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd, + The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd. + The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, + Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 + Even mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew + And mow'd down armies in the fights of Loo, + Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, + Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade! + + Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; + Now to the Baron fate inclines the field. + His warlike Amazon her host invades, + The imperial consort of the crown of Spades. + The Club's black tyrant first her victim died, + Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride: 70 + What boots the regal circle on his head, + His giant limbs in state unwieldy spread; + That long behind he trails his pompous robe, + And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? + + The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace; + The embroider'd King who shows but half his face, + And his refulgent Queen, with powers combined, + Of broken troops an easy conquest find. + Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, + With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. 80 + Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, + Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, + With like confusion different nations fly, + Of various habit and of various dye; + The pierced battalions disunited fall + In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. + + The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, + And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts. + At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, + A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; 90 + She sees, and trembles at the approaching ill, + Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille. + And now, (as oft in some distemper'd state) + On one nice trick depends the general fate, + An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen + Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen: + He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, + And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. + The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky; + The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 100 + + O thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, + Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. + Sudden these honours shall be snatch'd away, + And cursed for ever this victorious day. + + For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, + The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; + On shining altars of Japan they raise + The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: + From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, + While China's earth receives the smoking tide: 110 + At once they gratify their scent and taste, + And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. + Straight hover round the fair her airy band; + Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, + Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, + Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. + Coffee (which makes the politician wise, + And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) + Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain + New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 120 + Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, + Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! + Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air, + She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! + + But when to mischief mortals bend their will, + How soon they find fit instruments of ill! + Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace + A two-edged weapon from her shining case: + So ladies in romance assist their knight, + Present the spear, and arm him for the fight, 130 + He takes the gift with reverence, and extends + The little engine on his fingers' ends: + This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, + As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. + Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, + A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; + And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear; + Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. + Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought + The close recesses of the virgin's thought; 140 + As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, + He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind, + Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, + An earthly lover lurking at her heart. + Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, + Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retired. + + The Peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, + To inclose the lock; now joins it to divide. + Even then, before the fatal engine closed, + A wretched Sylph too fondly interposed; 150 + Fate urged the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain, + (But airy substance soon unites again) + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever + From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! + + Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, + And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. + Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, + When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last; + Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, + In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! 160 + + 'Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine, + (The victor cried) the glorious prize is mine! + While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, + Or in a coach-and-six the British fair, + As long as Atalantis<a href="#linknote-32" name="linknoteref-32" + id="linknoteref-32">32</a> shall be read, + Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, + While visits shall be paid on solemn days, + When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze, + While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, + So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!' 170 + + What Time would spare, from steel receives its date, + And monuments, like men, submit to fate! + Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, + And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy; + Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, + And hew triumphal arches to the ground. + What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel, + The conquering force of unresisted steel? + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 1. The first edition continues from this line to ver. 24 of this + canto. + + VER. 12. Originally in the first edition:— + + In various talk the cheerful hours they pass'd, + Of who was bit, or who capotted last. + + VER. 24. All that follows of the game at ombre, was added since the + first edition, till ver. 105, which connected thus:— + + Sudden the board with cups and spoons is crown'd. + + VER. 105. From hence, the first edition continues to ver 134. + + VER. 134. In the first edition it was thus:— + + As o'er the fragrant stream she bends her head. + First he expands the glittering forfex wide + To inclose the lock; then joins it to divide: + The meeting points the sacred hair dissever, + From the fair head for ever and for ever. + + Ver. 154. All that is between was added afterwards. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTO IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, + And secret passions labour'd in her breast. + Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, + Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, + Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, + Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, + Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, + Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, + E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, + As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair. 10 + + For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, + And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, + Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, + As ever sullied the fair face of light, + Down to the central earth, his proper scene, + Repair'd, to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. + + Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, + And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome. + No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, + The dreaded east is all the wind that blows; 20 + Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air, + And screened in shades from day's detested glare, + She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, + Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. + + Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, + But differing far in figure and in face. + Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, + Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd; + With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons + Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons. 30 + + There Affectation, with a sickly mien, + Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen; + Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, + Faints into airs, and languishes with pride; + On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, + Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show. + The fair ones feel such maladies as these, + When each new night-dress gives a new disease. + + A constant vapour o'er the palace flies, + Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40 + Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades, + Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. + Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, + Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: + Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, + And crystal domes, and angels in machines. + Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen + Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. + Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, + One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: 50 + A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; + Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks; + Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works, + And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. + + Safe pass'd the Gnome through this fantastic band, + A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. + Then thus address'd the power—'Hail, wayward Queen! + Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: + Parent of vapours and of female wit, + Who give the hysteric, or poetic fit, 60 + On various tempers act by various ways, + Make some take physic, others scribble plays; + Who cause the proud their visits to delay, + And send the godly in a pet to pray; + A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains, + And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. + But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace, + Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, + Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, + Or change complexions at a losing game; 70 + If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, + Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, + Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, + Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, + Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease, + Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: + Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, + That single act gives half the world the spleen.' + + The goddess with a discontented air + Seems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 80 + A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, + Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;<a href="#linknote-33" + name="linknoteref-33" id="linknoteref-33">33</a> + There she collects the force of female lungs, + Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. + A vial next she fills with fainting fears, + Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. + The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, + Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. + + Sunk in Thalestris'<a href="#linknote-34" name="linknoteref-34" + id="linknoteref-34">34</a> arms the nymph he found, + Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 90 + Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, + And all the furies issued at the vent. + Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, + And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. + 'O wretched maid!' she spread her hands, and cried, + (While Hampton's echoes 'wretched maid!' replied) + 'Was it for this you took such constant care + The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? + For this your locks in paper durance bound, + For this with torturing irons wreath'd around? 100 + For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, + And bravely bore the double loads of lead? + Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, + While the fops envy, and the ladies stare? + Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine + Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. + Methinks already I your tears survey, + Already hear the horrid things they say, + Already see you a degraded toast, + And all your honour in a whisper lost! 110 + How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? + 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! + And shall this prize, the inestimable prize, + Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, + And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, + On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? + Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow, + And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; + Sooner let earth, air, sea to chaos fall, + Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!' 120 + + She said; then raging to Sir Plume<a href="#linknote-35" + name="linknoteref-35" id="linknoteref-35">35</a> repairs, + And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: + (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain, + And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.) + With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking face, + He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case, + And thus broke out—'My Lord, why, what the devil? + Z—ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil! + Plague on't! 'tis past a jest—nay, prithee, pox! + Give her the hair'—he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 130 + + 'It grieves me much' (replied the Peer again) + Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain; + 'But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, + (Which never more shall join its parted hair; + Which never more its honours shall renew, + Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) + That while my nostrils draw the vital air, + This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.' + He spoke, and, speaking, in proud triumph spread + The long-contended honours of her head. 140 + + But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; + He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. + Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, + Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; + On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, + Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said: + + 'For ever cursed be this detested day, + Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away! + Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been, + If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! 150 + Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, + By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. + Oh, had I rather unadmired remain'd + In some lone isle, or distant northern land; + Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, + Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! + There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, + Like roses that in deserts bloom and die. + What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam? + Oh, had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! 160 + 'Twas this the morning omens seem'd to tell: + Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; + The tottering china shook without a wind, + Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! + A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate, + In mystic visions, now believed too late. + See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! + My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: + These in two sable ringlets taught to break, + Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170 + The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, + And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; + Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, + And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands. + Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize + Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!' + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 11. All the lines from hence to the 94th verse, that describe the + house of Spleen, are not in the first edition; instead of them followed + only these:— + + While her rack'd soul repose and peace requires, + The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires. + + And continued at the 94th verse of this canto. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CANTO V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She said: the pitying audience melt in tears; + But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. + In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, + For who can move when fair Belinda fails? + Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, + While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in vain. + Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; + Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began: + + 'Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most, + The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10 + Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford? + Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored? + Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux? + Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? + How vain are all these glories, all our pains, + Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: + That men may say, when we the front-box grace, + Behold the first in virtue as in face! + Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, + Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old-age away; 20 + Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, + Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? + To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, + Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint. + But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, + Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray; + Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, + And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; + What then remains, but well our power to use, + And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? 30 + And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail, + When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. + Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; + Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.' + + So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; + Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. + 'To arms, to arms!' the fierce virago cries, + And swift as lightning to the combat flies. + All side in parties, and begin the attack; + Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40 + Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise, + And bass and treble voices strike the skies. + No common weapons in their hands are found, + Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. + + So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, + And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; + 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms, + And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: + Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, + Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50 + Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, + And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! + + Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height + Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight; + Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey + The growing combat, or assist the fray. + + While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, + And scatters death around from both her eyes, + A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, + One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 + 'O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,' + Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. + A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, + 'Those eyes are made so killing!'—was his last. + Thus on Maeander's<a href="#linknote-36" name="linknoteref-36" + id="linknoteref-36">36</a> flowery margin lies + The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. + + When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, + Chloe stepped in, and kill'd him with a frown; + She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, + But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70 + + Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, + Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; + The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; + At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. + + See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, + With more than usual lightning in her eyes: + Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, + Who sought no more than on his foe to die. + But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, + She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 80 + Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, + A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; + The Gnomes direct, to every atom just, + The pungent grains of titillating dust. + Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, + And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. + 'Now meet thy fate!' incensed Belinda cried, + And drew a deadly bodkin from her side, + (The same, his ancient personage to deck, + Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 90 + In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, + Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: + Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, + The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; + Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs, + Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) + 'Boast not my fall,' (he cried) 'insulting foe! + Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. + Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: 100 + All that I dread is leaving you behind! + Rather than so, ah! let me still survive, + And burn in Cupid's flames,—but burn alive.' + + 'Restore the lock!' she cries; and all around + 'Restore the lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound. + Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain + Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain. + But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, + And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! + The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, + In every place is sought, but sought in vain: 110 + With such a prize no mortal must be blest, + So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can contest? + + Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, + Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. + There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases, + And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. + There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found, + And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, + The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, + The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 + Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, + Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. + + But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, + Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: + (So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew, + To Proculus alone confess'd in view) + A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, + And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. + Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, + The heaven's bespangling with dishevell'd light. 130 + The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, + And, pleased, pursue its progress through the skies. + + This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, + And hail with music its propitious ray. + This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take, + And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. + This Partridge<a href="#linknote-37" name="linknoteref-37" + id="linknoteref-37">37</a> soon shall view in cloudless skies, + When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; + And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom + The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140 + + Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, + Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! + Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, + Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. + For, after all the murders of your eye, + When, after millions slain, yourself shall die; + When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, + And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, + This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, + And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150 + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WINDSOR-FOREST.<a href="#linknote-38" name="linknoteref-38" + id="linknoteref-38">38</a> + + TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae, + Te nemus omne canet; nee Phoebo gratior ulla est, + Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.' + + VIRG. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats, + At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats, + Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids! + Unlock your springs, and open all your shades. + Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring! + What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing? + + The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long, + Live in description, and look green in song: + These, were my breast inspired with equal flame, + Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. 10 + Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, + Here earth and water seem to strive again; + Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised, + But, as the world, harmoniously confused; + Where order in variety we see, + And where, though all things differ, all agree. + Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display, + And part admit, and part exclude the day; + As some coy nymph her lover's warm address + Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20 + There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades, + Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades. + Here in full light the russet plains extend: + There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend. + Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes, + And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise, + That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn, + Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn. + Let India boast her plants, nor envy we + The weeping amber or the balmy tree, 30 + While by our oaks the precious loads are born, + And realms commanded which those trees adorn. + Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, + Though gods assembled grace his towering height. + Than what more humble mountains offer here, + Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear. + See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd, + Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground, + Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, + And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; 40 + Rich industry sits smiling on the plains, + And peace and plenty tell a Stuart<a href="#linknote-39" + name="linknoteref-39" id="linknoteref-39">39</a> reigns. + + Not thus the land appear'd in ages past, + A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste, + To savage beasts and savage laws<a href="#linknote-40" + name="linknoteref-40" id="linknoteref-40">40</a> a prey, + And kings more furious and severe than they; + Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods, + The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods: + Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves, + (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves). 50 + What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd, + And even the elements a tyrant sway'd? + In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain, + Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain; + The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields, + And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields. + What wonder, then, a beast or subject slain + Were equal crimes in a despotic reign? + Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled, + But while the subject starved, the beast was fed. 60 + Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began, + A mighty hunter, and his prey was man: + Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name, + And makes his trembling slaves the royal game. + The fields are ravish'd<a href="#linknote-41" name="linknoteref-41" + id="linknoteref-41">41</a> from the industrious swains, + From men their cities, and from gods their fanes: + The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er; + The hollow winds through naked temples roar; + Round broken columns clasping ivy twined; + O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 70 + The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, + And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs. + Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed, + The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst, + Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod, + And served alike his vassals and his God. + Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane, + The wanton victims of his sport remain. + But see, the man who spacious regions gave + A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave!<a href="#linknote-42" + name="linknoteref-42" id="linknoteref-42">42</a> 80 + Stretch'd on the lawn, his second hope<a href="#linknote-43" + name="linknoteref-43" id="linknoteref-43">43</a> survey, + At once the chaser, and at once the prey: + Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart, + Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart. + Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries, + Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise. + Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed, + O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread, + The forests wonder'd at the unusual grain, + And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain. 90 + Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears + Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years. + + Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood, + And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, + Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset, + Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net. + When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds, + And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds, + Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds, + Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds; 100 + But when the tainted gales the game betray, + Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey: + Secure they trust the unfaithful field beset, + Till hovering o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net. + Thus (if small things we may with great compare) + When Albion sends her eager sons to war, + Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest, + Near, and more near, the closing lines invest; + Sudden they seize the amazed, defenceless prize, + And high in air Britannia's standard flies. 110 + + See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, + And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: + Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, + Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. + Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, + His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, + The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, + His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold? + + Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky, + The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. 120 + To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair, + And trace the mazes of the circling hare; + (Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue, + And learn of man each other to undo.) + With slaughtering gun the unwearied fowler roves, + When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves; + Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade, + And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade. + He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; + Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky; 130 + Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, + The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death: + Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, + They fall, and leave their little lives in air. + + In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade, + Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, + The patient fisher takes his silent stand, + Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: + With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed, + And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 140 + Our plenteous streams a various race supply, + The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, + The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, + The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, + Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, + And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains. + + Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car: + The youth rush eager to the sylvan war, + Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround, + Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. 150 + The impatient courser pants in every vein, + And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain: + Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd, + And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. + See the bold youth strain up the threatening steep, + Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep, + Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed, + And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed. + Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain, + The immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; 160 + Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen + As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen,<a href="#linknote-44" + name="linknoteref-44" id="linknoteref-44">44</a> + Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign, + The earth's fair light, and empress of the main. + + Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd, + And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade; + Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove, + Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove; + Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn, + Her buskin'd virgins traced the dewy lawn. 170 + + Above the rest a rural nymph was famed, + Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named; + (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast, + The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last). + Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known, + But by the crescent and the golden zone. + She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care; + A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; + A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds, + And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. + It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maid + Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, 180 + Pan saw and loved, and, burning with desire, + Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire. + Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, + When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky; + Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves, + When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves; + As from the god she flew with furious pace, + Or as the god, more furious, urged the chase. + Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears; + Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; 190 + And now his shadow reach'd her as she run, + His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun; + And now his shorter breath, with sultry air, + Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair. + In vain on father Thames she calls for aid, + Nor could Diana help her injured maid. + Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain: + 'Ah, Cynthia! ah—though banish'd from thy train, + Let me, oh! let me, to the shades repair, + My native shades—there weep, and murmur there.' 200 + She said, and melting as in tears she lay, + In a soft, silver stream dissolved away. + The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps, + For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps; + Still bears the name<a href="#linknote-45" name="linknoteref-45" + id="linknoteref-45">45</a> the hapless virgin bore, + And bathes the forest where she ranged before. + In her chaste current oft the goddess laves, + And with celestial tears augments the waves. + Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies + The headlong mountains and the downward skies, 210 + The watery landscape of the pendent woods, + And absent trees that tremble in the floods; + In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen, + And floating forests paint the waves with green, + Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams, + Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames. + + Thou, too, great Father of the British floods! + With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods; + Where towering oaks their growing honours rear, + And future navies on thy shores appear. 220 + Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives + A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives. + No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, + No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear. + Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays, + While led along the skies his current strays, + As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes, + To grace the mansion of our earthly gods: + Nor all his stars above a lustre show, + Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; 230 + Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, + Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. + + Happy the man whom this bright court approves, + His sovereign favours, and his country loves: + Happy next him who to these shades retires, + Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires: + Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, + Successive study, exercise, and ease. + He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, + And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: 240 + With chemic art exalts the mineral powers, + And draws the aromatic souls of flowers: + Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; + O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye; + Of ancient writ unlocks the learnèd store, + Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er: + Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood, + Attends the duties of the wise and good, + To observe a mean, be to himself a friend, + To follow nature, and regard his end; 250 + Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes, + Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies, + Amid her kindred stars familiar roam, + Survey the region, and confess her home! + Such was the life great Scipio once admired, + Thus Atticus, and Trumbull<a href="#linknote-46" name="linknoteref-46" + id="linknoteref-46">46</a> thus retired. + + Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess, + Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, + Bear me, oh, bear me to sequester'd scenes, + The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens: 260 + To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill, + Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.<a href="#linknote-47" + name="linknoteref-47" id="linknoteref-47">47</a> + (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow, + While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) + I seem through consecrated walks to rove, + I hear soft music die along the grove: + Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade, + By godlike poets venerable made: + Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; + There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.<a + href="#linknote-48" name="linknoteref-48" id="linknoteref-48">48</a> 270 + Oh early lost! what tears the river shed, + When the sad pomp along his banks was led! + His drooping swans on every note expire, + And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre. + + Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice, + No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; + Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung + His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? + But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! + Are these revived? or is it Granville sings? 280 + 'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats, + And call the Muses to their ancient seats; + To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes, + To crown the forest with immortal greens, + Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise, + And lift her turrets nearer to the skies; + To sing those honours you deserve to wear, + And add new lustre to her silver star. + + Here noble Surrey<a href="#linknote-49" name="linknoteref-49" + id="linknoteref-49">49</a> felt the sacred rage, + Surrey, the Granville of a former age: 290 + Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, + Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance: + In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre, + To the same notes, of love and soft desire: + Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, + Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now. + + Oh, wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore, + What kings first breathed upon her winding shore, + Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains + In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! 300 + With Edward's acts<a href="#linknote-50" name="linknoteref-50" + id="linknoteref-50">50</a> adorn the shining page, + Stretch his long triumphs down through every age, + Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field, + The lilies blazing on the regal shield: + Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall, + And leave inanimate the naked wall, + Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear, + And bleed for ever under Britain's spear. + + Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,<a href="#linknote-51" + name="linknoteref-51" id="linknoteref-51">51</a> + And palms eternal flourish round his urn. 310 + Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps, + And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps.<a href="#linknote-52" + name="linknoteref-52" id="linknoteref-52">52</a> + Whom not the extended Albion could contain, + From old Belerium to the northern main, + The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest, + And blended lie the oppressor and the oppress'd! + + Make sacred Charles' tomb for ever known, + (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone) + Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed, + Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled! 320 + She saw her sons with purple deaths expire, + Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire, + A dreadful series of intestine wars, + Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars. + At length great Anna said—'Let discord cease!' + She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace! + + In that blest moment, from his oozy bed + Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head; + His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream + His shining horns diffused a golden gleam: 330 + Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides + His swelling waters, and alternate tides; + The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd, + And on their banks Augusta<a href="#linknote-53" name="linknoteref-53" + id="linknoteref-53">53</a> rose in gold. + Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood, + Who swell with tributary urns his flood; + First the famed authors of his ancient name, + The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame: + The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd; + The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd; 340 + Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave; + And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave; + The blue, transparent Vandalis appears; + The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears; + And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood; + And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood. + + High in the midst, upon his urn reclined, + (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind) + The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes + Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; 350 + Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, + And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore. + + Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days, + That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise! + Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold, + Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, + From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows, + And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; + These now no more shall be the Muse's themes, + Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. 360 + Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, + And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine, + Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train; + Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. + No more my sons shall dye with British blood + Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood: + Safe on my shore each unmolested swain + Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; + The shady empire shall retain no trace + Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase; 370 + The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, + And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone. + Behold! the ascending villas on my side, + Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide, + Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase, + And temples rise,<a href="#linknote-54" name="linknoteref-54" + id="linknoteref-54">54</a> the beauteous works of Peace. + I see, I see, where two fair cities bend + Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend! + There mighty nations shall inquire their doom, + The world's great oracle in times to come; 380 + There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen + Once more to bend before a British queen. + + Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods, + And half thy forests rush into the floods, + Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display, + To the bright regions of the rising day; + Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll, + Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole; + Or under southern skies exalt their sails, + Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! 390 + For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow, + The coral redden, and the ruby glow, + The pearly shell its lucid globe infold, + And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold. + The time shall come when, free as seas or wind, + Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, + Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, + And seas but join the regions they divide; + Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, + And the new world launch forth to seek the old. 400 + Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide, + And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side, + And naked youths and painted chiefs admire + Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! + O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore, + Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more; + Till the freed Indians in their native groves + Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves, + Peru once more a race of kings behold, + And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold. 410 + Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell, + In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell; + Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, + And mad Ambition shall attend her there: + There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires, + Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires: + There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel, + And Persecution mourn her broken wheel: + There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, + And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain. 420 + + Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays + Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days: + The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite, + And bring the scenes of opening fate to light. + My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, + Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, + Where Peace descending bids her olives spring, + And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing. + Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days, + Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise; 430 + Enough for me, that to the listening swains + First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 3-6, originally thus:— + + Chaste Goddess of the woods, + Nymphs of the vales, and Naïads of the floods, + Lead me through arching bowers, and glimmering glades. + Unlock your springs, &c. + + VER. 25-28. Originally thus:— + + Why should I sing our better suns or air, + Whose vital draughts prevent the leech's care, + While through fresh fields the enlivening odours breathe, + Or spread with vernal blooms the purple heath? + + VER. 49, 50. Originally thus in the MS.— + + From towns laid waste, to dens and caves they ran + (For who first stoop'd to be a slave was man.) + + VER. 57, 58:— + + No wonder savages or subjects slain— + But subjects starved while savages were fed. + + VER. 91-94:— + + Oh may no more a foreign master's rage, + With wrongs yet legal, curse a future age! + Still spread, fair Liberty! thy heavenly wings, + Breathe plenty on the fields, and fragrance on the springs. + + VER. 97-100:— + + When yellow autumn summer's heat succeeds, + And into wine the purple harvest bleeds, + The partridge feeding in the new-shorn fields, + Both morning sports and evening pleasures yields. + + VER. 107-110. It stood thus in the first editions:— + + Pleased, in the General's sight, the host lie down + Sudden before some unsuspecting town; + The young, the old, one instant makes our prize, + And o'er their captive heads Britannia's standard flies. + + VER. 126— + + O'er rustling leaves around the naked groves. + + VER. 129— + + The fowler lifts his levell'd tube on high. + + VER. 233-236— + + Happy the man, who to the shades retires, + But doubly happy, if the Muse inspires! + Blest whom the sweets of home-felt quiet please; + But far more blest, who study joins with ease. + + VER. 231, 232. It stood thus in the MS.— + + And force great Jove, if Jove's a lover still, + To change Olympus, &c. + + VER. 265-268. It stood thus in the MS.— + + Methinks around your holy scenes I rove, + And hear your music echoing through the grove: + With transport visit each inspiring shade + By god-like poets venerable made. + + VER. 273, 274— + + What sighs, what murmurs fill'd the vocal shore! + His tuneful swans were heard to sing no more. + + VER. 288. All the lines that follow were not added to the poem till the + year 1710. What immediately followed this, and made the conclusion, were + these:— + + My humble Muse in unambitious strains + Paints the green forests and the flowery plains; + Where I obscurely pass my careless days, + Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise, + Enough for me that to the listening swains + First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains. + + VER. 305, 306. Originally thus in the MS.— + + When brass decays, when trophies lie o'erthrown, + And mouldering into dust drops the proud stone. + + VER. 319-322. Originally thus in the MS.— + + Oh fact accurst! oh sacrilegious brood, + Sworn to rebellion, principled in blood! + Since that dire morn what tears has Albion shed, + Gods! what new wounds, &c. + + VER. 325, 326. Thus in the MS.— + + Till Anna rose and bade the Furies cease; + 'Let there be peace'—she said, and all was peace. + + Between VER. 328 and 329, originally stood these lines— + + From shore to shore exulting shouts he heard, + O'er all his banks a lambent light appear'd, + With sparkling flames heaven's glowing concave shone, + Fictitious stars, and glories not her own. + He saw, and gently rose above the stream; + His shining horns diffuse a golden gleam: + With pearl and gold his towery front was dress'd, + The tributes of the distant East and West. + + VER. 361-364. Originally thus in the MS.— + + Let Venice boast her towers amidst the main, + Where the rough Adrian swells and roars in vain; + Here not a town, but spacious realm shall have + A sure foundation on the rolling wave. + + VER. 383-387 were originally thus— + + Now shall our fleets the bloody cross display + To the rich regions of the rising day, + Or those green isles, where headlong Titan steeps + His hissing axle in the Atlantic deeps: + Tempt icy seas, &c. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE ON ST CECILIA'S DAY, + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MDCCVIII. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; + The breathing instruments inspire, + Wake into voice each silent string, + And sweep the sounding lyre; + In a sadly-pleasing strain + Let the warbling lute complain: + Let the loud trumpet sound, + Till the roofs all around + The shrill echoes rebound: + While in more lengthen'd notes and slow, + The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. + Hark! the numbers soft and clear, + Gently steal upon the ear; + Now louder, and yet louder rise, + And fill with spreading sounds the skies; + Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, + In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; + Till, by degrees, remote and small, + The strains decay, + And melt away, + In a dying, dying fall. + + 2 By Music, minds an equal temper know, + Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. + If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, + Music her soft, assuasive voice applies; + Or, when the soul is press'd with cares, + Exalts her in enlivening airs. + Warriors she fires with animated sounds; + Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds; + Melancholy lifts her head, + Morpheus rouses from his bed, + Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, + Listening Envy drops her snakes; + Intestine war no more our passions wage, + And giddy factions hear away their rage. + + 3 But when our country's cause provokes to arms, + How martial music every bosom warms! + So when the first bold vessel dared the seas, + High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, + While Argo saw her kindred trees + Descend from Pelion to the main. + Transported demigods stood round, + And men grew heroes at the sound, + Inflamed with glory's charms: + Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, + And half unsheath'd the shining blade: + And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, + 'To arms, to arms, to arms!' + + 4 But when through all the infernal bounds, + Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, + Love, strong as death, the poet led + To the pale nations of the dead, + What sounds were heard, + What scenes appear'd, + O'er all the dreary coasts! + Dreadful gleams, + Dismal screams, + Fires that glow, + Shrieks of woe, + Sullen moans, + Hollow groans, + And cries of tortured ghosts! + But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre; + And see! the tortured ghosts respire, + See, shady forms advance! + Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still, + Ixion rests upon his wheel. + And the pale spectres dance! + The Furies sink upon their iron beds, + And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads. + + 5 'By the streams that ever flow, + By the fragrant winds that blow + O'er the Elysian flowers; + By those happy souls who dwell + In yellow meads of asphodel, + Or amaranthine bowers; + By the hero's armèd shades, + Glittering through the gloomy glades; + By the youths that died for love, + Wandering in the myrtle grove, + Restore, restore Eurydice to life: + Oh take the husband, or return the wife!' + He sung, and hell consented + To hear the poet's prayer: + Stern Proserpine relented, + And gave him back the fair. + Thus song could prevail + O'er death and o'er hell, + A conquest how hard and how glorious! + Though fate had fast bound her + With Styx nine times round her, + Yet Music and Love were victorious. + + 6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes: + Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! + How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? + No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. + Now under hanging mountains, + Beside the falls of fountains, + Or where Hebrus wanders, + Rolling in meanders, + All alone, + Unheard, unknown, + He makes his moan; + And calls her ghost, + For ever, ever, ever lost! + Now with Furies surrounded, + Despairing, confounded, + He trembles, he glows, + Amidst Rhodope's snows: + See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; + Hark! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries— + Ah see, he dies! + Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, + Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, + Eurydice the woods, + Eurydice the floods, + Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. + + 7 Music the fiercest grief can charm, + And Fate's severest rage disarm: + Music can soften pain to ease, + And make despair and madness please: + Our joys below it can improve, + And antedate the bliss above. + This the divine Cecilia found, + And to her Maker's praise confined the sound. + When the full organ joins the tuneful choir, + The immortal powers incline their ear; + Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, + While solemn airs improve the sacred fire; + And angels lean from heaven to hear. + Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, + To bright Cecilia greater power is given; + His numbers raised a shade from hell, + Hers lift the soul to heaven. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHORUS OF ATHENIANS. + + STROPHE I. + + Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought; + Groves, where immortal sages taught: + Where heavenly visions Plato fired, + And Epicurus' lay inspired; + In vain your guiltless laurels stood + Unspotted long with human blood. + War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, + And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades. + + ANTISTROPHE I. + + O heaven-born sisters! source of art! + Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; + Who lead fair Virtue's train along, + Moral truth, and mystic song! + To what new clime, what distant sky, + Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly? + Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore, + Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more? + + STROPHE II. + + When Athens sinks by fates unjust, + When wild barbarians spurn her dust; + Perhaps even Britain's utmost shore + Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, + See Arts her savage sons control, + And Athens rising near the pole! + Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, + And civil madness tears them from the land. + + ANTISTROPHE II. + + Ye gods! what justice rules the ball? + Freedom and Arts together fall; + Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves, + And men, once ignorant, are slaves. + Oh, cursed effects of civil hate, + In every age, in every state! + Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, + Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. + + CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS. + + SEMICHORUS. + + O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd + The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? + Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, + And arts but soften us to feel thy flame. + Love, soft intruder, enters here, + But entering learns to be sincere. + Marcus with blushes owns he loves, + And Brutus tenderly reproves. + Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire, + Which Nature has impress'd + Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire + The mild and generous breast? + + CHORUS. + + Love's purer flames the gods approve; + The gods and Brutus bend to love: + Brutus for absent Portia sighs, + And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes. + What is loose love? a transient gust, + Spent in a sudden storm of lust, + A vapour fed from wild desire, + A wandering, self-consuming fire. + But Hymen's kinder flames unite, + And burn for ever one; + Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light, + Productive as the sun. + + SEMICHORUS. + + Oh source of every social tie, + United wish, and mutual joy! + What various joys on one attend, + As son, as father, brother, husband, friend! + Whether his hoary sire he spies, + While thousand grateful thoughts arise; + Or meets his spouse's fonder eye; + Or views his smiling progeny; + What tender passions take their turns, + What home-felt raptures move? + His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns, + With reverence, hope, and love. + + CHORUS. + + Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises, + Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises, + Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises, + Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine! + Purest love's unwasting treasure, + Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure, + Days of ease, and nights of pleasure; + Sacred Hymen! these are thine. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO.<a href="#linknote-55" + name="linknoteref-55" id="linknoteref-55"><small>55</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite, + Codrus writes on, and will for ever write. + The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, + As clocks run fastest when most lead is on; + What though no bees around your cradle flew, + Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew, + Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead + A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head. + When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre, + Attentive blocks stand round you and admire. + Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same, + As meat digested takes a different name, + But sense must sure thy safest plunder be, + Since no reprisals can be made on thee. + Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight + (Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height. + So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly, + And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky. + Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full, + And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull; + Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er + This needless labour; and contend no more + To prove a <i>dull succession</i> to be true, + Since 'tis enough we find it so in you. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE ON SOLITUDE.<a href="#linknote-56" name="linknoteref-56" + id="linknoteref-56"><small>56</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 Happy the man, whose wish and care + A few paternal acres bound, + Content to breathe his native air + In his own ground. + + 2 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, + Whose flocks supply him with attire, + Whose trees in summer yield him shade, + In winter fire. + + 3 Blest, who can unconcern'dly find + Hours, days, and years slide soft away, + In health of body, peace of mind, + Quiet by day; + + 4 Sound sleep by night; study and ease, + Together mix'd; sweet recreation; + And innocence, which most does please, + With meditation. + + 5 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, + Thus unlamented let me die, + Steal from the world, and not a stone + Tell where I lie. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.<a href="#linknote-57" + name="linknoteref-57" id="linknoteref-57"><small>57</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 Vital spark of heavenly flame! + Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: + Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, + Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! + Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, + And let me languish into life! + + 2 Hark! they whisper; angels say, + 'Sister Spirit, come away!' + What is this absorbs me quite? + Steals my senses, shuts my sight, + Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? + Tell me, my soul, can this be Death? + + 3 The world recedes; it disappears! + Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears + With sounds seraphic ring! + Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! + O Grave! where is thy victory? + O Death! where is thy sting? + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY<a href="#linknote-58" + name="linknoteref-58" id="linknoteref-58"><small>58</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade + Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? + 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored, + Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? + Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, + Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? + To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, + To act a lover's or a Roman's part? + Is there no bright reversion in the sky, + For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 + + Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire + Above the vulgar flight of low desire? + Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; + The glorious fault of angels and of gods: + Thence to their images on earth it flows, + And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. + Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, + Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage: + Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years + Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 + Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, + And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. + + From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) + Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. + As into air the purer spirits flow, + And separate from their kindred dregs below; + So flew the soul to its congenial place, + Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. + + But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, + Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! 30 + See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, + These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; + Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, + And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. + Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball, + Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: + On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, + And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates. + There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, + (While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40 + 'Lo, these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd, + And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.' + Thus unlamented pass the proud away, + The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! + So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow + For others' good, or melt at others' woe. + + What can atone (O ever-injured Shade!) + Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? + No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear + Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier, 50 + By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, + By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, + By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, + By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! + What, though no friends in sable weeds appear, + Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, + And bear about the mockery of woe + To midnight dances, and the public show? + What, though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, + Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? 60 + What, though no sacred earth allow thee room, + Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? + Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, + And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: + There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, + There the first roses of the year shall blow; + While angels with their silver wings o'ershade + The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. + + So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, + What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70 + How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not, + To whom related, or by whom begot; + A heap of dust alone remains of thee, + 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! + + Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, + Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. + Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, + Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; + Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, + And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; 80 + Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, + The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, + To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; + To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, + Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: + For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, + Commanding tears to stream through every age; + Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, + And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. + Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move + The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10 + In pitying love, we but our weakness show, + And wild ambition well deserves its woe. + Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, + Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: + He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, + And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. + Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, + What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: + No common object to your sight displays, + But what with pleasure<a href="#linknote-59" name="linknoteref-59" + id="linknoteref-59">59</a> Heaven itself surveys, 20 + A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, + And greatly falling with a falling state. + While Cato gives his little senate laws, + What bosom beats not in his country's cause? + Who sees him act, but envies every deed? + Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? + Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, + The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, + Ignobly vain and impotently great, + Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30 + As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, + The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast; + The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; + The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; + Her last good man dejected Rome adored, + And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. + + Britons, attend: be worth like this approved, + And show you have the virtue to be moved. + With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd + Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 40 + Your scene precariously subsists too long + On French translation, and Italian song. + Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, + Be justly warm'd with your own native rage; + Such plays alone should win a British ear, + As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.<a href="#linknote-60" name="linknoteref-60" + id="linknoteref-60"><small>60</small></a> + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. CHAUCER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Women ben full of ragerie, + Yet swinken nat sans secresie. + Thilke moral shall ye understond, + From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond: + Which to the fennes hath him betake, + To filche the gray ducke fro the lake. + Right then, there passen by the way + His aunt, and eke her daughters tway. + Ducke in his trowses hath he hent, + Not to be spied of ladies gent. 10 + 'But ho! our nephew!' crieth one; + 'Ho!' quoth another, 'Cozen John;' + And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,— + This sely clerke full low doth lout: + They asken that, and talken this, + 'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.' + But, as he glozeth with speeches soote, + The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote: + Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest, + Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest. 20 + 'Te-he,' cried ladies; clerke nought spake: + Miss stared; and gray ducke crieth 'Quaake.' + 'O moder, moder!' quoth the daughter, + 'Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter? + Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke, + Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.' +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. SPENSER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE ALLEY. + + 1 In every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde, + A narrow pass there is, with houses low; + Where ever and anon the stream is eyed, + And many a boat soft sliding to and fro. + There oft are heard the notes of infant woe, + The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall: + How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? + Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall, + And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call. + + 2 And on the broken pavement, here and there, + Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie; + A brandy and tobacco shop is near, + And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by; + And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry. + At every door are sunburnt matrons seen, + Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; + Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between; + Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween. + + 3 The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy) + Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; + The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy, + Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries; + The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise, + And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound; + To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; + The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round, + And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are drown'd. + + 4 Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch, + Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days + Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, + Cod, whiting, oyster, mack'rel, sprat, or plaice: + There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease. + Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters, + With Envy (spitting cat!), dread foe to peace; + Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters, + And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to tatters. + + 5 Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand, + Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall: + She scratchèd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band, + And 'bitch' and 'rogue' her answer was to all; + Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call: + Yea, when she passèd by or lane or nook, + Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall, + And by his hand obscene the porter took, + Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look. + + 6 Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town, + Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch; + Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown, + And Twick'nam such, which fairer scenes enrich, + Grots, stutues, urns, and Jo—n's dog and bitch, + Ne village is without, on either side, + All up the silver Thames, or all adown; + Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed + Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. WALLER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE. + + Fair charmer, cease! nor make your voice's prize, + A heart resign'd, the conquest of your eyes: + Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail, + Which winds and lightning both at once assail. + We were too blest with these enchanting lays, + Which must be heavenly when an angel plays: + But killing charms your lover's death contrive, + Lest heavenly music should be heard alive. + Orpheus could charm the trees, but thus a tree, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he: + A poet made the silent wood pursue, + This vocal wood had drawn the poet too. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN, + </h2> + <h3> + IN WHICH WAS PAINTED THE STORY OF CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS, WITH THE MOTTO, + 'AURA VENI.' + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Come, gentle Air!' the Aeolian shepherd said, + While Procris panted in the secret shade; + 'Come, gentle Air!' the fairer Delia cries, + While at her feet her swain expiring lies. + Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray, + Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play! + In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found, + Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound: + Both gifts destructive to the givers prove; + Alike both lovers fall by those they love. + Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives, + At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives: + She views the story with attentive eyes, + And pities Procris, while her lover dies. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. COWLEY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE GARDEN. + + Fain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing, + And humble glories of the youthful Spring; + Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse, + And soft carnations shower their balmy dews; + Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white, + The thin undress of superficial light, + And varied tulips show so dazzling gay, + Blushing in bright diversities of day. + Each painted floweret in the lake below + Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; 10 + And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain + Transformèd, gazes on himself again. + Here aged trees cathedral walks compose, + And mount the hill in venerable rows: + There the green infants in their beds are laid, + The garden's hope, and its expected shade. + Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine, + And vernal honours to their autumn join; + Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store, 20 + Yet in the rising blossom promise more. + There in bright drops the crystal fountains play, + By laurels shielded from the piercing day: + Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid, + Still from Apollo vindicates her shade, + Still turns her beauties from the invading beam, + Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream. + The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, + At once a shelter from her boughs receives, + Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, + And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays. 30 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WEEPING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 While Celia's tears make sorrow bright, + Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes; + The sun, next those the fairest light, + Thus from the ocean first did rise: + And thus through mists we see the sun, + Which, else we durst not gaze upon. + + 2 These silver drops, like morning dew, + Foretell the fervour of the day: + So from one cloud soft showers we view, + And blasting lightnings burst away. + The stars that fall from Celia's eye, + Declare our doom in drawing nigh. + + 3 The baby in that sunny sphere + So like a Phaëton appears, + That Heaven, the threaten'd world to spare, + Thought fit to drown him in her tears: + Else might the ambitious nymph aspire, + To set, like him, Heaven too on fire. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. EARL OF ROCHESTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ON SILENCE.<a href="#linknote-61" name="linknoteref-61" + id="linknoteref-61">61</a> + + 1 Silence! coeval with eternity; + Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be, + 'Twas one vast Nothing all, and all slept fast in thee. + + 2 Thine was the sway, ere heaven was form'd, or earth, + Ere fruitful Thought conceived Creation's birth, + Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth. + + 3 Then various elements against thee join'd, + In one more various animal combined, + And framed the clamorous race of busy humankind. + + 4 The tongue moved gently first, and speech was low, + Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show, + And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe. + + 5 But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain; + Lost in the maze of words he turns again, + And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign. + + 6 Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free, + Oppress'd with argumental tyranny, + And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee. + + 7 With thee in private modest Dulness lies, + And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise; + Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise! + + 8 Yet thy indulgence is by both confess'd; + Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast, + And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest. + + 9 Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name, + The only honour of the wishing dame; + Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame. + + 10 But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free, + How Church and State should be obliged to thee! + At Senate, and at Bar, how welcome would'st thou be! + + 11 Yet Speech even there submissively withdraws + From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause: + Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws. + + 12 Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, + What favourites gain, and what the nation owes, + Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose. + + 13 The country wit, religion of the town, + The courtier's learning, policy o' the gown, + Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone. + + 14 The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry, + Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee, + All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. EARL OF DORSET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ARTEMISIA.<a href="#linknote-62" name="linknoteref-62" + id="linknoteref-62">62</a> + + 1 Though Artemisia talks, by fits, + Of councils, classics, fathers, wits; + Reads Malebranche, Boyle, and Locke: + Yet in some things methinks she fails— + 'Twere well if she would pare her nails, + And wear a cleaner smock. + + 2 Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride, + Such nastiness, and so much pride + Are oddly join'd by fate: + On her large squab you find her spread, + Like a fat corpse upon a bed, + That lies and stinks in state. + + 3 She wears no colours (sign of grace) + On any part except her face; + All white and black beside: + Dauntless her look, her gesture proud, + Her voice theatrically loud, + And masculine her stride. + + 4 So have I seen, in black and white + A prating thing, a magpie height, + Majestically stalk; + A stately, worthless animal, + That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, + All flutter, pride, and talk. + + PHRYNE. + + 1 Phryne had talents for mankind, + Open she was, and unconfined, + Like some free port of trade: + Merchants unloaded here their freight, + And agents from each foreign state + Here first their entry made. + + 2 Her learning and good breeding such, + Whether the Italian or the Dutch, + Spaniards or French came to her: + To all obliging she'd appear, + 'Twas 'Si, Signor,' 'twas 'Yaw, Mynheer,' + 'Twas 'S' il vous plaît, Monsieur.' + + 3 Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes, + Still changing names, religions, climes, + At length she turns a bride: + In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades, + She shines the first of batter'd jades, + And flutters in her pride. + + 4 So have I known those insects fair, + (Which curious Germans hold so rare) + Still vary shapes and dyes; + Still gain new titles with new forms; + First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms, + Then painted butterflies. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. DR SWIFT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON. + + Parson, these things in thy possessing + Are better than the bishop's blessing:— + A wife that makes conserves; a steed + That carries double when there's need: + October store, and best Virginia, + Tithe-pig, and mortuary guinea: + Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd, + For which thy patron's weekly thank'd: + A large Concordance, bound long since: + Sermons to Charles the First, when prince: + A Chronicle of ancient standing; + A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in: + The Polyglot—three parts—my text, + Howbeit—likewise—now to my next: + Lo, here the Septuagint—and Paul, + To sum the whole—the close of all. + He that has these, may pass his life, + Drink with the squire, and kiss his wife; + On Sundays preach, and eat his fill; + And fast on Fridays—if he will; + Toast Church and Queen, explain the news, + Talk with churchwardens about pews, + Pray heartily for some new gift, + And shake his head at Doctor S——t. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TEMPLE OF FAME. + </h2> + <h3> + WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXI. + </h3> + <h3> + ADVERTISEMENT. + </h3> + <p> + The hint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer's 'House of Fame.' + The design is in a manner entirely altered, the descriptions and most of + the particular thoughts my own: yet I could not suffer it to be printed + without this acknowledgment. The reader who would compare this with + Chaucer, may begin with his third book of 'Fame,' there being nothing in + the two first books that answers to their title. Wherever any hint is + taken from him, the passage itself is set down in the marginal notes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In that soft season, when descending showers + Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers; + When opening buds salute the welcome day, + And earth relenting feels the genial ray; + As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest, + And love itself was banish'd from my breast, + (What time the morn mysterious visions brings, + While purer slumbers spread their golden wings), + A train of phantoms in wild order rose, + And, join'd, this intellectual scene compose. 10 + + I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies; + The whole creation open to my eyes: + In air self-balanced hung the globe below, + Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow; + Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen, + There towery cities, and the forests green: + Here sailing ships delight the wandering eyes: + There trees, and intermingled temples rise; + Now a clear sun the shining scene displays, + The transient landscape now in clouds decays. 20 + + O'er the wide prospect, as I gazed around, + Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound, + Like broken thunders that at distance roar, + Or billows murmuring on the hollow shore: + Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld, + Whose towering summit ambient clouds conceal'd. + High on a rock of ice the structure lay, + Steep its ascent, and slippery was the way; + The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone, + And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone. 30 + Inscriptions here of various names I view'd, + The greater part by hostile time subdued; + Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past, + And poets once had promised they should last. + Some fresh engraved appear'd of wits renown'd; + I look'd again, nor could their trace be found. + Critics I saw, that other names deface, + And fix their own, with labour, in their place: + Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, + Or disappear'd, and left the first behind. 40 + Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone, + But felt the approaches of too warm a sun; + For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays + Not more by envy than excess of praise. + Yet part no injuries of heaven could feel, + Like crystal faithful to the graving steel: + The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade, + Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade. + Their names inscribed unnumber'd ages past + From time's first birth, with time itself shall last; 50 + These ever new, nor subject to decays, + Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days. + + So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost) + Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; + Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, + And on the impassive ice the lightnings play; + Eternal snows the growing mass supply, + Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky: + As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears, + The gather'd winter of a thousand years. 60 + + On this foundation Fame's high temple stands. + Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands. + Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld, + Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd. + Four faces had the dome, and every face + Of various structure, but of equal grace; + Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high, + Salute the different quarters of the sky. + Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born, + Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn, 70 + Who cities raised, or tamed a monstrous race, + The walls in venerable order grace; + Heroes in animated marble frown, + And legislators seem to think in stone. + + Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear'd, + On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd, + Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould, + And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold. + In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld, + And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield: 80 + There great Alcides stooping with his toil, + Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil. + Here Orpheus sings; trees, moving to the sound, + Start from their roots, and form a shade around; + Amphion there the loud creating lyre + Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire! + Cythæron's echoes answer to his call, + And half the mountain rolls into a wall: + There might you see the lengthening spires ascend, + The domes swell up, the widening arches bend, 90 + The growing towers, like exhalations rise, + And the huge columns heave into the skies. + + The eastern front was glorious to behold, + With diamond flaming, and barbaric gold. + There Ninus shone, who spread the Assyrian fame, + And the great founder of the Persian name: + There in long robes the royal Magi stand, + Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand, + The sage Chaldeans robed in white appear'd, + And Brachmans, deep in desert woods revered. 100 + These stopp'd the moon, and call'd the unbodied shades + To midnight banquets in the glimmering glades; + Made visionary fabrics round them rise, + And airy spectres skim before their eyes; + Of talismans and sigils knew the power, + And careful watch'd the planetary hour. + Superior, and alone, Confucius stood, + Who taught that useful science—to be good. + + But on the south, a long majestic race + Of Egypt's priests the gilded niches grace, 110 + Who measured earth, described the starry spheres, + And traced the long records of lunar years. + High on his car Sesostris struck my view, + Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew: + His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold; + His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold. + Between the statues obelisks were placed, + And the learn'd walls with hieroglyphics graced. + + Of Gothic structure was the northern side, + O'erwrought with ornaments of barbarous pride. 120 + There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown'd, + And Runic characters were graved around. + There sat Zamolxis<a href="#linknote-63" name="linknoteref-63" + id="linknoteref-63">63</a> with erected eyes, + And Odin here in mimic trances dies. + There on rude iron columns, smear'd with blood, + The horrid forms of Seythian heroes stood, + Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung) + And youths that died to be by poets sung. + These, and a thousand more of doubtful fame, + To whom old fables gave a lasting name, 130 + In ranks adorn'd the temple's outward face; + The wall, in lustre and effect like glass, + Which o'er each object casting various dyes, + Enlarges some, and others multiplies: + Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall, + For thus romantic Fame increases all. + + The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold + Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold: + Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed around + With laurel foliage, and with eagles crown'd: 140 + Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls, + The friezes gold, and gold the capitals: + As heaven with stars, the roof with jewels glows, + And ever-living lamps depend in rows. + Full in the passage of each spacious gate, + The sage historians in white garments wait; + Graved o'er their seats the form of Time was found, + His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound. + Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms + In bloody fields pursued renown in arms. 150 + High on a throne, with trophies charged, I view'd + The youth<a href="#linknote-64" name="linknoteref-64" + id="linknoteref-64">64</a> that all things but himself subdued; + His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod, + And his horn'd head belied the Libyan god. + There Cæsar, graced with both Minervas, shone; + Cæsar, the world's great master, and his own; + Unmoved, superior still in every state, + And scarce detested in his country's fate. + But chief were those, who not for empire fought, + But with their toils their people's safety bought: 160 + High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood; + Timoleon,<a href="#linknote-65" name="linknoteref-65" + id="linknoteref-65">65</a> glorious in his brother's blood; + Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state; + Great in his triumphs, in retirement great; + And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind, + With boundless power unbounded virtue join'd, + His own strict judge, and patron of mankind. + + Much-suffering heroes next their honours claim, + Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame, + Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these 170 + Here ever shines the godlike Socrates: + He whom ungrateful Athens<a href="#linknote-66" name="linknoteref-66" + id="linknoteref-66">66</a> could expel, + At all times just, but when he sign'd the shell: + Here his abode the martyr'd Phocion claims, + With Agis, not the last of Spartan names: + Unconquer'd Cato shows the wound he tore, + And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more. + + But in the centre of the hallow'd choir, + Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire; + Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand, 180 + Hold the chief honours, and the fane command. + High on the first, the mighty Homer shone; + Eternal adamant composed his throne; + Father of verse! in holy fillets dress'd, + His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast; + Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears; + In years he seem'd, but not impair'd by years. + The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen: + Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen; + Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall, 190 + Here dragg'd in triumph round the Trojan wall: + Motion and life did every part inspire, + Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire; + A strong expression most he seem'd to affect, + And here and there disclosed a brave neglect. + + A golden column next in rank appear'd, + On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd; + Finish'd the whole, and labour'd every part, + With patient touches of unwearied art: + The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate, 200 + Composed his posture, and his look sedate; + On Homer still he fix'd a reverend eye, + Great without pride, in modest majesty. + In living sculpture on the sides were spread + The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead; + Eliza stretch'd upon the funeral pyre, + Æneas bending with his aged sire: + Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne, + ARMS AND THE MAN in golden cyphers shone. + + Four swans sustain a car of silver bright, 210 + With heads advanced, and pinions stretch'd for flight: + Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode, + And seem'd to labour with the inspiring god. + Across the harp a careless hand he flings, + And boldly sinks into the sounding strings. + The figured games of Greece the column grace, + Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race. + The youths hang o'er their chariots as they run; + The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone; + The champions in distorted postures threat; 220 + And all appear'd irregularly great. + + Here happy Horace tuned the Ausonian lyre + To sweeter sounds, and temper'd Pindar's fire: + Pleased with Alcæus' manly rage t' infuse + The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse. + The polish'd pillar different sculptures grace; + A work outlasting monumental brass. + Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear, + The Julian star, and great Augustus here; + The doves that round the infant poet spread 230 + Myrtles and bays, hung hovering o'er his head. + + Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light, + Sat, fix'd in thought, the mighty Stagyrite; + His sacred head a radiant zodiac crown'd, + And various animals his side surround; + His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view + Superior worlds, and look all Nature through. + + With equal rays immortal Tully shone, + The Roman rostra deck'd the Consul's throne: + Gathering his flowing robe, he seem'd to stand 240 + In act to speak, and graceful stretch'd his hand. + Behind, Rome's Genius waits with civic crowns, + And the great Father of his country owns. + + These massy columns in a circle rise, + O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies: + Scarce to the top I stretch'd my aching sight, + So large it spread, and swell'd to such a height. + Full in the midst, proud Fame's imperial seat + With jewels blazed, magnificently great; + The vivid emeralds there revive the eye, 250 + The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye, + Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream, + And lucid amber casts a golden gleam. + With various-colour'd light the pavement shone, + And all on fire appear'd the glowing throne; + The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze, + And forms a rainbow of alternate rays. + When on the goddess first I cast my sight, + Scarce seem'd her stature of a cubit's height; + But swell'd to larger size, the more I gazed, 260 + Till to the roof her towering front she raised. + With her, the temple every moment grew, + And ampler vistas open'd to my view: + Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend, + And arches widen, and long aisles extend. + Such was her form as ancient bards have told, + Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold; + A thousand busy tongues the goddess bears, + A thousand open eyes, and thousand listening ears. + Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine 270 + (Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine: + With eyes on Fame for ever fix'd, they sing; + For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string; + With Time's first birth began the heavenly lays, + And last, eternal, through the length of days. + + Around these wonders as I cast a look, + The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook, + And all the nations, summon'd at the call, + From different quarters fill the crowded hall: + Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard 280 + In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd; + Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew + Their flowery toils, and sip the fragrant dew, + When the wing'd colonies first tempt the sky, + O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly, + Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield, + And a low murmur runs along the field. + Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, + And all degrees before the goddess bend; + The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 290 + And boasting youth, and narrative old age. + Their pleas were different, their request the same: + For good and bad alike are fond of Fame. + Some she disgraced, and some with honours crown'd; + Unlike successes equal merits found. + Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns, + And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains. + + First at the shrine the learnèd world appear, + And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer: + 'Long have we sought to instruct and please mankind, 300 + With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind; + But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, + We here appeal to thy superior throne; + On wit and learning the just prize bestow, + For fame is all we must expect below.' + + The goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise + The golden trumpet of eternal praise: + From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, + That fills the circuit of the world around; + Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud; 310 + The notes at first were rather sweet than loud: + By just degrees they every moment rise, + Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies. + At every breath were balmy odours shed, + Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread; + Less fragrant scents the unfolding rose exhales, + Or spices breathing in Arabian gales. + + Next these, the good and just, an awful train, + Thus on their knees address the sacred fane: + 'Since living virtue is with envy cursed, 320 + And the best men are treated like the worst, + Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, + And give each deed the exact intrinsic worth.' + + 'Not with bare justice shall your act be crown'd,' + (Said Fame), 'but high above desert renown'd: + Let fuller notes the applauding world amaze, + And the loud clarion labour in your praise.' + + This band dismiss'd, behold, another crowd + Preferr'd the same request, and lowly bow'd; + The constant tenor of whose well-spent days 330 + No less deserved a just return of praise. + But straight the direful trump of Slander sounds; + Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds; + Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies, + The dire report through every region flies, + In every ear incessant rumours rung, + And gathering scandals grew on every tongue. + From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke + Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke: + The poisonous vapour blots the purple skies, 340 + And withers all before it as it flies. + + A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore, + And proud defiance in their looks they bore: + 'For thee' (they cried), 'amidst alarms and strife, + We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life; + For thee whole nations fill'd with flames and blood, + And swam to empire through the purple flood. + Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own, + What virtue seem'd, was done for thee alone.' + + 'Ambitious fools!' (the Queen replied, and frown'd) 350 + 'Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown'd; + There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, + Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown!' + A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight, + And each majestic phantom sunk in night. + + Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen; + Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien. + 'Great idol of mankind! we neither claim + The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame; + But safe in deserts from the applause of men, 360 + Would die unheard of, as we lived unseen; + 'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight + Those acts of goodness which themselves requite. + Oh let us still the secret joy partake, + To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.' + + 'And live there men, who slight immortal Fame? + Who then with incense shall adore our name? + But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride + To blaze those virtues which the good would hide. + Rise, Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath; 370 + These must not sleep in darkness and in death.' + She said: in air the trembling music floats, + And on the winds triumphant swell the notes; + So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear, + Even listening angels lean'd from heaven to hear: + To furthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies, + Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies. + + Next these a youthful train their vows express'd, + With feathers crown'd, with gay embroidery dress'd: + 'Hither' (they cried) 'direct your eyes, and see 380 + The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry; + Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays, + Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days; + Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care + To pay due visits, and address the fair: + In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade, + But still in fancy vanquish'd every maid; + Of unknown duchesses lewd tales we tell, + Yet, would the world believe us, all were well. + The joy let others have, and we the name, 390 + And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.' + + The Queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies, + And at each blast a lady's honour dies. + + Pleased with the strange success, vast numbers press'd + Around the shrine, and made the same request: + 'What! you,' (she cried) 'unlearn'd in arts to please, + Slaves to yourselves, and even fatigued with ease, + Who lose a length of undeserving days, + Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise? + To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall, 400 + The people's fable and the scorn of all.' + Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound, + Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round, + Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud, + And scornful hisses run through all the crowd. + + Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done, + Enslave their country, or usurp a throne; + Or who their glory's dire foundation laid + On sovereigns ruin'd, or on friends betray'd; + Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, 410 + Of crooked counsels, and dark politics; + Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne, + And beg to make the immortal treasons known. + The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire, + With sparks, that seem'd to set the world on fire. + At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast, + And startled Nature trembled with the blast. + + This having heard and seen, some Power unknown + Straight changed the scene, and snatch'd me from the throne. + Before my view appear'd a structure fair, 420 + Its site uncertain, if in earth or air; + With rapid motion turn'd the mansion round; + With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound; + Not less in number were the spacious doors, + Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores; + Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day, + Pervious to winds, and open every way. + As flames by nature to the skies ascend, + As weighty bodies to the centre tend, + As to the sea returning rivers roll, 430 + And the touch'd needle trembles to the pole; + Hither, as to their proper place, arise + All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies, + Or spoke aloud, or whisper'd in the ear; + Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here. + As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes + The sinking stone at first a circle makes; + The trembling surface by the motion stirr'd, + Spreads in a second circle, then a third; + Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, 440 + Fill all the watery plain, and to the margin dance: + Thus every voice and sound, when first they break, + On neighbouring air a soft impression make; + Another ambient circle then they move; + That, in its turn, impels the next above; + Through undulating air the sounds are sent, + And spread o'er all the fluid element. + + There various news I heard of love and strife, + Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life, + Of loss and gain, of famine and of store, 450 + Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore, + Of prodigies, and portents seen in air, + Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair, + Of turns of fortune, changes in the state, + The falls of favourites, projects of the great, + Of old mismanagements, taxations new: + All neither wholly false, nor wholly true. + + Above, below, without, within, around, + Confused, unnumber'd multitudes are found, + Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away; 460 + Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day: + Astrologers, that future fates foreshow; + Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few; + And priests, and party-zealots, numerous bands + With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands; + Each talk'd aloud, or in some secret place, + And wild impatience stared in every face. + The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd, + Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told; + And all who told it added something new, 470 + And all who heard it made enlargements too, + In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew. + Thus flying east and west, and north and south, + News travell'd with increase from mouth to mouth. + So from a spark, that kindled first by chance, + With gathering force the quickening flames advance; + Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire, + And towers and temples sink in floods of fire. + When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung, + Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue, 480 + Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow, + And rush in millions on the world below. + Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course, + Their date determines, and prescribes their force: + Some to remain, and some to perish soon; + Or wane and wax alternate like the moon. + Around, a thousand wingèd wonders fly, + Born by the trumpet's blast, and scatter'd through the sky. + + There, at one passage, oft you might survey + A lie and truth contending for the way; 490 + And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent, + Which first should issue through the narrow vent: + At last agreed, together out they fly, + Inseparable now, the truth and lie; + The strict companions are for ever join'd, + And this or that unmix'd, no mortal e'er shall find. + + While thus I stood, intent to see and hear, + One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear: + 'What could thus high thy rash ambition raise? + Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?' 500 + + ''Tis true,' said I, 'not void of hopes I came, + For who so fond as youthful bards of fame? + But few, alas! the casual blessing boast, + So hard to gain, so easy to be lost. + How vain that second life in others' breath, + The estate which wits inherit after death! + Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign, + (Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!) + The great man's curse, without the gains, endure, + Be envied, wretched, and be flatter'd, poor; 510 + All luckless wits their enemies profess'd, + And all successful, jealous friends at best. + Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call; + She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all. + But if the purchase costs so dear a price, + As soothing folly, or exalting vice; + Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway, + And follow still where fortune leads the way; + Or if no basis bear my rising name, + But the fallen ruins of another's fame; 520 + Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays, + Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise, + Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown; + Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!' + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELOISA TO ABELARD. + </h2> + <h3> + ARGUMENT. + </h3> + <p> + Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the + most distinguished persons of their age in learning and beauty, but for + nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion. After a long + course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and + consecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years + after this separation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which + contained the history of his misfortune, fell into the hands of Eloisa. + This, awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters + (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give so lively a + picture of the struggles of grace and nature, virtue and passion. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In these deep solitudes and awful cells, + Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, + And ever-musing Melancholy reigns, + What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? + Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? + Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? + Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came, + And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. + + Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, + Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd: 10 + Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise + Where, mix'd with God's, his loved idea lies: + Oh write it not, my hand!—the name appears + Already written—wash it out, my tears! + In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, + Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. + + Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains + Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: + Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; + Ye grots and caverns, shagg'd with horrid thorn! 20 + Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, + And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! + Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, + I have not yet forgot myself to stone. + All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part, + Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; + Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, + Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. + + Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, + That well-known name awakens all my woes. 30 + Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear! + Still breathed in sighs, still usher'd with a tear. + I tremble too, where'er my own I find, + Some dire misfortune follows close behind. + Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, + Led through a sad variety of woe; + Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, + Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! + There stern religion quench'd the unwilling flame, + There died the best of passions, Love and Fame. 40 + + Yet write, oh! write me all, that I may join + Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. + Nor foes nor fortune take this power away; + And is my Abelard less kind than they? + Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, + Love but demands what else were shed in prayer; + No happier task these faded eyes pursue; + To read and weep is all they now can do. + + Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; + Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief! 50 + Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, + Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid; + They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, + Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires; + The virgin's wish without her fears impart, + Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, + Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, + And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. + + Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, + When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; 60 + My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, + Some emanation of the all-beauteous Mind. + Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray, + Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. + Guiltless I gazed; Heaven listen'd while you sung; + And truths divine came mended from that tongue. + From lips like those, what precept fail'd to move? + Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love: + Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, + Nor wish'd an angel whom I loved a man. 70 + Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; + Nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee. + + How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, + Curse on all laws but those which Love has made! + Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, + Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. + Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, + August her deed, and sacred be her fame; 80 + Before true passion all those views remove; + Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? + The jealous god, when we profane his fires, + Those restless passions in revenge inspires, + And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, + Who seek in love for aught but love alone. + Should at my feet the world's great master fall, + Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all: + Not Cæsar's empress would I deign to prove; + No, make me mistress to the man I love; + If there be yet another name more free, + More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! 90 + Oh, happy state! when souls each other draw, + When love is liberty, and nature law: + All then is full, possessing and possess'd, + No craving void left aching in the breast: + Even thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, + And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. + This, sure, is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) + And once the lot of Abelard and me. + + Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise! + A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! 100 + Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, + Her poniard, had opposed the dire command. + Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; + The crime was common, common be the pain. + I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, + Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest. + + Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, + When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? + Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, + When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? 110 + As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil, + The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale: + Heaven scarce believed the conquest it survey'd, + And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. + Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, + Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: + Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, + And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. + Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; + Those still at least are left thee to bestow. 120 + Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, + Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, + Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; + Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest. + Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize, + With other beauties charm my partial eyes, + Full in my view set all the bright abode, + And make my soul quit Abelard for God. + + Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, + Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer. 130 + From the false world in early youth they fled, + By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. + You raised these hallow'd walls; the desert smiled, + And Paradise was open'd in the wild. + No weeping orphan saw his father's stores + Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; + No silver saints, by dying misers given, + Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heaven: + But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, + And only vocal with the Maker's praise. 140 + In these lone walls, (their day's eternal bound) + These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, + Where awful arches make a noonday night, + And the dim windows shed a solemn light; + Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, + And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. + But now no face divine contentment wears, + 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. + See how the force of others' prayers I try, + (Oh pious fraud of amorous charity!) 150 + But why should I on others' prayers depend? + Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! + Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move, + And all those tender names in one—thy love! + The darksome pines that, o'er yon rocks reclined, + Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, + The wandering streams that shine between the hills, + The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, + The dying gales that pant upon the trees, + The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; 160 + No more these scenes my meditation aid, + Or lull to rest the visionary maid. + But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, + Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, + Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws + A death-like silence, and a dread repose: + Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, + Shades every flower, and darkens every green, + Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, + And breathes a browner horror on the woods. 170 + + Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; + Sad proof how well a lover can obey! + Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; + And here, even then, shall my cold dust remain; + Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, + And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. + + Ah, wretch! believed the spouse of God in vain, + Confess'd within the slave of love and man. + Assist me, Heaven! but whence arose that prayer? + Sprung it from piety, or from despair? 180 + Even here, where frozen chastity retires, + Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. + I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; + I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; + I view my crime, but kindle at the view, + Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; + Now turn'd to Heaven, I weep my past offence, + Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. + Of all affliction taught a lover yet, + 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! 190 + How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, + And love the offender, yet detest the offence? + How the dear object from the crime remove, + Or how distinguish penitence from love? + Unequal task! a passion to resign, + For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine. + Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, + How often must it love, how often hate! + How often hope, despair, resent, regret, + Conceal, disdain,—do all things but forget! 200 + But let Heaven seize it, all at once 'tis fired; + Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspired! + Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, + Renounce my love, my life, myself—and you. + Fill my fond heart with God alone, for He + Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. + + How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot! + The world forgetting, by the world forgot: + Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! + Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd; 210 + Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; + 'Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;' + Desires composed, affections ever even; + Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven. + Grace shines around her with serenest beams, + And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams. + For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms, + And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes; + For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring, + For her white virgins hymeneals sing, 220 + To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, + And melts in visions of eternal day. + + Far other dreams my erring soul employ, + Far other raptures, of unholy joy: + When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, + Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away, + Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, + All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. + O curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night! + How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! 230 + Provoking demons all restraint remove, + And stir within me every source of love. + I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, + And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. + I wake:—no more I hear, no more I view, + The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. + I call aloud; it hears not what I say: + I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. + To dream once more I close my willing eyes; + Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! 240 + Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go + Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, + Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy creeps, + And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. + Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; + Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. + I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, + And wake to all the griefs I left behind. + + For thee the Fates, severely kind, ordain + A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; 250 + Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose; + No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. + Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, + Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; + Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven, + And mild as opening gleams of promised heaven. + + Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? + The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. + Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves; + Even thou art cold—yet Eloisa loves. 260 + Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn + To light the dead, and warm the unfruitful urn. + + What scenes appear where'er I turn my view? + The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, + Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, + Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. + I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, + Thy image steals between my God and me, + Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, + With every bead I drop too soft a tear. 270 + When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, + And swelling organs lift the rising soul, + One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, + Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: + In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, + While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. + + While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, + Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye, + While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, + And dawning grace is opening on my soul: 280 + Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! + Oppose thyself to heaven; dispute my heart; + Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes + Blot out each bright idea of the skies; + Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; + Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers; + Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; + Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! + + No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; + Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! 290 + Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, + Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee! + Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; + Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. + Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view) + Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu! + O Grace serene! O Virtue heavenly fair! + Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! + Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky! 300 + And Faith, our early immortality! + Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; + Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest! + + See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, + Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. + In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, + And more than echoes talk along the walls. + Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, + From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. + 'Come, sister, come!' (it said, or seem'd to say) + 'Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! 310 + Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, + Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: + But all is calm in this eternal sleep; + Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep, + Even Superstition loses every fear: + For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.' + + I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers, + Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. + Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, + Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow: 320 + Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, + And smooth my passage to the realms of day; + See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll, + Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! + Ah, no!—in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, + The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, + Present the cross before my lifted eye, + Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. + Ah, then thy once-loved Eloisa see! + It will be then no crime to gaze on me. 330 + See from my cheek the transient roses fly! + See the last sparkle languish in my eye! + Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; + And even my Abelard be loved no more. + O Death all-eloquent! you only prove + What dust we doat on when 'tis man we love. + + Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, + (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy!) + In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd, + Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, 340 + From opening skies may streaming glories shine, + And saints embrace thee with a love like mine. + + May one kind grave<a href="#linknote-67" name="linknoteref-67" + id="linknoteref-67">67</a> unite each hapless name, + And graft my love immortal on thy fame! + Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, + When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; + If ever chance two wandering lovers brings + To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, + O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, + And drink the falling tears each other sheds; 350 + Then sadly say,—with mutual pity moved, + 'Oh, may we never love as these have loved!' + From the full choir when loud hosannas rise, + And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, + Amid that scene, if some relenting eye + Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, + Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, + One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven. + And sure, if Fate some future bard shall join + In sad similitude of griefs to mine, 360 + Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, + And image charms he must behold no more; + Such if there be, who love so long, so well, + Let him our sad, our tender story tell; + The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; + He best can paint them who shall feel them most. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.<a href="#linknote-68" + name="linknoteref-68" id="linknoteref-68"><small>68</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung, + Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. + Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd! + With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! + Blest in each science, blest in every strain! + Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear—in vain! + + For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, + Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; + For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, + The sober follies of the wise and great; 10 + Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, + And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit. + + Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, + (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,) + Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, + Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays, + Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate, + Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; + Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, + Behold thee glorious only in thy fall. 20 + + And sure, if aught below the seats divine + Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: + A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, + Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, + The rage of power, the blast of public breath, + The lust of lucre, and the dread of death. + + In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; + The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade: + 'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, + Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. 30 + When interest calls off all her sneaking train, + And all the obliged desert, and all the vain, + She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell, + When the last lingering friend has bid farewell. + Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays, + (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise), + Even now, observant of the parting ray, + Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day; + Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see, + Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. 40 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ., SECRETARY OF STATE.<a href="#linknote-69" + name="linknoteref-69" id="linknoteref-69"><small>69</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A soul as full of worth, as void of pride, + Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide, + Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, + And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows. + A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, + That darts severe upon a rising lie, + And strikes a blush through frontless flattery. + All this thou wert; and being this before, + Know, kings and fortune cannot make thee more. + Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways, + Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise; + But candid, free, sincere, as you began, + Proceed—a minister, but still a man. + Be not (exalted to whate'er degree) + Ashamed of any friend, not even of me: + The patriot's plain, but untrod path pursue; + If not, 'tis I must be ashamed of you. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS, WITH MR DRYDEN'S TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY'S 'ART OF + PAINTING.' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse + This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. + Whether thy hand strike out some free design, + Where life awakes, and dawns at every line; + Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, + And from the canvas call the mimic face: + Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire + Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire: + And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame, + So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; 10 + Like them to shine through long succeeding age, + So just thy skill, so regular my rage. + + Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, + And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; + Like friendly colours found them both unite, + And each from each contract new strength and light. + How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, + While summer suns roll unperceived away! + How oft our slowly-growing works impart, + While images reflect from art to art! 20 + How oft review; each finding, like a friend, + Something to blame, and something to commend! + + What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, + Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! + Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, + Fired with ideas of fair Italy. + With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn. + Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: + With thee repose where Tully once was laid, + Or seek some ruin's formidable shade: 30 + While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view. + And builds imaginary Rome anew. + Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye; + A fading fresco here demands a sigh: + Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, + Match Raphael's grace with thy loved Guide's air, + Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, + Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine. + + How finish'd with illustrious toil appears + This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years!<a href="#linknote-70" + name="linknoteref-70" id="linknoteref-70">70</a> 40 + Yet still how faint by precept is express'd + The living image in the painter's breast! + Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow, + Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow; + Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies + An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes. + + Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed, + Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead; + Call round her tomb each object of desire, + Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: 50 + Bid her be all that cheers or softens life, + The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife: + Bid her be all that makes mankind adore; + Then view this marble, and be vain no more! + + Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage; + Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. + Beauty, frail flower that every season fears, + Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. + Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise, + And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;<a href="#linknote-71" + name="linknoteref-71" id="linknoteref-71">71</a> 60 + Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow, + And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow. + + Oh, lasting as those colours may they shine, + Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; + New graces yearly like thy works display, + Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; + Led by some rule, that guides, but not constrains; + And finish'd more through happiness than pains. + The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, + One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70 + Yet should the Graces all thy figures place, + And breathe an air divine on every face; + Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll + Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul; + With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, + And these be sung till Granville's Myra die: + Alas! how little from the grave we claim! + Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT, WITH THE WORKS OF VOITURE.<a href="#linknote-72" + name="linknoteref-72" id="linknoteref-72"><small>72</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine, + And all the writer lives in every line; + His easy art may happy nature seem, + Trifles themselves are elegant in him. + Sure, to charm all was his peculiar fate, + Who without flattery pleased the fair and great; + Still with esteem no less conversed than read; + With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred: + His heart, his mistress, and his friend did share, + His time, the Muse, the witty, and the fair. 10 + Thus wisely careless, innocently gay, + Cheerful he play'd the trifle, Life, away; + Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath suppress'd, + As smiling infants sport themselves to rest. + Even rival wits did Voiture's death deplore, + And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before; + The truest hearts for Voiture heaved with sighs, + Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes: + The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture's death, + But that for ever in his lines they breathe. 20 + + Let the strict life of graver mortals be + A long, exact, and serious comedy; + In every scene some moral let it teach, + And if it can, at once both please and preach. + Let mine an innocent gay farce appear, + And more diverting still than regular, + Have humour, wit, a native ease and grace, + Though not too strictly bound to time and place: + Critics in wit, or life, are hard to please, + Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30 + + Too much your sex is by their forms confined, + Severe to all, but most to womankind; + Custom, grown blind with age, must be your guide; + Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; + By nature yielding, stubborn but for fame; + Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame. + Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase, + But sets up one, a greater, in their place; + Well might you wish for change, by those accursed, + But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 40 + Still in constraint your suffering sex remains, + Or bound in formal, or in real chains: + Whole years neglected, for some months adored, + The fawning servant turns a haughty lord. + Ah, quit not the free innocence of life, + For the dull glory of a virtuous wife; + Nor let false shows, or empty titles please: + Aim not at joy, but rest content with ease! + + The gods, to curse Pamela with her prayers, + Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50 + The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state, + And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate. + She glares in balls, front boxes, and the Ring, + A vain, unquiet, glittering, wretched thing! + Pride, pomp, and state but reach her outward part: + She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart. + + But, madam, if the Fates withstand, and you + Are destined Hymen's willing victim too: + Trust not too much your now resistless charms, + Those, age or sickness, soon or late, disarms: 60 + Good-humour only teaches charms to last, + Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past; + Love, raised on beauty, will like that decay, + Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day; + As flowery bands in wantonness are worn, + A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn; + This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong, + The willing heart, and only holds it long. + + Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same, + And Monthansier<a href="#linknote-73" name="linknoteref-73" + id="linknoteref-73">73</a> was only changed in name: 70 + By this, even now they live, even now they charm, + Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm. + + Now crown'd with myrtle, on the Elysian coast, + Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost: + Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view, + And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you. + The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse; + The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse; + And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride + Still to charm those who charm the world beside. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT. ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE + CORONATION.<a href="#linknote-74" name="linknoteref-74" id="linknoteref-74"><small>74</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care + Drags from the town to wholesome country air, + Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, + And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; + From the dear man unwilling she must sever, + Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: + Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, + Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; + Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, + She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went. 10 + + She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, + Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: + She went from opera, park, assembly, play, + To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day: + To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, + To muse, and spill her solitary tea; + Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, + Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; + Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, + Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; 20 + Up to her godly garret after seven, + There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven. + + Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; + Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack; + Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, + Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—No words! + Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable, + Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; + Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, + And loves you best of all things—but his horse. 30 + + In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, + You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; + In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, + See coronations rise on every green; + Before you pass the imaginary sights + Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, + While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; + Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. + Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, + And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls! 40 + + So when your slave, at some dear idle time, + (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) + Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, + And while he seems to study, thinks of you; + Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, + Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, + Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, + Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight; + Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, + Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now. 50 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MRS M. B.<a href="#linknote-75" name="linknoteref-75" + id="linknoteref-75"><small>75</small></a> ON HER BIRTHDAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, + Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend: + Not with those toys the female world admire, + Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. + With added years, if life bring nothing new, + But, like a sieve, let every blessing through, + Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, + And all we gain, some sad reflection more; + Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear + 'Tis but the funeral of the former year. 10 + + Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, + And the gay conscience of a life well spent, + Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, + Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face + Let day improve on day, and year on year, + Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; + Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, + In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, + Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, + And wake to raptures in a life to come. 20 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN,<a href="#linknote-76" name="linknoteref-76" + id="linknoteref-76"><small>76</small></a> ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Resign'd to live, prepared to die, + With not one sin, but poetry, + This day Tom's fair account has run + (Without a blot) to eighty-one. + Kind Boyle, before his poet lays + A table,<a href="#linknote-77" name="linknoteref-77" + id="linknoteref-77">77</a> with a cloth of bays; + And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, + Presents her harp<a href="#linknote-78" name="linknoteref-78" + id="linknoteref-78">78</a> still to his fingers. + The feast, his towering genius marks + In yonder wild goose and the larks; 10 + The mushrooms show his wit was sudden; + And for his judgment, lo, a pudden! + Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, + And grace, although a bard, devout. + May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise + The price of prologues<a href="#linknote-79" name="linknoteref-79" + id="linknoteref-79">79</a> and of plays, + Be every birthday more a winner, + Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; + Walk to his grave without reproach, + And scorn a rascal and a coach. 20 + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VARIATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.:— + + And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy, + Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy; + In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove, + And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR JOHN MOORE, AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 How much, egregious Moore, are we + Deceived by shows and forms! + Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, + All humankind are worms. + + 2 Man is a very worm by birth, + Vile reptile, weak and vain! + A while he crawls upon the earth, + Then shrinks to earth again. + + 3 That woman is a worm, we find + E'er since our grandame's evil; + She first conversed with her own kind, + That ancient worm, the Devil. + + 4 The learn'd themselves we book-worms name, + The blockhead is a slow-worm; + The nymph whose tail is all on flame, + Is aptly term'd a glow-worm: + + 5 The fops are painted butterflies, + That flutter for a day; + First from a worm they take their rise, + And in a worm decay. + + 6 The flatterer an earwig grows; + Thus worms suit all conditions; + Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux. + And death-watches, physicians. + + 7 That statesmen have the worm, is seen + By all their winding play; + Their conscience is a worm within, + That gnaws them night and day. + + 8 Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, + And greater gain would rise, + If thou couldst make the courtier void + The worm that never dies! + + 9 O learnèd friend of Abchurch Lane, + Who sett'st our entrails free! + Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, + Since worms shall eat even thee. + + 10 Our fate thou only canst adjourn + Some few short years—no more; + Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn, + Who maggots were before. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MR C.,<a href="#linknote-80" name="linknoteref-80" id="linknoteref-80"><small>80</small></a> + ST JAMES'S PLACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 Few words are best; I wish you well: + Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here; + Some morning walks along the Mall, + And evening friends, will end the year. + + 2 If in this interval, between + The falling leaf and coming frost, + You please to see, on Twit'nam green, + Your friend, your poet, and your host: + + 3 For three whole days you here may rest + From office business, news, and strife; + And (what most folks would think a jest) + Want nothing else except your wife. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPITAPHS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, IN SUSSEX. + + 'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!' + + VIRG. + + Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, + Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. + The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, + Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state: + Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, + His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. + Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, + As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. + Blest courtier! who could king and country please, + Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. + Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace + Reflecting, and reflected in his race; + Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, + And patriots still, or poets, deck the line. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.<a href="#linknote-81" + name="linknoteref-81" id="linknoteref-81">81</a> + + A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind; + Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd: + Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd, + Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest: + An honest courtier, yet a patriot too; + Just to his prince, and to his country true: + Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth, + A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth; + A generous faith, from superstition free: + A love to peace, and hate of tyranny; + Such this man was; who now, from earth removed, + At length enjoys that liberty he loved. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR + HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720. + + To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; + Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: + Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, + Or gave his father grief but when he died. + + How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! + If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. + Oh, let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, + And, with a father's sorrows, mix his own! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV. ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + JACOBUS CRAGGS REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS + SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT + TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. + FEB. XVI. MDCCXX. + + Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere, + In action faithful, and in honour clear! + Who broke no promise, served no private end, + Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; + Ennobled by himself, by all approved, + Praised, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V. INTENDED FOR MR ROWE, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, + And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: + Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, + To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. + Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest! + Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest! + One grateful woman to thy fame supplies + What a whole thankless land to his denies. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI. ON MRS CORBET, WHO DIED OF A CANCER IN HER BREAST. + + Here rests a woman, good without pretence, + Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense: + No conquests she, but o'er herself, desired, + No arts essay'd, but not to be admired. + Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, + Convinced that virtue only is our own. + So unaffected, so composed a mind; + So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined; + Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried; + The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII. ON THE MONUMENT OF THE HONOURABLE EGBERT DIGBY, AND HIS SISTER + MARY. + + ERECTED BY THEIR FATHER THE LORD DIGBY, IN THE CHURCH OF SHERBORNE, IN + DORSETSHIRE, 1727. + + Go! fair example of untainted youth, + Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth: + Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate, + Good without noise, without pretension great. + Just of thy word, in every thought sincere, + Who knew no wish but what the world might hear: + Of softest manners, unaffected mind, + Lover of peace, and friend of human kind: + Go live! for Heaven's eternal year is thine,<a href="#linknote-82" + name="linknoteref-82" id="linknoteref-82">82</a> + Go, and exalt thy moral to divine. + + And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom, + Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb, + Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore, + Not parted long, and now to part no more! + Go then, where only bliss sincere is known! + Go, where to love and to enjoy are one! + + Yet take these tears, Mortality's relief, + And till we share your joys, forgive our grief: + These little rites, a stone, a verse receive; + 'Tis all a father, all a friend can give! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII. ON SIR GODFREY KNELLER, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1723. + + Kneller, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, + Whose art was Nature, and whose pictures Thought; + Now for two ages having snatch'd from Fate + Whate'er was beauteous, or whate'er was great, + Lies crown'd with princes' honours, poets' lays, + Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise. + + Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie + Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX. ON GENERAL HENRY WITHERS, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1729. + + Here, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind, + Thy country's friend, but more of human kind. + Oh, born to arms! oh, worth in youth approved! + Oh, soft humanity, in age beloved! + For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear, + And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere. + Withers, adieu! yet not with thee remove + Thy martial spirit, or thy social love! + Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage, + Still leave some ancient virtues to our age: + Nor let us say (those English glories gone) + The last true Briton lies beneath this stone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X. ON MR ELIJAH FENTON,<a href="#linknote-83" name="linknoteref-83" + id="linknoteref-83">83</a> AT EASTHAMSTEAD, IN BERKS, 1730. + + This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, + May truly say, Here lies an honest man: + A poet, blest beyond the poet's fate, + Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great: + Foe to loud praise, and friend to learnèd ease, + Content with science in the vale of peace. + Calmly he look'd on either life, and here + Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear; + From Nature's temperate feast rose satisfied, + Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI. ON MR GAY, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732. + + Of manners gentle, of affections mild; + In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: + With native humour tempering virtuous rage, + Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: + Above temptation in a low estate, + And uncorrupted, even among the great: + A safe companion, and an easy friend, + Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end. + These are thy honours! not that here thy bust + Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust; + But that the worthy and the good shall say, + Striking their pensive bosoms—Here lies Gay. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII. INTENDED FOR SIR ISAAC NEWTON, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + ISAACUS NEWTONUS: + QUEM IMMORTALEM + TESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, COELUM: + MORTALEM + HOC MARMOR FATETUR. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night + God said, Let Newton be! and all was light. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII. ON DR FRANCIS ATTERBURY,<a href="#linknote-84" + name="linknoteref-84" id="linknoteref-84">84</a> BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, WHO DIED + IN EXILE AT PARIS, 1732. + + SHE. + + Yes, we have lived—one pang, and then we part! + May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart. + Yet ah! how once we loved, remember still, + Till you are dust like me. + + HE. + Dear shade! I will: + Then mix this dust with thine—O spotless ghost! + O more than fortune, friends, or country lost! + Is there on earth one care, one wish beside? + Yes—Save my country, Heaven! + —He said, and died. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIV. ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, WHO DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF + HIS AGE, 1735. + + If modest youth, with cool reflection crown'd, + And every opening virtue blooming round, + Could save a parent's justest pride from fate, + Or add one patriot to a sinking state; + This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear, + Or sadly told how many hopes lie here! + The living virtue now had shone approved, + The senate heard him, and his country loved. + Yet softer honours, and less noisy fame + Attend the shade of gentle Buckingham: + In whom a race, for courage famed and art, + Ends in the milder merit of the heart; + And chiefs or sages long to Britain given, + Pays the last tribute of a saint to Heaven. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XV. FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + Heroes and kings! your distance keep: + In peace let one poor poet sleep, + Who never flatter'd folks like you: + Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVI. ANOTHER, ON THE SAME. + + Under this marble, or under this sill, + Or under this turf, or e'en what they will; + Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead, + Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head, + Lies one who ne'er cared, and still cares not a pin + What they said, or may say, of the mortal within: + But who, living and dying, serene still and free, + Trusts in God, that as well as he was, he shall be. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVII. ON TWO LOVERS STRUCK DEAD BY LIGHTNING.<a href="#linknote-85" + name="linknoteref-85" id="linknoteref-85">85</a> + + When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, + On the same pile the faithful pair expire. + Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found, + And blasted both, that it might neither wound. + Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, + Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Lord Harcourt, on whose property the unfortunate pair lived, was + apprehensive that the country people would not understand the + above, and Pope wrote the subjoined]:— + + NEAR THIS PLACE LIE THE BODIES OF + JOHN HEWET AND SARAH DREW, + AN INDUSTRIOUS YOUNG MAN, + AND VIRTUOUS MAIDEN OF THIS PARISH; + WHO, BEING AT HARVEST-WORK + (WITH SEVERAL OTHERS), + WERE IN ONE INSTANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING, + THE LAST DAY OF JULY 1718. + + Think not, by rigorous judgment seized, + A pair so faithful could expire; + Victims so pure Heaven saw well pleased, + And snatch'd them in celestial fire. + + Live well, and fear no sudden fate; + When God calls virtue to the grave, + Alike 'tis justice soon or late, + Mercy alike to kill or save. + + Virtue unmoved can hear the call, + And face the flash that melts the ball. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ESSAY ON MAN: IN FOUR EPISTLES TO HENRY ST JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE. + </h2> + <h3> + THE DESIGN. + </h3> + <p> + Having proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as + (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and + bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in + the abstract, his nature and his state; since, to prove any moral duty, to + enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of + any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and + relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its + being. + </p> + <p> + The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few + clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is + therefore in the anatomy of the mind as in that of the body; more good + will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible + parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the + conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The + disputes are all upon these last, and, I will venture to say, they have + less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and + have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory, of morality. + If I could flatter myself that this essay has any merit, it is in steering + betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over + terms utterly unintelligible, and in forming a <i>temperate</i> yet not <i>inconsistent</i>, + and a <i>short</i> yet not <i>imperfect</i> system of ethics. + </p> + <p> + This I might have done in prose; but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for + two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or + precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and + are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but is + true; I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose + itself; and nothing is more certain, than that much of the force as well + as grace of arguments or instructions, depends on their conciseness. I was + unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail, without becoming + dry and tedious; or more poetically, without sacrificing perspicuity to + ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of + reasoning: If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of + them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity. + </p> + <p> + What is now published, is only to be considered as a general map of Man, + marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, + and their connexion, but leaving the particular to be more fully + delineated in the charts which are to follow. Consequently, these epistles + in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will + be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only + opening the <i>fountains</i>, and clearing the passage. To deduce the <i>rivers</i>, + to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a + task more agreeable. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE I. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO THE + UNIVERSE. + </h2> + <h3> + Of man in the abstract.— + </h3> + <p> + I. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of + the relations of systems and things, ver. 17, &c. II. That Man is not + to be deemed imperfect, but a being suited to his place and rank in the + creation, agreeable to the general order of things, and conformable to + ends and relations to him unknown, ver. 35, &c. III. That it is partly + upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope of a future + state, that all his happiness in the present depends, ver. 77, &c. IV. + The pride of aiming at more knowledge, and pretending to more perfection, + the cause of Man's error and misery. The impiety of putting himself in the + place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or + imperfection, justice or injustice of his dispensations, ver. 109, &c. + V. The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or + expecting that perfection in the moral world, which is not in the natural, + ver. 131, &c. VI. The unreasonableness of his complaints against + Providence, while on the one hand he demands the perfections of the + angels, and on the other the bodily qualifications of the brutes; though + to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree, would render + him miserable, ver. 173, &c. VII. That throughout the whole visible + world, an universal order and gradation in the sensual and mental + faculties is observed, which causes a subordination of creature to + creature, and of all creatures to Man. The gradations of sense, instinct, + thought, reflection, reason; that reason alone countervails all the other + faculties, ver. 207. VIII. How much further this order and subordination + of living creatures may extend, above and below us; were any part of which + broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation must be + destroyed, ver. 233. IX. The extravagance, madness, and pride of such a + desire, ver. 259. X. The consequence of all, the absolute submission due + to Providence, both as to our present and future state, ver. 281, &c. + to the end. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AWAKE, my St John! leave all meaner things + To low ambition, and the pride of kings. + Let us (since life can little more supply + Than just to look about us and to die) + Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man; + A mighty maze! but not without a plan; + A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot; + Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. + Together let us beat this ample field, + Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10 + The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore + Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; + Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, + And catch the manners living as they rise; + Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; + But vindicate the ways of God to Man.<a href="#linknote-86" + name="linknoteref-86" id="linknoteref-86">86</a> + + I. Say first, of God above, or Man below, + What can we reason, but from what we know? + Of Man, what see we but his station here, + From which to reason, or to which refer? 20 + Through worlds unnumber'd, though the God be known, + 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. + He who through vast immensity can pierce, + See worlds on worlds compose one universe, + Observe how system into system runs, + What other planets circle other suns, + What varied being peoples every star, + May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. + But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, + The strong connexions, nice dependencies, 30 + Gradations just, has thy pervading soul + Look'd through? or can a part contain the whole? + + Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, + And drawn, supports, upheld by God, or thee? + + II. Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, + Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? + First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, + Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? + Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made + Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? 40 + Or ask of yonder argent fields above, + Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove? + + Of systems possible, if 'tis confess'd + That Wisdom infinite must form the best, + Where all must full or not coherent be, + And all that rises, rise in due degree; + Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain, + There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man: + And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) + Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? 50 + + Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, + May, must be right, as relative to all. + In human works, though labour'd on with pain, + A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; + In God's, one single can its end produce; + Yet serves to second, too, some other use. + So Man, who here seems principal alone, + Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, + Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; + 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 + + When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains + His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; + When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, + Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god:<a href="#linknote-87" + name="linknoteref-87" id="linknoteref-87">87</a> + Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend + His actions', passions', being's use and end; + Why doing, suffering, check'd, impell'd; and why + This hour a slave, the next a deity. + + Then say not Man's imperfect, Heaven in fault; + Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought: 70 + His knowledge measured to his state and place; + His time a moment, and a point his space. + If to be perfect in a certain sphere, + What matter, soon or late, or here or there? + The blest to-day is as completely so, + As who began a thousand years ago. + + III. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate, + All but the page prescribed, their present state: + From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: + Or who could suffer being here below? 80 + The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, + Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? + Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, + And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. + Oh blindness to the future! kindly given, + That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven: + Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, + A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, + Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, + And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 + + Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; + Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. + What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, + But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. + Hope springs eternal in the human breast: + Man never Is, but always To be blest: + The soul, uneasy and confined from home, + Rests and expatiates in a life to come. + + Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind + Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 100 + His soul, proud science never taught to stray + Far as the solar walk, or milky-way; + Yet simple nature to his hope has given, + Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven; + Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, + Some happier island in the watery waste, + Where slaves once more their native land behold, + No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. + To be, contents his natural desire, + He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 110 + But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, + His faithful dog shall bear him company. + + IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, + Weigh thy opinion against Providence; + Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, + Say, here he gives too little, there too much: + Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, + Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust: + If Man alone engross not Heaven's high care, + Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120 + Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, + Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. + In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; + All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. + Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, + Men would be angels, angels would be gods. + Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, + Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: + And who but wishes to invert the laws + Of ORDER, sins against the Eternal Cause. 130 + + V. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine, + Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ''Tis for mine: + For me kind Nature wakes her genial power, + Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; + Annual for me the grape, the rose renew, + The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; + For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; + For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; + Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; + My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.' 140 + + But errs not Nature from this gracious end, + From burning suns when livid deaths descend, + When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep + Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? + 'No' 'tis replied, 'the first Almighty Cause + Acts not by partial, but by general laws; + Th' exceptions few; some change, since all began: + And what created perfect?'—Why then Man? + If the great end be human happiness, + Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? 150 + As much that end a constant course requires + Of showers and sunshine, as of Man's desires; + As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, + As men for ever temperate, calm, and wise. + If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, + Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? + Who knows but He, whose hand the lightning forms, + Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms, + Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind, + Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 150 + From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs; + Account for moral, as for natural things: + Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit? + In both, to reason right, is to submit. + + Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, + Were there all harmony, all virtue here; + That never air or ocean felt the wind, + That never passion discomposed the mind. + But all subsists by elemental strife; + And passions are the elements of life. 170 + The general order, since the whole began, + Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man. + + VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, + And, little less than angel, would be more; + Now looking downwards, just as grieved appears + To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. + Made for his use all creatures if he call, + Say, what their use, had he the powers of all? + Nature to these, without profusion, kind, + The proper organs, proper powers assign'd; 180 + Each seeming want compensated, of course, + Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; + All in exact proportion to the state; + Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. + Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: + Is Heaven unkind to Man, and Man alone? + Shall he alone, whom rational we call, + Be pleased with nothing, if not bless'd with all? + + The bliss of Man (could pride that blessing find) + Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190 + No powers of body or of soul to share, + But what his nature and his state can bear. + Why has not Man a microscopic eye? + For this plain reason, Man is not a fly. + Say, what the use, were finer optics given, + T'inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? + Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, + To smart and agonise at every pore? + Or, quick effluvia darting through the brain, + Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200 + If nature thunder'd in his opening ears, + And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, + How would he wish that Heaven had left him still + The whispering zephyr, and the purling rill? + Who finds not Providence all good and wise, + Alike in what it gives, and what denies? + + VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, + The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends: + Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, + From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 210 + What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, + The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam! + Of smell, the headlong lioness between, + And hound sagacious on the tainted green: + Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, + To that which warbles through the vernal wood: + The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! + Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: + In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true + From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew! 220 + How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, + Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! + 'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier: + For ever separate, yet for ever near! + Remembrance and reflection how allied; + What thin partitions<a href="#linknote-88" name="linknoteref-88" + id="linknoteref-88">88</a> sense from thought divide: + And middle natures, how they long to join, + Yet never pass th' insuperable line! + Without this just gradation, could they be + Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230 + The powers of all subdued by thee alone, + Is not thy reason all these powers in one? + + VIII. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, + All matter quick, and bursting into birth: + Above, how high progressive life may go! + Around, how wide! how deep extend below! + Vast chain of being! which from God began, + Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, + Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, + No glass can reach; from Infinite to Thee, 240 + From Thee to Nothing.—On superior powers + Were we to press, inferior might on ours: + Or in the full creation leave a void, + Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: + From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, + Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. + + And, if each system in gradation roll + Alike essential to th' amazing whole, + The least confusion but in one, not all + That system only, but the whole must fall. 250 + Let earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly, + Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; + Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, + Being on being wreck'd, and world on world; + Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, + And Nature trembles to the throne of God. + All this dread order break—for whom? for thee? + Vile worm!—oh madness! pride! impiety! + + IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, + Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head 260 + What if the head, the eye, or ear repined + To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? + Just as absurd for any part to claim + To be another, in this general frame; + Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, + The great directing Mind of All ordains. + + All are but parts of one stupendous whole, + Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; + That, changed through all, and yet in all the same; + Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame: 270 + Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, + Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, + Lives through all life, extends through all extent. + Spreads undivided, operates unspent; + Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, + As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; + As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, + As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns: + To Him no high, no low, no great, no small; + He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all. 280 + + X. Cease then, nor Order imperfection name: + Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. + Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree + Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. + Submit—in this, or any other sphere, + Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear: + Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, + Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. + All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; + All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; 290 + All discord, harmony not understood; + All partial evil, universal good: + And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, + One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + In former editions, VER 64— + + Now wears a garland, an Egyptian god. + + Altered as above for the reason given in the note. + + After VER. 68 the following lines in first edit.— + + If to be perfect in a certain sphere, + What matters, soon or late, or here or there? + The blest to-day is as completely so + As who began ten thousand years ago. + + After VER. 88 in the MS.— + + No great, no little; 'tis as much decreed + That Virgil's gnat should die as Caesar bleed. + + In the first folio and quarto:— + + What bliss above He gives not thee to know, + But gives that hope to be thy bliss below. + + After VER. 108 in the first edition:— + + But does he say the Maker is not good, + Till he's exalted to what state he would: + Himself alone high Heaven's peculiar care, + Alone made happy when he will, and where? + + VER. 238, first edition— + + Ethereal essence, spirit, substance, man. + + After VER. 282 in the MS.— + + Reason, to think of God when she pretends, + Begins a censor, an adorer ends. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE II. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO HIMSELF + AS AN INDIVIDUAL. + </h2> + <p> + I. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself. His + middle nature; his powers and frailties, ver. 1 to 19. The limits of his + capacity, ver. 19, &c. II. The two principles of Man, self-love and + reason, both necessary, ver. 53, &c. Self-love the stronger, and why, + ver. 67, &c. Their end the same, ver. 81, &c. III. The passions, + and their use, ver. 93-130. The predominant passion, and its force, ver. + 132-160. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes, ver. 165, + &c. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining + our virtue, ver. 177. IV. Virtue and vice joined in our mixed nature; the + limits near, yet the things separate and evident: What is the office of + reason, ver. 202-216. V. How odious vice in itself, and how we deceive + ourselves into it, ver. 217. VI. That, however, the ends of Providence and + general good are answered in our passions and imperfections, ver. 238, + &c. How usefully these are distributed to all orders of men, ver. 241. + How useful they are to society, ver. 251. And to the individuals, ver. + 263. In every state, and every age of life, ver. 273, &c. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. KNOW then thyself, presume not God to scan; + The proper study of mankind is Man. + Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, + A being darkly wise, and rudely great: + With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, + With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, + He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; + In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast; + In doubt his mind or body to prefer; + Born but to die, and reasoning but to err; 10 + Alike in ignorance, his reason such, + Whether he thinks too little, or too much: + Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; + Still by himself abused, or disabused; + Created half to rise, and half to fall; + Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; + Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: + The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!<a href="#linknote-89" + name="linknoteref-89" id="linknoteref-89">89</a> + + Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides, + Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; 20 + Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, + Correct old Time, and regulate the sun; + Go, soar with Plato to the empyreal sphere, + To the first Good, first Perfect, and first Fair; + Or tread the mazy round his followers trod, + And quitting sense call imitating God; + As eastern priests in giddy circles run, + And turn their heads to imitate the sun. + Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule— + Then drop into thyself, and be a fool! 30 + + Superior beings, when of late they saw + A mortal man unfold all Nature's law, + Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, + And show'd a Newton as we show an ape. + + Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, + Describe or fix one movement of his mind? + Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, + Explain his own beginning, or his end? + Alas, what wonder! Man's superior part + Uncheck'd may rise, and climb from art to art; 40 + But when his own great work is but begun, + What reason weaves, by passion is undone. + + Trace Science, then, with modesty thy guide; + First strip off all her equipage of pride; + Deduct what is but vanity, or dress, + Or learning's luxury, or idleness; + Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain. + Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain; + Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts + Of all our vices have created arts; 50 + Then see how little the remaining sum, + Which served the past, and must the times to come! + + II. Two principles in human nature reign— + Self-love, to urge, and reason, to restrain; + Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, + Each works its end, to move or govern all: + And to their proper operation still, + Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill. + + Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; + Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. 60 + Man, but for that, no action could attend, + And, but for this, were active to no end: + Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, + To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; + Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, + Destroying others, by himself destroy'd. + + Most strength the moving principle requires; + Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. + Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, + Form'd but to check, deliberate, and advise. 70 + Self-love, still stronger, as its objects nigh; + Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie: + That sees immediate good by present sense; + Reason, the future and the consequence. + Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, + At best more watchful this, but that more strong. + The action of the stronger to suspend + Reason still use, to reason still attend. + Attention, habit and experience gains; + Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. 80 + + Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, + More studious to divide than to unite; + And grace and virtue, sense and reason split, + With all the rash dexterity of wit. + Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, + Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. + Self-love and reason to one end aspire, + Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire; + But greedy that its object would devour, + This taste the honey, and not wound the flower: 90 + Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, + Our greatest evil, or our greatest good. + + III. Modes of self-love the passions we may call: + 'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all: + But since not every good we can divide, + And reason bids us for our own provide; + Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, + List under reason, and deserve her care; + Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim, + Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. 100 + + In lazy apathy let Stoics boast + Their virtue fix'd; 'tis fix'd as in a frost; + Contracted all, retiring to the breast; + But strength of mind is exercise, not rest: + The rising tempest puts in act the soul, + Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. + On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, + Reason the card, but passion is the gale; + Nor God alone in the still calm we find, + He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. 110 + + Passions, like elements, though born to fight, + Yet, mix'd and soften'd, in his work unite: + These 'tis enough to temper and employ; + But what composes Man, can Man destroy? + Suffice that reason keep to Nature's road; + Subject, compound them, follow her and God. + Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure's smiling train, + Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain, + These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confined, + Make and maintain the balance of the mind: 120 + The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife + Gives all the strength and colour of our life. + + Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes; + And when, in act, they cease, in prospect, rise: + Present to grasp, and future still to find, + The whole employ of body and of mind. + All spread their charms, but charm not all alike; + On different senses different objects strike; + Hence different passions more or less inflame, + As strong or weak, the organs of the frame; 130 + And hence one master passion in the breast, + Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. + As Man, perhaps, the moment of his breath, + Receives the lurking principle of death; + The young disease, that must subdue at length, + Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength: + So, cast and mingled with his very frame, + The mind's disease, its ruling passion came; + Each vital humour which should feed the whole, + Soon flows to this, in body and in soul: 140 + Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head, + As the mind opens, and its functions spread, + Imagination plies her dangerous art, + And pours it all upon the peccant part. + + Nature its mother, habit is its nurse; + Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse; + Reason itself but gives it edge and power; + As Heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour. + + We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway, + In this weak queen, some favourite still obey: 150 + Ah! if she lend not arms, as well as rules, + What can she more than tell us we are fools? + Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend, + A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend! + Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade + The choice we make, or justify it made; + Proud of an easy conquest all along, + She but removes weak passions for the strong: + So, when small humours gather to a gout, + The doctor fancies he has driven them out. 160 + + Yes, Nature's road must ever be preferr'd; + Reason is here no guide, but still a guard: + 'Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow, + And treat this passion more as friend than foe: + A mightier power the strong direction sends, + And several men impels to several ends: + Like varying winds, by other passions tost, + This drives them constant to a certain coast. + Let power or knowledge, gold or glory, please, + Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease; 170 + Through life 'tis follow'd, even at life's expense; + The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence, + The monk's humility, the hero's pride, + All, all alike, find reason on their side. + + Th' eternal Art educing good from ill, + Grafts on this passion our best principle: + 'Tis thus the mercury of Man is fix'd, + Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd; + The dross cements what else were too refined + And in one interest body acts with mind. 180 + + As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care, + On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear; + The surest virtues thus from passions shoot, + Wild nature's vigour working at the root. + What crops of wit and honesty appear + From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear! + See anger, zeal and fortitude supply; + Even avarice, prudence; sloth, philosophy; + Lust, through some certain strainers well refined, + Is gentle love, and charms all womankind; 190 + Envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave, + Is emulation in the learn'd or brave; + Nor virtue, male or female, can we name, + + But what will grow on pride, or grow on shame. + Thus Nature gives us (let it check our pride) + The virtue nearest to our vice allied: + Reason the bias turns to good from ill, + And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will. + The fiery soul abhorr'd in Catiline, + In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: 200 + The same ambition can destroy or save, + And makes a patriot, as it makes a knave. + + IV. This light and darkness in our chaos join'd + What shall divide? the God within the mind. + + Extremes in Nature equal ends produce, + In man they join to some mysterious use; + Though each by turns the other's bound invade, + As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade, + And oft so mix, the difference is too nice + Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice. 210 + + Fools! who from hence into the notion fall, + That vice or virtue there is none at all. + If white and black blend, soften, and unite + A thousand ways, is there no black or white? + Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain; + 'Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain. + + V. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, + As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; + Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, + We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 220 + But where th' extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed: + Ask where's the north? at York, 'tis on the Tweed; + In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there, + At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. + No creature owns it in the first degree, + But thinks his neighbour further gone than he; + Even those who dwell beneath its very zone, + Or never feel the rage, or never own; + What happier natures shrink at with affright, + The hard inhabitant contends is right. 230 + + Virtuous and vicious every man must be, + Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree; + The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise; + And even the best, by fits, what they despise. + 'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill; + For, vice or virtue, self directs it still; + Each individual seeks a several goal; + But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole. + That counterworks each folly and caprice; + That disappoints th' effect of every vice; 240 + That, happy frailties to all ranks applied; + Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, + Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, + To kings presumption, and to crowds belief: + That, virtue's ends from vanity can raise, + Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise; + And build on wants, and on defects of mind, + The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. + + Heaven forming each on other to depend, + A master, or a servant, or a friend, 250 + Bids each on other for assistance call, + Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. + Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally + The common interest, or endear the tie. + To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, + Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; + Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, + Those joys, those loves, those interests to resign; + Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, + To welcome death, and calmly pass away. 260 + Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, + Not one will change his neighbour with himself. + The learn'd is happy Nature to explore; + The fool is happy that he knows no more; + The rich is happy in the plenty given, + The poor contents him with the care of Heaven. + See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, + The sot a hero, lunatic a king; + The starving chemist in his golden views + Supremely bless'd, the poet in his Muse. 270 + See some strange comfort every state attend, + And pride bestow'd on all, a common friend; + See some fit passion every age supply, + Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. + + Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, + Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw: + Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, + A little louder, but as empty quite: + Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, + And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age: 280 + Pleased with this bauble still, as that before; + Till, tired, he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. + + Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays + Those painted clouds that beautify our days; + Each want of happiness by hope supplied, + And each vacuity of sense by pride: + These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; + In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy; + One prospect lost, another still we gain; + And not a vanity is given in vain; 290 + Even mean self-love becomes, by force divine, + The scale to measure others' wants by thine. + See! and confess, one comfort still must rise, + 'Tis this, Though Man's a fool, yet God is wise. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + VER. 2, first edition— + + The only science of mankind is Man. + + After VER. 18, in the MS.— + + For more perfection than this state can bear, + In vain we sigh, 'Heaven made us as we are.' + As wisely, sure, a modest ape might aim + To be like Man, whose faculties and frame + He sees, he feels, as you or I to be + An angel thing we neither know nor see. + Observe how near he edges on our race; + What human tricks! how risible of face! + 'It must be so—why else have I the sense + Of more than monkey charms and excellence? + Why else to walk on two so oft essay'd? + And why this ardent longing for a maid?' + So pug might plead, and call his gods unkind, + Till set on end and married to his mind. + Go, reasoning thing! assume the doctor's chair, + As Plato deep, as Seneca severe: + Fix moral fitness, and to God give rule, + Then drop into thyself, &c. + + VER. 21, edition fourth and fifth— + + Show by what rules the wandering planets stray, + Correct old Time, and teach the sun his way. + + VER. 35, first edition— + + Could He, who taught each planet where to roll, + Describe or fix one movement of the soul? + Who mark'd their points to rise or to descend, + Explain his own beginning or his end? + + After VER. 86, in the MS.— + + Of good and evil gods what frighted fools, + Of good and evil reason puzzled schools, + Deceived, deceiving, taught, &c. + + After VER. 108, in the MS.— + + A tedious voyage! where how useless lies + The compass, if no powerful gusts arise? + + After VER. 112, in the MS.— + + The soft reward the virtuous, or invite; + The fierce, the vicious punish or affright. + + After VER. 194, in the MS.— + + How oft, with passion, Virtue points her charms! + Then shines the hero, then the patriot warms. + Peleus' great son, or Brutus, who had known, + Had Lucrece been a whore, or Helen none! + But virtues opposite to make agree, + That, Reason! is thy task; and worthy thee. + Hard task, cries Bibulus, and reason weak: + Make it a point, dear Marquess! or a pique. + Once, for a whim, persuade yourself to pay + A debt to reason, like a debt at play. + For right or wrong have mortals suffer'd more? + B—— for his prince, or —— for his whore? + Whose self-denials nature most control? + His, who would save a sixpence, or his soul? + Web for his health, a Chartreux for his sin, + Contend they not which soonest shall grow thin? + What we resolve, we can: but here's the fault, + We ne'er resolve to do the thing we ought. + + After VER. 220, in the first edition, followed these— + + A cheat! a whore! who starts not at the name, + In all the Inns of Court or Drury Lane? + + After VER. 226, in the MS.— + + The colonel swears the agent is a dog, + The scrivener vows th' attorney is a rogue. + Against the thief th' attorney loud inveighs, + For whose ten pound the county twenty pays. + The thief damns judges, and the knaves of state; + And dying, mourns small villains hang'd by great. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE III. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO + SOCIETY. + </h2> + <p> + I. The whole universe one system of society, ver. 7, &c. Nothing made + wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for another, ver. 27. The happiness of + animals mutual, ver. 49. II. Reason or instinct operate alike to the good + of each individual, ver. 79. Reason or instinct operate also to society, + in all animals, ver. 109. III. How far society carried by instinct, ver. + 115. How much farther by reason, ver. 128. IV. Of that which is called the + state of nature, 144. Reason instructed by instinct in the invention of + arts, ver. 166, and in the forms of society, ver. 176. V. Origin of + political societies, ver. 196. Origin of monarchy, ver. 207. Patriarchal + government, ver. 212. VI. Origin of true religion and government, from the + same principle—of love, ver. 231, &c. Origin of superstition and + tyranny, from the same principle—of fear, ver. 237, &c. The + influence of self-love operating to the social and public good, ver. 266. + Restoration of true religion and government on their first principle, ver. + 285. Mixed government, ver. 288. Various forms of each, and the true end + of all, ver. 300, &c. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here then we rest: 'The Universal Cause + Acts to one end, but acts by various laws.' + In all the madness of superfluous health, + The trim of pride, the impudence of wealth, + Let this great truth be present night and day; + But most be present, if we preach or pray. + + I. Look round our world; behold the chain of love + Combining all below and all above. + See plastic Nature working to this end, + The single atoms each to other tend, 10 + Attract, attracted to, the next in place + Form'd and impell'd its neighbour to embrace. + See matter next, with various life endued, + Press to one centre still, the general Good. + See dying vegetables life sustain, + See life dissolving vegetate again: + All forms that perish other forms supply, + (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die) + Like bubbles on the sea of Matter born, + They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 20 + Nothing is foreign: parts relate to whole; + One all-extending, all-preserving Soul + Connects each being, greatest with the least; + Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; + All served, all serving: nothing stands alone; + The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. + + Has God, thou fool! work'd solely for thy good, + Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? + Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, + For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn: 30 + Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? + Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. + Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? + Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. + The bounding steed you pompously bestride, + Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. + Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? + The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. + Thine the full harvest of the golden year? + Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer: 40 + The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, + Lives on the labours of this lord of all. + + Know, Nature's children all divide her care; + The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. + While Man exclaims, 'See all things for my use!' + 'See man for mine!' replies a pamper'd goose: + And just as short of reason he must fall, + Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. + + Grant that the powerful still the weak control; + Be Man the wit and tyrant of the whole: 50 + Nature that tyrant checks; he only knows, + And helps, another creature's wants and woes. + Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, + Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? + Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings? + Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings? + Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods, + To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods; + For some his interest prompts him to provide, + For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride: 60 + All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy + Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. + That very life his learned hunger craves, + He saves from famine, from the savage saves; + Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast. + And, till he ends the being, makes it blest; + Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain, + Than favour'd Man by touch ethereal slain. + The creature had his feast of life before; + Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er! 70 + + To each unthinking being, Heaven, a friend, + Gives not the useless knowledge of its end: + To Man imparts it; but with such a view + As, while he dreads it, makes him hope it too: + The hour conceal'd, and so remote the fear, + Death still draws nearer, never seeming near. + Great standing miracle! that Heaven assign'd + Its only thinking thing this turn of mind. + + II. Whether with reason or with instinct blest, + Know, all enjoy that power which suits them best; 80 + To bliss alike by that direction tend, + And find the means proportion'd to their end. + Say, where full instinct is th' unerring guide, + What pope or council can they need beside? + Reason, however able, cool at best, + Cares not for service, or but serves when press'd, + Stays till we call, and then not often near; + But honest instinct comes a volunteer, + Sure never to o'ershoot, but just to hit; + While still too wide or short is human wit; 90 + Sure by quick nature happiness to gain, + Which heavier reason labours at in vain. + This, too serves always, reason never long; + One must go right, the other may go wrong. + See then the acting and comparing powers + One in their nature, which are two in ours; + And reason raise o'er instinct as you can, + In this 'tis God directs, in that 'tis Man. + + Who taught the nations of the field and wood + To shun their poison, and to choose their food? 100 + Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, + Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand? + Who made the spider parallels design, + Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line? + Who bid the stork, Columbus-like, explore + Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before? + Who calls the council, states the certain day, + Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way? + + III. God, in the nature of each being, founds + Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds: 110 + But as he framed a whole, the whole to bless, + On mutual wants built mutual happiness: + So from the first, eternal Order ran, + And creature link'd to creature, man to man. + Whate'er of life all-quickening ether keeps, + Or breathes through air, or shoots beneath the deeps, + Or pours profuse on earth, one nature feeds + The vital flame, and swells the genial seeds. + Not Man alone, but all that roam the wood, + Or wing the sky, or roll along the flood, 120 + Each loves itself, but not itself alone, + Each sex desires alike, till two are one. + Nor ends the pleasure with the fierce embrace; + They love themselves, a third time, in their race. + Thus beast and bird their common charge attend, + The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend; + The young dismiss'd to wander earth or air, + There stops the instinct, and there ends the care; + The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace, + Another love succeeds, another race. 130 + A longer care Man's helpless kind demands; + That longer care contracts more lasting bands: + Reflection, reason, still the ties improve, + At once extend the interest, and the love; + With choice we fix, with sympathy we burn; + Each virtue in each passion takes its turn; + And still new needs, new helps, new habits rise, + That graft benevolence on charities. + Still as one brood, and as another rose, + These natural love maintain'd, habitual those: 140 + The last, scarce ripen'd into perfect man, + Saw helpless him from whom their life began: + Memory and forecast just returns engage, + That pointed back to youth, this on to age; + While pleasure, gratitude, and hope, combined, + Still spread the interest, and preserved the kind. + + IV. Nor think, in Nature's state they blindly trod; + The state of Nature was the reign of God: + Self-love and social at her birth began, + Union the bond of all things, and of Man. 150 + Pride then was not; nor arts, that pride to aid; + Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade; + The same his table, and the same his bed; + No murder clothed him, and no murder fed. + In the same temple, the resounding wood, + All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God: + The shrine with gore unstain'd, with gold undress'd, + Unbribed, unbloody, stood the blameless priest: + Heaven's attribute was universal care, + And Man's prerogative to rule, but spare. 160 + Ah! how unlike the Man of times to come! + Of half that live the butcher and the tomb; + Who, foe to Nature, hears the general groan, + Murders their species, and betrays his own. + But just disease to luxury succeeds, + And every death its own avenger breeds; + The fury-passions from that blood began, + And turn'd on Man, a fiercer savage, Man. + + See him from Nature rising slow to Art! + To copy instinct then was reason's part; 170 + Thus then to Man the voice of Nature spake— + 'Go, from the creatures thy instructions take: + Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield; + Learn from the beasts the physic of the field; + Thy arts of building from the bee receive; + Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; + Learn of the little nautilus to sail, + Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. + Here, too, all forms of social union find, + And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind: 180 + Here subterranean works and cities see; + There towns aërial on the waving tree. + Learn each small people's genius, policies, + The ants' republic, and the realm of bees; + How those in common all their wealth bestow, + And anarchy without confusion know; + And these for ever, though a monarch reign, + Their separate cells and properties maintain. + Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state, + Laws wise as Nature, and as fix'd as Fate. 190 + In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw, + Entangle Justice in her net of lay, + And right, too rigid, harden into wrong; + Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. + Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway, + Thus let the wiser make the rest obey; + And for those arts mere instinct could afford, + Be crown'd as monarchs, or as gods adored.' + + V. Great Nature spoke; observant men obey'd; + Cities were built, societies were made: 200 + Here rose one little state; another near + Grew by like means, and join'd, through love or fear. + Did here the trees with ruddier burdens bend, + And there the streams in purer rills descend? + What war could ravish, commerce could bestow; + And he return'd a friend, who came a foe. + Converse and love mankind might strongly draw, + When love was liberty, and Nature law. + Thus states were form'd, the name of king unknown, + Till common interest placed the sway in one. 210 + 'Twas virtue only (or in arts or arms, + Diffusing blessings or averting harms), + The same which in a sire the sons obey'd, + A prince the father of a people made. + + VI. Till then, by Nature crown'd, each patriarch sat, + King, priest, and parent of his growing state; + On him, their second Providence, they hung, + Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue. + He from the wondering furrow call'd the food, + Taught to command the fire, control the flood, 220 + Draw forth the monsters of the abyss profound, + Or fetch the aërial eagle to the ground. + Till drooping, sickening, dying they began + Whom they revered as god to mourn as man: + Then, looking up from sire to sire, explored + One great first Father, and that first adored. + Or plain tradition that this All begun, + Convey'd unbroken faith from sire to son; + The worker from the work distinct was known, + And simple reason never sought but one: 230 + Ere wit oblique had broke that steady light, + Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right; + To virtue, in the paths of pleasure, trod, + And own'd a Father when he own'd a God. + Love all the faith, and all the allegiance then; + For nature knew no right divine in men, + No ill could fear in God; and understood + A sovereign Being, but a sovereign good. + True faith, true policy, united ran, + That was but love of God, and this of Man. 240 + + Who first taught souls enslaved, and realms undone, + The enormous faith of many made for one; + That proud exception to all Nature's laws, + To invert the world, and counterwork its cause? + Force first made conquest, and that conquest, law; + 'Till Superstition taught the tyrant awe, + Then shared the tyranny, then lent it aid, + And gods of conquerors, slaves of subjects made: + She, midst the lightning's blaze, and thunder's sound, + When rock'd the mountains, and when groan'd the ground, 250 + She taught the weak to bend, the proud to pray, + To Power unseen, and mightier far than they: + She, from the rending earth and bursting skies, + Saw gods descend, and fiends infernal rise: + Here fix'd the dreadful, there the blest abodes; + Fear made her devils, and weak hope her gods; + Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust, + Whose attributes were rage, revenge, or lust; + Such as the souls of cowards might conceive, + And, form'd like tyrants, tyrants would believe. 260 + Zeal then, not charity, became the guide; + And hell was built on spite, and heaven on pride. + Then sacred seem'd the ethereal vault no more; + Altars grew marble then, and reek'd with gore: + Then first the Flamen tasted living food; + Next his grim idol smear'd with human blood; + With Heaven's own thunders shook the world below, + And play'd the god an engine on his foe. + + So drives self-love, through just and through unjust, + To one man's power, ambition, lucre, lust: 270 + The same self-love, in all, becomes the cause + Of what restrains him, government and laws. + For, what one likes, if others like as well, + What serves one will, when many wills rebel? + How shall he keep what, sleeping or awake, + A weaker may surprise, a stronger take? + His safety must his liberty restrain: + All join to guard what each desires to gain. + Forced into virtue thus by self-defence, + Even kings learn'd justice and benevolence; 280 + Self-love forsook the path it first pursued, + And found the private in the public good. + + 'Twas then the studious head or generous mind, + Follower of God, or friend of human kind, + Poet or patriot, rose but to restore + The faith and moral Nature gave before; + Relumed her ancient light, not kindled new; + If not God's image, yet his shadow drew; + Taught power's due use to people and to kings, + Taught not to slack, nor strain its tender strings, 290 + The less, or greater, set so justly true, + That touching one must strike the other too; + Till jarring interests of themselves create + The according music of a well-mix'd state. + Such is the world's great harmony, that springs + From order, union, full consent of things: + Where small and great, where weak and mighty, made + To serve, not suffer; strengthen, not invade; + More powerful each as needful to the rest, + And in proportion as it blesses, bless'd; 300 + Draw to one point, and to one centre bring + Beast, man, or angel, servant, lord, or king. + + For forms of government let fools contest; + Whate'er is best administer'd is best: + For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; + His can't be wrong whose life is in the right: + In faith and hope the world will disagree, + But all mankind's concern is charity: + All must be false that thwart this one great end; + And all of God that bless mankind, or mend. 310 + + Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; + The strength he gains is from the embrace he gives. + On their own axis as the planets run, + Yet make at once their circle round the sun; + So two consistent motions act the soul, + And one regards itself, and one the whole. + + Thus God and Nature link'd the general frame, + And bade self-love and social be the same. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + VER. 1, in several quarto editions— + + Learn, Dulness, learn! 'the Universal Cause,' &c. + + After VER. 46, in the former editions— + + What care to tend, to lodge, to cram, to treat him! + All this he knew; but not that 'twas to eat him. + As far as goose could judge, he reason'd right; + But as to Man, mistook the matter quite. + + After VER. 84, in the MS.— + + While Man, with opening views of various ways + Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays: + Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste, + One moment gives the pleasure and distaste. + + VER. 197, in the first edition— + + Who for those arts they learn'd of brutes before, + As kings shall crown them, or as gods adore. + + VER. 201, in the MSS. thus— + + The neighbours leagued to guard their common spot: + And love was Nature's dictate, murder, not. + For want alone each animal contends, + Tigers with tigers, that removed, are friends. + Plain Nature's wants the common mother crown'd, + She pour'd her acorns, herbs, and streams around. + No treasure then for rapine to invade, + What need to fight for sunshine or for shade! + And half the cause of content was removed, + When beauty could be kind to all who loved. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE IV. — OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO + HAPPINESS. + </h2> + <p> + I. False notions of happiness, philosophical and popular, answered from + ver. 19 to ver. 27. II. It is the end of all men, and attainable by all, + ver. 29. God intends happiness to be equal; and to be so, it must be + social, since all particular happiness depends on general, and since he + governs by general, not particular laws, ver. 35. As it is necessary for + order, and the peace and welfare of society, that external goods should be + unequal, happiness is not made to consist in these, ver. 51. But, + notwithstanding that inequality, the balance of happiness among mankind is + kept even by Providence, by the two passions of hope and fear, ver. 70. + III. What the happiness of individuals is, as far as is consistent with + the constitution of this world; and that the good man has here the + advantage, ver. 77. The error of imputing to virtue what are only the + calamities of nature, or of fortune, ver. 94. IV. The folly of expecting + that God should alter his general laws in favour of particulars, ver. 121. + V. That we are not judges who are good; but that, whoever they are, they + must be happiest, ver. 131, &c. VI. That external goods are not the + proper rewards, but often inconsistent with, or destructive of virtue, + ver. 167. That even these can make no man happy without virtue: instanced + in riches ver. 185; honours, ver. 193; nobility, ver. 205; greatness, ver. + 217; fame, ver. 237; superior talents, ver. 259, &c. With pictures of + human infelicity in men possessed of them all, ver. 269, &c. VII. That + virtue only constitutes a happiness, whose object is universal, and whose + prospect eternal, ver. 309, &c. That the perfection of virtue and + happiness consists in a conformity to the order of Providence here, and a + resignation to it here and hereafter, ver. 326, &c. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Happiness! our being's end and aim! + Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name: + That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, + For which we bear to live, or dare to die, + Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, + O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise. + Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below, + Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? + Fair opening to some court's propitious shine, + Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? 10 + Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, + Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? + Where grows?—where grows it not? If vain our toil, + We ought to blame the culture, not the soil: + Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere, + Tis nowhere to be found, or everywhere; + 'Tis never to be bought, but always free, + And, fled from monarchs, St John! dwells with thee. + + I. Ask of the learn'd the way? the learn'd are blind; + This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind; 20 + Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, + Those call it Pleasure, and Contentment these; + Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain; + Some, swell'd to gods, confess even virtue vain; + Or, indolent, to each extreme they fall, + To trust in every thing, or doubt of all. + + Who thus define it, say they more or less + Than this, that happiness is happiness? + + II. Take Nature's path, and mad Opinion's leave; + All states can reach it, and all heads conceive; 30 + Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; + There needs but thinking right, and meaning well; + And, mourn our various portions as we please, + Equal is common sense, and common ease. + + Remember, Man, 'The Universal Cause + Acts not by partial, but by general laws;' + And makes what happiness we justly call + Subsist, not in the good of one, but all. + There's not a blessing individuals find, + But some way leans and hearkens to the kind: 40 + No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride, + No cavern'd hermit, rests self-satisfied: + Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend, + Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend: + Abstract what others feel, what others think, + All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink: + Each has his share; and who would more obtain, + Shall find, the pleasure pays not half the pain. + + Order is Heaven's first law; and, this confess'd, + Some are, and must be, greater than the rest, 50 + More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence + That such are happier, shocks all common sense. + Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, + If all are equal in their happiness: + But mutual wants this happiness increase; + All Nature's difference keeps all Nature's peace. + Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; + Bliss is the same in subject or in king, + In who obtain defence, or who defend, + In him who is, or him who finds a friend: 60 + Heaven breathes through every member of the whole + One common blessing, as one common soul. + But Fortune's gifts if each alike possess'd, + And each were equal, must not all contest? + If then to all Men happiness was meant, + God in externals could not place content. + + Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, + And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; + But Heaven's just balance equal will appear, + While those are placed in hope, and these in fear: 70 + Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, + But future views of better, or of worse. + + O sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise, + By mountains piled on mountains, to the skies? + Heaven still with laughter the vain toil surveys, + And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. + + III. Know, all the good that individuals find, + Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind, + Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, + Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence, 80 + But health consists with temperance alone; + And peace, O Virtue! peace is all thy own. + The good or bad the gifts of Fortune gain; + But these less taste them, as they worse obtain. + Say, in pursuit of profit or delight, + Who risk the most, that take wrong means, or right? + Of vice or virtue, whether bless'd or cursed, + Which meets contempt, or which compassion first? + Count all th' advantage prosperous vice attains, + 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains: 90 + And grant the bad what happiness they would, + One they must want, which is, to pass for good. + + Oh, blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, + Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe! + Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, + Best knows the blessing, and will most be bless'd. + But fools, the good alone unhappy call, + For ills or accidents that chance to all. + See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! + See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! 100 + See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! + Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? + Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave, + Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave? + Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, + Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? + Why drew Marseilles' good bishop<a href="#linknote-90" + name="linknoteref-90" id="linknoteref-90">90</a> purer breath, + When Nature sicken'd, and each gale was death? + Or why so long (in life if long can be) + Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? 110 + + What makes all physical or moral ill? + There deviates Nature, and here wanders Will. + God sends not ill, if rightly understood; + Or partial ill is universal good, + Or change admits, or Nature lets it fall; + Short, and but rare, till Man improved it all. + We just as wisely might of Heaven complain + That righteous Abel was destroy'd by Cain, + As that the virtuous son is ill at ease + When his lewd father gave the dire disease. 120 + + IV. Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal Cause, + Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws? + Shall burning Ætna, if a sage requires, + Forget to thunder, and recall her fires? + On air or sea new motions be impress'd, + O blameless Bethel!<a href="#linknote-91" name="linknoteref-91" + id="linknoteref-91">91</a> to relieve thy breast? + When the loose mountain trembles from on high, + Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? + Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, + For Chartres'<a href="#linknote-92" name="linknoteref-92" + id="linknoteref-92">92</a> head reserve the hanging wall? 130 + + V. But still this world (so fitted for the knave) + Contents us not. A better shall we have? + A kingdom of the just then let it be: + But first consider how those just agree. + The good must merit God's peculiar care; + But who but God can tell us who they are? + One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell; + Another deems him instrument of hell; + If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod, + This cries there is, and that, there is no God. 140 + What shocks one part will edify the rest, + Nor with one system can they all be bless'd. + The very best will variously incline, + And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. + Whatever is, is right.—This world, 'tis true, + Was made for Caesar—but for Titus too: + And which more bless'd? who chain'd his country, say, + Or he whose virtue sigh'd to lose a day? + + 'But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed.' + What then? Is the reward of virtue bread? 150 + That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil; + The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil, + The knave deserves it, when he tempts the main, + Where Folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. + The good man may be weak, be indolent; + Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. + But grant him riches, your demand is o'er? + 'No—shall the good want health, the good want power?' + Add health, and power, and every earthly thing, + 'Why bounded power? why private? why no king?' 160 + Nay, why external for internal given? + Why is not man a god, and earth a heaven? + Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive + God gives enough, while he has more to give: + Immense the power, immense were the demand; + Say, at what part of nature will they stand? + + VI. What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, + The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy, + Is virtue's prize: a better would you fix? + Then give humility a coach and six, 170 + Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown, + Or public spirit its great cure, a crown. + Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there + With the same trash mad mortals wish for here? + The boy and man an individual makes, + Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes? + Go, like the Indian, in another life + Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife; + As well as dream such trifles are assign'd, + As toys and empires, for a godlike mind. 180 + Rewards, that either would to virtue bring + No joy, or be destructive of the thing; + How oft by these at sixty are undone + The virtues of a saint at twenty-one! + To whom can riches give repute, or trust, + Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? + Judges and senates have been bought for gold, + Esteem and love were never to be sold. + O fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, + The lover and the love of human kind, 190 + Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, + Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. + + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part; there all the honour lies. + Fortune in men has some small difference made— + One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; + The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, + The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. + 'What differ more' (you cry) 'than crown and cowl?' + I'll tell you, friend!—a wise man and a fool. 200 + You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, + Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, + Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; + The rest is all but leather or prunella. + + Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings, + That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings, + Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, + In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece: + But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate, + Count me those only who were good and great. 210 + Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood + Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, + Go! and pretend your family is young; + Nor own, your fathers have been fools so long. + What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? + Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. + + Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies? + 'Where, but among the heroes and the wise?' + Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, + From Macedonia's madman to the Swede; 220 + The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find + Or make an enemy of all mankind! + Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, + Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. + No less alike the politic and wise; + All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes: + Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, + Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. + But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat; + 'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great: 230 + Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, + Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. + Who noble ends by noble means obtains, + Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, + Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed + Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. + + What's fame? A fancied life in others' breath, + A thing beyond us, even before our death. + Just what you hear, you have; and what's unknown + The same (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own. 240 + All that we feel of it begins and ends + In the small circle of our foes or friends; + To all beside as much an empty shade + An Eugene living, as a Cæsar dead; + Alike or when, or where, they shone, or shine, + Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine. + A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod; + An honest man's the noblest work of God. + Fame but from death a villain's name can save, + As justice tears his body from the grave, 250 + When what t' oblivion better were resign'd, + Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. + All fame is foreign, but of true desert; + Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: + One self-approving hour whole years out-weighs + Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; + And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels, + Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels. + + In parts superior what advantage lies? + Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 260 + 'Tis but to know how little can be known; + To see all others' faults, and feel our own: + Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge, + Without a second, or without a judge. + Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? + All fear, none aid you, and few understand. + Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view + Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. + + Bring then these blessings to a strict account; + Make fair deductions; see to what they mount: 270 + How much of other each is sure to cost; + How each for other oft is wholly lost; + How inconsistent greater goods with these; + How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease: + Think, and if still the things thy envy call, + Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall? + To sigh for ribands if thou art so silly, + Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy: + Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? + Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife: 280 + If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, + The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind: + Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name, + See Cromwell,<a href="#linknote-93" name="linknoteref-93" + id="linknoteref-93">93</a> damn'd to everlasting fame! + If all, united, thy ambition call, + From ancient story learn to scorn them all. + There, in the rich, the honour'd, famed, and great, + See the false scale of happiness complete! + In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, + How happy! those to ruin, these betray. 290 + Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows, + From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose; + In each how guilt and greatness equal ran, + And all that raised the hero, sunk the man: + Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold, + But stain'd with blood, or ill exchanged for gold: + Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease, + Or infamous for plunder'd provinces. + Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame + E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame! 300 + What greater bliss attends their close of life? + Some greedy minion, or imperious wife. + The trophied arches, storied halls invade, + And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. + Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray, + Compute the morn and evening to the day; + The whole amount of that enormous fame, + A tale that blends their glory with their shame! + + VII. Know then this truth (enough for man to know) + 'Virtue alone is happiness below.' 310 + The only point where human bliss stands still, + And tastes the good without the fall to ill; + Where only merit constant pay receives, + Is bless'd in what it takes, and what it gives; + The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain, + And if it lose, attended with no pain: + Without satiety, though e'er so bless'd, + And but more relish'd as the more distress'd: + The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears, + Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears: 320 + Good, from each object, from each place acquired, + For ever exercised, yet never tired; + Never elated, while one man's oppress'd; + Never dejected, while another's bless'd; + And where no wants, no wishes can remain, + Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain. + + See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow! + Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know: + Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, + The bad must miss; the good, untaught, will find; 330 + Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, + But looks through Nature up to Nature's God; + Pursues that chain which links th' immense design, + Joins Heaven and Earth, and mortal and divine; + Sees, that no being any bliss can know, + But touches some above, and some below; + Learns, from this union of the rising whole, + The first, last purpose of the human soul; + And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, + All end, in love of God, and love of Man. 340 + + For him alone Hope leads from goal to goal, + And opens still, and opens on his soul; + Till lengthen'd on to Faith, and unconfined, + It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. + He sees why Nature plants in Man alone + Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: + (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind + Are given in vain, but what they seek they find) + Wise is her present; she connects in this + His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss; 350 + At once his own bright prospect to be bless'd, + And strongest motive to assist the rest. + + Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine, + Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine. + Is this too little for the boundless heart? + Extend it, let thy enemies have part; + Grasp the whole worlds of Reason, Life, and Sense, + In one close system of Benevolence: + Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, + And height of bliss but height of charity. 360 + + God loves from whole to parts: but human soul + Must rise from individual to the whole. + Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, + As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; + The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, + Another still, and still another spreads; + Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace; + His country next; and next all human race; + Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowings of the mind + Take every creature in, of every kind; 370 + Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty bless'd, + And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. + + Come then, my friend, my genius! come along; + O master of the poet, and the song! + And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, + To Man's low passions, or their glorious ends, + Teach me, like thee, in various Nature wise, + To fall with dignity, with temper rise; + Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer + From grave to gay, from lively to severe; 380 + Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, + Intent to reason, or polite to please. + Oh! while along the stream of Time thy name + Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, + Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, + Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? + When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, + Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, + Shall then this verse to future age pretend + Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 390 + That, urged by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art. + From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; + For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; + Show'd erring pride, Whatever is, is right; + That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim; + That true Self-love and Social are the same; + That Virtue only makes our bliss below; + And all our knowledge is, Ourselves to know. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + VER. 1, in the MS. thus— + + O Happiness! to which we all aspire, + Wing'd with strong hope, and borne by full desire; + That ease, for which in want, in wealth we sigh; + That ease, for which we labour and we die + + After VER. 52, in the MS.— + + Say not, 'Heaven's here profuse, there poorly saves, + And for one monarch makes a thousand slaves,' + You'll find, when causes and their ends are known, + 'Twas for the thousand Heaven has made that one. + + After VER. 66. in the MS.— + + 'Tis peace of mind alone is at a stay; + The rest mad Fortune gives or takes away. + All other bliss by accident's debarr'd; + But virtue's in the instant a reward: + In hardest trials operates the best, + And more is relish'd as the more distress'd. + + After VER. 92, in the MS.— + + Let sober moralists correct their speech, + No bad man's happy: he is great or rich. + + After VER. 116, in the MS.— + + Of every evil, since the world began, + The real source is not in God, but man. + + After VER. 142, in some editions— + + Give each a system, all must be at strife; + What different systems for a man and wife? + + After VER. 172, in the MS.— + + Say, what rewards this idle world imparts, + Or fit for searching heads or honest hearts. + + VER. 207, in the MS. thus— + + The richest blood, right-honourably old, + Down from Lucretia to Lucretia roll'd, + May swell thy heart, and gallop in thy breast, + Without one dash of usher or of priest: + Thy pride as much despise all other pride + As Christ-church once all colleges beside. + + After VER. 316, in the MS.— + + Even while it seems unequal to dispose, + And chequers all the good man's joys with woes, + 'Tis but to teach him to support each state, + With patience this, with moderation that; + And raise his base on that one solid joy, + Which conscience gives, and nothing can destroy. + + VER. 373, in the MS. thus— + + And now transported o'er so vast a plain, + While the wing'd courser flies with all her rein, + While heavenward now her mounting wing she feels, + Now scatter'd fools fly trembling from her heels, + Wilt thou, my St John! keep her course in sight, + Confine her fury, and assist her flight? + + VER. 397, in the MS. thus— + + That just to find a God is all we can, + And all the study of mankind is Man. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT; OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. + </h2> + <h3> + ADVERTISEMENT. + </h3> + <p> + This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and + drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts + of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the + authors of 'Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an 'Epistle to a + Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court') to attack, in a very + extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the + public is judge) but my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who + know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between + the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake + so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to + this epistle. If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am + most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything + offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the + vicious or the ungenerous. + </p> + <p> + Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance + but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and + they may escape being laughed at, if they please. + </p> + <p> + I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned + and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of + theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and + honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be + directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a + nameless character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>P</i>. Shut, shut the door, good John!<a href="#linknote-94" + name="linknoteref-94" id="linknoteref-94">94</a> fatigued, I said, + Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. + The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, + All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: + Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, + They rave, recite, and madden round the land. + + What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? + They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide, + By land, by water, they renew the charge, + They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 + No place is sacred, not the church is free, + Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: + Then from the Mint<a href="#linknote-95" name="linknoteref-95" + id="linknoteref-95">95</a> walks forth the man of rhyme, + Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time. + + Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, + A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, + A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, + Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? + Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls + With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 + All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain + Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. + Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, + Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: + Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, + And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. + + Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, + The world had wanted many an idle song) + What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? + Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30 + A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, + If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. + Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! + Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: + To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, + And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. + I sit with sad civility, I read + With honest anguish, and an aching head; + And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, + This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 40 + + 'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury-lane, + Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, + Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, + Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: + 'The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, + I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.' + + Three things another's modest wishes bound, + My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. + + Pitholeon<a href="#linknote-96" name="linknoteref-96" + id="linknoteref-96">96</a> sends to me: 'You know his Grace, + I want a patron; ask him for a place.' 50 + Pitholeon libell'd me—'But here's a letter + Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. + Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, + He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' + + Bless me! a packet.—''Tis a stranger sues, + A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' + If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage!' + If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.' + There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, + The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 + Fired that the house reject him, ''Sdeath! I'll print it, + And shame the fools—Your interest, sir, with Lintot.' + Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: + 'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' + All my demurs but double his attacks; + At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.' + Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: + Sir, let me see your works and you no more. + + 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring + (Midas, a sacred person and a king), 70 + His very minister who spied them first, + (Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or burst. + And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, + When every coxcomb perks them in my face? + + <i>A</i>. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things. + I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; + Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, + 'Tis nothing—— + + <i>P</i>. Nothing? if they bite and kick? + Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, + That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: 80 + The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) + The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. + + You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, + No creature smarts so little as a fool. + Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, + Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: + Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurl'd, + Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. + Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, + He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 + Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, + The creature's at his dirty work again, + Throned in the centre of his thin designs, + Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! + Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, + Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? + And has not Colly still his lord, and whore? + His butchers, Henley,<a href="#linknote-97" name="linknoteref-97" + id="linknoteref-97">97</a> his freemasons, Moore?<a href="#linknote-98" + name="linknoteref-98" id="linknoteref-98">98</a> + Does not one table Bavius still admit? + Still to one bishop,<a href="#linknote-99" name="linknoteref-99" + id="linknoteref-99">99</a> Philips seem a wit 100 + Still Sappho—— + + <i>A</i>. Hold! for God-sake—you'll offend, + No names—be calm—learn prudence of a friend: + I too could write, and I am twice as tall; + But foes like these—— + + <i>P</i>. One flatterer's worse than all. + Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, + It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. + A fool quite angry is quite innocent: + Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. + + One dedicates in high heroic prose, + And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 110 + One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, + And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. + This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, + And others roar aloud, 'Subscribe, subscribe!' + + There are, who to my person pay their court: + I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, + Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, + Such Ovid's nose, and, 'Sir! you have an eye'— + Go on, obliging creatures! make me see + All that disgraced my betters, met in me. 120 + Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, + 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:' + And, when I die, be sure you let me know + Great Homer died three thousand years ago. + + Why did I write? what sin to me unknown + Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? + As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, + I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. + I left no calling for this idle trade, + No duty broke, no father disobey'd. 130 + The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, + To help me through this long disease, my life, + To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, + And teach the being you preserved to bear. + + But why then publish? Granville the polite, + And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; + Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, + And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; + The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, + Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, 140 + And St John's self (great Dryden's friends before) + With open arms received one poet more. + Happy my studies, when by these approved! + Happier their author, when by these beloved! + From these the world will judge of men and books, + Not from the Burnets,<a href="#linknote-100" name="linknoteref-100" + id="linknoteref-100">100</a> Oldmixons, and Cookes. + + Soft were my numbers; who could take offence + While pure description held the place of sense? + Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, + 'A painted mistress, or a purling stream.' 150 + Yet then did Gildon<a href="#linknote-101" name="linknoteref-101" + id="linknoteref-101">101</a> draw his venal quill; + I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. + Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; + I never answer'd—I was not in debt. + If want provoked, or madness made them print, + I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. + + Did some more sober critic come abroad— + If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kiss'd the rod. + Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, + And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160 + Commas and points they set exactly right, + And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. + Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, + From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: + Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, + Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, + Even such small critics some regard may claim, + Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. + Pretty! in amber to observe the forms + Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170 + The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, + But wonder how the devil they got there. + + Were others angry—I excused them too; + Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. + A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; + But each man's secret standard in his mind, + That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, + This, who can gratify for who can guess? + The bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, + Who turns a Persian tale<a href="#linknote-102" name="linknoteref-102" + id="linknoteref-102">102</a> for half-a-crown, 180 + Just writes to make his barrenness appear, + And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; + He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, + Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: + And he who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, + Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: + And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, + It is not poetry, but prose run mad: + All these, my modest satire bade translate, + And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190 + How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! + And swear, not Addison himself was safe. + + Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires + True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; + Blest with each talent and each art to please, + And born to write, converse, and live with ease: + Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, + Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, + View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, + And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 200 + Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, + And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; + Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, + Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; + Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, + A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; + Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, + And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; + Like Cato, give his little senate laws, + And sit attentive to his own applause; 210 + While wits and Templars every sentence raise, + And wonder with a foolish face of praise— + Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? + Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? + + What though my name stood rubric on the walls, + Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? + Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, + On wings of winds came flying all abroad? + I sought no homage from the race that write; + I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: 220 + Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long) + No more than thou, great George! a birthday song. + I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, + To spread about the itch of verse and praise; + Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town, + To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; + Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried, + With handkerchief and orange at my side; + But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, + To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230 + + Proud as Apollo on his forkèd hill, + Sat full-blown Bufo,<a href="#linknote-103" name="linknoteref-103" + id="linknoteref-103">103</a> puff'd by every quill; + Fed with soft dedication all day long, + Horace and he went hand in hand in song. + His library (where busts of poets dead + And a true Pindar stood without a head) + Received of wits an undistinguish'd race, + Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: + Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, + And flatter'd every day, and some days eat: 240 + Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, + He paid some bards with port, and some with praise, + To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd, + And others (harder still) he paid in kind. + Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, + Dryden alone escaped this judging eye: + But still the great have kindness in reserve, + He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. + + May some choice patron bless each gray-goose quill! + May every Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 + So when a statesman wants a day's defence, + Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, + Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, + May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! + Bless'd be the great! for those they take away, + And those they left me; for they left me Gay; + Left me to see neglected genius bloom, + Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: + Of all thy blameless life, the sole return + My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 + + Oh let me live my own, and die so too! + (To live and die is all I have to do:) + Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, + And see what friends, and read what books I please: + Above a patron, though I condescend + Sometimes to call a minister my friend. + I was not born for courts or great affairs; + I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; + Can sleep without a poem in my head, + Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. 270 + + Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? + Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? + Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) + Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? + 'I found him close with Swift—Indeed? no doubt + (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.' + 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. + 'No, such a genius never can lie still;' + And then for mine obligingly mistakes + The first lampoon Sir Will<a href="#linknote-104" + name="linknoteref-104" id="linknoteref-104">104</a> or Bubo<a + href="#linknote-105" name="linknoteref-105" id="linknoteref-105">105</a> makes. 280 + Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, + When every coxcomb knows me by my style? + + Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, + That tends to make one worthy man my foe, + Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, + Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! + But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, + Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress, + Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, + Who writes a libel, or who copies out: 290 + That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, + Yet, absent, wounds an author's honest fame: + Who can your merit selfishly approve, + And show the sense of it without the love; + Who has the vanity to call you friend, + Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; + Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, + And, if he lie not, must at least betray: + Who to the dean, and silver bell<a href="#linknote-106" + name="linknoteref-106" id="linknoteref-106">106</a> can swear, + And sees at Canons what was never there; 300 + Who reads, but—with a lust to misapply, + Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie; + A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, + But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. + Let Sporus<a href="#linknote-107" name="linknoteref-107" + id="linknoteref-107">107</a> tremble— + + <i>A</i>. What? that thing of silk, + Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? + Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? + Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? + + <i>P</i>. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, + This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310 + Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, + Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys; + So well-bred spaniels civilly delight + In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. + Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, + As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. + Whether in florid impotence he speaks, + And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; + Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad! + Half-froth, half-venom, spits himself abroad, 320 + In puns or politics, or tales, or lies, + Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies. + His wit all see-saw, between that and this, + Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, + And he himself one vile antithesis. + Amphibious thing! that, acting either part, + The trifling head, or the corrupted heart, + Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, + Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. + Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have express'd, 330 + A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest, + Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, + Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. + + Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool, + Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, + Not proud, nor servile; be one poet's praise, + That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways: + That flattery, even to kings, he held a shame, + And thought a lie in verse or prose the same. + That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, 340 + But stoop'd to Truth, and moralised his song: + That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, + He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, + The damning critic, half-approving wit, + The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; + Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, + The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; + The distant threats of vengeance on his head, + The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; + The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown,<a href="#linknote-108" + name="linknoteref-108" id="linknoteref-108">108</a> 350 + Th' imputed trash,<a href="#linknote-109" name="linknoteref-109" + id="linknoteref-109">109</a> and dulness not his own; + The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape, + The libell'd person, and the pictured shape; + Abuse,<a href="#linknote-110" name="linknoteref-110" + id="linknoteref-110">110</a> on all he loved, or loved him, spread, + A friend in exile, or a father dead; + The whisper that, to greatness still too near, + Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear— + Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past: + For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last! + + <i>A</i>. But why insult the poor, affront the great? 360 + + <i>P</i>. A knave's a knave, to me, in every state: + Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, + Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail, + A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, + Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; + If on a pillory, or near a throne, + He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own. + + Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, + Sappho<a href="#linknote-111" name="linknoteref-111" + id="linknoteref-111">111</a> can tell you how this man was bit: + This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess 370 + Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: + So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, + Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore. + Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? + Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's<a href="#linknote-112" + name="linknoteref-112" id="linknoteref-112">112</a> lie. + To please a mistress one aspersed his life; + He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife: + Let Budgell<a href="#linknote-113" name="linknoteref-113" + id="linknoteref-113">113</a> charge low Grub-street on his quill, + And write whate'er he pleased, except his will;<a href="#linknote-114" + name="linknoteref-114" id="linknoteref-114">114</a> + Let the two Curlls of town and court<a href="#linknote-115" + name="linknoteref-115" id="linknoteref-115">115</a> abuse 380 + His father, mother, body, soul, and Muse. + Yet why that father held it for a rule, + It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: + That harmless mother thought no wife a whore: + Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore! + Unspotted names, and memorable long! + If there be force in virtue, or in song. + + Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, + While yet in Britain honour had applause) + Each parent sprung—— + + <i>A.</i> What fortune, pray?—— + + <i>P.</i> Their own, 390 + And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. + Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, + Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,<a href="#linknote-116" + name="linknoteref-116" id="linknoteref-116">116</a> + Stranger to civil and religious rage, + The good man walk'd innoxious through his age. + No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, + Nor dared an oath,<a href="#linknote-117" name="linknoteref-117" + id="linknoteref-117">117</a> nor hazarded a lie. + Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, + No language but the language of the heart. + By nature honest, by experience wise, 400 + Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; + His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, + His death was instant, and without a groan. + O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! + Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. + + O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! + Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: + Me, let the tender office long engage, + To rock the cradle of reposing age, + With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 410 + Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, + Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, + And keep a while one parent from the sky! + On cares like these if length of days attend, + May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, + Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, + And just as rich as when he served a Queen. + + <i>A</i>. Whether that blessing be denied or given, + Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + After VER. 20 in the MS.— + + Is there a bard in durance? turn them free, + With all their brandish'd reams they run to me: + Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays, + Who would do something in his semptress' praise? + + VER. 29 in the first edition— + + Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse? + Say, is their anger or their friendship worse? + + VER. 53 in the MS.— + + If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, + To plague Sir Robert, or to turn divine. + + VER. 60 in the former edition— + + Cibber and I are luckily no friends. + + VER. 111 in the MS.— + + For song, for silence, some expect a bribe; + And others roar aloud, 'Subscribe, subscribe!' + Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave; + Yet each declares the other fool or knave. + + After VER. 124 in the MS.— + + But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll<a href="#linknote-118" + name="linknoteref-118" id="linknoteref-118">118</a> admire + Came not from Ammon's son, but from my sire:<a href="#linknote-119" + name="linknoteref-119" id="linknoteref-119">119</a> + And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse, + I had it from my mother,<a href="#linknote-120" name="linknoteref-120" + id="linknoteref-120">120</a> not the Muse. + Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd, + Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind. + + After VER. 208 in the MS.— + + Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, + Approves of each, but likes the worst the best. + + After VER. 234 in the MS.— + + To bards reciting he vouchsafed a nod, + And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god. + Our ministers like gladiators live, + 'Tis half their bus'ness blows to ward, or give; + The good their virtue would effect, or sense, + Dies between exigents and self-defence. + + After VER. 270 in the MS.— + + Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them still; + Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will. + The world I knew, but made it not my school, + And in a course of flattery lived no fool. + + After VER. 282 in the MS.— + + <i>P</i>. What if I sing Augustus, great and good? + <i>A</i>. You did so lately, was it understood? + <i>P</i>. Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound, + As rumbling D——s or a Norfolk hound; + With George and Fred'ric roughen every verse, + Then smooth up all and Caroline rehearse. + <i>A</i>. No—the high task to lift up kings to god + Leave to court-sermons, and to birthday odes. + On themes like these, superior far to thine, + Let laurell'd Cibber and great Arnal shine. + <i>P</i>. Why write at all? + <i>A</i>. Yes, silence if you keep, + The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep. + + VER. 368 in the MS.— + + Once, and but once, his heedless youth was bit, + And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit: + Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid. + He writ no libels, but my lady did: + Great odds in amorous or poetic game, + Where woman's is the sin, and man's the shame. + + After VER. 405 in the MS.— + + And of myself, too, something must I say? + Take then this verse, the trifle of a day. + And if it live, it lives but to commend + The man whose heart has ne'er forgot a friend, + Or head, an author: critic, yet polite, + And friend to learning, yet too wise to write. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED. + </h2> + <h3> + ADVERTISEMENT. + </h3> + <p> + The occasion of publishing these 'Imitations' was the clamour raised on + some of my 'Epistles.' An answer from Horace was both more full, and of + more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example + of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr Donne, seemed a proof + with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in + ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable + to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr + Donne I versified, at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was Lord + Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury who had been Secretary of State; + neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection + on those they served in. And, indeed, there is not in the world a greater + error than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good + reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a + true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as + to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Uni aequus virtati atque ejus amicis.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SATIRE I. TO MR FORTESCUE.<a href="#linknote-121" + name="linknoteref-121" id="linknoteref-121">121</a> + + <i>P</i>. There are (I scarce can think it, but am told) + There are, to whom my satire seems too bold: + Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, + And something said of Chartres much too rough. + The lines are weak, another's pleased to say, + Lord Fanny<a href="#linknote-122" name="linknoteref-122" + id="linknoteref-122">122</a> spins a thousand such a day. + Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe, + I come to counsel learnèd in the law: + 'You'll give me, like a friend both sage and free, + Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.' 10 + + <i>F</i>. I'd write no more. + + <i>P</i>. Not write? but then I think, + And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink. + I nod in company, I wake at night, + Fools rush into my head, and so I write. + + <i>F</i>. You could not do a worse thing for your life. + Why, if the nights seem tedious—take a wife: + Or rather truly, if your point be rest, + Lettuce and cowslip-wine; <i>probatum est</i>. + But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise + Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. 20 + Or, if you needs must write, write Caesar's praise, + You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays. + + <i>P</i>. What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce, + With arms, and George, and Brunswick crowd the verse, + Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, + With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder? + Or, nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force, + Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?<a href="#linknote-123" + name="linknoteref-123" id="linknoteref-123">123</a> + + <i>F</i>. Then all your Muse's softer art display, + Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay, 30 + Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine, + And sweetly flow through all the royal line. + + <i>P</i>. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; + They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a-year; + And justly Caesar scorns the poet's lays, + It is to history he trusts for praise. + + <i>F</i>. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, + Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille, + Abuse the city's best good men in metre, + And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. 40 + Even those you touch not, hate you. + + <i>P</i>. What should ail them? + + <i>F</i>. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: + The fewer still you name, you wound the more; + Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. + + <i>P</i>. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny + Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie; + Ridotta sips and dances, till she see + The doubling lustres dance as fast as she; + F—— loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother, + Like in all else, as one egg to another. 50 + I love to pour out all myself, as plain + As downright Shippen,<a href="#linknote-124" name="linknoteref-124" + id="linknoteref-124">124</a> or as old Montaigne: + In them, as certain to be loved as seen, + The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; + In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, + Will prove at least the medium must be clear. + In this impartial glass, my Muse intends + Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; + Publish the present age; but, where my text + Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: 60 + My foes shall wish my life a longer date, + And every friend the less lament my fate, + My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, + Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, + Papist or Protestant, or both between, + Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean, + In moderation placing all my glory, + While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. + + Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet + To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet; 70 + I only wear it in a land of hectors, + Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. + Save but our army! and let Jove incrust + Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust! + Peace is my dear delight—not Fleury's more: + But touch me, and no minister so sore. + Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time + Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, + Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, + And the sad burthen of some merry song. 80 + + Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage, + Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page. + From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, + Pox'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate. + Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; + Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; + 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; + And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. + So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, + They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat. 90 + + Then, learnèd sir! (to cut the matter short) + Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court, + Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, + Attends to gild the evening of my day, + Or death's black wing already be display'd, + To wrap me in the universal shade; + Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, + Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write: + In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, + Like Lee<a href="#linknote-125" name="linknoteref-125" + id="linknoteref-125">125</a> or Budgell,<a href="#linknote-126" + name="linknoteref-126" id="linknoteref-126">126</a> I will rhyme and print. 100 + + <i>F</i>. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long, + In flower of age you perish for a song! + Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, + Will club their testers, now, to take your life! + + <i>P</i>. What? arm'd for Virtue, when I point the pen, + Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; + Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; + Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; + Can there be wanting to defend her cause, + Lights of the Church, or guardians of the laws? 110 + Could pension'd Boileau lash, in honest strain, + Flatterers and bigots even in Louis' reign? + Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, + Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage? + And I not strip the gilding off a knave, + Unplaced, unpension'd, no man's heir, or slave? + I will, or perish in the generous cause: + Hear this, and tremble! you who 'scape the laws. + Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave + Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. 120 + TO VIRTUE ONLY, AND HER FRIENDS, A FRIEND, + The world beside may murmur, or commend. + Know, all the distant din that world can keep, + Rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my sleep. + There, my retreat the best companions grace, + Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. + There St John mingles with my friendly bowl + The feast of reason and the flow of soul: + And he, whose lightning<a href="#linknote-127" name="linknoteref-127" + id="linknoteref-127">127</a> pierced th' Iberian lines, + Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, 130 + Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, + Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain. + + Envy must own, I live among the great, + No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state, + With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats, + Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats; + To help who want, to forward who excel;— + This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell; + And who unknown defame me, let them be + Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me. 140 + This is my plea, on this I rest my cause— + What saith my counsel, learnèd in the laws? + + <i>F</i>. Your plea is good; but still, I say, beware! + Laws are explain'd by men—so have a care! + It stands on record, that in Richard's times + A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes. + Consult the statute: <i>quart</i>. I think, it is, + <i>Edwardi Sext</i>. or <i>prim, et quint. Eliz</i>. + See 'Libels, Satires'—here you have it—read. + + <i>P</i>. Libels and satires! lawless things indeed! 150 + But grave epistles, bringing vice to light, + Such as a king might read, a bishop write, + Such as Sir Robert would approve— + + <i>F</i>. Indeed? + The case is alter'd—you may then proceed; + In such a cause the plaintiff will be hiss'd, + My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SATIRE II. TO MR BETHEL. + + What, and how great, the virtue and the art + To live on little with a cheerful heart; + (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine) + Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine; + Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride + Turns you from sound philosophy aside; + Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roll, + And the brain dances to the mantling bowl. + + Hear Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools, + But strong in sense, and wise without the rules. 10 + + Go, work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began) + Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can. + Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll'd abroad, + Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd), + If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, + The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat. + + Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men + Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; + Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, + Except you eat the feathers green and gold. 20 + Of carps and mullets why prefer the great, + (Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat) + Yet for small turbots such esteem profess? + Because God made these large, the other less. + + Oldfield,<a href="#linknote-128" name="linknoteref-128" + id="linknoteref-128">128</a> with more than harpy throat endued, + Cries, 'Send me, gods! a whole hog barbecued!' + Oh, blast it, south-winds! till a stench exhale + Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail. + By what criterion do ye eat, d' ye think, + If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink? 30 + When the tired glutton labours through a treat, + He finds no relish in the sweetest meat, + He calls for something bitter, something sour, + And the rich feast concludes extremely poor: + Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see; + Thus much is left of old simplicity! + + The robin redbreast till of late had rest, + And children sacred held a martin's nest, + Till beccaficos sold so devilish dear + To one that was, or would have been, a peer. 40 + Let me extol a cat, on oysters fed, + I'll have a party at the Bedford-head;<a href="#linknote-129" + name="linknoteref-129" id="linknoteref-129">129</a> + Or even to crack live crawfish recommend; + I'd never doubt at court to make a friend. + + 'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother + About one vice, and fall into the other: + Between excess and famine lies a mean; + Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean. + + Avidien, or his wife (no matter which, + For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch) 50 + Sell their presented partridges, and fruits, + And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: + One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine, + And is at once their vinegar and wine. + But on some lucky day (as when they found + A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown'd) + At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, + Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: + Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, 60 + But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart. + + He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, + And neither leans on this side, nor on that; + Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay; + Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; + Nor lets, like Naevius, every error pass, + The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass. + Now hear what blessings temperance can bring: + (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing) + First health: the stomach (cramm'd from every dish, 70 + A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish, + Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, + And all the man is one intestine war) + Remembers oft the school-boy's simple fare, + The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air. + + How pale each worshipful and reverend guest + Rise from a clergy or a city feast! + What life in all that ample body, say? + What heavenly particle inspires the clay? + The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines 80 + To seem but mortal, even in sound divines. + + On morning wings how active springs the mind + That leaves the load of yesterday behind! + How easy every labour it pursues! + How coming to the poet every Muse! + Not but we may exceed some holy time, + Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; + Ill health some just indulgence may engage, + And more the sickness of long life, old age; + For fainting age what cordial drop remains, 90 + If our intemperate youth the vessel drains? + + Our fathers praised rank ven'son. You suppose, + Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose. + Not so: a buck was then a week's repast, + And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; + More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, + Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. + Why had not I in those good times my birth, + Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth? + + Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear— 100 + That sweetest music to an honest ear— + (For, faith! Lord Fanny, you are in the wrong, + The world's good word is better than a song,) + Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pie + Are no rewards for want, and infamy! + When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, + Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, + To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, + Think how posterity will treat thy name; + And buy a rope, that future times may tell 110 + Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well. + + 'Right,' cries his lordship, 'for a rogue in need + To have a taste is insolence indeed: + In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, + My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great.' + Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, + And shine that superfluity away. + Oh, impudence of wealth! with all thy store, + How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor? + Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? 120 + Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall: + Or to thy country let that heap be lent, + As Marlbro's was, but not at five per cent. + + Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, + Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind. + And who stands safest? tell me, is it he + That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity, + Or, blest with little, whose preventing care + In peace provides fit arms against a war? + + Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, 130 + And always thinks the very thing he ought: + His equal mind I copy what I can, + And as I love, would imitate the man. + In South-sea days not happier, when surmised + The lord of thousands, than if now excised; + In forest planted by a father's hand, + Than in five acres now of rented land. + Content with little, I can piddle here + On broccoli and mutton, round the year; + But ancient friends (though poor, or out of play) 140 + That touch my bell, I cannot turn away. + 'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards, + But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords: + To Hounslow Heath I point, and Bansted Down, + Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own: + From yon old walnut-tree a shower shall fall; + And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, + And figs from standard and espalier join; + The devil is in you if you cannot dine: + Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have place) 150 + And, what's more rare, a poet shall say grace. + + Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; + Though double tax'd, how little have I lost? + My life's amusements have been just the same, + Before and after standing armies came. + My lands are sold, my father's house is gone; + I'll hire another's; is not that my own, + And yours, my friends? through whose free-opening gate + None comes too early, none departs too late; + (For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, 160 + Welcome the coming, speed the going guest). + 'Pray Heaven it last!' (cries Swift) 'as you go on; + I wish to God this house had been your own: + Pity to build, without a son or wife: + Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life.' + Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, + Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon? + What's property, dear Swift? You see it alter + From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; + Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share; 170 + Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; + Or in pure equity (the case not clear) + The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: + At best, it falls to some ungracious son, + Who cries, 'My father's damn'd, and all's my own.' + Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, + Become the portion of a booby lord; + And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham's<a href="#linknote-130" + name="linknoteref-130" id="linknoteref-130">130</a> delight, + Slides to a scrivener or a city knight. + Let lands and houses have what lords they will, 180 + Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO LORD BOLINGBROKE. + + St John, whose love indulged my labours past, + Matures my present, and shall bound my last! + Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? + Now sick alike of envy and of praise. + Public too long, ah, let me hide my age! + See, modest Cibber now has left the stage: + Our generals now, retired to their estates, + Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates, + In life's cool evening satiate of applause, + Nor fond of bleeding, even in Brunswick's cause. 10 + + A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, + ('Tis reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) + 'Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take breath, + And never gallop Pegasus to death; + Lest, still and stately, void of fire or force, + You limp, like Blackmore on a Lord Mayor's horse.' + + Farewell, then, verse, and love, and every toy, + The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; + What right, what true, what fit we justly call, + Let this be all my care—for this is all: 20 + To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste + What every day will want, and most, the last. + + But ask not, to what doctors I apply; + Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: + As drives the storm, at any door I knock: + And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke. + Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, + Mix with the world, and battle for the state, + Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, + Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: 30 + Sometimes with Aristippus,<a href="#linknote-131" + name="linknoteref-131" id="linknoteref-131">131</a> or St Paul, + Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; + Back to my native moderation slide, + And win my way by yielding to the tide. + + Long, as to him who works for debt, the day, + Long as the night to her whose love's away, + Long as the year's dull circle seems to run, + When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one: + So slow the unprofitable moments roll, + That lock up all the functions of my soul; 40 + That keep me from myself; and still delay + Life's instant business to a future day: + That task, which, as we follow, or despise, + The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise. + Which done, the poorest can no wants endure; + And which, not done, the richest must be poor. + + Late as it is, I put myself to school, + And feel some comfort not to be a fool. + Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, + Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite; 50 + I'll do what Mead and Cheselden advise, + To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes. + Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, + And men must walk at least before they dance. + + Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move + With wretched avarice, or as wretched love? + Know, there are words and spells which can control + Between the fits this fever of the soul: + Know, there are rhymes, which, fresh and fresh applied, + Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride. 60 + Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, + Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk, + A Switz, a High-Dutch, or a Low-Dutch bear; + All that we ask is but a patient ear. + + 'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor: + And the first wisdom, to be fool no more. + But to the world no bugbear is so great, + As want of figure, and a small estate. + To either India see the merchant fly, + Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! 70 + See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, + Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole! + Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, + Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend? + To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, + And ease thy heart of all that it admires? + + Here, Wisdom calls: 'Seek Virtue first, be bold! + As gold to silver, Virtue is to gold.' + There, London's voice: 'Get money, money still! + And then let virtue follow, if she will.' 80 + This, this the saving doctrine, preach'd to all, + From low St James's up to high St Paul; + From him whose quill stands quiver'd at his ear, + To him who notches sticks<a href="#linknote-132" name="linknoteref-132" + id="linknoteref-132">132</a> at Westminster. + + Barnard<a href="#linknote-133" name="linknoteref-133" + id="linknoteref-133">133</a> in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; + 'Pray then, what wants he?' Fourscore thousand pounds; + A pension, or such harness for a slave + As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. + Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth; + But Bug and D——l, their Honours, and so forth. 90 + + Yet every child another song will sing, + 'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.' + True, conscious honour is to feel no sin, + He's arm'd without that's innocent within; + Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; + Compared to this, a minister's an ass. + + And say, to which shall our applause belong, + This new court-jargon, or the good old song? + The modern language of corrupted peers, + Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poictiers? 100 + Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, + With praise or infamy leave that to fate; + Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; + If not, by any means get wealth and place.' + For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, + And foremost in the circle eye a king. + Or he, who bids thee face with steady view + Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through: + And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too? + If such a doctrine, in St James's air, 110 + Should chance to make the well-dress'd rabble stare; + If honest S——z take scandal at a spark, + That less admires the palace than the park: + Faith, I shall give the answer Reynard gave: + 'I cannot like, dread sir, your royal cave: + Because I see, by all the tracks about, + Full many a beast goes in, but none comes out.' + Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave: + Send her to court, you send her to her grave. + + Well, if a king's a lion, at the least 120 + The people are a many-headed beast: + Can they direct what measures to pursue, + Who know themselves so little what to do? + Alike in nothing but one lust of gold, + Just half the land would buy, and half be sold: + Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain, + Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main; + The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews; + Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews; + Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn; 130 + Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn; + While with the silent growth of ten per cent, + In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content. + + Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, + Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone: + But show me one who has it in his power + To act consistent with himself an hour. + Sir Job sail'd forth, the evening bright and still, + 'No place on earth' (he cried) 'like Greenwich hill!' + Up starts a palace, lo, the obedient base 140 + Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace, + The silver Thames reflects its marble face. + Now let some whimsy, or that devil within, + Which guides all those who know not what they mean, + But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen; + 'Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, + For, snug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town.' + + At amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown? + That very night he longs to lie alone. + The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter, 150 + For matrimonial solace dies a martyr. + Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch, + Transform themselves so strangely as the rich? + Well, but the poor—the poor have the same itch; + They change their weekly barber, weekly news, + Prefer a new japanner to their shoes, + Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run + (They know not whither) in a chaise and one; + They hire their sculler, and when once aboard, + Grow sick, and damn the climate—like a lord. 160 + + You laugh, half-beau, half-sloven if I stand; + My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; + You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, + White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary!<a href="#linknote-134" + name="linknoteref-134" id="linknoteref-134">134</a> + But, when no prelate's lawn with hair-shirt lined + Is half so incoherent as my mind, + When (each opinion with the next at strife, + One ebb and flow of follies all my life) + I plant, root up; I build, and then confound; + Turn round to square, and square again to round; 170 + You never change one muscle of your face, + You think this madness but a common case, + Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale apply; + Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry! + Careless how ill I with myself agree, + Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me. + Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend? + This, he who loves me, and who ought to mend? + Who ought to make me (what he can, or none), + That man divine whom Wisdom calls her own; 180 + Great without title, without fortune bless'd; + Rich even when plunder'd, honour'd while oppress'd; + Loved without youth, and follow'd without power; + At home, though exiled; free, though in the Tower; + In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing, + Just less than Jove, and much above a king, + Nay, half in heaven—except (what's mighty odd) + A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO MR MURRAY.<a href="#linknote-135" name="linknoteref-135" + id="linknoteref-135">135</a> + + 'Not to admire, is all the art I know, + To make men happy, and to keep them so.' + (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, + So take it in the very words of Creech.)<a href="#linknote-136" + name="linknoteref-136" id="linknoteref-136">136</a> + + This vault of air, this congregated ball, + Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, + There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes + Look through and trust the Ruler with his skies, + To Him commit the hour, the day, the year, + And view this dreadful All without a fear. 10 + + Admire we then what earth's low entrails hold, + Arabian shores, or Indian seas infold; + All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold? + Or popularity? or stars and strings? + The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings? + Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, + And pay the great our homage of amaze? + + If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, + The fear to want them is as weak a thing: + Whether we dread, or whether we desire, 20 + In either case, believe me, we admire; + Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse, + Surprised at better, or surprised at worse. + Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray + The unbalanced mind, and snatch the man away: + For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; + The worst of madmen is a saint run mad. + + Go then, and, if you can, admire the state + Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate; + Procure a taste to double the surprise, 30 + And gaze on Parian charms with learnèd eyes: + Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye, + Our birthday nobles' splendid livery. + If not so pleased, at council-board rejoice, + To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; + From morn to night, at Senate, Rolls, and Hall, + Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all. + But wherefore all this labour, all this strife? + For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? + Shall one whom nature, learning, birth, conspired 40 + To form, not to admire, but be admired, + Sigh, while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth, + Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth? + Yet time ennobles, or degrades each line; + It brighten'd Craggs's,<a href="#linknote-137" name="linknoteref-137" + id="linknoteref-137">137</a> and may darken thine: + And what is fame? the meanest have their day, + The greatest can but blaze, and pass away. + Graced as thou art, with all the power of words, + So known, so honour'd, at the House of Lords: + Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh 50 + (More silent far) where kings and poets lie; + Where Murray (long enough his country's pride) + Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde! + + Rack'd with sciatics, martyr'd with the stone, + Will any mortal let himself alone? + See Ward by batter'd beaux invited over, + And desperate misery lays hold on Dover. + The case is easier in the mind's disease; + There all men may be cured, whene'er they please. + Would ye be blest? despise low joys, low gains; 60 + Disdain whatever Cornbury<a href="#linknote-138" name="linknoteref-138" + id="linknoteref-138">138</a> disdains; + Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains. + + But art thou one, whom new opinions sway, + One who believes as Tindal<a href="#linknote-139" + name="linknoteref-139" id="linknoteref-139">139</a> leads the way, + Who virtue and a church alike disowns, + Thinks that but words, and this but brick and stones? + Fly then, on all the wings of wild desire, + Admire whate'er the maddest can admire: + Is wealth thy passion? Hence! from pole to pole, + Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll, 70 + For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold, + Prevent the greedy, and outbid the bold: + Advance thy golden mountain to the skies; + On the broad base of fifty thousand rise, + Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) + Add fifty more, and bring it to a square. + For, mark the advantage; just so many score + Will gain a wife with half as many more, + Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste, + And then such friends—as cannot fail to last. 80 + A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth, + Venus shall give him form, and Anstis<a href="#linknote-140" + name="linknoteref-140" id="linknoteref-140">140</a> birth. + (Believe me, many a German prince is worse, + Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse). + His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds; + Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds; + Or if three ladies like a luckless play,<a href="#linknote-141" + name="linknoteref-141" id="linknoteref-141">141</a> + Takes the whole house upon the poet's day. + Now, in such exigencies not to need, + Upon my word, you must be rich indeed; 90 + A noble superfluity it craves, + Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves; + Something, which for your honour they may cheat, + And which it much becomes you to forget. + If wealth alone then make and keep us bless'd, + Still, still be getting, never, never rest. + + But if to power and place your passion lie, + If in the pomp of life consist the joy; + Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord 100 + To do the honours, and to give the word; + Tell at your levée, as the crowds approach, + To whom to nod, whom take into your coach, + Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks, + Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks: + 'This may be troublesome, is near the chair: + That makes three members, this can choose a mayor.' + Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest, + Adopt him son, or cousin at the least, + Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest. 110 + + Or if your life be one continued treat, + If to live well means nothing but to eat; + Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day, + Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey; + With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite— + So Russel did, but could not eat at night, + Call'd, happy dog! the beggar at his door, + And envied thirst and hunger to the poor. + + Or shall we every decency confound, + Through taverns, stews, and bagnios take our round, 120 + Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo + K—l's lewd cargo, or Ty—y's crew; + From Latian syrens, French Circaean feasts, + Return well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts, + Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame, + Renounce our country, and degrade our name? + + If, after all, we must with Wilmot own, + The cordial drop of life is love alone, + And Swift cry wisely, '<i>Vive la bagatelle!</i>' + The man that loves and laughs, must sure do well. 130 + + Adieu—if this advice appear the worst, + E'en take the counsel which I gave you first: + Or better precepts if you can impart, + Why do, I'll follow them with all my heart. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. + </h2> + <h3> + ADVERTISEMENT. + </h3> + <p> + The reflections of Horace, and the judgments past in his Epistle to + Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present times, that I could not help + applying them to the use of my own country. The author thought them + considerable enough to address them to his prince; whom he paints with all + the great and good qualities of a monarch, upon whom the Romans depended + for the increase of an absolute empire. But to make the poem entirely + English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the + happiness of a free people, and are more consistent with the welfare of + our neighbours. + </p> + <p> + This epistle will show the learned world to have fallen into two mistakes: + One, that Augustus was a patron of poets in general; whereas he not only + prohibited all but the best writers to name him, but recommended that care + even to the civil magistrate: <i>Admonebat praetores, ne paterentur nomen + suum obsolefieri</i>, &c. The other, that this piece was only a + general discourse of poetry; whereas it was an apology for the poets, in + order to render Augustus more their patron. Horace here pleads the cause + of his contemporaries, first against the taste of the town, whose humour + it was to magnify the authors of the preceding age; secondly against the + court and nobility, who encouraged only the writers for the theatre; and + lastly against the emperor himself, who had conceived them of little use + to the government. He shows (by a view of the progress of learning, and + the change of taste among the Romans) that the introduction of the polite + arts of Greece had given the writers of his time great advantages over + their predecessors; that their morals were much improved, and the license + of those ancient poets restrained; that satire and comedy were become more + just and useful; that whatever extravagances were left on the stage, were + owing to the ill taste of the nobility; that poets, under due regulations, + were in many respects useful to the state; and concludes, that it was upon + them the emperor himself must depend for his fame with posterity. + </p> + <p> + We may further learn from this epistle, that Horace made his court to this + great prince by writing with a decent freedom toward him, with a just + contempt of his low flatterers, and with a manly regard to his own + character. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO AUGUSTUS.<a href="#linknote-142" name="linknoteref-142" + id="linknoteref-142"><small>142</small></a> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While you, great patron of mankind! sustain + The balanced world, and open all the main; + Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend, + At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend; + How shall the Muse, from such a monarch, steal + An hour, and not defraud the public weal? + + Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, + And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name, + After a life of generous toils endured, + The Gaul subdued, or property secured, 10 + Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd, + Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd; + Closed their long glories with a sigh, to find + The unwilling gratitude of base mankind! + All human virtue, to its latest breath, + Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death. + The great Alcides, every labour past, + Had still this monster to subdue at last. + Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray + Each star of meaner merit fades away! 20 + Oppress'd we feel the beam directly beat, + Those suns of glory please not till they set. + + To thee, the world its present homage pays, + The harvest early, but mature the praise: + Great friend of liberty! in kings a name + Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: + Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, + As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard. + Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes + None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise. 30 + + Just in one instance, be it yet confess'd, + Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: + Foes to all living worth except your own, + And advocates for folly dead and gone. + Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; + It is the rust we value, not the gold. + Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote, + And beastly Skelton<a href="#linknote-143" name="linknoteref-143" + id="linknoteref-143">143</a> heads of houses quote: + One likes no language but the 'Faery Queen'; + A Scot will fight for 'Christ's Kirk o' the Green';<a + href="#linknote-144" name="linknoteref-144" id="linknoteref-144">144</a> 40 + And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, + He swears the Muses met him at The Devil.<a href="#linknote-145" + name="linknoteref-145" id="linknoteref-145">145</a> + + Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, + Why should not we be wiser than our sires? + In every public virtue we excel; + We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, + And learnèd Athens to our art must stoop, + Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop. + + If time improve our wit as well as wine, + Say at what age a poet grows divine? 50 + Shall we, or shall we not, account him so, + Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago? + End all dispute; and fix the year precise + When British bards begin t' immortalise? + + 'Who lasts a century can have no flaw, + I hold that wit a classic, good in law.' + Suppose he wants a year, will you compound? + And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, + Or damn to all eternity at once, + At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce? 60 + + 'We shall not quarrel for a year or two; + By courtesy of England, he may do.' + + Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare,<a href="#linknote-146" + name="linknoteref-146" id="linknoteref-146">146</a> + I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, + And melt down ancients like a heap of snow: + While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe, + And estimating authors by the year, + Bestow a garland only on a bier. + + Shakspeare (whom you and every play-house bill + Style the divine, the matchless, what you will), 70 + For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, + And grew immortal in his own despite. + Ben, old and poor, as little seem'd to heed + The life to come, in every poet's creed. + Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, + His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; + Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art, + But still I love the language of his heart. + + 'Yet surely, surely, these were famous men! + What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben? 80 + In all debates where critics bear a part, + Not one but nods and talks of Johnson's art, + Of Shakspeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; + How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ; + How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; + But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe. + These, only these, support the crowded stage, + From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.' + + All this may be; the people's voice is odd, + It is, and it is not, the voice of God. 90 + To Gammer Gurton<a href="#linknote-147" name="linknoteref-147" + id="linknoteref-147">147</a> if it give the bays, + And yet deny the 'Careless Husband' praise, + Or say our fathers never broke a rule; + Why then, I say, the public is a fool. + But let them own, that greater faults than we + They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree. + Spenser himself affects the obsolete, + And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: + Milton's strong pinion now not Heaven can bound, + Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, 100 + In quibbles, angel and archangel join, + And God the Father turns a school-divine. + Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, + Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook, + Or damn all Shakspeare, like the affected fool + At court, who hates whate'er he read at school. + + But for the wits of either Charles's days, + The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; + Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, + (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er) 110 + One simile, that solitary shines + In the dry desert of a thousand lines, + Or lengthen'd thought that gleams through many a page, + Has sanctified whole poems for an age. + I lose my patience, and I own it too, + When works are censured, not as bad, but new; + While if our elders break all reason's laws, + These fools demand not pardon, but applause. + + On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, + If I but ask, if any weed can grow? 120 + One tragic sentence if I dare deride + Which Betterton's grave action dignified, + Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims, + (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names) + How will our fathers rise up in a rage, + And swear, all shame is lost in George's age! + You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, + Did not some grave examples yet remain, + Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, + And, having once been wrong, will be so still. 130 + He who, to seem more deep than you or I, + Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, + Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, + And to debase the sons, exalts the sires. + Had ancient times conspired to disallow + What then was new, what had been ancient now? + Or what remain'd so worthy to be read + By learned critics of the mighty dead? + + In days of ease, when now the weary sword + Was sheathed, and luxury with Charles restored; 140 + In every taste of foreign courts improved, + 'All, by the king's example,<a href="#linknote-148" + name="linknoteref-148" id="linknoteref-148">148</a> lived and loved.' + Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t' excel, + Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell; + The soldier breathed the gallantries of France, + And every flowery courtier writ romance. + Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm, + And yielding metal flow'd to human form: + Lely<a href="#linknote-149" name="linknoteref-149" id="linknoteref-149">149</a> on animated canvas stole + The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul. 150 + No wonder then, when all was love and sport, + The willing Muses were debauch'd at court: + On each enervate string they taught the note + To pant, or tremble through an eunuch's throat. + + But Britain, changeful as a child at play, + Now calls in princes, and now turns away. + Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate; + Now all for pleasure, now for Church and State; + Now for prerogative, and now for laws; + Effects unhappy! from a noble cause. 160 + + Time was, a sober Englishman would knock + His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, + Instruct his family in every rule, + And send his wife to church, his son to school. + To worship like his fathers, was his care; + To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; + To prove, that luxury could never hold; + And place, on good security, his gold. + Now times are changed, and one poetic itch + Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: 170 + Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, + Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, + To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, + And all our grace at table is a song. + I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie, + Not ——'s self e'er tells more fibs than I; + When sick of muse, our follies we deplore, + And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; + We wake next morning in a raging fit, + And call for pen and ink to show our wit. 180 + + He served a 'prenticeship, who sets up shop; + Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; + E'en Radcliffe's doctors travel first to France, + Nor dare to practise till they've learn'd to dance. + Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? + (Should Ripley<a href="#linknote-150" name="linknoteref-150" + id="linknoteref-150">150</a> venture, all the world would smile) + But those who cannot write, and those who can, + All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man. + + Yet, sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; + These madmen never hurt the Church or State: 190 + Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; + And rarely avarice taints the tuneful mind. + Allow him but his plaything of a pen, + He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: + Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; + And knows no losses while the Muse is kind. + To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter; + The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, + Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; + And then—a perfect hermit in his diet. 200 + + Of little use the man you may suppose, + Who says in verse what others say in prose; + Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, + And (though no soldier) useful to the State. + What will a child learn sooner than a song? + What better teach a foreigner the tongue? + What's long or short, each accent where to place, + And speak in public with some sort of grace? + I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, + Unless he praise some monster of a king; 210 + Or virtue or religion turn to sport, + To please a lewd or unbelieving court + Unhappy Dryden!—in all Charles's days, + Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; + And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) + No whiter page than Addison remains. + He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, + And sets the passions on the side of truth, + Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, + And pours each human virtue in the heart, 220 + Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, + Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; + And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved, + 'The rights a court attack'd, a poet saved.' + Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, + Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor, + Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, + And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. + Not but there are, who merit other palms; + Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: 230 + The boys and girls whom charity maintains, + Implore your help in these pathetic strains: + How could devotion touch the country pews, + Unless the gods bestow'd a proper muse? + Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work, + Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk. + The silenced preacher yields to potent strain, + And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain; + The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng, + And Heaven is won by violence of song. 240 + + Our rural ancestors, with little blest, + Patient of labour when the end was rest, + Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, + With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain: + The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, + Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: + The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, + Smooth'd every brow, and open'd every soul: + With growing years the pleasing license grew, + And taunts alternate innocently flew. 250 + But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined, + Produced the point that left a sting behind; + Till friend with friend, and families at strife, + Triumphant malice raged through private life. + Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took the alarm, + Appeal'd to law, and justice lent her arm. + At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, + The poets learn'd to please, and not to wound: + Most warp'd to flattery's side; but some, more nice, + Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice. 260 + Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, + And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. + + We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's charms; + Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms; + Britain to soft refinements less a foe, + Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow. + Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join + The varying verse, the full-resounding line, + The long majestic march, and energy divine: + Though still some traces of our rustic vein 270 + And splayfoot verse remain'd, and will remain. + Late, very late, correctness grew our care, + When the tired nation breathed from civil war. + Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire, + Show'd us that France had something to admire. + Not but the tragic spirit was our own, + And full in Shakspeare, fair in Otway shone: + But Otway fail'd to polish or refine, + And fluent Shakspeare scarce effaced a line. + Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 280 + The last and greatest art, the art to blot. + Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire + The humbler muse of Comedy require. + But in known images of life, I guess + The labour greater, as the indulgence less. + Observe how seldom even the best succeed: + Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed? + What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ! + How Van<a href="#linknote-151" name="linknoteref-151" + id="linknoteref-151">151</a> wants grace, who never wanted wit! + The stage how loosely does Astraea<a href="#linknote-152" + name="linknoteref-152" id="linknoteref-152">152</a> tread, 290 + Who fairly puts all characters to bed: + And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, + To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause! + But fill their purse, our poets' work is done, + Alike to them, by pathos or by pun. + + O you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys + On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, + With what a shifting gale your course you ply, + For ever sunk too low, or borne too high! + Who pants for glory finds but short repose, 300 + A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. + Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play, + The silly bard grows fat, or falls away. + + There still remains, to mortify a wit, + The many-headed monster of the pit: + A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd; + Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, + Clattering their sticks before ten lines are spoke. + Call for the farce, the bear, or the black-joke. + What dear delight to Britons farce affords! 310 + Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; + (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies + From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes). + The play stands still; damn action and discourse, + Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; + Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, + Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; + The champion too; and, to complete the jest, + Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast<a href="#linknote-153" + name="linknoteref-153" id="linknoteref-153">153</a> + With laughter, sure, Democritus had died, 320 + Had he beheld an audience gape so wide. + Let bear or elephant be e'er so white, + The people, sure, the people are the sight! + Ah, luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar, + That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; + While all its throats the gallery extends, + And all the thunder of the pit ascends! + Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep, + Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep. + Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, 330 + At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat; + Or when from court a birthday suit bestow'd, + Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load. + Booth enters—hark! the universal peal! + 'But has he spoken?' Not a syllable. + What shook the stage, and made the people stare? + Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair. + + Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, + Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, + Let me for once presume to instruct the times, 340 + To know the poet from the man of rhymes: + 'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains, + Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; + Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, + With pity, and with terror, tear my heart: + And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air, + To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. + + But not this part of the poetic state + Alone, deserves the favour of the great: + Think of those authors, sir, who would rely 350 + More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye. + Or who shall wander where the Muses sing? + Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring? + How shall we fill a library with wit, + When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet? + + My liege! why writers little claim your thought, + I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault: + We poets are (upon a poet's word) + Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd: + The season, when to come, and when to go, 360 + To sing, or cease to sing, we never know; + And if we will recite nine hours in ten, + You lose your patience, just like other men. + Then, too, we hurt ourselves, when to defend + A single verse, we quarrel with a friend; + Repeat unask'd; lament, the wit's too fine + For vulgar eyes, and point out every line. + But most, when straining with too weak a wing, + We needs will write epistles to the king; + And from the moment we oblige the town, 370 + Expect a place, or pension from the crown; + Or dubb'd historians by express command, + To enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land, + Be call'd to court to plan some work divine, + As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine. + + Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown) + Ah think, what poet best may make them known? + Or choose, at least, some minister of grace, + Fit to bestow the Laureate's weighty place. + + Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair, 380 + Assign'd his figure to Bernini's<a href="#linknote-154" + name="linknoteref-154" id="linknoteref-154">154</a> care; + And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed + To fix him graceful on the bounding steed; + So well in paint and stone they judged of merit: + But kings in wit may want discerning spirit. + The hero William, and the martyr Charles, + One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles; + Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear, + 'No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear.' + + Not with such majesty, such bold relief, 390 + The forms august of king, or conquering chief. + E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shined + (In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind. + Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing, + Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing! + What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought! + Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought! + How barbarous rage subsided at your word, + And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword! + How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep, 400 + Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep; + Till earth's extremes your mediation own, + And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne— + But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains; + And I'm not used to panegyric strains: + The zeal of fools offends at any time, + But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme. + Besides, a fate attends on all I write, + That when I aim at praise, they say I bite. + A vile encomium doubly ridicules: 410 + There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools. + If true, a woful likeness; and if lies, + 'Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise:' + Well may he blush who gives it, or receives; + And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves + (Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things + As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings) + Clothe spice, line trunks, or fluttering in a row, + Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur.' + + —HOR. + + Dear Colonel,<a href="#linknote-155" name="linknoteref-155" + id="linknoteref-155">155</a> Cobham's and your country's friend! + You love a verse, take such as I can send. + A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy, + Bows and begins—'The lad, sir, is of Blois:<a + href="#linknote-156" name="linknoteref-156" id="linknoteref-156">156</a> + Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl'd! + My only son;—I'd have him see the world: + His French is pure: his voice, too, you shall hear. + Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a-year. + Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, + Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please: 10 + A perfect genius at an opera song— + To say too much, might do my honour wrong. + Take him with all his virtues, on my word; + His whole ambition was to serve a lord; + But, sir, to you, with what would I not part? + Though, faith! I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart. + Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie, + And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry; + The fault he has I fairly shall reveal, + (Could you o'erlook but that) it is to steal.' 20 + + If, after this, you took the graceless lad, + Could you complain, my friend, he proved so bad? + Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, + I think Sir Godfrey<a href="#linknote-157" name="linknoteref-157" + id="linknoteref-157">157</a> should decide the suit; + Who sent the thief that stole the cash away, + And punish'd him that put it in his way. + + Consider then, and judge me in this light; + I told you when I went, I could not write; + You said the same; and are you discontent + With laws, to which you gave your own assent? 30 + Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time! + D' ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme? + + In Anna's wars, a soldier, poor and old, + Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold: + Tired with a tedious march, one luckless night, + He slept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit. + This put the man in such a desperate mind, + Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd, + Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, + He leap'd the trenches, scaled a castle-wall, 40 + Tore down a standard, took the fort and all. + 'Prodigious well!' his great commander cried, + Gave him much praise, and some reward beside. + Next, pleased his excellence a town to batter; + (Its name I know not, and it's no great matter) + 'Go on, my friend,' (he cried) 'see yonder walls! + Advance and conquer! go where glory calls! + More honours, more rewards attend the brave.' + Don't you remember what reply he gave? + 'D' ye think me, noble general, such a sot? 50 + Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat.' + + Bred up at home, full early I begun + To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son. + Besides, my father taught me from a lad, + The better art to know the good from bad: + (And little sure imported to remove, + To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learnèd grove.) + But knottier points we knew not half so well, + Deprived us soon of our paternal cell; + And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust. 60 + Denied all posts of profit or of trust: + Hopes after hopes of pious Papists fail'd, + While mighty William's thundering arm prevail'd. + For right hereditary tax'd and fined, + He stuck to poverty with peace of mind; + And me, the Muses help'd to undergo it: + Convict a Papist he, and I a poet. + But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive. + Indebted to no prince or peer alive, + Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes,<a href="#linknote-158" + name="linknoteref-158" id="linknoteref-158">158</a> 70 + If I would scribble, rather than repose. + + Years following years, steal something every day, + At last they steal us from ourselves away; + In one our frolics, one amusements end, + In one a mistress drops, in one a friend: + This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, + What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme? + If every wheel of that unwearied mill + That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still? + + But, after all, what would you have me do? 80 + When out of twenty I can please not two; + When this heroics only deigns to praise, + Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays? + One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg; + The vulgar boil, the learnèd roast an egg; + Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests, + When Oldfield loves, what Dartineuf<a href="#linknote-159" + name="linknoteref-159" id="linknoteref-159">159</a> detests. + + But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, + Again to rhyme; can London be the place? + Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends, 90 + In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends? + My counsel sends to execute a deed: + A poet begs me I will hear him read: + In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there— + At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury Square— + Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on— + There's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one.— + 'Oh, but a wit can study in the streets, + And raise his mind above the mob he meets.' + Not quite so well, however, as one ought; 100 + A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought: + And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, + God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. + Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass, + Two aldermen dispute it with an ass? + And peers give way, exalted as they are, + Even to their own s-r-v—nce in a car? + + Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd, + Sing thy sonorous verse—but not aloud. + Alas! to grottos and to groves we run, 110 + To ease and silence, every Muse's son: + Blackmore himself, for any grand effort, + Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's Court.<a href="#linknote-160" + name="linknoteref-160" id="linknoteref-160">160</a> + How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? + How match the bards whom none e'er match'd before? + + The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, + To books and study gives seven years complete, + See! strew'd with learned dust, his nightcap on, + He walks, an object new beneath the sun! + The boys flock round him, and the people stare: 120 + So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear, + Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air! + And here, while town, and court, and city roars, + With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors: + Shall I, in London, act this idle part? + Composing songs,<a href="#linknote-161" name="linknoteref-161" + id="linknoteref-161">161</a> for fools to get by heart? + + The Temple late two brother sergeants saw, + Who deem'd each other oracles of law; + With equal talents, these congenial souls, + One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Rolls; 130 + Each had a gravity would make you split, + And shook his head at Murray, as a wit. + ''Twas, sir, your law'—and 'Sir, your eloquence,' + 'Yours, Cowper's manner—and yours, Talbot's sense.' + + Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, + Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. + Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine, + Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine. + Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see + No poets there, but, Stephen,<a href="#linknote-162" + name="linknoteref-162" id="linknoteref-162">162</a> you, and me. 140 + Walk with respect behind, while we at ease + Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please. + 'My dear Tibullus!' if that will not do, + 'Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:' + Or 'I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, + And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.' + Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace + This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race; + And much must flatter, if the whim should bite + To court applause by printing what I write: 150 + But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough + To stop my ears to their confounded stuff. + + In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject, + They treat themselves with most profound respect; + 'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue, + Each, praised within, is happy all day long, + But how severely with themselves proceed + The men, who write such verse as we can read? + Their own strict judges, not a word they spare + That wants, or force, or light, or weight, or care, 160 + Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, + Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace: + Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead, + In downright charity revive the dead; + Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, + Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years; + Command old words, that long have slept, to wake, + Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake; + Or bid the new be English, ages hence, + (For use will father what's begot by sense) 170 + Pour the full tide of eloquence along, + Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, + Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue; + Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine, + But show no mercy to an empty line: + Then polish all, with so much life and ease, + You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please: + But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; + As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. + + If such the plague and pains to write by rule, 180 + Better (say I) be pleased, and play the fool; + Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease, + It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease. + There lived <i>in primo Georgii</i> (they record) + A worthy member, no small fool, a lord; + Who, though the House was up, delighted sat, + Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate: + In all but this, a man of sober life, + Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife; + Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell, 190 + And much too wise to walk into a well. + Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immured, + They bled, they cupp'd, they purged; in short, they cured: + Whereat the gentleman began to stare— + 'My friends!' he cried, 'pox take you for your care! + That from a patriot of distinguish'd note, + Have bled and purged me to a simple vote.' + + Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate: + Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late. + There is a time when poets will grow dull: 200 + I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school: + To rules of poetry no more confined, + I learn to smooth and harmonise my mind, + Teach every thought within its bounds to roll, + And keep the equal measure of the soul. + + Soon as I enter at my country door, + My mind resumes the thread it dropped before; + Thoughts, which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot, + Meet, and rejoin me, in the pensive grot, + There all alone, and compliments apart, 210 + I ask these sober questions of my heart: + + If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, + You tell the doctor; when the more you have, + The more you want, why not with equal ease + Confess as well your folly, as disease? + The heart resolves this matter in a trice, + 'Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.' + + When golden angels cease to cure the evil, + You give all royal witchcraft to the devil: + When servile chaplains<a href="#linknote-163" name="linknoteref-163" + id="linknoteref-163">163</a> cry, that birth and place 220 + Indue a peer with honour, truth, and grace, + Look in that breast, most dirty D——! be fair, + Say, can you find out one such lodger there? + Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach, + You go to church to hear these flatterers preach. + Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, + A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, + The wisest man might blush, I must agree, + If D—— loved sixpence more than he. + + If there be truth in law, and use can give 230 + A property, that's yours on which you live. + Delightful Abbs Court,<a href="#linknote-164" name="linknoteref-164" + id="linknoteref-164">164</a> if its fields afford + Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord: + All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town, + His ven'son, too, a guinea makes your own: + He bought at thousands, what with better wit + You purchase as you want, and bit by bit; + Now, or long since, what difference will be found? + You pay a penny, and he paid a pound. + + Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men, 240 + Lords of fat Ev'sham, or of Lincoln fen, + Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat, + Buy every pullet they afford to eat. + Yet these are wights who fondly call their own + Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town. + The laws of God, as well as of the land, + Abhor a perpetuity should stand: + Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's power + Loose on the point of every wavering hour, + Ready, by force, or of your own accord, 250 + By sale, at least by death, to change their lord. + Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst thou have? + Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. + All vast possessions (just the same the case + Whether you call them villa, park, or chase) + Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail! + Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale, + Let rising granaries and temples here, + There mingled farms and pyramids appear, + Link towns to towns with avenues of oak, 260 + Enclose whole downs in walls,—'tis all a joke! + Inexorable death shall level all, + And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall. + + Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high, + Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye, + There are who have not—and, thank Heaven, there are, + Who, if they have not, think not worth their care. + + Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find, + Two of a face, as soon as of a mind. + Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one 270 + Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun; + The other slights, for women, sports, and wines, + All Townshend's turnips,<a href="#linknote-165" name="linknoteref-165" + id="linknoteref-165">165</a> and all Grosvenor's mines: + Why one like Bu——,<a href="#linknote-166" + name="linknoteref-166" id="linknoteref-166">166</a> with pay and scorn content, + Bows and votes on, in court and parliament; + One, driven by strong benevolence of soul, + Shall fly, like Oglethorpe,<a href="#linknote-167" + name="linknoteref-167" id="linknoteref-167">167</a> from pole to pole: + Is known alone to that Directing Power, + Who forms the genius in the natal hour; + That God of Nature, who, within us still, 280 + Inclines our action, not constrains our will; + Various of temper, as of face or frame, + Each individual: His great end the same. + + Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap, + A part I will enjoy, as well as keep. + My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace + A man so poor would live without a place: + But sure no statute in his favour says, + How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days: + I, who at some times spend, at others spare, 290 + Divided between carelessness and care. + 'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store: + Another, not to heed to treasure more; + Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day, + And pleased, if sordid want be far away. + + What is't to me (a passenger, God wot!) + Whether my vessel be first-rate or not? + The ship itself may make a better figure, + But I that sail am neither less nor bigger. + I neither strut with every favouring breath, 300 + Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth. + In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, placed + Behind the foremost, and before the last. + + 'But why all this of avarice? I have none.' + I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone; + But does no other lord it at this hour, + As wild and mad—the avarice of power? + Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal? + Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? + With terrors round, can reason hold her throne, 310 + Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown? + Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, + In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire? + Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind, + And count each birthday with a grateful mind? + Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end? + Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend? + Has age but melted the rough parts away, + As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay? + Or will you think, my friend, your business done, 320 + When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one? + + Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; + You've play'd, and loved, and eat, and drank your fill: + Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age + Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage: + Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease, + Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I. EPISTLE VII. — IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR SWIFT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word, + I would be with you, June the third; + Changed it to August, and (in short) + Have kept it—as you do at court. + You humour me when I am sick, + Why not when I am splenetic? + In town, what objects could I meet? + The shops shut up in every street, + And funerals blackening all the doors, + And yet more melancholy whores: 10 + And what a dust in every place! + And a thin court that wants your face, + And fevers raging up and down, + And W—— and H—— both in town! + + 'The dog-days are no more the case.' + 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: + Then southward let your bard retire, + Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, + And you shall see, the first warm weather, + Me and the butterflies together. 20 + + My lord, your favours well I know; + 'Tis with distinction you bestow; + And not to every one that comes, + Just as a Scotchman does his plums. + 'Pray, take them, sir,—enough's a feast: + Eat some, and pocket up the rest.' + What! rob your boys? those pretty rogues + 'No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.' + Thus fools with compliments besiege ye, + Contriving never to oblige ye. 30 + Scatter your favours on a fop, + Ingratitude's the certain crop; + And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore, + You give the things you never care for. + A wise man always is, or should, + Be mighty ready to do good; + But makes a difference in his thought + Betwixt a guinea and a groat. + + Now this I'll say, you'll find in me + A safe companion, and a free; 40 + But if you'd have me always near— + A word, pray, in your honour's ear. + I hope it is your resolution + To give me back my constitution! + The sprightly wit, the lively eye, + Th' engaging smile, the gaiety, + That laugh'd down many a summer sun, + And kept you up so oft till one: + And all that voluntary vein, + As when Belinda<a href="#linknote-168" name="linknoteref-168" + id="linknoteref-168">168</a> raised my strain. 50 + + A weasel once made shift to slink + In at a corn-loft through a chink; + But having amply stuff'd his skin, + Could not get out as he got in: + Which one belonging to the house + ('Twas not a man, it was a mouse) + Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so; + Lean as you came, sir, you must go.' + + Sir, you may spare your application, + I'm no such beast, nor his relation; 60 + Nor one that temperance advance, + Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans: + Extremely ready to resign + All that may make me none of mine. + South-Sea subscriptions take who please, + Leave me but liberty and ease. + 'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child, + Who praised my modesty, and smiled. + Give me, I cried, (enough for me) + My bread, and independency! 70 + So bought an annual rent or two, + And lived—just as you see I do; + Near fifty, and without a wife, + I trust that sinking fund, my life. + Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well, + Shrink back to my paternal cell, + A little house, with trees a-row, + And, like its master, very low. + There died my father, no man's debtor, + And there I'll die, nor worse, nor better. 80 + + To set this matter full before ye, + Our old friend Swift will tell his story. + + 'Harley, the nation's great support'— + But you may read it,—I stop short. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II. SATIRE VI. THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714, BY DR SWIFT; + THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've often wish'd that I had clear, + For life, six hundred pounds a-year, + A handsome house to lodge a friend, + A river at my garden's end, + A terrace-walk, and half a rood + Of land, set out to plant a wood. + + Well, now I have all this and more, + I ask not to increase my store; + But here a grievance seems to lie, + All this is mine but till I die; 10 + I can't but think 'twould sound more clever, + To me and to my heirs for ever. + + If I ne'er got or lost a groat, + By any trick, or any fault; + And if I pray by reason's rules, + And not like forty other fools: + As thus, 'Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker! + To grant me this and t' other acre: + Or, if it be thy will and pleasure, + Direct my plough to find a treasure:' 20 + But only what my station fits, + And to be kept in my right wits. + Preserve, Almighty Providence! + Just what you gave me, competence: + And let me in these shades compose + Something in verse as true as prose; + Removed from all the ambitious scene, + Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen. + + In short, I'm perfectly content, + Let me but live on this side Trent; 30 + Nor cross the Channel twice a-year, + To spend six months with statesmen here. + + I must by all means come to town, + 'Tis for the service of the crown. + 'Lewis, the Dean will be of use, + Send for him up, take no excuse.' + The toil, the danger of the seas; + Great ministers ne'er think of these; + Or let it cost five hundred pound, + No matter where the money's found, 40 + It is but so much more in debt, + And that they ne'er consider'd yet. + + 'Good Mr Dean, go change your gown, + Let my lord know you're come to town.' + I hurry me in haste away, + Not thinking it is levee-day; + And find his honour in a pound, + Hemm'd by a triple circle round, + Checquer'd with ribbons blue and green: + How should I thrust myself between? 50 + Same wag observes me thus perplex'd, + And smiling, whispers to the next, + 'I thought the Dean had been too proud, + To jostle here among a crowd.' + Another in a surly fit, + Tells me I have more zeal than wit, + 'So eager to express your love, + You ne'er consider whom you shove, + But rudely press before a duke.' + I own, I'm pleased with this rebuke, 60 + And take it kindly meant to show + What I desire the world should know. + + I get a whisper, and withdraw; + When twenty fools I never saw + Come with petitions fairly penn'd, + Desiring I would stand their friend. + + This, humbly offers me his case— + That, begs my interest for a place— + A hundred other men's affairs, + Like bees, are humming in my ears. 70 + 'To-morrow my appeal comes on, + Without your help the cause is gone'— + The duke expects my lord and you, + About some great affair, at two— + 'Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, + To get my warrant quickly sign'd: + Consider, 'tis my first request.'— + Be satisfied, I'll do my best: + Then presently he falls to tease, + 'You may for certain, if you please; 80 + I doubt not, if his lordship knew— + And, Mr Dean, one word from you'— + + 'Tis (let me see) three years and more, + (October next it will be four) + Since Harley bid me first attend, + And chose me for an humble friend; + Would take me in his coach to chat, + And question me of this and that; + As, 'What's o'clock?' and, 'How's the wind?' + 'Who's chariot's that we left behind?' 90 + Or gravely try to read the lines + Writ underneath the country signs; + Or, 'Have you nothing new to-day + From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?' + Such tattle often entertains + My lord and me as far as Staines, + As once a week we travel down + To Windsor, and again to town, + Where all that passes, <i>inter nos</i>, + Might be proclaim'd at Charing Cross. 100 + + Yet some I know with envy swell, + Because they see me used so well: + 'How think you of our friend the dean? + I wonder what some people mean; + My lord and he are grown so great, + Always together, tête-à-tête: + What, they admire him for his jokes— + See but the fortune of some folks!' + There flies about a strange report + Of some express arrived at court; 110 + I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet, + And catechised in every street. + 'You, Mr Dean, frequent the great; + Inform us, will the Emperor treat? + Or do the prints and papers lie?' + Faith, sir, you know as much as I. + 'Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! + Tis now no secret'—I protest + 'Tis one to me—'Then tell us, pray, + When are the troops to have their pay?' 120 + And, though I solemnly declare + I know no more than my Lord Mayor, + They stand amazed, and think me grown + The closest mortal ever known. + + Thus in a sea of folly toss'd, + My choicest hours of life are lost; + Yet always wishing to retreat, + Oh, could I see my country-seat! + There, leaning near a gentle brook, + Sleep, or peruse some ancient book, 130 + And there in sweet oblivion drown + Those cares that haunt the court and town. + O charming noons! and nights divine! + Or when I sup, or when I dine, + My friends above, my folks below, + Chatting and laughing all a-row; + The beans and bacon set before 'em, + The grace-cup served with all decorum: + Each willing to be pleased, and please, + And even the very dogs at ease! 140 + Here no man prates of idle things, + How this or that Italian sings, + A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's, + Or what's in either of the Houses: + But something much more our concern, + And quite a scandal not to learn: + Which is the happier or the wiser, + A man of merit, or a miser? + Whether we ought to choose our friends, + For their own worth, or our own ends? 150 + What good, or better, we may call, + And what, the very best of all? + + Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) + A tale extremely <i>á propos</i>: + Name a town life, and in a trice, + He had a story of two mice. + Once on a time (so runs the fable) + A country mouse, right hospitable, + Received a town mouse at his board, + Just as a farmer might a lord. 160 + A frugal mouse upon the whole. + Yet loved his friend, and had a soul, + Knew what was handsome, and would do 't, + On just occasion, coúte qui coúte, + He brought him bacon (nothing lean); + Pudding, that might have pleased a dean; + Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make, + But wish'd it Stilton, for his sake; + Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, + He eat himself the rind and paring, 170 + Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, + But show'd his breeding and his wit; + He did his best to seem to eat, + And cried, 'I vow you're mighty neat. + But, lord! my friend, this savage scene! + For God's sake, come, and live with men: + Consider, mice, like men, must die, + Both small and great, both you and I: + Then spend your life in joy and sport, + (This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court).' 180 + + The veriest hermit in the nation + May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. + Away they come, through thick and thin, + To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn; + ('Twas on the night of a debate, + When all their lordships had sat late.) + + Behold the place where, if a poet + Shined in description, he might show it; + Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, + And tips with silver<a href="#linknote-169" name="linknoteref-169" + id="linknoteref-169">169</a> all the walls; 190 + Palladian walls, Venetian doors, + Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors: + But let it (in a word) be said, + The moon was up, and men a-bed, + The napkins white, the carpet red: + The guests withdrawn had left the treat, + And down the mice sat, <i>tête-à-tête</i>. + + Our courtier walks from dish to dish, + Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; + Tells all their names, lays down the law, 200 + '<i>Que ça est bon! Ah goutez ça!</i> + That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing, + Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.' + Was ever such a happy swain? + He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. + 'I'm quite ashamed—'tis mighty rude + To eat so much—but all's so good. + I have a thousand thanks to give— + My lord alone knows how to live.' + No sooner said, but from the hall 210 + Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all: + 'A rat! a rat! clap to the door'— + The cat comes bouncing on the floor. + O for the heart of Homer's mice, + Or gods to save them in a trice! + (It was by Providence they think, + For your damn'd stucco has no chink.) + 'An't please your honour, quoth the peasant, + This same dessert is not so pleasant: + Give me again my hollow tree, 220 + A crust of bread, and liberty!' + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV. ODE I. TO VENUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Again? new tumults in my breast? + Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest! + I am not now, alas! the man + As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. + Ah, sound no more thy soft alarms, + Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms. + Mother too fierce of dear desires! + Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires, + To Number Five direct your doves, + There spread round Murray all your blooming loves 10 + Noble and young, who strikes the heart + With every sprightly, every decent part; + Equal, the injured to defend, + To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. + He, with a hundred arts refined, + Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind; + To him each rival shall submit, + Make but his riches equal to his wit. + Then shall thy form the marble grace, + (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: 20 + His house, embosom'd in the grove, + Sacred to social life and social love, + Shall glitter o'er the pendant green, + Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: + Thither, the silver-sounding lyres + Shall call the smiling Loves, and young Desires; + There, every Grace and Muse shall throng, + Exalt the dance, or animate the song; + There, youths and nymphs, in consort gay, + Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. 30 + With me, alas! those joys are o'er; + For me, the vernal garlands bloom no more. + Adieu!<a href="#linknote-170" name="linknoteref-170" + id="linknoteref-170">170</a> fond hope of mutual fire, + The still believing, still-renew'd desire; + Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl, + And all the kind deceivers of the soul! + But why? ah, tell me, ah, too dear! + Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? + Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, + Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? 40 + Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam, + Absent I follow through th' extended dream; + Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms, + And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms; + And swiftly shoot along the Mall, + Or softly glide by the canal, + Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, + And now on rolling waters snatch'd away. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART8" id="link2H_PART8"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART OF THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 Lest you should think that verse shall die, + Which sounds the silver Thames along, + Taught, on the wings of truth to fly + Above the reach of vulgar song; + + 2 Though daring Milton sits sublime, + In Spenser, native Muses play; + Nor yet shall Waller yield to time, + Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay. + + 3 Sages and chiefs long since had birth + Ere Caesar was, or Newton named; + These raised new empires o'er the earth, + And those, new heavens and systems framed. + + 4 Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! + They had no poet, and they died. + In vain they schemed, in vain they bled! + They had no poet, and are dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST PAUL'S,<a href="#linknote-171" + name="linknoteref-171" id="linknoteref-171"><small>171</small></a> + VERSIFIED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, + numrerum dura negârit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?' + + HOR. + + SATIRE II. + + Yes; thank my stars! as early as I knew + This town, I had the sense to hate it too: + Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be still + One giant-vice, so excellently ill, + That all beside, one pities, not abhors; + As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores. + + I grant that poetry's a crying sin; + It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in: + Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, + But that the cure is starving, all allow. 10 + Yet like the papist's is the poet's state, + Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate! + + Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give + Himself a dinner, makes an actor live; + The thief condemn'd, in law already dead, + So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read. + Thus as the pipes of some carved organ move, + The gilded puppets dance and mount above. + Heaved by the breath the inspiring bellows blow: + The inspiring bellows lie and pant below. 20 + + One sings the fair; but songs no longer move; + No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love: + In love's, in nature's spite, the siege they hold, + And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all—but gold. + These write to lords, some mean reward to get, + As needy beggars sing at doors for meat. + Those write because all write, and so have still + Excuse for writing, and for writing ill. + + Wretched indeed! but far more wretched yet + Is he who makes his meal on others' wit: 30 + 'Tis changed, no doubt, from what it was before, + His rank digestion makes it wit no more: + Sense, pass'd through him, no longer is the same; + For food digested takes another name. + + I pass o'er all those confessors and martyrs, + Who live like Sutton, or who die like Chartres, + Out-cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir, + Out-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear; + Wicked as pages, who in early years + Act sins which Prisca's confessor scarce hears. 40 + Ev'n those I pardon, for whose sinful sake + Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make; + Of whose strange crimes no canonist can tell + In what commandment's large contents they dwell. + + One, one man only breeds my just offence; + Whom crimes gave wealth, and wealth gave impudence: + Time, that at last matures a clap to pox, + Whose gentle progress makes a calf an ox, + And brings all natural events to pass, + Hath made him an attorney of an ass. 50 + No young divine, new-beneficed, can be + More pert, more proud, more positive than he. + What further could I wish the fop to do, + But turn a wit, and scribble verses too; + Pierce the soft labyrinth of a lady's ear + With rhymes of this per cent, and that per year? + Or court a wife, spread out his wily parts, + Like nets or lime-twigs, for rich widows' hearts: + Call himself barrister to every wench, + And woo in language of the Pleas and Bench? 60 + Language, which Boreas might to Auster hold + More rough than forty Germans when they scold. + + Cursed be the wretch, so venal and so vain: + Paltry and proud, as drabs in Drury-lane. + 'Tis such a bounty as was never known, + If Peter deigns to help you to your own: + What thanks, what praise, if Peter but supplies, + And what a solemn face, if he denies! + Grave, as when prisoners shake the head and swear + 'Twas only suretiship that brought 'em there. 70 + His office keeps your parchment fates entire, + He starves with cold to save them from the fire; + For you he walks the streets through rain or dust, + For not in chariots Peter puts his trust; + For you he sweats and labours at the laws, + Takes God to witness he affects your cause, + And lies to every lord in every thing, + Like a king's favourite, or like a king. + These are the talents that adorn them all, + From wicked Waters ev'n to godly Paul.<a href="#linknote-172" + name="linknoteref-172" id="linknoteref-172">172</a> + Not more of simony beneath black gowns, 80 + Not more of bastardy in heirs to crowns. + In shillings and in pence at first they deal; + And steal so little, few perceive they steal; + Till, like the sea, they compass all the land, + From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand: + And when rank widows purchase luscious nights, + Or when a duke to Jansen punts at White's, + Or city-heir in mortgage melts away; + Satan himself feels far less joy than they. + Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that, 90 + Glean on, and gather up the whole estate. + Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law, + Indentures, covenants, articles they draw, + Large as the fields themselves, and larger far + Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are; + So vast, our new divines, we must confess, + Are fathers of the Church for writing less. + But let them write for you, each rogue impairs + The deeds, and dext'rously omits, <i>ses heires</i>: + No commentator can more slily pass 100 + O'er a learn'd, unintelligible place; + Or, in quotation, shrewd divines leave out + Those words, that would against them clear the doubt. + + So Luther thought the Pater-noster long, + When doom'd to say his beads and even-song; + But having cast his cowl, and left those laws, + Adds to Christ's prayer, the Power and Glory clause. + + The lands are bought; but where are to be found + Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground? + We see no new-built palaces aspire, 110 + No kitchens emulate the vestal fire. + Where are those troops of poor, that throng'd of yore + The good old landlord's hospitable door? + Well, I could wish, that still in lordly domes + Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole hecatombs; + That both extremes were banish'd from their walls, + Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bacchanals; + And all mankind might that just mean observe, + In which none e'er could surfeit, none could starve. + These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow; 120 + But oh! these works are not in fashion now: + Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare, + Extremely fine, but what no man will wear. + + Thus much I've said, I trust, without offence; + Let no court sycophant pervert my sense, + Nor sly informer watch these words to draw + Within the reach of treason, or the law. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SATIRE IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, if it be my time to quit the stage, + Adieu to all the follies of the age! + I die in charity with fool and knave, + Secure of peace at least beyond the grave. + I've had my purgatory here betimes, + And paid for all my satires, all my rhymes. + The poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames. + To this were trifles, toys, and empty names. + + With foolish pride my heart was never fired, + Nor the vain itch t' admire, or be admired; 10 + I hoped for no commission from his Grace; + I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place; + Had no new verses, nor new suit to show; + Yet went to court!—the devil would have it so. + But, as the fool that, in reforming days, + Would go to mass in jest (as story says) + Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd, + Since 'twas no form'd design of serving God; + So was I punish'd, as if full as proud, + As prone to ill, as negligent of good. 20 + As deep in debt, without a thought to pay, + As vain, as idle, and as false as they + Who live at court, for going once that way! + Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came + A thing which Adam had been posed to name; + Noah had refused it lodging in his ark, + Where all the race of reptiles might embark: + A verier monster than on Afric's shore + The sun e'er got, or slimy Nilus bore, + Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain, 30 + Nay, all that lying travellers can feign. + The watch would hardly let him pass at noon, + At night, would swear him dropp'd out of the moon. + One whom the mob, when next we find or make + A Popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take, + And the wise justice, starting from his chair, + Cry, By your priesthood, tell me what you are? + + Such was the wight; the apparel on his back, + Though coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was black: + The suit, if by the fashion one might guess, 40 + Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess, + But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd; + So time, that changes all things, had ordain'd! + Our sons shall see it leisurely decay, + First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away. + + This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too, + And knows what's fit for every State to do; + Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join'd, + He forms one tongue, exotic and refined + Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew, 50 + Henley himself I've heard, and Budgell too. + The Doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues + A pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs, + The whole artillery of the terms of war, + And (all those plagues in one) the bawling Bar: + These I could bear; but not a rogue so civil, + Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil; + A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel scores, + Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores, + With royal favourites in flattery vie, 60 + And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie. + + He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God! + What sin of mine could merit such a rod? + That all the shot of dulness now must be + From this thy blunderbuss discharged on me! + Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame + To crave your sentiment, if ——'s your name. + What speech esteem you most? 'The King's,' said I. + But the best words?—'Oh, sir, the Dictionary.' + You miss my aim; I mean the most acute 70 + And perfect speaker?—'Onslow, past dispute.' + But, sir, of writers? 'Swift, for closer style; + But Hoadley,<a href="#linknote-173" name="linknoteref-173" + id="linknoteref-173">173</a> for a period of a mile.' + Why, yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass: + Good common linguists, and so Panurge was; + Nay, troth, the Apostles (though perhaps too rough) + Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough: + Yet these were all poor gentlemen! I dare + Affirm, 'twas travel made them what they were. + + Thus others' talents having nicely shown, 80 + He came by sure transition to his own: + Till I cried out, You prove yourself so able, + Pity you was not druggerman at Babel; + For had they found a linguist half so good, + I make no question but the tower had stood. + 'Obliging sir! for courts you sure were made: + Why then for ever buried in the shade? + Spirits like you should see, and should be seen, + The king would smile on you—at least the queen.' + Ah, gentle sir! you courtiers so cajole us— 90 + But Tully has it, <i>Nunquam minus solus</i>: + And as for courts, forgive me, if I say + No lessons now are taught the Spartan way: + Though in his pictures lust be full display'd, + Few are the converts Aretine has made; + And though the court show vice exceeding clear, + None should, by my advice, learn virtue there. + + At this, entranced, he lifts his hands and eyes, + Squeaks like a high-stretch'd lutestring, and replies: + 'Oh, 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things 100 + To gaze on princes, and to talk of kings!' + Then, happy man who shows the tombs! said I, + He dwells amidst the royal family; + He every day, from king to king can walk, + Of all our Harries, all our Edwards talk, + And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead, + What few can of the living-ease and bread. + 'Lord, sir, a mere mechanic! strangely low, + And coarse of phrase,—your English all are so. + How elegant your Frenchmen!' Mine, d'ye mean? 110 + I have but one, I hope the fellow's clean. + 'Oh! sir, politely so! nay, let me die: + Your only wearing is your paduasoy.' + Not, sir, my only, I have better still, + And this, you see, is but my dishabille. + Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke, + Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke. + But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more, + And itch most hurts when anger'd to a sore; + So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curse, 120 + You only make the matter worse and worse. + + He pass'd it o'er; affects an easy smile + At all my peevishness, and turns his style. + He asks, 'What news?' I tell him of new plays, + New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas. + He hears, and as a still with simples in it + Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute, + Loth to enrich me with too quick replies, + By little, and by little, drops his lies. + Mere household trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows, 130 + More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes. + When the queen frown'd, or smiled, he knows; and what + A subtle minister may make of that: + Who sins with whom: who got his pension rug, + Or quicken'd a reversion by a drug: + Whose place is quarter'd out, three parts in four, + And whether to a bishop, or a whore: + Who, having lost his credit, pawn'd his rent, + Is therefore fit to have a government: + Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure, 140 + And cheats the unknowing widow and the poor: + Who makes a trust or charity a job, + And gets an act of parliament to rob: + Why turnpikes rise, and now no cit nor clown + Can gratis see the country, or the town: + Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole, + But some excising courtier will have toll. + He tells what strumpet places sells for life, + What 'squire his lands, what citizen his wife: + And last (which proves him wiser still than all) 150 + What lady's face is not a whited wall. + + As one of Woodward's patients, sick, and sore, + I puke, I nauseate,—yet he thrusts in more: + Trim's Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part. + And talks Gazettes and Postboys o'er by heart. + Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat + Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, and sweat. + Then as a licensed spy, whom nothing can + Silence or hurt, he libels the great man; + Swears every place entail'd for years to come, 160 + In sure succession to the day of doom: + He names the price for every office paid, + And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd: + Nay, hints 'tis by connivance of the court + That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port. + Not more amazement seized on Circe's guests, + To see themselves fall endlong into beasts, + Than mine, to find a subject, staid and wise, + Already half turn'd traitor by surprise. + I felt the infection slide from him to me, 170 + As in the pox, some give it to get free; + And quick to swallow me, methought I saw + One of our giant statues ope its jaw. + + In that nice moment, as another lie + Stood just a-tilt, the minister came by. + To him he flies, and bows, and bows again, + Then, close as Umbra, joins the dirty train. + Not Fannius' self more impudently near, + When half his nose is in his prince's ear. + I quaked at heart; and still afraid, to see 180 + All the court fill'd with stranger things than he, + Ran out as fast, as one that pays his bail, + And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail. + + Bear me, some god! oh quickly bear me hence + To wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense, + Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, + And the free soul looks down to pity kings! + There sober thought pursued the amusing theme, + Till fancy colour'd it, and form'd a dream. + A vision hermits can to Hell transport, 190 + And forced ev'n me to see the damn'd at court. + Not Dante, dreaming all the infernal state, + Beheld such scenes of envy, sin, and hate. + Base fear becomes the guilty, not the free; + Suits tyrants, plunderers, but suits not me: + Shall I, the terror of this sinful town, + Care if a liveried lord or smile or frown? + Who cannot flatter, and detest who can, + Tremble before a noble serving-man? + O my fair mistress, Truth! shall I quit thee 200 + For huffing, braggart, puff'd nobility? + Thou, who since yesterday hast roll'd o'er all + The busy, idle blockheads of the ball, + Hast thou, O Sun! beheld an emptier sort, + Than such as swell this bladder of a court? + Now pox on those who show a court in wax! + It ought to bring all courtiers on their backs: + Such painted puppets! such a varnish'd race + Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face! + Such waxen noses, stately staring things— 210 + No wonder some folks bow, and think them kings. + + See! where the British youth, engaged no more + At Fig's,<a href="#linknote-174" name="linknoteref-174" + id="linknoteref-174">174</a> at White's, with felons, or a whore, + Pay their last duty to the court, and come + All fresh and fragrant, to the drawing-room; + In hues as gay, and odours as divine, + As the fair fields they sold to look so fine. + 'That's velvet for a king!' the flatterer swears; + 'Tis true, for ten days hence 'twill be King Lear's. + Our court may justly to our stage give rules, 220 + That helps it both to fools' coats and to fools. + And why not players strut in courtiers' clothes? + For these are actors too, as well as those: + Wants reach all states; they beg, but better dress'd, + And all is splendid poverty at best. + + Painted for sight, and essenced for the smell, + Like frigates fraught with spice and cochineal, + Sail in the ladies: how each pirate eyes + So weak a vessel, and so rich a prize! + Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim, 230 + He boarding her, she striking sail to him: + 'Dear Countess! you have charms all hearts to hit!' + And, 'Sweet Sir Fopling! you have so much wit!' + Such wits and beauties are not praised for nought, + For both the beauty and the wit are bought. + 'Twould burst ev'n Heraclitus with the spleen, + To see those antics, Fopling and Courtin: + The Presence seems, with things so richly odd, + The mosque of Mahound, or some queer pagod. + See them survey their limbs by Durer's rules, 240 + Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools! + Adjust their clothes, and to confession draw + Those venial sins, an atom, or a straw; + But oh! what terrors must distract the soul + Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole; + Or should one pound of powder less bespread + Those monkey tails that wag behind their head. + Thus finish'd, and corrected to a hair, + They march, to prate their hour before the fair. + So first to preach a white-gloved chaplain goes, 250 + With band of lily, and with cheek of rose, + Sweeter than Sharon, in immaculate trim, + Neatness itself impertinent in him, + Let but the ladies smile, and they are blest: + Prodigious! how the things protest, protest: + Peace, fools! or Gonson will for Papists seize you, + If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu! + + Nature made every fop to plague his brother, + Just as one beauty mortifies another. + But here's the captain that will plague them both, 260 + Whose air cries, Arm! whose very look's an oath: + The captain's honest, sirs, and that's enough, + Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff. + He spits fore-right; his haughty chest before, + Like battering rams, beats open every door: + And with a face as red, and as awry, + As Herod's hangdogs in old tapestry, + Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse, + Has yet a strange ambition to look worse; + Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe, + Jests like a licensed fool, commands like law. 270 + + Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so + As men from jails to execution go; + For hung with deadly sins<a href="#linknote-175" name="linknoteref-175" + id="linknoteref-175">175</a> I see the wall, + And lined with giants deadlier than 'em all: + Each man an Ascapart,<a href="#linknote-176" name="linknoteref-176" + id="linknoteref-176">176</a> of strength to toss + For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. + Scared at the grisly forms, I sweat, I fly, + And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy. + + Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: + Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold divine! 280 + From such alone the great rebukes endure, + Whose satire's sacred, and whose rage secure: + 'Tis mine to wash a few light stains, but theirs + To deluge sin, and drown a court in tears. + Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit, + In time to come, may pass for holy writ. + +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE<a href="#linknote-177" name="linknoteref-177" id="linknoteref-177"><small>177</small></a> + TO THE SATIRES. IN TWO DIALOGUES. (WRITTEN IN MDCCXXXVIII.) + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DIALOGUE I. + + <i>Fr</i>. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, + And when it comes, the court see nothing in 't. + You grow correct, that once with rapture writ, + And are, besides, too moral for a wit. + Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel— + Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal? + 'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye + Said, 'Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;' + And taught his Romans, in much better metre, + 'To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.' 10 + + But, Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice; + Bubo<a href="#linknote-178" name="linknoteref-178" id="linknoteref-178">178</a> observes, he lash'd no sort of vice: + Horace would say, Sir Billy<a href="#linknote-179" + name="linknoteref-179" id="linknoteref-179">179</a> served the crown, + Blunt could do business, Huggins<a href="#linknote-180" + name="linknoteref-180" id="linknoteref-180">180</a> knew the town; + In Sappho touch the failings of the sex, + In reverend bishops note some small neglects, + And own, the Spaniard did a waggish thing, + Who cropp'd our ears,<a href="#linknote-181" name="linknoteref-181" + id="linknoteref-181">181</a> and sent them to the king. + His sly, polite, insinuating style + Could please at court, and make Augustus smile: 20 + An artful manager, that crept between + His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen. + But, faith, your very friends will soon be sore; + Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more— + And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought + The great man<a href="#linknote-182" name="linknoteref-182" + id="linknoteref-182">182</a> never offer'd you a groat. + Go see Sir Robert— + + <i>P</i>. See Sir Robert!—hum— + And never laugh—for all my life to come? + Seen him I have,<a href="#linknote-183" name="linknoteref-183" + id="linknoteref-183">183</a> but in his happier hour + Of social pleasure, ill-exchanged for power; 30 + Seen him, uncumber'd with the venal tribe, + Smile without art, and win without a bribe. + Would he oblige me? let me only find, + He does not think me what he thinks mankind. + Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt; + The only difference is, I dare laugh out. + + <i>F</i>. Why, yes: with Scripture still you may be free; + A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty; + A joke on Jekyl,<a href="#linknote-184" name="linknoteref-184" + id="linknoteref-184">184</a> or some odd old Whig + Who never changed his principle, or wig: 40 + A patriot is a fool in every age, + Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: + These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still, + And wear their strange old virtue, as they will. + + If any ask you, 'Who's the man, so near + His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?' + Why, answer, Lyttleton,<a href="#linknote-185" name="linknoteref-185" + id="linknoteref-185">185</a> and I'll engage + The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage: + But were his verses vile, his whisper base, + You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case. 50 + Sejanus, Wolsey,<a href="#linknote-186" name="linknoteref-186" + id="linknoteref-186">186</a> hurt not honest Fleury,<a href="#linknote-187" + name="linknoteref-187" id="linknoteref-187">187</a> + But well may put some statesmen in a fury. + + Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes; + These you but anger, and you mend not those. + Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, + So much the better, you may laugh the more. + To vice and folly to confine the jest, + Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest; + Did not the sneer of more impartial men + At sense and virtue, balance all again. 60 + Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule, + And charitably comfort knave and fool. + + <i>P</i>. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: + Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth! + Come, harmless characters that no one hit; + Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn's<a href="#linknote-188" + name="linknoteref-188" id="linknoteref-188">188</a> wit! + The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue, + The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Yonge! + The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence, + And all the well-whipt cream of courtly sense, 70 + That first was Hervy's, Fox's next, and then + The senate's, and then Hervy's once again. + Oh come, that easy, Ciceronian style, + So Latin, yet so English all the while, + As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland, + All boys may read, and girls may understand! + Then might I sing, without the least offence, + And all I sung should be the nation's sense;<a href="#linknote-189" + name="linknoteref-189" id="linknoteref-189">189</a> + Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn, + Hang the sad verse on Carolina's<a href="#linknote-190" + name="linknoteref-190" id="linknoteref-190">190</a> urn, 80 + And hail her passage to the realms of rest, + All parts perform'd, and all her children bless'd! + So—satire is no more—I feel it die— + No gazetteer<a href="#linknote-191" name="linknoteref-191" + id="linknoteref-191">191</a> more innocent than I— + And let, a-God's-name! every fool and knave + Be graced through life, and flatter'd in his grave. + + <i>F</i>. Why so? if satire knows its time and place, + You still may lash the greatest—in disgrace: + For merit will by turns forsake them all; + Would you know when exactly when they fall. 90 + But let all satire in all changes spare + Immortal Selkirk,<a href="#linknote-192" name="linknoteref-192" + id="linknoteref-192">192</a> and grave Delaware.<a href="#linknote-193" + name="linknoteref-193" id="linknoteref-193">193</a> + Silent and soft, as saints remove to heaven, + All ties dissolved, and every sin forgiven, + These may some gentle ministerial wing + Receive, and place for ever near a king! + There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport, + Lull'd with the sweet nepenthe of a court; + There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace + Once break their rest, or stir them from their place: 100 + But past the sense of human miseries, + All tears are wiped for ever from all eyes; + No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb, + Save when they lose a question, or a job. + + <i>P</i>. Good Heaven forbid that I should blast their glory, + Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory, + And when three sovereigns died, could scarce be vex'd, + Considering what a gracious prince was next. + Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things + As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings; 110 + And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret, + Who starves a sister,<a href="#linknote-194" name="linknoteref-194" + id="linknoteref-194">194</a> or forswears a debt? + Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast; + But shall the dignity of vice be lost? + Ye gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke, + Swear like a lord, or Rich<a href="#linknote-195" + name="linknoteref-195" id="linknoteref-195_">195</a> out-whore a duke? + A favourite's porter with his master vie, + Be bribed as often, and as often lie? + Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill? + Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? 120 + Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things) + To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings? + If Blount<a href="#linknote-196" name="linknoteref-196" + id="linknoteref-196">196</a> dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man, + And so may'st thou, illustrious Passeran!<a href="#linknote-197" + name="linknoteref-197" id="linknoteref-197">197</a> + But shall a printer,<a href="#linknote-198" name="linknoteref-198" + id="linknoteref-198">198</a> weary of his life, + Learn from their books to hang himself and wife? + This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear: + Vice thus abused, demands a nation's care: + This calls the Church to deprecate our sin, + And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin,<a href="#linknote-199" + name="linknoteref-199" id="linknoteref-199">199</a> 130 + Let modest Foster, if he will, excel + Ten metropolitans in preaching well; + A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,<a href="#linknote-200" + name="linknoteref-200" id="linknoteref-200">200</a> + Outdo Landaff<a href="#linknote-201" name="linknoteref-201" + id="linknoteref-201">201</a> in doctrine,—yea, in life: + Let humble Allen,<a href="#linknote-202" name="linknoteref-202" + id="linknoteref-202">202</a> with an awkward shame, + Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. + Virtue may choose the high or low degree, + 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me; + Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, + She's still the same beloved, contented thing. 140 + Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, + And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: + But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore; + Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more: + Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess, + Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless: + In golden chains the willing world she draws, + And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws, + Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, + And sees pale virtue carted in her stead. 150 + Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car, + Old England's genius, rough with many a scar, + Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round, + His flag inverted trails along the ground! + Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold, + Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old! + See thronging millions to the pagod run, + And offer country, parent, wife, or son! + Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim, + That NOT TO BE CORRUPTED IS THE SHAME! 160 + In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, + 'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more! + See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! + See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves! + The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, + Are what ten thousand envy and adore! + All, all look up with reverential awe, + At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law: + While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry— + 'Nothing is sacred now but villany.' 170 + + Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) + Show, there was one who held it in disdain. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + After VER. 2 in the MS.— + + You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, + Because you think your reputation made: + Like good Sir Paul, of whom so much was said, + That when his name was up, he lay a-bed. + Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song, + Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. + + <i>P</i>. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ. + + <i>F</i>. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit. + Besides, you grow too moral for a wit. + + VER. 112 in some editions—'Who starves a mother.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DIALOGUE II. + + <i>Fr</i>. 'Tis all a libel—Paxton<a href="#linknote-203" + name="linknoteref-203" id="linknoteref-203">203</a> (sir) will say. + + <i>P</i>. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow, faith, it may; + And for that very cause I print to-day. + How should I fret to mangle every line, + In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine! + Vice with such giant strides comes on amain, + Invention strives to be before in vain; + Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, + Some rising genius sins up to my song. + + <i>F</i>. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; 10 + Ev'n Guthrie<a href="#linknote-204" name="linknoteref-204" + id="linknoteref-204">204</a> saves half Newgate by a dash. + Spare then the person, and expose the vice. + + <i>P</i>. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice? + Come on then, Satire! general, unconfined, + Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. + Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all! + Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall! + Ye reverend atheists—— + + <i>F</i>. Scandal! name them, who? + + <i>P</i>. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. + Who starved a sister, who forswore a debt, 20 + I never named; the town's inquiring yet. + The poisoning dame—— + + <i>F</i>. You mean—— + + <i>P</i>. I don't. + + <i>F</i>. You do. + + <i>P</i>. See, now I keep the secret, and not you! + The bribing statesman—— + + <i>F</i>. Hold, too high you go. + + <i>P</i>. The bribed elector—— + + <i>F</i>. There you stoop too low. + + <i>P</i>. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; + Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not? + Must great offenders, once escaped the crown, + Like royal harts, be never more run down? + Admit, your law to spare the knight requires, 30 + As beasts of nature may we hunt the 'squires? + Suppose I censure—you know what I mean— + To save a bishop, may I name a dean? + + <i>F</i>. A dean, sir? no: his fortune is not made, + You hurt a man that's rising in the trade. + + <i>P</i>. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, + Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may. + Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be spoil'd, + Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;<a href="#linknote-205" + name="linknoteref-205" id="linknoteref-205">205</a> + Or, if a court or country's made a job, 40 + Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob. + + But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!) + The matter's weighty, pray consider twice; + Have you less pity for the needy cheat, + The poor and friendless villain, than the great? + Alas! the small discredit of a bribe + Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. + Then better, sure, it charity becomes + To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; + Still better, ministers; or, if the thing 50 + May pinch ev'n there—why lay it on a king. + + <i>F.</i> Stop! stop! + + <i>P.</i> Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall? + Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. + + <i>F.</i> Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. + + <i>P.</i> Strike! why the man was hanged ten years ago: + Who now that obsolete example fears? + Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears. + + <i>F.</i> What, always Peter! Peter thinks you mad, + You make men desperate if they once are bad: + Else might he take to virtue some years hence 60 + + <i>P.</i> As Selkirk, if he lives, will love the Prince. + + <i>F.</i> Strange spleen to Selkirk! + + <i>P.</i> Do I wrong the man? + God knows, I praise a courtier where I can. + When I confess, there is who feels for fame, + And melts to goodness,<a href="#linknote-206" name="linknoteref-206" + id="linknoteref-206">206</a> need I Scarb'rough<a href="#linknote-207" + name="linknoteref-207" id="linknoteref-207">207</a> name? + Pleased, let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove<a href="#linknote-208" + name="linknoteref-208" id="linknoteref-208">208</a> + (Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love) + The scene, the master, opening to my view, + I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew! + Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert; 70 + Secker is decent—Rundel has a heart— + Manners with candour are to Benson given— + To Berkeley, every virtue under heaven. + + But does the court a worthy man remove? + That instant, I declare, he has my love: + I shun his zenith, court his mild decline; + Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine. + Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat, + I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great: + Carleton's<a href="#linknote-209" name="linknoteref-209" + id="linknoteref-209">209</a> calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, 80 + Compared, and knew their generous end the same: + How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour! + How shined the soul, unconquer'd in the Tower! + How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget, + While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit: + Argyll,<a href="#linknote-210" name="linknoteref-210" + id="linknoteref-210">210</a> the state's whole thunder born to wield, + And shake alike the senate and the field: + Or Wyndham,<a href="#linknote-211" name="linknoteref-211" + id="linknoteref-211">211</a> just to freedom and the throne, + The master of our passions, and his own. + Names, which I long have loved, nor loved in vain, 90 + Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their train: + And if yet higher<a href="#linknote-212" name="linknoteref-212" + id="linknoteref-212">212</a> the proud list should end, + Still let me say,—No follower, but a friend.<a + href="#linknote-213" name="linknoteref-213" id="linknoteref-213">213</a> + + Yet think not Friendship only prompts my lays; + I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise: + Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, + Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory. + I never (to my sorrow I declare) + Dined with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.<a href="#linknote-214" + name="linknoteref-214" id="linknoteref-214">214</a> + Some, in their choice of friends, (nay, look not grave) 100 + Have still a secret bias to a knave: + To find an honest man I beat about. + And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. + + <i>F</i>. Then why so few commended? + + <i>P</i>. Not so fierce; + Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. + But random praise—the task can ne'er be done; + Each mother asks it for her booby son, + Each widow asks it for 'the best of men,' + For him she weeps, and him she weds again. + Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; 110 + The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. + Enough for half the greatest of these days, + To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise. + Are they not rich? what more can they pretend? + Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? + What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain, + And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. + No power the Muse's friendship can command; + No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: + To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line; 120 + Oh let my country's friends illumine mine! + —What are you thinking? + + <i>F</i>. Faith, the thought's no sin— + I think your friends are out, and would be in. + + <i>P</i>. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, + The way they take is strangely round about. + + <i>F</i>. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow? + + <i>P</i>. I only call those knaves who are so now. + Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply— + Spirit of Arnall!<a href="#linknote-215" name="linknoteref-215" + id="linknoteref-215">215</a> aid me while I lie. + Cobham's a coward, Polwarth<a href="#linknote-216" + name="linknoteref-216" id="linknoteref-216">216</a> is a slave, 130 + And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave, + St John has ever been a wealthy fool— + But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, + Has never made a friend in private life, + And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife. + + But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? + Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? + Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, + O all-accomplish'd St John! deck thy shrine? + + What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, 140 + When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, + Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend + To break my windows if I treat a friend? + Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, + But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? + Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules + Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools; + Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said + His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead. + + It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150 + To see a footman kick'd that took his pay: + But when he heard the affront the fellow gave, + Knew one a man of honour, one a knave, + The prudent general turn'd it to a jest, + And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest: + Which not at present having time to do—— + + <i>F</i>. Hold sir! for God's-sake where 'a the affront to you? + Against your worship when had Selkirk writ? + Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? + Or grant the bard<a href="#linknote-217" name="linknoteref-217" + id="linknoteref-217">217</a> whose distich all commend 160 + 'In power a servant, out of power a friend,' + To Walpole guilty of some venial sin; + What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? + + The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown, + How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. + And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, + Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend? + + <i>P</i>. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came; + Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame, + Since the whole house did afterwards the same. 170 + Let courtly wits to wits afford supply, + As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly; + If one, through Nature's bounty, or his lord's, + Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords, + From him the next receives it, thick or thin, + As pure a mess almost as it came in; + The blessed benefit, not there confined, + Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind; + From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse: + The last full fairly gives it to the House. 180 + + <i>F</i>. This filthy simile, this beastly line + Quite turns my stomach—— + + <i>P</i>. So does flattery mine; + And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, + Perfume to you, to me is excrement. + But hear me further—Japhet,<a href="#linknote-218" + name="linknoteref-218" id="linknoteref-218">218</a> 'tis agreed, + Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read, + In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite; + But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; + And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, + Because the deed he forged was not my own? 190 + Must never patriot then declaim at gin, + Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? + No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse, + Without a staring reason on his brows? + And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, + Because the insult's not on man, but God? + + Ask you what provocation I have had? + The strong antipathy of good to bad. + When truth or virtue an affront endures, + The affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. 200 + Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence, + Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense; + Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; + And mine, as man, who feel for all mankind. + + <i>F</i>. You're strangely proud. + + <i>P</i>. So proud, I am no slave: + So impudent, I own myself no knave: + So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. + Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see + Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: + Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 + Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone. + + O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, + Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! + To all but heaven-directed hands denied, + The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: + Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal; + To rouse the watchmen of the public weal, + To virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall, + And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall. + Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, 220 + That counts your beauties only by your stains, + Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! + The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: + All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, + All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings,— + All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, + Like the last gazette, or the last address. + + When black ambition<a href="#linknote-219" name="linknoteref-219" + id="linknoteref-219">219</a> stains a public cause, + A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, + Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, 230 + Nor Boileau<a href="#linknote-220" name="linknoteref-220" + id="linknoteref-220">220</a> turn the feather to a star. + + Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, + Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's shrine, + Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, + And opes the temple<a href="#linknote-221" name="linknoteref-221" + id="linknoteref-221">221</a> of Eternity. + There, other trophies deck the truly brave, + Than such as Anstis<a href="#linknote-222" name="linknoteref-222" + id="linknoteref-222">222</a> casts into the grave; + Far other stars than —— and —— wear,<a + href="#linknote-223" name="linknoteref-223" id="linknoteref-223">223</a> + And may descend to Mordington from Stair:<a href="#linknote-224" + name="linknoteref-224" id="linknoteref-224">224</a> + (Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine, 240 + Or beam, good Digby,<a href="#linknote-225" name="linknoteref-225" + id="linknoteref-225">225</a> from a heart like thine) + Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings, + And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; + Let Flattery sickening see the incense rise, + Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies: + Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, + And makes immortal verse as mean as mine. + + Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, + When truth stands trembling on the edge of law; + Here, last of Britons! let your names be read; 250 + Are none, none living? let me praise the dead, + And for that cause which made your fathers shine, + Fall by the votes of their degenerate line. + + <i>F</i>. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, + And write next winter more 'Essays on Man.' + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VARIATIONS. + + VER. 185 in the MS.— + + I grant it, sir; and further, 'tis agreed, + Japhet writ not, and Chartres scarce could read. + + After VER. 227 in the MS.— + + Where's now the star that lighted Charles to rise? + —With that which follow'd Julius to the skies + Angels that watch'd the Royal Oak so well, + How chanced ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell? + Hence, lying miracles! reduced so low + As to the regal-touch, and papal-toe; + Hence haughty Edgar's title to the main, + Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain! + + VER. 255 in the MS.— + + Quit, quit these themes, and write 'Essays on Man.' +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_FOOT" id="link2H_FOOT"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOOTNOTES: + </h2> + <p> + <a name="linknote-1" id="linknote-1"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 1 (<a href="#linknoteref-1">return</a>)<br /> [ We may mention that Roscoe + and Dr Croly (in his admirable Life of Pope, prefixed to an excellent + edition of his works) take a different view, and defend the poet.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-2" id="linknote-2"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 2 (<a href="#linknoteref-2">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Preface:' to the + miscellaneous works of Pope, 1716.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-3" id="linknote-3"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 3 (<a href="#linknoteref-3">return</a>)<br /> [ Written at sixteen years of + age.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-4" id="linknote-4"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 4 (<a href="#linknoteref-4">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Trumbull:' see Life. He + was born in Windsor Forest.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-5" id="linknote-5"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 5 (<a href="#linknoteref-5">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Phosphor:' the planet + Venus.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-6" id="linknote-6"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 6 (<a href="#linknoteref-6">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Wondrous tree:' an + allusion to the royal oak.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-7" id="linknote-7"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 7 (<a href="#linknoteref-7">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Thistle:' of Scotland.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-8" id="linknote-8"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 8 (<a href="#linknoteref-8">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lily:' of France.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-9" id="linknote-9"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 9 (<a href="#linknoteref-9">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Garth:' Dr Samuel Garth, + author of the 'Dispensary.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-10" id="linknote-10"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 10 (<a href="#linknoteref-10">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The woods,' &c., + from Spenser.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-11" id="linknote-11"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 11 (<a href="#linknoteref-11">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Wycherley:' the + dramatist. See Life.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-12" id="linknote-12"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 12 (<a href="#linknoteref-12">return</a>)<br /> [ This pastoral, Pope's own + favourite, was produced on occasion of the death of a Mrs Tempest, a + favourite of Mr Walsh, the poet's friend, who died on the night of the + great storm in 1703, to which there are allusions. The scene lies in a + grove—time, midnight.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-13" id="linknote-13"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 13 (<a href="#linknoteref-13">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Stagyrite: Aristotle.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-14" id="linknote-14"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 14 (<a href="#linknoteref-14">return</a>)<br /> [ 'La Mancha's knight:' + taken from the spurious second part of 'Don Quixote.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-15" id="linknote-15"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 15 (<a href="#linknoteref-15">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Unlucky as Fungoso:' see + Ben Johnson's 'Every Man in his Humour.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-16" id="linknote-16"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 16 (<a href="#linknoteref-16">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Timotheus:' see + 'Alexander's Feast.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-17" id="linknote-17"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 17 (<a href="#linknoteref-17">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Scotists and Thomists:' + two parties amongst the schoolmen, headed by Duns Scotus and Thomas + Aquinas.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-18" id="linknote-18"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 18 (<a href="#linknoteref-18">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Duck-lane:' a place near + Smithfield, where old books were sold.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-19" id="linknote-19"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 19 (<a href="#linknoteref-19">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Milbourns:' the Rev. Mr + Luke Milbourn, an opponent of Dryden.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-20" id="linknote-20"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 20 (<a href="#linknoteref-20">return</a>)<br /> [ Hall has imitated and + excelled this passage. See his pamphlet, 'Christianity consistent with a + Love of Freedom.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-21" id="linknote-21"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 21 (<a href="#linknoteref-21">return</a>)<br /> [ In this passage he + alludes to Cromwell, Charles II., and the Revolution of 1688, and to their + various effects on manners, opinions, &c.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-22" id="linknote-22"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 22 (<a href="#linknoteref-22">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Appius:' Dennis.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-23" id="linknote-23"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 23 (<a href="#linknoteref-23">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Garth did not write:' a + common slander at that time in prejudice of that author.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-24" id="linknote-24"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 24 (<a href="#linknoteref-24">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Maeonian star:' Homer.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-25" id="linknote-25"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 25 (<a href="#linknoteref-25">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Dionysius:' of + Halicarnassus.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-26" id="linknote-26"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 26 (<a href="#linknoteref-26">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Mantua:' Virgil's + birth-place.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-27" id="linknote-27"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 27 (<a href="#linknoteref-27">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Such was the Muse:' + Essay on poetry by the Duke of Buckingham.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-28" id="linknote-28"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 28 (<a href="#linknoteref-28">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Caryll:' Mr Caryll (a + gentleman who was secretary to Queen Mary, wife of James II., whose + fortunes he followed into France, author of the comedy of 'Sir Solomon + Single,' and of several translations in Dryden's Miscellanies) originally + proposed the subject to Pope, with the view of putting an end, by this + piece of ridicule, to a quarrel that had arisen between two noble + families, those of Lord Petre and of Mrs Fermor, on the trifling occasion + of his having cut off a lock of her hair. The author sent it to the lady, + with whom he was acquainted; and she took it so well as to give about + copies of it. That first sketch (we learn from one of his letters) was + written in less than a fortnight, in 1711, in two cantos only, and it was + so printed; first, in a miscellany of Ben. Lintot's, without the name of + the author. But it was received so well that he enlarged it the next year + by the addition of the machinery of the Sylphs, and extended it to five + cantos.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-29" id="linknote-29"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 29 (<a href="#linknoteref-29">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sylph:' the Rosicrucian + philosophy was a strange offshoot from Alchemy, and made up in equal + proportions of Pagan Platonism, Christian Quietism, and Jewish Mysticism. + See Bulwer's 'Zanoni.' Pope has blended some of its elements with old + legendary stories about guardian angels, fairies, &c.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-30" id="linknote-30"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 30 (<a href="#linknoteref-30">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Baron:' Lord Petre.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-31" id="linknote-31"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 31 (<a href="#linknoteref-31">return</a>)<br /> [ Burns had this evidently + in his eye when he wrote the lines 'Some hint the lover's harmless wile,' + &c., in his 'Vision.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-32" id="linknote-32"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 32 (<a href="#linknoteref-32">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Atalantis:' a famous + book written about that time by a woman: full of court and party-scandal, + and in a loose effeminacy of style and sentiment which well suited the + debauched taste of the better vulgar.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-33" id="linknote-33"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 33 (<a href="#linknoteref-33">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Winds:' see Odyssey.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-34" id="linknote-34"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 34 (<a href="#linknoteref-34">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Thalestris:' Mrs + Morley.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-35" id="linknote-35"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 35 (<a href="#linknoteref-35">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sir Plume:' Sir George + Brown.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-36" id="linknote-36"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 36 (<a href="#linknoteref-36">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Maeander:' see Ovid.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-37" id="linknote-37"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 37 (<a href="#linknoteref-37">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Partridge:' see Pope's + and Swift's Miscellanies.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-38" id="linknote-38"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 38 (<a href="#linknoteref-38">return</a>)<br /> [ This poem was written at + two different times: the first part of it, which relates to the country, + in the year 1704, at the same time with the Pastorals; the latter part was + not added till the year 1713, in which it was published.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-39" id="linknote-39"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 39 (<a href="#linknoteref-39">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Stuart:' Queen Anne.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-40" id="linknote-40"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 40 (<a href="#linknoteref-40">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Savage laws:' the + forest-laws.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-41" id="linknote-41"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 41 (<a href="#linknoteref-41">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The fields are + ravish'd:' alluding to the destruction made in the New Forest, and the + tyrannies exercised there by William I.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-42" id="linknote-42"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 42 (<a href="#linknoteref-42">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Himself denied a grave:' + the place of his interment at Caen in Normandy was claimed by a gentleman + as his inheritance, the moment his servants were going to put him in his + tomb: so that they were obliged to compound with the owner before they + could perform the king's obsequies.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-43" id="linknote-43"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 43 (<a href="#linknoteref-43">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Second hope:' Richard, + second son of William the Conqueror.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-44" id="linknote-44"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 44 (<a href="#linknoteref-44">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Queen:' Anne.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-45" id="linknote-45"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 45 (<a href="#linknoteref-45">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Still bears the name:' + the river Loddon.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-46" id="linknote-46"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 46 (<a href="#linknoteref-46">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Trumbull:' see + Pastorals.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-47" id="linknote-47"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 47 (<a href="#linknoteref-47">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Cooper's Hill:' + celebrated by Denham.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-48" id="linknote-48"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 48 (<a href="#linknoteref-48">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Flowed from Cowley's + tongue:' Mr Cowley died at Chertsey, on the borders of the forest, and was + from thence conveyed to Westminster.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-49" id="linknote-49"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 49 (<a href="#linknoteref-49">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Noble Surrey:' Henry + Howard, Earl of Surrey, one of the first refiners of English poetry; who + flourished in the time of Henry VIII.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-50" id="linknote-50"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 50 (<a href="#linknoteref-50">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Edward's acts:' Edward + III., born here.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-51" id="linknote-51"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 51 (<a href="#linknoteref-51">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Henry mourn:' Henry VI.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-52" id="linknote-52"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 52 (<a href="#linknoteref-52">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Once-fear'd Edward + sleeps:' Edward IV.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-53" id="linknote-53"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 53 (<a href="#linknoteref-53">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Augusta:' old name for + London.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-54" id="linknote-54"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 54 (<a href="#linknoteref-54">return</a>)<br /> [ 'And temples rise:' the + fifty new churches.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-55" id="linknote-55"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 55 (<a href="#linknoteref-55">return</a>)<br /> [ The author of + 'Successio,' Elkanah Settle, appears to have been as much hated by Pope as + he had been by Dryden. He figures prominently in 'The Dunciad.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-56" id="linknote-56"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 56 (<a href="#linknoteref-56">return</a>)<br /> [ This was written at + twelve years old.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-57" id="linknote-57"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 57 (<a href="#linknoteref-57">return</a>)<br /> [ This ode was written in + imitation of the famous sonnet of Adrian to his departing soul. Flaxman + also supplied hints for it. See 'The Adventurer.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-58" id="linknote-58"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 58 (<a href="#linknoteref-58">return</a>)<br /> [ See Memoir.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-59" id="linknote-59"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 59 (<a href="#linknoteref-59">return</a>)<br /> [ 'But what with pleasure:' + this alludes to a famous passage of Seneca, which Mr Addison afterwards + used as a motto to his play, when it was printed.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-60" id="linknote-60"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 60 (<a href="#linknoteref-60">return</a>)<br /> [ Done by the author in his + youth.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-61" id="linknote-61"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 61 (<a href="#linknoteref-61">return</a>)<br /> [ Dr Johnson in the <i>Literary + Review</i> highly commends this piece.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-62" id="linknote-62"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 62 (<a href="#linknoteref-62">return</a>)<br /> [ This, it is said, was + intended for Queen Caroline.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-63" id="linknote-63"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 63 (<a href="#linknoteref-63">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Zamolxia:' a disciple of + Pythagoras.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-64" id="linknote-64"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 64 (<a href="#linknoteref-64">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The youth:' Alexander + the Great: the tiara was the crown peculiar to the Asian princes: his + desire to be thought the son of Jupiter Ammon, caused him to wear the + horns of that god, and to represent the same upon his coins; which was + continued by several of his successors.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-65" id="linknote-65"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 65 (<a href="#linknoteref-65">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Timoleon:' had saved the + life of his brother Timophanes in the battle between the Argives and + Corinthians; but afterwards killed him when he affected the tyranny.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-66" id="linknote-66"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 66 (<a href="#linknoteref-66">return</a>)<br /> [ 'He whom ungrateful + Athens:' Aristides.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-67" id="linknote-67"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 67 (<a href="#linknoteref-67">return</a>)<br /> [ 'May one kind grave:' + Abelard and Eloisa were interred in the same grave, or in monuments + adjoining, in the monastery of the Paraclete: he died in the year 1142; + she in 1163.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-68" id="linknote-68"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 68 (<a href="#linknoteref-68">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Robert, Earl of Oxford:' + this epistle was sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr Parnell's poems, + published by our author, after the said earl's imprisonment in the Tower, + and retreat into the country, in the year 1721.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-69" id="linknote-69"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 69 (<a href="#linknoteref-69">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Secretary of State:' in + the year 1720.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-70" id="linknote-70"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 70 (<a href="#linknoteref-70">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Work of years:' Fresnoy + employed above twenty years in finishing his poem.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-71" id="linknote-71"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 71 (<a href="#linknoteref-71">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Worsley:' Lady Frances, + wife of Sir Robert Worsley.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-72" id="linknote-72"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 72 (<a href="#linknoteref-72">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Voitnre:' a French wit, + born in Amiens 1598, died in 1648; a favourite of the Duke of Orleans, and + member of the French Academy.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-73" id="linknote-73"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 73 (<a href="#linknoteref-73">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Monthansier:' + Mademoiselle Paulet.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-74" id="linknote-74"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 74 (<a href="#linknoteref-74">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Coronation:' of King + George the First, 1715.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-75" id="linknote-75"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 75 (<a href="#linknoteref-75">return</a>)<br /> [ 'M.B.:' Martha Blount.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-76" id="linknote-76"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 76 (<a href="#linknoteref-76">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Southern:' author of + 'Oronooko,' &c. He lived to the age of eighty-six.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-77" id="linknote-77"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 77 (<a href="#linknoteref-77">return</a>)<br /> [ 'A table:' he was invited + to dine on his birthday with this nobleman, who had prepared for him the + entertainment of which the bill of fare is here set down.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-78" id="linknote-78"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 78 (<a href="#linknoteref-78">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Harp:' the Irish harp + was woven on table-cloths, &c.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-79" id="linknote-79"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 79 (<a href="#linknoteref-79">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Prologues:' Dryden used + to sell his prologues at four guineas each, till, when Southern applied + for one, he demanded six, saying, 'Young man, the players have got my + goods too cheap.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-80" id="linknote-80"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 80 (<a href="#linknoteref-80">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Mr C.:' Mr Cleland, + whose residence was in St James's Place, where he died in 1741. See + preface to 'The Dunciad.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-81" id="linknote-81"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 81 (<a href="#linknoteref-81">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Trumbull:' one of the + principal Secretaries of State to King William III., who, having resigned + his place, died in his retirement at Easthamstead, in Berkshire, 1746.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-82" id="linknote-82"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 82 (<a href="#linknoteref-82">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Heaven's eternal year is + thine:' borrowed from Dryden's poem on Mrs Killigrew.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-83" id="linknote-83"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 83 (<a href="#linknoteref-83">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Fenton:' Pope's + joint-translator of Homer's Odyssey. See Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-84" id="linknote-84"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 84 (<a href="#linknoteref-84">return</a>)<br /> [ His only daughter expired + in his arms, immediately after she arrived in France to see him.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-85" id="linknote-85"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 85 (<a href="#linknoteref-85">return</a>)<br /> [ Lady Mary Montague wrote + a rejoinder to this poem, in a caustic, sneering vein.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-86" id="linknote-86"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 86 (<a href="#linknoteref-86">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Vindicate the ways,' + &c.: borrowed from Milton.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-87" id="linknote-87"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 87 (<a href="#linknoteref-87">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Egypt's God:' Apis.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-88" id="linknote-88"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 88 (<a href="#linknoteref-88">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Thin partitions' from + Dryden.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-89" id="linknote-89"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 89 (<a href="#linknoteref-89">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Glory, jest, and riddle + of the world:' Pascal in his 'Pensées' has a thought almost identical with + this.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-90" id="linknote-90"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 90 (<a href="#linknoteref-90">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Good bishop:' De + Belsance, who distinguished himself by attention to the sick of the + plague, in his diocese of Marseilles in 1720.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-91" id="linknote-91"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 91 (<a href="#linknoteref-91">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bethel:' a benevolent + gentleman in Yorkshire, a great friend of Pope's.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-92" id="linknote-92"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 92 (<a href="#linknoteref-92">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Chartres:' Colonel, + infamous for every vice—a fraudulent gambler, &c. &c.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-93" id="linknote-93"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 93 (<a href="#linknoteref-93">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Cromwell:' it is not + necessary now to answer this insult to the greatest of Britain's kings. It + is a clever ape chattering at a dead lion.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-94" id="linknote-94"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 94 (<a href="#linknoteref-94">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Good John:' John Serle, + his old and faithful servant.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-95" id="linknote-95"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 95 (<a href="#linknoteref-95">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Mint:' a place to which + insolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were + there suffered to afford one another, from the persecution of their + creditors.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-96" id="linknote-96"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 96 (<a href="#linknoteref-96">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Pitholeon:' The name + taken from a foolish poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-97" id="linknote-97"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 97 (<a href="#linknoteref-97">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Butchers, Henley:' + Orator Henley used to declaim to the butchers in Newport market.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-98" id="linknote-98"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 98 (<a href="#linknoteref-98">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Freemasons, Moore:' he + was of this society, and frequently headed their processions.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-99" id="linknote-99"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 99 (<a href="#linknoteref-99">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bishop Boulter:' friend + of Ambrose Philips.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-100" id="linknote-100"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 100 (<a href="#linknoteref-100">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Burnets, &c.:' + authors of secret and scandalous history.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-101" id="linknote-101"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 101 (<a href="#linknoteref-101">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Gildon:' a forgotten + critic and dramatist—a bitter libeller of Pope.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-102" id="linknote-102"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 102 (<a href="#linknoteref-102">return</a>)<br /> [ 'A Persian tale:' + Ambrose Philips translated a book called the 'Persian Tales.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-103" id="linknote-103"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 103 (<a href="#linknoteref-103">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bufo:' most + commentators refer this to Lord Halifax.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-104" id="linknote-104"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 104 (<a href="#linknoteref-104">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sir Will:' Sir William + Young.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-105" id="linknote-105"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 105 (<a href="#linknoteref-105">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bubo:' Babb + Dodington.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-106" id="linknote-106"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 106 (<a href="#linknoteref-106">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Who to the dean, and + silver bell:' meaning the man who would have persuaded the Duke of Chandos + that Mr P. meant him in those circumstances ridiculed in the 'Epistle on + Taste.'—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-107" id="linknote-107"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 107 (<a href="#linknoteref-107">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sporus:' Lord Hervey.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-108" id="linknote-108"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 108 (<a href="#linknoteref-108">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The lie so oft + o'erthrown:' as, that he received subscriptions for Shakspeare; that he + set his name to Mr Broome's verses, &c., which, though publicly + disproved, were nevertheless shamelessly repeated.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-109" id="linknote-109"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 109 (<a href="#linknoteref-109">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The imputed trash:' + such as profane psalms, court-poems, and other scandalous things, printed + in his name by Curll and others.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-110" id="linknote-110"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 110 (<a href="#linknoteref-110">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Abuse:' namely, on the + Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Burlington, Lord Bathurst, Lord + Bolingbroke, Bishop Atterbury, Dr Swift, Dr Arbuthnot, Mr Gay, his + friends, his parents, and his very nurse, aspersed in printed papers, by + James Moore, G. Ducket, L. Wolsted, Tho. Bentley, and other obscure + persons.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-111" id="linknote-111"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 111 (<a href="#linknoteref-111">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sappho:' Lady M.W. + Montague.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-112" id="linknote-112"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 112 (<a href="#linknoteref-112">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Welsted:' accused Pope + of killing a lady by a satire.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-113" id="linknote-113"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 113 (<a href="#linknoteref-113">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Budgell:' Budgell, in + a weekly pamphlet called <i>The Bee</i>, bestowed much abuse on him.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-114" id="linknote-114"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 114 (<a href="#linknoteref-114">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Except his will:' + alluding to Tindal's will, by which, and other indirect practices, + Budgell, to the exclusion of the next heir, a nephew, got to himself + almost the whole fortune of a man entirely unrelated to him.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-115" id="linknote-115"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 115 (<a href="#linknoteref-115">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Curlls of town and + court:' Lord Hervey.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-116" id="linknote-116"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 116 (<a href="#linknoteref-116">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Noble wife:' alluding + to the fate of Dryden and Addison.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-117" id="linknote-117"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 117 (<a href="#linknoteref-117">return</a>)<br /> [ 'An oath:' Pope's + father was a nonjuror.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-118" id="linknote-118"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 118 (<a href="#linknoteref-118">return</a>)<br /> [ Curll set up his head + for a sign.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-119" id="linknote-119"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 119 (<a href="#linknoteref-119">return</a>)<br /> [ His father was + crooked.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-120" id="linknote-120"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 120 (<a href="#linknoteref-120">return</a>)<br /> [ His mother was much + afflicted with headaches.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-121" id="linknote-121"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 121 (<a href="#linknoteref-121">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Fortescue:' Baron of + Exchequer, and afterwards Master of the Mint.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-122" id="linknote-122"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 122 (<a href="#linknoteref-122">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Fanny:' Hervey.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-123" id="linknote-123"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 123 (<a href="#linknoteref-123">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Falling horse:' the + horse on which George II. charged at the battle of Oudenarde.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-124" id="linknote-124"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 124 (<a href="#linknoteref-124">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Shippen:' the only + member of parliament Sir R. Walpole found incorruptible.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-125" id="linknote-125"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 125 (<a href="#linknoteref-125">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lee:' Nathaniel, a + wild, mad, but true poet of Dryden's day.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-126" id="linknote-126"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 126 (<a href="#linknoteref-126">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Budgell:' Addison's + relation, who drowned himself in the Thames.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-127" id="linknote-127"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 127 (<a href="#linknoteref-127">return</a>)<br /> [ 'And he whose + lightning:' Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, a man distinguished by + the rapidity of his military movements—a petty Napoleon.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-128" id="linknote-128"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 128 (<a href="#linknoteref-128">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Oldfield:' this + eminent glutton ran through a fortune of fifteen hundred pounds a-year in + the simple luxury of good eating.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-129" id="linknote-129"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 129 (<a href="#linknoteref-129">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bedford-head:' a + famous eating-house.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-130" id="linknote-130"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 130 (<a href="#linknoteref-130">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Proud Buckingham:' + Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-131" id="linknote-131"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 131 (<a href="#linknoteref-131">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Aristippus:' the + licentious parasite of Dionysius.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-132" id="linknote-132"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 132 (<a href="#linknoteref-132">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sticks:' Exchequer + tallies—an old mode of reckoning.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-133" id="linknote-133"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 133 (<a href="#linknoteref-133">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Barnard:' Sir John + Barnard, an eminent citizen of the day.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-134" id="linknote-134"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 134 (<a href="#linknoteref-134">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lady Mary:' Montague, + who was as great a sloven as a beauty.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-135" id="linknote-135"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 135 (<a href="#linknoteref-135">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Murray:' afterwards + Lord Mansfield.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-136" id="linknote-136"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 136 (<a href="#linknoteref-136">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Creech:' the + translator of Horace.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-137" id="linknote-137"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 137 (<a href="#linknoteref-137">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Craggs:' his father + was originally a humble man.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-138" id="linknote-138"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 138 (<a href="#linknoteref-138">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Cornbury:' an + excellent and high-minded nobleman, great-grandson of Lord Clarendon, the + historian.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-139" id="linknote-139"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 139 (<a href="#linknoteref-139">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Tindal:' the infidel, + author of 'Christianity as Old as the Creation.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-140" id="linknote-140"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 140 (<a href="#linknoteref-140">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Anstis:' Garter + King-at-Arms.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-141" id="linknote-141"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 141 (<a href="#linknoteref-141">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Luckless play:' + Young's 'Buseris;' the name of the spendthrift is not known.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-142" id="linknote-142"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 142 (<a href="#linknoteref-142">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Augustus:' referring + ironically to George II., then excessively unpopular for refusing to enter + into a war with Spain, which was supposed to have insulted our commerce.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-143" id="linknote-143"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 143 (<a href="#linknoteref-143">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Skelton:' poet + laureate to Henry VIII.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-144" id="linknote-144"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 144 (<a href="#linknoteref-144">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Christ's Kirk o' the + Green:' a ballad made by James I. of Scotland.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-145" id="linknote-145"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 145 (<a href="#linknoteref-145">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The Devil:' the Devil + Tavern, where Ben Johnson held his poetical club.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-146" id="linknote-146"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 146 (<a href="#linknoteref-146">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Horse-tail bare:' + referring to Sertorius, who told one of his soldiers to pluck off a + horse's tail at one effort. He failed, of course. Sertorius then told + another to pluck it away, hair by hair. He succeeded; and thus Sertorius + taught the lesson of hard-working, patient perseverance.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-147" id="linknote-147"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 147 (<a href="#linknoteref-147">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Gammer Gurton:' one of + the first printed plays in English, and therefore much valued by some + antiquaries.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-148" id="linknote-148"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 148 (<a href="#linknoteref-148">return</a>)<br /> [ 'All, by the king's + example:' a line from Lord Lansdown.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-149" id="linknote-149"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 149 (<a href="#linknoteref-149">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lely:' Sir Peter, who + painted Cromwell and all the celebrities of his day.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-150" id="linknote-150"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 150 (<a href="#linknoteref-150">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Ripley:' the + government architect who built the Admiralty; no favourite except with his + employers.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-151" id="linknote-151"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 151 (<a href="#linknoteref-151">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Van:' Vanbrugh.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-152" id="linknote-152"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 152 (<a href="#linknoteref-152">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Astraea:' Miss Bolin, + author of obscene, but once popular novels.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-153" id="linknote-153"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 153 (<a href="#linknoteref-153">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Old Edward's armour + beams on Cibber's breast:' the coronation of Henry VIII. and Queen Anne + Boleyn, in which the play-houses vied with each other to represent all the + pomp of a coronation. In this noble contention, the armour of one of the + kings of England was borrowed from the Tower, to dress the champion.—<i>P</i>.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-154" id="linknote-154"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 154 (<a href="#linknoteref-154">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bernini:' a great + sculptor. He is said to have predicted Charles the First's melancholy fate + from a sight of his bust.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-155" id="linknote-155"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 155 (<a href="#linknoteref-155">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Colonel:' Cotterel of + Rousham, near Oxford.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-156" id="linknote-156"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 156 (<a href="#linknoteref-156">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Blois:' a town where + French is spoken with great purity.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-157" id="linknote-157"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 157 (<a href="#linknoteref-157">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sir Godfrey:' Sir + Godfrey Kneller.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-158" id="linknote-158"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 158 (<a href="#linknoteref-158">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Monroes:' Dr Monroe, + physician to Bedlam Hospital.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-159" id="linknote-159"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 159 (<a href="#linknoteref-159">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Oldfield, Daitineuf:' + two celebrated gluttons mentioned formerly.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-160" id="linknote-160"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 160 (<a href="#linknoteref-160">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Tooting, Earl's + Court:' two villages within a few miles of London.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-161" id="linknote-161"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 161 (<a href="#linknoteref-161">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Composing songs:' + Burns imitates this in the 'Vision'—] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +'Stringin' blethers up in rhyme, + For fules to sing.'] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="linknote-162" id="linknote-162"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 162 (<a href="#linknoteref-162">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Stephen:' Mr Stephen + Duck.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-163" id="linknote-163"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 163 (<a href="#linknoteref-163">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Servile chaplains:' Dr + Kenett, who wrote a servile dedication to the Duke of Devonshire, to whom + he was chaplain.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-164" id="linknote-164"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 164 (<a href="#linknoteref-164">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Abbs Court:' a farm + over against Hampton Court.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-165" id="linknote-165"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 165 (<a href="#linknoteref-165">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Townshend's turnips:' + Lord Townshend, Secretary of State to Georges the First and Second. When + this great statesman retired from business, he amused himself in + husbandry, and was particularly fond of the cultivation of turnips; it was + the favourite subject of his conversation.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-166" id="linknote-166"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 166 (<a href="#linknoteref-166">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bu——:' + Bubb Doddington.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-167" id="linknote-167"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 167 (<a href="#linknoteref-167">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Oglethorpe:' employed + in settling the colony of Georgia. See Boswell's 'Johnson.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-168" id="linknote-168"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 168 (<a href="#linknoteref-168">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Belinda:' in 'The Rape + of the Lock.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-169" id="linknote-169"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 169 (<a href="#linknoteref-169">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Tips with silver:' + occurs also in the famous moonlight scene in the 'Iliad'—] + </p> + <p> + 'Tips with silver every mountain's head.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-170" id="linknote-170"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 170 (<a href="#linknoteref-170">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Adieu!' how like + Burns's lines, beginning—] + </p> + <p> + "But when life's day draws near the gloaming, Farewell to vacant, careless + roaming!" &c.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-171" id="linknote-171"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 171 (<a href="#linknoteref-171">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Donne:' Pope, it is + said, imitated Donne's 'Satires' to show that celebrated men before him + had been as severe as he. Donne was an extraordinary man—first a + Roman Catholic, then a barrister, then a clergyman in the Church of + England, and Dean of St Paul's,—a vigorous although rude satirist, a + fine Latin versifier, the author of many powerful sermons, and of a + strange book defending suicide; altogether a strong, eccentric, + extravagant genius.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-172" id="linknote-172"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 172 (<a href="#linknoteref-172">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Paul:' supposed to be + Paul Benfield, Esq., M.P., who was engaged in the jobbing transactions of + that period; others fill up the blank in the original copy with Hall—as, + for instance, Croly in his excellent edition.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-173" id="linknote-173"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 173 (<a href="#linknoteref-173">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Hoadley:' Bishop, + whose sentences were wire-drawn.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-174" id="linknote-174"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 174 (<a href="#linknoteref-174">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Figs:' a + prize-fighting academy; 'White's:' a gaming-house, both much frequented by + the young nobility.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-175" id="linknote-175"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 175 (<a href="#linknoteref-175">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Deadly sins:' the room + hung with old tapestry, representing the seven deadly sins.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-176" id="linknote-176"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 176 (<a href="#linknoteref-176">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Ascapart:' a giant of + romance.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-177" id="linknote-177"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 177 (<a href="#linknoteref-177">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Epilogue:' the first + part of which was originally published as 'One thousand seven hundred and + thirty-eight.' It appeared the same day with Johnson's 'London.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-178" id="linknote-178"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 178 (<a href="#linknoteref-178">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Bubo:' Bubb + Duddington.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-179" id="linknote-179"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 179 (<a href="#linknoteref-179">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sir Billy:' Tonge.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-180" id="linknote-180"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 180 (<a href="#linknoteref-180">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Huggins:' formerly + jailor of the Fleet prison, enriched himself by many exactions, for which + he was tried and expelled.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-181" id="linknote-181"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 181 (<a href="#linknoteref-181">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Cropp'd our ears:' + said to be executed by the captain of a Spanish ship on one Jenkins, the + captain of an English one. He cut off his ears, and bid him carry them to + the king his master.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-182" id="linknote-182"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 182 (<a href="#linknoteref-182">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The great man:' the + first minister.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-183" id="linknote-183"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 183 (<a href="#linknoteref-183">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Seen him I have:' + alluding to Pope's service to Abbe Southcot, see 'Life.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-184" id="linknote-184"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 184 (<a href="#linknoteref-184">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Jekyl:' Sir Joseph + Jekyl, master of the rolls, a true Whig in his principles, and a man of + the utmost probity.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-185" id="linknote-185"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 185 (<a href="#linknoteref-185">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lyttleton:' George + Lyttleton, secretary to the Prince of Wales, distinguished both for his + writings and speeches in the spirit of liberty.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-186" id="linknote-186"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 186 (<a href="#linknoteref-186">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sejanus, Wolsey:' the + one the wicked minister of Tiberius; the other, of Henry VIII. The writers + against the court usually bestowed these and other odious names on the + minister, without distinction, and in the most injurious manner.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-187" id="linknote-187"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 187 (<a href="#linknoteref-187">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Fleury:' Cardinal; and + minister to Louis XV. It was a patriot-fashion, at that time, to cry up + his wisdom and honesty.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-188" id="linknote-188"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 188 (<a href="#linknoteref-188">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Henley, Osborn:' see + them in their places in 'The Dunciad.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-189" id="linknote-189"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 189 (<a href="#linknoteref-189">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Nation's sense:' the + cant of politics at that time.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-190" id="linknote-190"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 190 (<a href="#linknoteref-190">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Carolina:' + Queen-consort to King George II. She died in 1737. See, for her character, + 'Heart of Midlothian.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-191" id="linknote-191"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 191 (<a href="#linknoteref-191">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Gazetteer:' then + Government newspaper.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-192" id="linknote-192"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 192 (<a href="#linknoteref-192">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Immortal Selkirk:' + Charles, third son of Duke of Hamilton, created Earl of Selkirk in 1887.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-193" id="linknote-193"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 193 (<a href="#linknoteref-193">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Grave Delaware:' a + title given that lord by King James II. He was of the bed-chamber to King + William; he was so to King George I.; he was so to King George II. This + Lord was very skilful in all the forms of the House, in which he + discharged himself with great gravity.— P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-194" id="linknote-194"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 194 (<a href="#linknoteref-194">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Sister:' alluding to + Lady M.W. Montague, who is said to have neglected her sister, the Countess + of Mar, who died destitute in Paris.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-195" id="linknote-195"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 195 (<a href="#linknoteref-195">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Cibber's son, Rich:' + two players; look for them in 'The Dunciad.'—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-196" id="linknote-196"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 196 (<a href="#linknoteref-196">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Blount:' author of an + impious and foolish book, called 'The Oracles of Reason,' who, being in + love with a near kinswoman of his, and rejected, gave himself a stab in + the arm, as pretending to kill himself, of the consequence of which he + really died.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-197" id="linknote-197"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 197 (<a href="#linknoteref-197">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Passerau:' author of + another book of the same stamp, called 'A Philosophical Discourse on + Death,' being a defence of suicide. He was a nobleman of Piedmont.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-198" id="linknote-198"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 198 (<a href="#linknoteref-198">return</a>)<br /> [ 'A printer:' a fact + that happened in London a few years past. The unhappy man left behind him + a paper justifying his action by the reasonings of some of these authors.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-199" id="linknote-199"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 199 (<a href="#linknoteref-199">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Gin:' a spirituous + liquor, the exhorbitant use of which had almost destroyed the lowest rank + of the people, till it was restrained by an Act of Parliament in 1736.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-200" id="linknote-200"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 200 (<a href="#linknoteref-200">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Quaker's wife:' Mrs + Drummond, a preacher.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-201" id="linknote-201"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 201 (<a href="#linknoteref-201">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Landaff:' Harris by + name, a worthy man, who had somehow offended the poet.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-202" id="linknote-202"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 202 (<a href="#linknoteref-202">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Allen:' of Bath, + Warburton's father-in-law, the prototype of All-worthy in 'Tom Jones.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-203" id="linknote-203"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 203 (<a href="#linknoteref-203">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Paxton:' late + solicitor to the Treasury.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-204" id="linknote-204"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 204 (<a href="#linknoteref-204">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Guthrie:' the ordinary + of Newgate, who publishes the memoirs of the malefactors, and is often + prevailed upon to be so tender of their reputation, as to set down no more + than the initials of their name.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-205" id="linknote-205"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 205 (<a href="#linknoteref-205">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Wild:' Jonathan, a + famous thief, and thief-impeacher, who was at last caught in his own train + and hanged.—P. See Fielding, and 'Jack Shepherd.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-206" id="linknote-206"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 206 (<a href="#linknoteref-206">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Feels for fame, and + melts to goodness:' this is a fine compliment; the expression showing, + that fame was but his second passion.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-207" id="linknote-207"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 207 (<a href="#linknoteref-207">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Scarb'rough:' Earl of, + and Knight of the Garter, whose personal attachments to the king appeared + from his steady adherence to the royal interest, after his resignation of + his great employment of Master of the Horse; and whose known honour and + virtue made him esteemed by all parties.—<i>P.</i>] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-208" id="linknote-208"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 208 (<a href="#linknoteref-208">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Esher's peaceful + grove:' the house and gardens of Esher, in Surrey, belonging to the Hon. + Mr Pelham, brother of the Duke of Newcastle.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-209" id="linknote-209"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 209 (<a href="#linknoteref-209">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Carleton:' Lord, + nephew of Robert Boyle.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-210" id="linknote-210"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 210 (<a href="#linknoteref-210">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Argyll:' see 'Heart of + Midlothian.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-211" id="linknote-211"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 211 (<a href="#linknoteref-211">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Wyndham:' Chancellor + of Exchequer; for the rest, see history.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-212" id="linknote-212"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 212 (<a href="#linknoteref-212">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Yet higher:' he was at + this time honoured with the esteem and favour of his Royal Highness the + Prince.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-213" id="linknote-213"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 213 (<a href="#linknoteref-213">return</a>)<br /> [ 'A friend:' unrelated + to their parties, and attached only to their persons.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-214" id="linknote-214"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 214 (<a href="#linknoteref-214">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Lord Mayor:' Sir John + Barnard, Lord Mayor in the year of the poem, 1738.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-215" id="linknote-215"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 215 (<a href="#linknoteref-215">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Spirit of Arnall:' + look for him in his place, Dunciad, b. ii., ver. 315.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-216" id="linknote-216"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 216 (<a href="#linknoteref-216">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Polwarth:' the Hon. + Hugh Hume, son of Alexander Earl of Marchmont, grandson of Patrick Earl of + Marchmont, and distinguished, like them, in the cause of liberty.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-217" id="linknote-217"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 217 (<a href="#linknoteref-217">return</a>)<br /> [ 'The bard:' a verse + taken out of a poem to Sir R.W.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-218" id="linknote-218"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 218 (<a href="#linknoteref-218">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Japhet, Chartres:' see + the epistle to Lord Bathurst.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-219" id="linknote-219"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 219 (<a href="#linknoteref-219">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Black ambition:' the + case of Cromwell in the civil war of England; and of Louis XIV. in his + conquest of the Low Countries.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-220" id="linknote-220"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 220 (<a href="#linknoteref-220">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Boileau:' see his 'Ode + on Namur.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-221" id="linknote-221"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 221 (<a href="#linknoteref-221">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Opes the temple:' from + Milton—'Opes the palace of Eternity.'] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-222" id="linknote-222"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 222 (<a href="#linknoteref-222">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Anstis:' the chief + herald-at-arms. It is the custom, at the funeral of great peers, to cast + into the grave the broken staves and ensigns of honour.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-223" id="linknote-223"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 223 (<a href="#linknoteref-223">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Ver. 238:' some fill + up the blanks with George II., and Frederick, Prince of Wales—others, + with Kent and Grafton.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-224" id="linknote-224"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 224 (<a href="#linknoteref-224">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Stair:' John + Dalrymple, Earl of Stair, Knight of the Thistle.—P.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="linknote-225" id="linknote-225"> </a> + </p> + <p class="foot"> + 225 (<a href="#linknoteref-225">return</a>)<br /> [ 'Hough and Digby:' Dr + John Hough, Bishop of Worcester, and the Lord Digby.] + </p> + <h3> + END OF VOL. I. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE, VOL. 1 *** + +This file should be named 9413-h.htm or 9413-h.zip + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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