AN
EPISTLE
TO A
FRIEND
CONCERNING
POETRY.
As Brother _Pryme_ of old from Mount _Orgueil_,
So I to you from _Epworth_ and the _Isle_:
Harsh _Northern_ Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send,
Yet, since the _best_ they yield, they'll please a _Friend_.
You ask me, What's the readiest way to _Fame_,
And how to gain a _Poet's_ sacred Name?
For _Saffold_ send, your Choice were full as just,
When burning _Fevers_ fry your Limbs to Dust!
Yet, lest you _angry_ grow at your _Defeat_, }
And me as ill as that fierce _Spark_ should treat } 10
Who did the Farrier into Doctor _beat_; }
You to my little _Quantum_, Sir, are free,
Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY;
These with some grains of _Common Sense_ unite,
Then freely _think_, and as I think I write.
First _poize_ your _Genius_, nor presume to write
If _Phoebus_ smile not, or some _Muse_ invite:
Nature refuses _Force_, you strive in vain,
She will not _drag_, but struggling breaks the Chain.
How bright a Spark of _Heav'nly Fire_ must warm! 20
What _Blessings_ meet a _Poet's Mind_ to form!
How oft must he for those _Life-Touches_ sit,
_Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit_?
There's here no _Middle-State_, you must excel;
_Wit_ has no _Half-way-House_ 'twixt _Heav'n_ and _Hell_
_All cannot All things_, lest you mourn too late,
Remember _Phaeton_'s unhappy _Fate_!
Eager to guide the _Coursers_ of the _Day_, }
Beneath their _Brazen Hoofs_ he trampled lay, }
And his bright _Ruines_ mark'd their flaming Way. } 30
[Sidenote: _Genius_.]
You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and Where to find?
'Tis the full _Power_ and _Energy_ of _Mind_:
A _Reach_ of _Thought_ that skims all Nature o'er,
_Exhausts_ this narrow _World_, and asks for _more_:
Through every _Rank of Beings_ when't has flown,
Can frame a _New Creation_ of its own:
By _Possible_ and _Future_ unconfin'd:
Can stubborn _Contradictions_ yoke, and bind
Through _Fancy_'s Realms, with Number, Time and Place,
_Chimera-Forms_, a thin, an airy Race; 40
Then with a secret _conscious Pride_ surveys
The _Enchanted Castles_ which't had _Power_ to raise.
[Sidenote: _Wit_.]
As _Genius_ is the _Strength_, be WIT defin'd
The _Beauty_ and the _Harmony_ of _Mind_:
_Beauty's_ Proportion, Air, each lively Grace
The _Soul_ diffuses round the _Heav'nly Face_:
'Tis _various_, yet 'tis _equal_, still the same
In _Alpine Snows_, or _Ethiopian Flame_;
While _glaring Colours_ short-liv'd Grace supply,
Nor _Frost_ nor _Sun_ they bear, but _scorch_ and _die_. 50
[Sidenote: _Judgment_.]
Nor these alone, tho much they can, suffice,
JUDGMENT must join, or never hope the Prize:
Those _Headstrong Coursers_ scowr along the Plains,
The _Rider's_ down, if once he lose the _Reins_:
Soon the _Mad Mixture_ will to all give Law,
And for the _Laurel Wreaths_ present thee _Wreaths of Straw_.
_Judgment's_ the _Act of Reason_; that which brings
Fit _Thoughts_ to _Thoughts_, and argues _Things_ from _Things_,
True, Decent, Just, are in its _Balance_ try'd,
And thence we learn to _Range, Compound, Divide_. 60
[Sidenote: _Invention and Memory_.]
A _Cave_ there is wherein those _Nymphs_ reside
Who all the Realms of _Sense_ and _Fancy_ guide;
Nay some affirm that in the deepest _Cell_
Imperial _Reason's_ self does not disdain to dwell:
With Living _Reed_ 'tis thatch'd and guarded round,
Which mov'd by _Winds_ emit a Silver Sound:
Two _Crystal Fountains_ near its _Entrance_ play, }
Wide scatt'ring _Golden Streams_ which ne'er decay, }
Two _Labyrinths_ behind harmonious Sounds convey: }
Chiefly, within, the _Room of State_ is fam'd 70
Of rich _Mosaick Work_ divinely fram'd:
Of small _Extent_ to view, 'twill all things hide,
Heav'n's Azure _Arch_ it self not half so wide:
Here all the _Arts_ their sacred Mansion chuse,
Here dwells the MOTHER of the Heav'n-born Muse:
With wond'rous mystic _Figures_ round 'tis wrought
_Inlaid_ with FANCY, and _anneal'd_ with _Thought_:
With more than humane Skill depicted here
The various _Images of Things_ appear;
What _Was_, or _Is_, or labours yet to _Be_ 80
Within the Womb of Dark _Futurity_,
May _Stowage_ in this wondrous _Storehouse_ find,
Yet leave unnumber'd empty _Cells_ behind:
But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast,
Not _Life or Happiness are more in haste_:
Only the _First Great Mind_ himself can stay
The _Fugitives_ and at _one Glance_ survey;
But those whom he disdains not to befriend, }
_Uncommon Souls_, who nearest Heav'n ascend }
Far more, at once, than others comprehend: } 90
Whate'er within this _sacred Hall_ you find, }
Whate'er will _lodge_ in your _capacious Mind_ }
Let _Judgment_ sort, and skilful _Method_ bind; }
And as from these you draw your antient Store
Daily supply the _Magazine_ with more.
Furnish'd with such _Materials_ he'll excel
Who when he _works_ is sure to work 'em _well_;
This ART alone, as _Nature_ that bestows,
And in _Perfection_ both, th' accomplish'd _Verser_ knows.
Knows to _persuade_, and how to _speak_, and when; 100
The _Rules of Life_, and _Manners_ knows and _Men_:
Those _narrow Lines_ which _Good_ and _Ill_ divide;
[Sidenote: _Learning_.]
And by what _Balance Just_ and _Right_ are try'd:
How _Kindred-Things_ with _Things_ are closely join'd; }
How _Bodies_ act, and by what _Laws_ confin'd, }
Supported, mov'd and rul'd by th' _Universal Mind_. }
When the moist _Kids_ or burning _Sirius_ rise; }
Through what ambiguous Ways _Hyperion_ flies, }
And marks our _Upper_ or the _Nether Skies_. }
He knows those _Strings_ to _touch_ with artful Hand 110
Which rule Mankind, and all the World command:
What _moves_ the _Soul_, and every secret _Cell_
Where _Pity, Love_, and all the _Passions_ dwell.
The _Music_ of his _Verse_ can _Anger_ raise,
Which with a softer _Stroak_ he _smooths_ and _lays_:
Can _Emulation, Terror_, all excite,
_Compress_ the _Soul_ with _Grief_, or _swell_ with vast Delight.
If this you can, your _Care_ you'll well bestow,
And some new _Milton_ or a _Spencer_ grow;
If not, a _Poet_ ne'er expect to be, 120
Content to _Rime_, like _D----y_ or like me.
But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain,
To such _Impracticable Heights_ I strain
A Poet's _Notion_, that if _This_ be _He_,
There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be.
--But soft, my Friend! may we not _copy_ well
Tho far th' _Original_ our _Art_ excel?
_Divine Perfection_ we our _Pattern_ make
Th' _Idea_ thence of _Goodness_ justly take;
But they who _copy_ nearest, still must fall 130
Immensely short of their _Original_;
[Sidenote: _Converse_.]
But _Wit_ and _Genius_, _Sense_ and _Learning_ join'd,
Will all come short if _crude_ and _unrefin'd_;
'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn _Ore_
And _polishes_ the _Gold_, too rough before:
So _fierce_ the _Natural Taste_, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd,
The _Wine_ is _strong_, but never rightly _cur'd_.
[Sidenote: _Style_.]
STYLE is the _Dress_ of _Thought_; a _modest_ Dress,
_Neat_, but not _gaudy_, will true _Critics_ please:
Not _Fleckno's Drugget_, nor a worse Extream 140
All daub'd with _Point_ and _Gold_ at every Seam:
Who only _Antique Words_ affects, appears
Like old King _Harry's_ Court, all Face and Ears;
Nor in a _Load_ of _Wig_ thy Visage shrowd,
Like _Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud_:
Happy are those who here the _Medium_ know,
We hate alike a _Sloven_ and a _Beau_.
I would not follow _Fashion_ to the height
Close at the _Heels_, not yet be _out of Sight_:
_Words_ alter, like our _Garments_, every day, 150
Now _thrive_ and _bloom_, now _wither_ and _decay_.
Let those of greater _Genius_ new _invent_,
Be you with those in _Common Use_ content.
A different _Style's_ for _Prose_ and _Verse_ requir'd,
_Strong figures_ here, _Neat Plainness_ there desir'd:
A different _Set of Words_ to both belong;
What _shines_ in _Prose_, is, _flat_ and _mean_ in _Song_.
The _Turn_, the _Numbers_ must be vary'd here,
And all things in a _different Dress_ appear.
This every _School Boy_ lash'd at _Eaton_ knows, } 160
Yet _Men of Sense_ forget when they _compose_, }
And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes _Prose_. }
A _vary'd Stile_ do various Works require,
This _soft_ as _Air_, and _tow'ring_ that as _Fire_.
None than th' _Epistle_ goes more _humbly_ drest,
Tho _neat_ 'twou'd be, and _decent_ as the _best_.
Such as th' ingenious _Censor_ may invite }
Oft to return with eager _Appetite_; }
So HORACE wrote, and so I'd _wish_ to write. }
Nor _creeps_ it always, but can _mount_ and _rise_, 170
And with _bold Pinions_ sail along the Skies.
The self-same Work of _different Style_ admits,
Now _soft_, now _loud_, as best the _Matter_ fits:
So Father THAMES from unexhausted _Veins_,
Moves _clean_ and _equable_ along the _Plains_;
Yet still of different _Depth_ and _Breadth_ is found,
And _humours_ still the _Nature_ of the _Ground_.
[Sidenote: _Reading_.]
READING will mend your Style and raise it higher,
And _Matter_ find to feed th' _Immortal Fire_:
But if you would the _Vulgar Herd_ excel, 180
And justly gain the _Palm_ of _Writing well_,
Wast not your Lamp in scanning _Vulgar Lines_,
Where _groveling_ all, or _One in twenty_ shines;
With _Prudence_ first among the _Antients_ chuse,
The _noblest_ only, and the _best_ peruse;
Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's sacred Page,
Which _Death_ defie, nor yield to _Time_ or _Age_;
New _Beauties_ still their _Vigorous Works_ display,
Their _Fruit_ still _mellows_, but can ne'er _decay_.
The _Modern Pens_ not altogether slight, 190
Be _Master_ of your _Language_ e'er you write!
_Immortal_ TILLOTSON with Judgment scan,
"That _Man of Praise, that something more than Man_!"
Ev'n those who hate his _Ashes_ this advise, }
As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, }
_Unwilling Truths_ break through a _Cloud of Lies_. }
He _Words_ and _Things_ for _mutual Aid_ design'd,
Before at _Variance_, in just _Numbers_ join'd;
He always _soars_, but never's _out of sight_,
He taught us how to _Speak_, and _Think_, and _Write_. 200
If _English Verse_ you'd in _Perfection_ see,
ROSCOMMON read, and _Noble_ NORMANDY:
We _borrow_ all from their _exhaustless Store_,
Or little say they have not said _before_.
_Poor Insects_ of a _Day_, we toil and strive
To creep from _Dust_ to _Dust_, and think we _live_;
These weak _imperfect Beings_ scarce enjoy
E'er _Death's_ rude Hand our _blooming Hopes_ destroy:
With _Lynx's_ Eyes each others _Faults_ we find,
But to our _own_ how few who are not _blind_? 210
How _long is Art_, how _short_, alas! our _Time_! }
How few who can above the _Vulgar_ climb, }
Whose _stronger Genius_ reach the _True Sublime_! }
With _tedious Rules_ which we our selves transgress,
We make the _Trouble more_ who strive to make it _less_.
But meanly why do you your _Fate_ deplore,
Yet still write on?--Why do a _Thousand_ more,
Who for their _own_ or some _Forefathers_ Crime
Are _doom'd_ to wear their _Days_ in _beating Rhime_?
But this a _Noble Patron_ will redress, 220
And make you _better write_, tho you _write less_:
Whate'er a _discontented Mind_ pretends,
_Distinguish'd Worth_ can rarely miss of _Friends_:
Do but _excel_, and he'll at last arise
Who from the _Dust_ may lift thee to the _Skies_;
For his _own Sake_ will his _Protection_ grant;
What _Horace_ e'er did yet _Mecænas_ want?
Or if the _World_ its _Favours_ should refuse,
With _barren Smiles_ alone _reward_ thy Muse;
Be thy _own Patron_, thou no more wilt need, 230
For all will _court_ thee if thy _Works succeed_;
At least the few _Good Judges_ will commend,
And _secret growing Praise_ thy Steps attend.
Who shew'd _Columbus_ where the _Indies_ lay?
True to thy self, _charge through_, and _force_ to _Fame_ the way!
If _Envy snarl_, indulge it no _Reply_,
Write _better_ still, and let it _burst_ and _die_!
Rest pleas'd if you can please the _Wiser Few_,
Since _to please all is more than Heav'n it self can do_.
There are who _can_ whate'er they _will_ believe, 240
That _Bail's_ too hard for _Beady_, _Three_ are _Five_:
That Nature, Justice, Reason, Truth must fall,
With _Clear Idea's_ they'll _confound_ 'em all:
That _Parallels_ may _travel_ till they _meet_;
_Faith_ they can find in L----, no _Sense_ in STILLINGFLEET.
Disturb 'em not, but let 'em still enjoy
Th' _unenvy'd Charms_ of their _Eternal Moi_.
If to the _craggy Top of Fame_ you rise,
Those who are _lab'ring after_ ne'er _despise_.
Nor those _above_ on _Honours_ dazling Seat } 250
Tho _disoblig'd_, with _sawcy Rudeness_ treat, }
_Revenge_ not always is _below the Great_. }
Their _Stronger Genius_ may o'er thine prevail:
_Wit, Power_ and _Anger_ join'd but rarely fail.
Tho _Eagles_ would not chuse to _hawk_ at _Flies_ }
They'd _snap_ 'em, should their _buzzing Swarms_ arise }
Importunate, and hurt their _Sun bright Eyes_. }
Nor should the _Muses Birds_ at _random_ fly,
And _strike_ at all, lest if they strike _they die_.
Why should we still be _lazily content_ 260
With thredbare _Schemes_, and nothing _new_ invent?
All _Arts_ besides _improve, Sea, Air_ and _Land_ }
Are every day with _nicer Judgment_ scan'd, }
And why should _this_ alone be at a _stand_? }
Or _Nature_ largely to the _Ancients_ gave
And little did for _younger Children_ save;
Or rather we _impartial Nature_ blame
To hide our _Sloth_, and cover o'er our _Shame_;
As _Sinners_, when their _Reason's_ drown'd in _Sense_,
Fall out with _Heav'n_, and quarrel _Providence_. 270
Yet should you our _Galenic Way_ despise,
And some _new Colbatch_ of the _Muses_ rise;
No _Quarter_ from the _College_ hope, who sit
_Infallible_ at _Will's_ and judg of _Sense_ and _Wit_:
Keep fair with these, or _Fame_ you _court_ in vain,
A strict _Neutrality_ at least _maintain_!
Speak, like the wise _Italian_, well of all;
Who knows into what _Hands_ he's doom'd to _fall_?
Write _oft_ and _much_, at _first_, if you'd _write well_,
For he who ne'er _attempts_ will ne'er _excel_; 280
_Practice_ will _file_ your _Verse_, your _Thoughts refine_,
And _Beauty_ give, and _Grace_ to every Line:
The _Gnat_ to fam'd _Æneis_ led the way,
And our _Immortal_ COWLEY once did _play_.
Let not the _Sun of Life_ in vain decline,
Or _Time_ run _waste; No Day without a Line_.
Yet learn by me, my Friend, from _Errors_ past;
O never _write_, or never _Print_ in _Haste_!
The _worst Excuse_ Ill Authors e'er advance,
Which does, like _Lies_, a _single Guilt_ enhance. 290
Lay by your _Work_, and leave it on the _Loom_,
Which if at _mod'rate distance_ you resume,
A _Father's Fondness_ you'll with Ease look through,
And _Objects_ in a proper _Medium_ view.
'Tis _Time_ alone can _Strength_ and _Ripeness_ give;
A _Hasty Birth_ can ne'er expect to _live_.
Fly, _low_ at first, you'll with Advantage _rise_;
This _pleases_ all, as that will all _surprize_.
[Sidenote: _The Subject_.]
No _Work_ attempt but where your _Strength_ you know,
Be _Master of your Subject_, _Thoughts_ will _flow_: 300
The _newer_ 'tis, the _choicer Fruit_ 'twill yield,
More _Room_ you have to work if _large_ your _Field_;
The _Sponge_ you oftner than the _Pen_ will want,
And rather _Reason_ see to _prune_ than _plant_;
Yet where the _Thoughts_ are _barren, weak_ and _thin_,
New _Cyons_ should be neatly _grafted_ in.
[Sidenote: _A Judge_.]
If you with _Friend_ or _Enemy_ are blest,
Your _Fancy's Offspring_ ne'er can want a _Test_,
Tho _Both_, perhaps may _overshoot_ the _Mark_:
First _Spite_ with _Envy_ charges in the _Dark_; 310
_Unread_ they _damn_, and into _Passion_ fall,
'Tis _Stuff_, 'tis _Blasphemy_ 'tis _Nonsense_ all;
They _sleep_ (when _doz'd before_) at every _Line_, }
While your more _dang'rous Friend_ exclaims,--'Tis fine, }
'Tis _furiously Delightful_, 'tis _Divine_; }
Th' _inspiring God's_ in ev'ry Page confess'd;
A COWLEY or a DRYDEN at the least!
Yet you'll from _both_ an _equal Judgment_ frame
And stand the _nearest Candidate_ for _Fame_:
What _Envy praises_, or what _Friends dislike_, 320
This bears the _Test_, and that the _Sponge_ should strike.
Chuse to be _absent_ when your _Cause_ is try'd,
Lest _Favour_ should the _partial Judge_ misguide;
Not _others Thoughts_ implicitly prefer,
Your _Friend's_ a _Mortal_, and like _you_, may _err_.
Upon the _last Appeal_ let _Reason_ sit,
And _here_, let _all Authority_ submit.
Divest your _self of self_ whate'er you can,
And think the _Author_ now some _other Man_.
A thousand trivial _Lumber-Thoughts_ will come, 330
A thousand _Fagot-Lines_ will crowd for room;
_Reform_ your _Troops_, and no _Exemption_ grant,
You'll gain in _Strength_, what you in _Numbers_ want.
Nor yet _Infallibility_ pretend;
He still _errs on_ who thinks he ne'er can _mend_:
Reject that _hasty_, that _presumptuous Thought_!
None e'er but VIRGIL wrote without a _Fault_;
(Or _none_ he has, or none that _I can find_,
Who, dazzled with his _Beauties_, to his _Moles_ am blind.)
Who has the _least_ is _happiest_, he the _best_, 340
Who _owns_ and _mends_ where he has once _transgrest_.
Nor will _good Writers smaller Blots_ despise,
Lest those neglected should to _Crimes_ arise;
Such _Venial Sins_ indulg'd will _mortal_ prove,
At least they from _Perfection_ far remove.
Nor _Critical Exactness_ here deride,
It looks like _Sloth_ or _Ignorance_, or _Pride_;
_Good Sense_ is spoild in _Words unapt_ exprest,
And _Beauty_ pleases more when 'tis _well drest_.
[Sidenote: _Method_.]
Forget not METHOD if the _Prize_ you'd gain, 350
'Twill cost you _Thought_, but richly pays the _Pain_;
What _first_, what _second_, or what _last_ to place,
What here will _shine_, and there the _Work_ disgrace.
Before you build, your MODEL justly lay,
And ev'ry Part in _Miniature_ survey;
Where airy _Terraces_ shall threat the _Skies_,
Where _Columns_ tow'r, or neat _Pilasters_ rise;
Where cool _Cascades_ come _roaring_ down the Hill,
Or where the _Crystal Nymph_ a _mossie Bason_ fill:
What _Statues_ are to grace the _Front_ design'd, 360
And how to throw the _meaner Rooms_ behind.
Draw the _Main Strokes_ at first, 'twill shew your _Skill_,
_Life-Touches_ you may add whene'er you will.
Ev'n _Chance_ will sometimes all our _Art_ excel,
The _angry Foam_ we ne'er can _hit_ so well.
A _sudden Thought_, all beautiful and bright,
Shoots in and _stunns_ us with _amazing Light_;
Secure the _happy Moment_ e'er 'tis past,
Not _Time_ more _swift_, or _Lightning_ flies so fast.
All must be _free_ and _easie_, or in vain 370
You _whip_ and _spur_, and the _wing'd Courser_ strain:
When _foggy Clouds_ hang _bellying_ in the _Skies_,
Or _fleety Boreas_ through th' _Horizon_ flies;
He then, whose _Muse_ produces ought that's _fine_,
His _Head_ must have a _stronger Turn_ than mine:
Like _Sybils Leaves_ the _Train of Thoughts_ are rang'd,
Which by _rude Winds_ disturb'd, are _nothing_ if they're chang'd.
Or are there too in _Writing softer Hours_?
Or is't that _Matter_ nobler _Mind_ o'erpow'rs,
Which boasts her _native Liberty_ in vain, 380
In _Mortal Fetters_ and a _Slavish Chain_?
_Death_ only can the _Gordian Knot_ divide, }
Tho by what secret wondrous _Bands_ 'tis ty'd, }
Ev'n _Reason's_ self must own she can't decide: }
For as the _rapid Tides_ of _Matter_ turn }
We're fann'd with _Pleasure_ or with _Anger_ burn, }
We _Love_ and _Hate_ again, we _Joy_ and _Mourn_. }
Now the swift _Torrent_ high and headstrong grows,
_Shoots_ through the Dykes, and all the Banks _o'erflows_;
Strait the _capricious Waters_ backward fly,
The _Pebbles_ rake and leave the Bottom _dry_; 390
Watch the _kind Hour_ and seize the _rising Flood_,
Else will your _dreggy Poem_ taste of _Mud_.
Hence old and batter'd _Hackneys_ of the _Stage_,
By long Experience render'd _Wise_ and _Sage_,
With pow'rful _Juices_ restive Nature urge,
Or else with _Bays_ of old, they _bleed_ and _purge_;
Thence, as the _Priestess_ from her _Cave_ inspir'd,
When to his _Cell_ the _rancid God_ retir'd,
_Double Entendres_ their fond _Audience_ blind,
Their _boasted Oracles_ abuse Mankind: 400
_False Joys_ around their _Hearts_ in _Slumbers_ play,
And the warm _tingling Blood_ steals fast away;
The _Soul_ grows _dizzy_, lost in _Senses Night_,
And melts in pleasing _Pain_ and vain _Delight_.
Not that the _sowrest Critick_ can reprove
The _soft_ the moving _Scenes_ of _Virtuous Love_:
_Life's Sunny Morn_, which wears, alas! too fast;
_Pity_ it e'er should _hurt_, or should not _always last_!
Has _Bankrupt Nature_ then no _more_ to give,
Or by a _Trick_ persuades Mankind to _live_? 410
No--when with _Prudence_ join'd 'tis still the _same_ }
Or _ripens_ into _Friendship's_ nobler _Name_, }
The _Matter_ pure, immortal is the _Flame_. }
No _Fool_, no _Debauchee_ could ever prove
The _honest Luxury of Virtuous Love_;
Then _curs'd_ are those who that _fair Name_ abuse,
And holy _Hymen's_ sacred _Fillets_ loose;
Who _poison Fountains_, and _infect_ the _Air_,
_Ruine_ the _Witty_, and _debauch_ the _Fair_;
With _nauseous Images_ their _Scenes_ debase 420
At once their Country's _Ruine_ and _Disgrace_.
_Weigh_ well each _Thought_ if all be _Just_ and _Right_,
For those must clearly _think_ who clearly _write_.
Nothing _obscure_, _equivocal_, or _mean_,
Much less what is or _impious_ or _obscene_:
Altho the tempting _Serpent_ play his part,
And wind in _glitt'ring Folds_ around thy _Heart_;
Reject the _trait'rous Charmer_, tear him thence,
And keep thy _Vertue_ and thy _Innocence_.
[Sidenote: _The Manchinel, or Eves Apple_.]
In wild _America's_ rank _Champaign_ grows 430
A _Tree_ which _Europe_ oft too dearly knows;
It rises high in _cool inchanting Groves_,
Whose green broad Leaves the fainting _Trav'ler_ loves;
_Fair_ is the treach'rous _Fruit_, and charms your _Eye_,
But ah! beware! for if you _taste_ you _die_.
Too well alas! it _thrives_ when _planted_ here,
Its deadly Branches shade our _Theatre_.
Of _Mesures, Numbers, Pauses_ next I sing,
And rest the breathless _Muse_ with cautious _Wing_:
Of _Embryo Thoughts_, unripen'd yet by Time, 440
The Rules of _Verse_, of _Quantity_ and _Rhime_:
With trembling Steps through _Shades_ unknown I stray,
And mark a _rugged_ and a _dubious_ way;
Yet some small _glimm'ring Light_ will hence be show'd,
And future _Trav'lers_ may enlarge the _Road_.
[Sidenote: _Measure_.]
Of CHAUCER'S Verse we scarce the _Measures_ know,
So _rough_ the _Lines_, and so _unequal_ flow;
Whether by Injury of _Time_ defac'd,
Or _careless_ at the _first_, and writ in _haste_;
Or _coursly_, like old _Ennius_, he _design'd_ 450
What After-days have _polish'd_ and _refin'd_.
SPENCER more _smooth_ and _neat_, and none than He
Could better skill of _English Quantity_;
Tho by his _Stanza_ cramp'd, his _Rhimes_ less chast,
And _antique Words_ affected all disgrac'd;
Yet _vast_ his _Genius, noble_ were his _Thoughts_,
Whence equal Readers wink at _lesser_ Faults.
From _France_ their _Alexandrins_ we receive
Which more of _Liberty_ and _Compass_ give;
Hence by our dull Translators were they us'd, 460
Nor CHAPMAN nor old STERNHOLD these refus'd;
They borrow from _Hexameters_ their _Feet_,
Which with _Asclepiads_ and _Iambicks_ meet;
Yet in the midst we still a _Weakness_ see,
Their _Music_ gives us no _Variety_.
More _num'rous_ the _Pentameter_ and _strong_,
Which to our _Saxon Fathers_ did belong.
In this their antient _Edda_[1] seems to write,
_Mysterious Rhimes_, and _horrid_ to the _sight_:
Their _Runic Staves_ in this on _Rocks_ engrav'd, 470
Which long th' Assaults of _Time_ it self have brav'd.
In this our antient _British Bards_ delight; }
And, if I measure his _rough Numbers_ right, }
In this old _Taliessin_ us'd to Write[2]. }
This still _Possession_ keeps, few else we read,
And _Right_ as well as _Fact_ may justly plead;
Altho the _French Intruders_ oft pursue
Their _baffled Title_, and their _Claim_ renew;
Too oft _Impressions_ on our _Armies_ make,
Cut off our _Straglers_ and our _Out-Guards_ take, 480
Which lazily our Authors now admit,
And call th' _Excursions of Luxuriant Wit_;
With _Badger-Feet_ the two-top'd _Mount_ we climb,
And stalk from _Peak_ to _Peak_ on _Stilts of Rime_.
Sweet WALLER'S _Dimeter_ we most approve
For cheerful _Songs_ and _moving Tales of Love_,
Which for _Heroic Subjects_ wants of _Strength_,
Too _short_, as _Alexandrins_ err in _Length_.
Our _Ear's_ the Judge of _Cadence_; nicely weigh
What _Consonants_; rebel, and what obey; 490
What _Vowels_ mixt compose a pleasing _Sound_,
And what the tender _Organs_ grate and wound.
Nor at thy Reader's _Mercy_ chuse to lie,
Nor let _his Judgment_ want of _thine_ supply:
So _easie_ let thy _Verse_ so _smoothly_ fall,
They must be read _aright_ if read at all.
[Sidenote: _Numbers_.]
Nor _equal Numbers_ will for all suffice,
The _Sock_ creeps low, the _Tragic Bushkins_ rife;
None knew this _Art_ so well, so well did use
As did the _Mantuan Shepherd's_ Heav'nly Muse: 500
He marry'd _Sound and Sense_, at odds before,
We hear his _Scylla bark, Charybdis roar_;
And when in Fields his _Fiery Coursers_ meet
The _hollow Ground_ shakes underneath their feet:
Yet nicer _Ears_ can taste a _Diff'rence_ when
Of _Flocks_ and _Fields_ he _sings_ or _Arms_ and _Men_.
If I our _English Numbers_ taste aright,
We in the grave _Iambic_ most delight:
Each _second_ Syllable the Voice should _rest_,
_Spondees_ may serve, but still th' _Iambic's_ best: 510
Th' unpleasing _Trochee_ always makes a _Blot_,
And lames the _Numbers_; or, if this forgot,
A strong _Spondaic_ should the _next_ succeed,
The feeble _Wall_ will a good _Buttress_ need:
Long _Writing, Observation, Art_ and _Pain_
Must here unite if you the _Prize_ would gain.
[Sidenote: _Pauses_.]
_Pause_ is the _Rest_ of _Voice_, the poor _Remains_
Of _antient Song_ that still our _Verse_ retains:
The _second Foot_ or _third's_ our usual _Rest_,
Tho more of _Art's_ in _varying_ oft exprest. 520
At ev'ry Word the _Pause_ is sometimes[3] made,
And wond'rous _Beauty_ every where displaid:
--But here we _guess_, and _wander_ in the _dark_;
How should a hoodwink'd _Archer_ hit the Mark?
The little _Glimpse_ that DRYDEN gives, is more
Than all our _careless Writers_ knew before;
A few _Chance Lines_ may smooth and roundly fly,
But still no Thanks to us, we know not why.
He finds _Examples_, we the _Rule_ must make,
Tho who without a Guide may not mistake? 530
[4] "_Tho deep yet clear, tho gentle yet not dull,
Strong without Rage, without o'er flowing full._"
If we that _famous Riddle_ can unty,
Their brightest _Beauties_ in the _Pauses_ lie,
To Admiration _vary'd_; next to these
The _Numbers_ justly order'd charm and please:
Each _Word_, each happy _Sound_ is big with _Sense_,
They all _deface_ who take one _Letter_ thence.
[Sidenote: _Quantity_.]
But little more of _Quantity_ we know
Than what our _Accent_ does, and _Custom_ show: 540
The _Latin Fountains_ often we forsake,
As they the _Greek_; nay _diff'rent Ages_ take
A _diff'rent Path; Perfùme_ and _Envy_ now
We say, which _Ages past_ would scarce allow:
If no _Position_ make our _Accent_ strong
Most _Syllables_ are either _short_ or _long_.
[Sidenote: _Rhime_.]
_Primitive Verse_ was grac'd with pleasing _Rhimes_,
The _Blank_ a lazy Fault of _After-times_;
Nor need we other proof of this to plead
With those the sacred [5] _Hebrew Hymns_ can _read_: 550
If this to _lucky Chance_ alone be _due_,
Why _Rhime_ they not in _Greek_ and _Latin_ too?
[6] PINDAR at first his ancient _Copy_ trac'd,
And sometimes equal _Sounds_ his _Numbers_ grac'd;
Till with the more than _human Labour_ tir'd,
He _drop'd_ his _Rhime_, and own'd him _uninspir'd_.
ORPHEUS and HOMER too, who first did dream
Of _num'rous Gods_, and left the _One Supreme,
Religion_ both and _Poetry_ did wrong,
_Apostatiz'd_ from _Rhime_, and lost the _Soul of Song_. 560
Yet still some weak and glimm'ring _Sparks_ remain'd,
And still our _Great Forefathers_ this retain'd;
Nor _Inundations_ of _Barbarian Rome_,
Our ancient _Rhime_ could wholly overcome.
[Sidenote: _Vide p._ 13.]
Ne'er _cramp_ thy _Reason_ for some paltry _Chime_,
Nor sacrifice _Good Sense_ to _Numbers_ and to _Rhime_:
Both may be _sav'd_ and made _good Friends_; and here
The Poets _Art_ and _Happiness_ appear:
But when some _stubborn Word_ denies to draw
In _Numbers_, and defies the _Muses Law_, 570
Reject it strait, unworthy such a _Grace_,
Another _yoke_ which better fills the _Place_:
Much _Reading_ will thy _Poverty_ amend
And _Taggs_ without the help of _Crambo_ lend.
The _Double Rhime_ is _antiquated_ grown,
Or us'd in _Satyr_ or _Burlesque_ alone;
Nor loves our stronger _Tongue_ that tinkling _Chime_,
The _Darling_ of the _French_, a _Female Rhime_.
Now, daring _Muse_! attempt a _stronger Flight_,
Beyond a _Vulgar Verser's_ cautious Height, 580
Beyond thy self, and consecrate to _Fame_ }
Those who a _Title_ to the _Laurel_ claim, }
And may to after-times _embalm_ thy Name; }
Commend the _Good_, to all but _Vice_ be kind,
And cast the _smaller Faults_ in _shades_ behind;
Who _first_, who _next_; the _Balance_ justly hold,
As that which shines above, and flames with _Heav'nly Gold_.
Great N----BY the first, ROSCOMMON gone,
He rules our _Empire_ now of _Wit_ alone:
The _Beauties_ he of _Verse_ exactly knows, 590
The famous DRYDEN'S not more smoothly flows:
Had ORPHEUS half so sweetly mourn'd his _Fate_,
As VIRGIL sung, or _Sh----d_ did _translate_;
H' had made the _Manes_ once again _relent_,
They would again _Eurydice_ have sent:
_Death's Temple_ we with _sacred Aw_ survey,
With _Admiration_ read his _Great Essay_:
Was _Art_ or bounteous _Nature_ here more _kind_? }
_Strong Sense_! Uncommon _Learning! Thoughts_ refin'd! } 600
A _Godlike Person_, and an _equal Mind_! }
[Sidenote: _Paraphrase on_ Psal. 148 O Azure Vaults, &c.]
The _next_ in Dignity, if not the _same_,
Is Deathless Dorsot's lov'd and noble _Name_:
How did he sing, (listen'd the _Heav'nly Quire_;)
The Wond'rous Notes of DAVID's _Royal Lyre_!
Ah! _Why no more_ must we for ever long
And vainly languish for so _sweet_ a _Song_?
The next is _Tityrus_, who not disdains
To read his _Name_ among the _tuneful Swains_;
_Unweary'd_ in his _Prince's_ glorious _Cause_, 610
As he of _Faith_, Defender of the _Laws_;
_Easie_ to all but to himself, he shares
His Monarch's _Favours_, and his Monarch's _Cares_:
His flowing _Language_ cloaths his _massie Sense_, }
Nor makes with _pompous Words_ a vain pretence, }
_Sound_ without _Soul_, to _Wit_ and _Eloquence_. }
Tho _Great_, he's still the same he was before:
--I _sue for nothing_, and I'll say no more.
_Montague_ left the _Muses_ peaceful _Seat_,
And bore the _Cares_ and _Honours_ of the _Great_: 620
The _Pollio_ he of our _Augustan_ days,
Who _Wit_ rewards with more than _hungry Praise_;
_True Worth_ his _Patronage_ can never miss,
He has his _Prince's Smiles_ and _that_ has _his_.
Nor should he pass unprais'd whom all admire,
Who, mixt with _Seraphs_, rules the _Western_ Quire;
_Flowing_ and _pure_ his unexhausted _Vein_,
As Silver _Thames_, which, rolling down the _Plain_,
Salutes his _Sacred Dome_.----
But those _profane_ who meanly thus _commend_, 630
Th' _Immortal Cowley's_ and the _Muses_ Friend.
Of _matchless_ DRYDEN only _Dryden's_ Skill
Could justly say enough,--of _Good_ or _Ill_.
_Envy_ must own he has our _Tongue refin'd_,
And manly _Sense_ with tend'rest _Softness_ join'd:
His _Verse_ would _Stones_ and _Trees_ with _Soul_ inspire,
As did the _Theban_ and the _Thracian_ Lyre:
His youthful _Fire_ within, like _Etna, glows_,
Tho _Venerable Age_ around his Temples _snows_:
If from the _modern_ or the _antient_ Store 640
He _borrows_ ought, he always _pays_ 'em more:
So much _improv'd_, each _Thought_, so _fine_ appears,
WALLER or OVID scarce durst own 'em _theirs_.
The Learned _Goth_ has scowr'd all _Europe_'s Plains, }
_France, Spain_, and fruitful _Italy_ he _drains_, }
From every Realm and every Language _gains_: }
His _Gains_ a _Conquest_ are, and not a _Theft_;
He wishes still new _Worlds_ of _Wit_ were left:
Thus _haughty Rome_, when, all the _Firm_ surpass'd,
Her _Eagles_ found our _moated World_ at last; 650
Touching upon th' _unhospitable_ Coast,
_Good Laws_ bestow'd for our _wild Freedom_ lost;
With _Arts of Peace_ our stubborn Soil manur'd,
And _naked Limbs_ from _Frost_ and _Sun_ secur'd:
--But ah' how _dear_ the _Price_ of all we gain! }
What _Shoals of Vices_ with 'em cross'd the Main? }
What _Pride_, what _Luxury_, a foul, an odious Train? }
Who weighs, like _Galcacus_, the _Good_ with _Ill_,
Would wish they'd let us been _Barbarians_ still:
Such _thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands_ take 660
An _honest Pagan_ spoil, and a _bad Christian_ make.
Blest be kind Heav'n, which wrap'd me in a _Gown_,
And drew me early from the _fatal Town_!
And blest _Her Name_, to endless Ages blest,
Who gave my weary _Muse_ this calm _Retreat_ and _Rest_.
True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, }
Here, may I Life, not _wholly useless_, spend, }
_Steal_ through the World, and _smiling_ meet my _End_! }
I envy not _Great Dryden_'s loftier Strain }
Of _Arms_ and _Men_ design'd to entertain, } 670
_Princes_ and _Courts_, so I but please the _Plain_: }
Nor would I barter _Profit_ for _Delight_,
Nor would have _writ like him, like him to write_.
If there's _Hereafter_, and a last _Great Day_,
What _Fire_'s enough to _purge_ his _Stains_ away?
How will he _wish_ each _lewd_ applauded _Line_ }
Which makes _Vice pleasing_, and _Damnation shine_, }
Had been as _dull_ as honest _Quarles_ or _mine_! }
With _sixty Years of Lewdness_ rest content!
It mayn't be yet _too late_, O yet _Repent_! 680
Ev'n _Thee_ our _injur'd Altar_ will receive;
While yet there's _Hopes_ fly to its _Arms_ and live!
So shall for _Thee_ their _Harps_ the _Angels_ string,
And the _Returning Prodigal_ shall sing;
New _Joys_ through all the _Heav'nly Host_ be shown
In _Numbers_ only _sweeter_ than thy _own_.
CONGREVE from _Ireland_ wond'ring we receive, }
Would he the _Town's loose way_ of Writing leave, }
More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: }
_Justness_ of _Thought_, a _Courtly Style_, and clear, 690
And well-wrought _Passions_ in his _Works_ appear:
None knows with _finer Strokes_ our Souls to move,
And as he please we _smile_, or _weep_, or _love_.
When _Dryden_ goes, 'tis he must fill the _Chair_,
_With_ Congreve _only_ Congreve _can compare_.
Yet, tho he _natural_ is as untaught Loves,
His _Style_ as _smooth_ as _Cytherea_'s Doves,
When e'er unbyass'd _Judges_ read him o'er,
He sometimes _nodds_, as _Homer_ did before:
Some Lines his most _Admirers_ scarce would please, 700
Nor _B----_'s Verse alone could _raise Disease_.[7]
For _smooth_ and _well turn'd Lines_ we _T----_ admire,
Who has in _Justness_ what he wants in _Fire_:
Each _Rhime_, each _Syllable_ well-weigh'd and fair,
His _Life_ and _Manners_ scarce more _regular_.
With _Strength_ and _Flame_ prodigious _D----s_ writes
Of _Loves_ lost _Wars_, and cruel martial _Fights_:
Scarce LEE himself strove with a _mightier Load_,
Or _labour'd_ more beneath th' _Incumbent God_:
Whate'er of old to _Rome_ or _Athens_ known, 710
What _France_ or _We_ have _glean'd_, 'tis all his _own_.
How few can equal _Praise_ with _C----ch_ obtain,
Who made _Lucretius smooth_, and _chast_, and _plain_?
Courted by _Fame_ he could her _Charms_ despise, }
Still woo'd by that _false Fair_ he still denies, }
And press'd, for _Refuge_ to the _Altar_ flies; }
Like _votive Tablets_ offers up his _Bays_,
"_And leaves to our lewd Town the Drudgery of Plays_."
In lofty _Raptures_, born on Angels Wings }
Above the _Clouds_, above _Castalian Springs_, } 720
N---- inspir'd, of God and _Nature_ sings; }
And if one _Glance_ on this _poor World_ he throw,
If e'er he mind the _Croud_ and _Buzz_ below;
Pities our _fruitless Pains_ for _Fame_ and _Praise_,
And wonders why we _drudge_ for _Crowns_ and _Bays_.
Could _B_---- be _sober_, many he'd excel,
Few know the _Antients_, or could use so well;
But ah! his _Genius_ with his _Virtue's_ fled,
Condemn'd to _Want of Grace_ and _Want of Bread_.
Ev'n Envy _B----re's Subject_ must confess } 730
_Exact_ and _rare_, a _curious Happiness_, }
Nor many could the _Fable better dress_: }
Of _Words_ what _Compass_, and how vast a _Store_!
His _Courage_ and his _Vertue's_ only more:
More various _Scenes of Death_ his _Fights_ display
Then _Aghrim's_ Field or _London's_ fatal Day:
Let beauteous _Elda's Tears_ and _Passion_ prove
His _Soul_ is not _unknowing how to love_:
Disrob'd of _Clouds_ he view'd the _Stagyrite_
As _Nature_ he, confess'd to _Human sight_:
His _Rules_ surveys, and traces to their _Springs_, } 740
Where the _blind Bard_ of flaming _Ilium_ sings; }
Thence with the _Mantuan Swan_ in narrower Rings, }
Tho more _exact_, he, stooping from his height,
Reviews the same _fierce Wars_ and _Gods_ and _Heroes_ fight:
That beauteous antient _Palace_ he surveys }
Which _Maro's Hands_ had only Strength to raise, }
_Models_ from thence, and _copies_ every _Grace_: }
Each _Page_ is big with _Virgil's Manly Thought_,
To _follow him too near's a glorious Fault_.
He dar'd be _virtuous_ in the _World's_ Despite, 750
_While_ D----n _lives he dar'd a Modest Poem write_.
Who can th' ingenious S----y's Praise refuse,
Who serves a grateful _Prince_, and grateful _Muse_?
Or _P----r_ read unmov'd, whose every _Page_
So just a _Standard_ to the opening _Age_?
Neat _S----n_'s courtly _Vein's_ correct and clear,
Nor shall he miss his _Praise_ and _Station_ here:
Nor should the _rest_ whom I _unnam'd_ must leave,
(Tho such _Omission_ they'll with ease _forgive_:) 760
_Unknown_ to me, let each his _Works_ commend,
Since _Virtue, Praise_, as _Shame_ does _Vice_ attend.
_Poets_, like _Leaves_ and _Words_, their _Periods_ know,
Now _fresh_ and _green_, now _sear_ and wither'd grow;
Or _burnt_ by _Autumn's_ Heat, and _Winter's_ Cold,
Or a _new hasty Birth_ shoves off the _old_.
Happy are those, and such are _some_ of ours, }
Who blest by bounteous _Heav'n's_ indulgent _Show'rs_ }
Bear wholsome _Fruit_, and not gay _pois'nous Flow'rs_: }
Who would not ev'n a _Lawreat's self_ commence 770
Or at their _Virtue's_ or their _Faith's_ Expence:
Renounce their _Creed_ to save a _wretched Play_, }
And for a _crowded House_ and _full Third Day_ }
At one _bold Stroke_ throw all their _Heav'n_ away. }
What gain'd _Euripides_ by all his _Sense_,
Who madly rail'd against a _Providence_?
_Apostate Poets_ first seduc'd _Mankind_,
_But ours upon the Pagan Herd refin'd_;
They Vertue _prais'd_ at least, which ours _abuse_,
And more than _Paganize_ the Heav'n-born Muse: 780
No Signs of _Grace_, or of _Repentance_ show,
Like _Strumpets lash'd_, more _impudent_ they grow.
Now learn, my Friend, and freely I'll impart
My _little All_ in this delightful Art:
Of _Poetry_ the various _Forms_ and _Kinds_,
The widest, strongest _Grasp_ of human Minds:
Not _all_ from _all_, but _some_ from _each_ I take,
Since we a _Garland_ not a _Garden_ make.
[Sidenote: _Epic_.]
EPIC's the _first_ and _best_, which mounting sings }
In _Mighty Numbers worthy mighty Things_, } 790
Of _High Adventures, Heroes, Gods_ and _Kings_: }
By lively _Schemes_ the Mind to _Vertue_ forms,
And far beyond _unactive Precept_ warms.
The _Subject_ may be either _feign'd_ or _true_,
_Too Old_ it should not be, but less _too New_:
_Narration_ mixt with _Action_ most delights,
_Intrigues_ and _Councils_, vary'd _Games_ and _Fights_:
Nothing so _long_ as may the Reader _tire_,
But all the just well-mingled _Scenes_ admire.
Your _Heroe_ may be _virtuous_, must be _brave_;
Nothing that's _mean_ should his great Soul enslave:
Yet Heav'ns unequal _Anger_ he may _fear_,
And for his _suffering Friends_ indulge a _Tear_:
Thus when the _Trojans Navy_ scatter'd lay
He _wept_, he _trembled_, and to Heav'n did _pray_;
But when bright _Glory beckon'd_ from afar,
And _Honour_ call'd him out to meet the _War_;
Like a fierce _Torrent_ pouring o'er the _Banks_,
Or _Mars_ himself, he _thunders_ through the _Ranks_;
_Death_ walks before, while he a _Foe_ could find, 810
_Horror_ and _Ruine_ mark long frightful _Lanes_ behind.
[Sidenote: _Machines_.]
For _worn_ and _old_ MACHINES few Readers care,
They're like the _Pastboard Chaos in the Fair_:
If ought surprizing you expect to shew,
The _Scenes_ if not the _Persons_ should be _new_:
With _both_ does MILTON'S wondrous Scheme begin,
The _Pandemonium, Chaos, Death_ and _Sin_;
Which _D----s_ had with like _Success_ assay'd, }
Had not the _Porch_ of _Death's Grim Court_ been made }
Too _wide_, and there th' impatient _Reader_ staid. } 820
And _G----h_, tho _barren_ is his _Theme_ and _mean_,
By this has _reach'd_ at least the fam'd _Lutrine_.
If _tir'd_ with such a plenteous _Feast_ you call
For a far meaner _Banquet_, _Meal_ and _Wall_;
The _best_ I have is _yours_, tho 'tis too _long_,
And what's behind will into _Corners_ throng.
A _Place_ there is, if _Place_ 'tis nam'd aright, }
Where scatter'd _Rays_ of pale and sickly _Light_, }
Fringe o'er the _Confines_ of _Eternal Night_. }
_Shorn_ of their _Beams_ the _Sun_ and _Phoebe_ here 830
Like the _fix'd Stars_, through _Glasses_ view'd, appear;
Or those faint _Seeds of Light_, which just display
Ambiguous Splendor round the _milky Way_;
The _Waste_ of _Chaos_, whose _Auguster_ Reign
Does those more barren doubtful Realms disdain:
Here dwell those _hideous Forms_ which oft repair }
To breath our upper _World's_ more _chearful_ Air }
Bleak _Envy_, grinding _Pain_, and meagre _Care_; }
_Disease_ and _Death_, the _Goddess_ of the _place_,
_Death_, the _least frightful Form of all their Race_; 840
_Ambition, Pride_, false _Joys_ and _Hopes_ as vain,
_Lewdness_ and _Luxury_ compose her Train:
How large their _Interest_, and how vast their _Sway_
Amid the wide invaded Realms of _Day_!
Soon would they our frail Race of _Mortals_ end,
Did not kind _Heav'n_ auspicious _Succours_ lend;
Sweet _Angel-Forms, Peace, Virtue, Health_ and _Love_,
How near ally'd, how like to those _above_!
These often drive the _Air_, those _Furies_ chace
And fetter in their own _infernal Place_: 850
These lent at once NASSAW and ENGLAND Aid,
And bright MARIA to our _Shores_ convey'd:
Her, all their _Pow'r_ and all their _Charms_ they gave,
To _govern_ what her _Heroe_ came to _save_.
Nor _Envy_ this, who in her noisome Cell
By _Traitors_ in their swift _Descent to Hell_,
Her rising _Glories_ heard, then with a _Groan_
She crawl'd before her _Sov'reign's_ direful _Throne_:
A _Pile of Sculls_ the odious _Fantom_ bore,
With _Bones_ half-naked mixt, and dropping putrid _Gore_; 860
There thus--Shall _Heav'n_ defraud us of our _Reign_,
And BRITAIN, only BRITAIN break her _Chain_?
What can we there, while more than _mortal Grace_
Forbids our _Entrance_, and secures the _Place_?
Awhile I _gaz'd_ and _viewed_ her as I _fled_,
When first she came, till half my _Snakes_ were dead;
And had I tarry'd longer near her _Throne_,
Had soon some base _insipid Vertue_ grown:
So fast the wide _progressive Ills_ increase, }
If longer unoppos'd our _Power_ will cease; } 870
The base degenerate World _dissolve_ to Peace; }
Our boasted _Empire_ there will soon be o'er,
And _Mortals_ tremble at our _Arms_ no more.
She said, her _Tidings_ all the _Court_ affright,
And doubled _Horror_ fill'd the _Realms of Night_:
Till out foul _Lewdness_ leap'd, and shook the Place. }
The _fulsom'st Fiend_ of all th' _infernal Race_; }
A crusted _Leprosie_ deform'd her _Face_; }
With half a _bloodshot_ Eye the _Fury_ glar'd,
Yet when for _Mischief_ she above prepar'd, 880
She _painted_ and she _dress'd_, those _Arts_ she knew,
And to her _self_ her self a _Stranger_ grew,
(Thus _old_ and batter'd _Bawds_ behind the Scenes,
New _rigg'd_ and _dawb'd_, pass on the _Stage_ for _Queens_;)
Nor yet, she cries, of _Britain_ we'll _despair_ }
I've yet some _trusty Friends_ in _Ambush_ there, }
All is not lost, we've still the _Theatre_: }
I'll batter _Virtue_ thence, nor fear to gain }
New _Subjects daily_ from her _hated Reign_; }
Is not Great _D----_ ours and all his _Train_? }
He knows he has new _Laurels_ here prepar'd, } 890
For those he lost _above_, a just Reward, }
For his wide _Conquests_ he'll _command the Guard_: }
_Headed_ by him one _Foot_ we'll scorn to yield,
Tho _Virtue's_ glitt'ring _Squadrons_ drive the _Field_:
Grant me, Dread _Sov'reign_! a _Detachment_ hence }
We'll not be long alone on our _Defence_, }
But hope to drive the proud _Assailants_ thence. }
Bold _Blasphemy_ shall lead our black _Forlorn_,
With _Colours_ from _Heav'n's Crystal Ramparts_ torn,
And _Anti-Thunderrs_ arm'd; _Profaneness_ next 900
Their _Canon_ seize, and turn the _Sacred Text_
Against th' _Assailants_; brave _Revenge_ and _Rage_
Shall our _main Batt'ry_ ply, and guard the _Stage_.
--But most I on dear _Ribaldry_ depend,
We've not a _surer_ or a _stronger Friend_.
Now shall she _broad_ and _open_ to the Skie,
Now _close_ behind some _double Meaning_ lye;
Now with _sulphureous Rivers_ lave the _French_,
And choak th' _Assailants_ with infernal _Stench_;
Each nicer _Vertue_ from the _Walls_ repel, 910
And _Heav'n_ it self regale with the Perfumes of _Hell_.
This from the World our dreaded _Foe_ will drive,
As _murm'ring Bees_ are forc'd to leave their _Hive_;
_Souls_ so _refin'd_ such _Vapours_ cannot bear,
But seek their _native Heav'n_ and purer Air:
When _She_ and all her heav'nly _Guards_ are gone
And her bright _Heroe_ absent, all's our own:
If any _pious Fools_ should make a stand,
To stop our _Progress_ through the conquer'd Land,
They soon shall pass for _hot-brain'd Visionairs_, 920
We'll run 'em down with _Ridicule_ and _Farce_.
Must they _reform_ the World! A likely _Task_!
Tis _Vizard_ all, and them we'll soon _unmask_.
The rest will _tumble_ in, or if they stay
And loiter in _Damnation's_ ample Way,
I've one _Expedient_ left, which can't but take,
My last _Reserve_; From yon black _brimstone_ Lake,
Whence two _Canals_ thro _subterranean Veins_
Are drawn to _Sodom_ and _Campania's_ Plains,
My self I'll fill a _Vial_, and infuse 930
My very Soul amid the _potent Juice_:
This _Essence_ near my _Heart_ I'll with me bear, }
And this among my _dearest Fav'rites_ share, }
Already _tutor'd_ by the _Theatre_; }
Who pass'd those _Bugbears Conscience, Law_ and _Shame_
Have there been taught that _Virtue's_ but a _Name_:
_Exalted Souls_ who _vulgar Sins_ despise;
Fit for some _new discover'd_ nobler _Vice_;
One _Drop_ of this their _frozen Blood_ shall warm,
And _frighted Nature's feebler Guards_ disarm 930
Till their _chill Veins_ with hotter _Fevers_ glow }
Than any _Etna_ or _Vesuvius_ know, }
Scarce equal'd by their _Parent Flames_ below; }
Till wide around the _gen'rous Canker_ spread,
And _Vengeance_ draw on each _devoted Head_:
Impatient _Heav'n_ it self our _Arms_ shall join,
The _Skies_ again with _forky Lightnings_ shine;
Till glutted _Desolation_ pants for Breath,
And _guilty Shades_ shall croud the _Realms of Death_.
--She said, the _Motion pleas'd_ she _wings_ away 940
And in blue _pois'nous Foggs_ invades the _Day_:
Part of her _direful Threats_ too true we find,
And _Heav'n_ avert the _Plagues_ that yet remain _behind_!
[Sidenote: _Tragedy_.]
The _Path_ which _Epic_ treads the TRAGIC Muse
With _daring_ tho _unequal_ Steps pursues,
A _little Epic_ shines through every _Scene_,
Tho more of _Life_ appears, and less _Machine_;
More _Action_, less _Narration_, more _Delight_;
We _see_ the _Gods_ descend, and _Heroes_ fight.
While _Oedipus_ is _raving_ on the _Stage_, 950
Mild _Pity_ enters and dissolves our _Rage_;
We _low'r_ our _haughty Spirits_, our _Pride_ and _Hate_,
And learn to _fear_ the sad _Reverse of Fate_.
A _Tyrant's Fall_, a treach'rous _Statesman's_ End
Clear the _Just Gods_, and equal _Heav'n_ defend:
Ungrateful _Factions_ here themselves torment,
And _bring_ those very _Ills_ they would _prevent_:
Nor think the lost _Intrigues_ of _Love_ too mean
To fill the _Stage_ and grace toe _Tragic Scene_!
Who from the _World_ this _Salt of Nature_ takes, 960
_Twice Slaves of Kings_ of _Life_ a _Desart_ makes.
The _Moral_ and _Pathetick_ neatly join'd,
Are best for _Pleasure_ and for _life_ design'd.
Be this in _Tragic_ an _Eternal Law_;
_Bold Strokes_ and _larger_ than the _Life_ to draw:
Let all be _Great_; when here a _Woman's_ seen,
Paint her a _Fury_, or a _Heroine_:
_Slaves, Spendthrifts_, angry _Fathers_, better fit
The meaner _Sallies_ of COMEDIAN Wit;
But _Courtly_ HORACE did their _Stage_ refuse, 970
Nor was it trod by _Maro's_ heav'nly Muse:
A _Walk_ so _low_ their _nobler Minds_ disdain,
Where _sordid Mirth's_ exchang'd for _sordid Gain_;
Where, in false _Pleasure_ all the _Profit's_ drown'd,
Nor _Authors_ with just _Admiration_ crown'd:
Hence was the _Sock_ a Task for _servile Wit_,
Course PLAUTUS hence, and neater TERENCE writ:
Yet if you still your _Fortune_ long to take,
And long to hear the _crouded Benches_ shake; 980
If you'd _reform_ the _Mob_, lov'd _Vice restrain_,
The _Pulpits_ break, and neighb'ring _B----_ drain;
Let _Heav'n_ at least, if not its _Priests_, be free,
The _Bible_ sures's too _grave_ for _Comedy_:
If she nor _lewdly_ nor _profanely_ talk
She'll have a _cleaner_, tho a _narrower Walk_.
Our Nation's _endless Humour_ will supply
So large a _Fund_ as never can be _dry_;
Why then should _Vice_ be _bare_ and _open_ shown,
And with such _Nauseous Scenes_ affront the _Town_? 990
Why thrive the _Lewd_, their _Wishes_ seldom crost,
And why _Poetic Justice_ often lost?
They plead they copy _Nature_.--Don't abuse
Her _sacred Name_ with such a _vile Excuse_!
She wisely _hides_ what these, like Beasts _display_, }
Ev'n _Vice_ it self, less _impudent_ than they, }
Remote in _Shades_, and far from _conscious_ Day. }
From this _Retrenchment_ by strong _Reason_ beat,
They next to _poor Necessity_ retreat:
The _Murderers, Bawds_ and _Robbers_ last pretence 1000
With equal _Justice_, equal _Innocence_!
So _Crack_, in _pious Fit_, will plead she's _poor_,
'Tis a _hard Choice_, Good Sir, to _starve_ or _whore_!
--Is there no _Third_, or will such _Reas'nings_ pass
In _Bridewel's_ rigid Court, or save the _Lash_?
Where the _stern Judge_, like _Radamanth_, surveys
The _trembling Sinner_, and each Action _weighs_.
A lazy, black, encumber'd _Stream_ rolls by,
Whole thick _sulphureous Vapours_ load the Sky;
Near where, in _Caves_ from _Heav'n's_ sweet _Light_ debar'd, 1010
_Shrieks, Groans_, and _Iron Whips_, and _Clanks of Chains_ are heard.
And can't you _thrash_, or _trail_ a _Pike_ or _Pole_?
Are there no _Jakes_ in Town, or _Kennels_ foul?
No _honester Employment_, that you chuse
With such _vile Drudgery_ t'abase the heav'n born _Muse_?
The num'rous ODE in various _Paths_ delights,
_Love, Friendship, Gods_, and _Heroes, Games_ and _Fights_:
Her _Age_ with _Veneration_ is confess'd
The _first great Mother_ she of all the rest,
This [8]MOSES us'd, and DAVID'S Royal Lyre, }
This he whom wond'ring _Seraphs_ did _inspire_, } 1020
Whence PINDAR stole some _Sparks of heav'nly Fire_, }
Who now by COWLEY's happy Muse improv'd,
Is _understood_ by some, by more _belov'd_:
The _Vastness_ of his Thought, the daring _Range_,
That imperceptible and pleasing _Change_,
Our jealous _Neighbours_ must themselves confess
The _British Genius_ tracks with most Success;
But still the _Smoothness_ we of _Verse_ desire,
The _Regulation_ of our _Native Fire_:
This from experienc'd _Masters_ we receive, 1030
Sweet FLATMAN'S Works, and DRYDEN'S this will give.
If you in _pointed_ SATYR most delight,
_Worry_ not, where you only ought to _bite_:
_Easie_ your _Style_, unstudy'd all and clear.
_Prosaic Lines_ are _pardonable_ here.
There are whose _Breath_ would blast the _brightest Fame_, }
Who from _base Actions_ court an _odious Name_, }
With _Beauty_ and with _Virtue_ War proclaim; }
Who _bundle_ up the _Scandals_ of the _Town_, 1040
And in _lewd Couplets_ make it all their _own_:
_Just Shame_ be _theirs_ who thus _debauch_ a _Muse_,
To vile _Lampoons_ a _noble Art_ abuse:
As _ill_ be _theirs_, and _half of_ DATS'_s Fate_,
Who always dully rail against the _State_.
_Kings_ are but _Men_, nor are their _Councils_ more,
Those _Ills_ we can't _avert_ we must _deplore_:
Not _many Poets_ were for _Statesmen_ made,
It asks more _Brains_ than stocks the _Rhiming_ Trade:
(At least, when they the _Ministry_ receive, 1050
To _Poets Militant_ their _Muse_ they leave.)
All _sordid Flat'ry_ hate, it pleases none
But _Tyrants_ grinning on their _Iron Throne_:
Yet where wer'e rul'd with _wise_ impartial Sway,
The _Muses_ should their _grateful Homage_ pay:
'Tis _base_ alike a _Tyrant's_ Name to raise,
And grudg a _Parent Prince_ our _tributary Praise_.
No wonder those who by _Proscriptions_ gain }
In _Marian_ Days, or _Sylla's_ bloody Reign, }
Of the divine _Augustus_ should complain; } 1060
Who stoops to wear a _Crown's uneasie Weight_,
As _Atlas_ under Heav'n, to prop the _State_:
No _Glory_ strikes his Great exalted Mind,
No _Pleasure_ like obliging all Mankind;
He lets the _Factious_ their weak _Malice_ vent,
Punish'd enough while they themselves _torment_:
_Satiate_ with _Conquest_, his dread _Sword_ he sheaths,
And with a _Nod disbands ten thousand Deaths_.
Who dares _Rebellious Arms_ against him move
While his _Prætorian Guard_'s his Subjects _Love_? 1070
Admir'd by all the _bravest_ and the _best_,
Who wear a _Roman Soul within their ample Breast_:
Tho _charm'd_ with _both_, which shall they more _admire_
In _Peace_ his _Wisdom_, or in _War_ his _Fire_?
--_One Labour_ yet remains, and that they _ask_,
_Alcides_ never clear'd a _nobler Task_;
O _Father_! banish'd _Vertue_ O restore!
Let _Hydra Vice_ pollute thy _Reign_ no more!
Strike through the _Monster-Form_, which threatning stands,
Fierce with a _thousand Throats_, a _thousand Hands_! 1080
_Rescue_ once more thy _Trojans sacred Line_ }
From _slavish Chains_, so shall thy _Temples_ shine }
With _Stars_, and all _Elysium_ shall be _thine_. }
_FINIS._