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LIFE    OF   THE.  AU 


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ALEXANDEE    POPE. 

IN  ONE  VOLUME,  COMPLET*. 

VITK 

NOTES 
BY   DR.    WARBUllTON, 


AVO 


ILLUSTEATIONS  ON  STEEI 

BY  EMINENT  ARTISTS. 
PROM  DESIGNS  BY  WEIGALL.  HEATH.  &  OTHERa 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
PUBLISHED  BY  JAS.  B.  SMITH  &  CO. 

1859. 


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AUTHOK'S  PREFACE. 


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  fii-st  seem  to  fancy  that  the  world  must  ap- 
prove 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  controling 
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  per- 
son 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. 

Every  one  acknowledges,  it  would  be  a  wild  notion  to  expect 
perfection  in  any  work  of  man :  and  yet  one  would  think  the  con- 
trary 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  faired  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  tj 
no  acknowledgments. 

I  am  afraid  this  extreme  zeal  on  both  sides  is  ill-placed  ;  poe- 
try 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. 

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  misfortuna 


IV  PREFACE. 

of  an  ill  judgment;  but  such  a  critic's  is  to  put  them  out  of  bn- 
mour;  a  design  he  could  never  go  upon  without  both  that  and  an 
ill  temper. 

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  cir- 
cumstances. Their  particular  friends  may  be  either  ig-norant,  or 
insincere ;  and  the  rest  of  the  world  in  general  is  too  well  bred  to 
shock  them  with  a  truth,  which  generally  their  book-sellers  are 
the  first  to  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 
(which  is  the  hardest  care  imaginable)  the  reputation  of  the  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. 

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  per- 
haps 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  tliere  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 


PREFACE.  V 

coxcomb:  if  he  has,  he  will  consequently  have  so  much  diffi- 
dence as  not  to  reap  any  great  satisfaction  from  his  praise ;  since, 
if  it  be  given  to  his  face,  it  can  scarce  be  distinguished  from  flat- 
tery, 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 
Bure  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. 

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  1  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  neve* 
been  prepared  for  these  trifles  by  prefaces,  biassed  by  recommen- 
dations, dazzled  with  the  names  of  great  patrons,  wheedled  with 
fine  reasons  and  pretences,  or  troubled  with  excuses.  I  confess 
'*  was  want  of  consideration  that  made  me  an  author ;  I  wrot« 


1* 


tl  PREFACB. 

because  it  amused  me  ;  1  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  judg- 
ment 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. 

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  con- 
stantly applied  themselves  not  only  to  that  art,  but  to  that  single 
branch  of  an  art,  to  which  their  talent  was  most  powerfully  bentj 
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  farther  misfortune :  they 
wrote  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. 

All  that  is  left  us  is  to  recommend  our  productions  by  the  imi- 
tation 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. 

I  fairly  confess  that  i  have  served  myself  all  I  could  by  reading. 
Ihat  I  made  use  of  the  judgment  of  authors  dead  and  living; 


REFACB.  Vl 

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  piecea 
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  ? 
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  vice  versa  a  whole  poem  for  the  sake 
of  some  particular  lines.  1  believe  no  one  qualification  is  so  likely 
to  make  a  good  writer,  as  the  power  of  rejecting  his  own  thoughts  i 
and  it  must  be  this  (if  any  thing)  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  ac- 
count 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  in- 
serted in  this  collection.  And  perhaps  nothing  could  make  it 
worth  my  while  to  own  what  are  really  so,  but  to  avoid  the  impu- 
tation of  so  many  dull  and  immoral  things,  as  partly  by  malice, 
and  partly  by  ignorance,  have  been  ascribed  to  me.  I  must  far- 
ther acquit  myself  of  the  presumption  of  having  lent  my  name  to 
recommend  any  miscellanies,  or  works  of  other  men ;  a  thing  t 
never  thought  becoming  a  person  who  has  hardly  credit  enough 
to  answer  for  his  own. 

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  ub- 


r 


tffl  PREPACB. 

fortunate.  If  I  have  written  well,  let  it  be  considered  that  it  it 
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. 

But  if  this  publication  be  only  a  more  solemn  funeral  of  my 
remains,  I  desire  it  may  be  known  that  1  die  in  charity,  and  in  my 
senses ;  without  any  murmurs  against  the  justice  of  this  age,  or 
any  mad  appeals  to  posterity.  1  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  wish- 
ing so  irrational  a  thing,  as  that  every  body  should  be  de- 
ceived 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  anything  were  good  it 
would  defend  itself,  and  what  was  bad  could  never  be  defended. 
That  I  us^d  no  artifice  to  raise  or  continue  a  reputation,  depre- 
ciated 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,  encourage  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  Memento  mori  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  emiuenti  and  favoured  by  the  public  in 
general. 

Nov,  10, 1716. 


THE  LIFE  OF  POPE 
BY  DE.  JOMSOU. 


Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London,  May  22,  1688,  of  parents 
whose  rank  or  station  was  never  ascertained :  we  are  informed 
that  they  were  of  gentle  blood ;  that  his  father  was  of  a  family  of 
which  the  earl  of  Downe  was  the  head  ;  and  that  his  mother  was 
the  daughter  of  William  Turner,  esquire,  of  York,  who  had  like- 
wise three  sons,  one  of  whom  had  the  honour  of  being  killed,  and 
the  other  of  dying,  in  the  service  of  Charles  the  first;  the  third 
was  made  a  general  officer  in  Spain,  from  whom  the  sister  inhe- 
rited what  sequestrations  and  forfeitures  had  left  in  the  family. 

"This,  and  this  only,  is  told  by  Pope ;  who  is  more  willing,  as  I 
have  heard  observed,  to  shew  what  his  father  was  not,  than  what 
he  was.  It  is  allowed  that  he  grew  nch  by  trade;  but  whether  in 
a  shop  or  on  the  Exchange  ivas  never  discovered,  till  Mr.  Tyers 
told,  on  the  authority  of  Mrs.  Racket,  that  he  was  a  linen-draper 
in  the  Strand.     Both  parents  svere  papists. 

Pope  was,  from  his  birth,  of  a  constitution  tender  and  delicate  ; 
but  is  said  to  have  shewn  remarkable  gentleness  and  sweetness  of 
disposition.  The  weakness  of  his  body  continued  through  his 
life ;  but  the  mildness  of  his  mind  perhaps  ended  with  his  child- 
hood. His  voice,  when  he  was  young,  was  so  pleasing,  that  he 
was  called  in  fondness  the  little  nightingale. 

Being  not  sent  early  to  school,  he  was  taught  to  read  by  an 
aunt ;  and  when  he  was  seven  or  eight  years  old,  became  a  lover 
of  books.  He  first  learned  to  write  by  imitating  printed  books  ; 
a  species  of  penmanship  in  which  he  retained  great  excellence 
through  his  whole  life,  though  his  ordinary  hand  was  not  elegant. 

When  he  was  about  eight,  he  was  placed  in  Hampshire  under 
Taverner,  a  Romish  priest,  who,  by  a  method  very  rarely  prac- 
tised, taught  him  the  Greek  and  Latin  rudiments  together.  He 
was  now  first  regularly  initiated  in  poetry,  by  the  perusal  of 
Ogylby's  Homer,  and  Sandys's  Ovid.  Ogylby's  assistance  he  never 
repaid  with  any  praise  ;  but  of  Sandys  he  declared,  in  his  notes 
to  the  Iliad,  that  English  poetry  owed  much  of  its  beauty  to  his 
translations.     Sandys  very  rarely  attempted  original  composition. 

From  the  care  of  Taverner,  under  whom  his  proficiency  was 
considerable,  he  was  removed  to  a  school  at  Twyford,  near  Win- 
chester, and  again  to  another  school  about  Hyde-park  corner; 
frorc  which  he  used  sometimes  to  stroll  to  the  playhouse;  and  was 
so  delighted  with  theatrical  exhibitions,  that  he  formed  a  kind  of 
play  from  Ogylby's  Iliad,  with  some  verses  of  his  own  intermixed, 
which  he  persuaded  his  school-feKows  to  act,  with  the  addition  oif 
his  master's  gardener,  who  personated  Ajax. 

At  the  last  twc  schools  he  used  to  represent  himself  as  having 


10  LIFE   OF   POPE. 

lost  part  of  what  TaTerner  had  taught  him  ;  and  on  his  master  at 
Twyford  he  had  already  exercised  his  poetry  in  a  lampoon.  Yet 
under  those  masters  he  translated  more  than  a  fourth  part  of  the 
Metamorphoses.  If  he  kept  the  same  proportion  in  his  other  exer- 
cises, it  cannot  be  thought  that  his  loss  was  great. 

He  tells  of  himself,  in  his  poems,  that  he  "  lisp'd  in  numbers  ;*' 
and  used  to  say  that  he  could  not  remember  the  time  when  ha 
began  to  make  verses.  In  the  style  of  fiction,  it  might  have  been 
said  of  him,  as  of  Pindar,  that,  when  he  lay  in  his  cradle,  *'  the 
bees  swarmed  about  his  mouth." 

About  the  time  of  the  revolution,  his  father,  who  was  un- 
doubtedly disappointed  by  the  sudden  blast  of  popish  prosperity, 
quitted  his  trade,  and  retired  to  Binfield  in  Windsor  forest,  with 
about  twenty  thousand  pounds;  for  which,  being  conscientiously 
determined  not  to  intrust  it  to  the  government,  he  found  no  better 
use  than  that  of  locking  it  up  in  a  chest,  and  taking  from  it  what 
his  expenses  required  ;  and  his  life  was  long  enough  to  consume 
a  great  part  of  it,  before  his  son  came  to  the  inheritance. 

To  Binfield  Pope  was  called  by  his  father,  when  he  was  about 
twelve  years  old  ;  and  there  he  had  for  a  few  months  the  assistance 
of  one  Deane,  another  priest,  of  whom  he  learned  only  to  construe 
a  little  of  Tullifs  Offices.  How  Mr.  Deane  could  spend,  with  a 
boy  who  had  translated  so  much  of  Ovid,  some  months  over  a 
small  part  of  Tulhfs  Offices,  it  is  now  vain  to  inquire. 

Of  a  youth  so  successfully  employed,  and  so  conspicuously  im- 
proved, a  minute  account  must  be  naturally  desired  ;  but  curiosity 
must  be  contented  with  confused,  imperfect,  and  sometimes  impro- 
bable intelligence.  Pope,  finding  little  advantage  from  external 
help,  resolved  thence -forward  to  direct  himself,  and  at  twelve 
formed  a  plan  of  study,  which  he  completed  with  little  other  incite- 
ment than  the  desire  of  excellence. 

His  primary  and  principal  purpose  was  to  be  a  poet,  with  which 
his  father  accidentally  concurred,  by  proposing  subjects,  and  obli- 
ging him  to  correct  his  performances  by  many  revisals  ;  after 
which  the  old  gentleman,  when  he  was  satisfied,  would  say,  "  these 
are  good  rhymes." 

In  his  perusal  of  the  English  poets,  he  soon  distinguished  the  ver- 
sification of  Dryden,  which  he  considered  as  the  model  to  be  stu- 
died, and  was  impressed  with  such  veneration  for  his  instructor,  that 
he  persuaded  some  friends  to  take  him  to  the  coffee-house  which 
Dryden  frequented,  and  pleased  himself  with  having  seen  him. 

Dryden  died  May  1,  1701,  some  days  before  Pope  was  thirteen  ; 
so  early  must  he  therefore  have  felt  the  power  of  harmony,  and 
the  zeal  of  genius.  Who  does  not  wish  that  Dryden  could  have 
known  the  value  of  the  homage  that  was  paid  him,  and  forseen 
the  greatness  of  his  young  admirer  ? 

The  earliest  of  Pope's  productions  is  his  Ode  on  Solitude,  writ- 
ten before  he  was  twelve,  in  which  there  is  nothing  more  than 
other  forward  boys  have  attained,  and  which  is  not  equal  to 
Cowley's  performances  at  the  same  age. 

His  time  was  now  wholly  spent  in  reading  and  writing.    As  he 


k 


tTFE  OF  pope;  11 

read  the  classics,  he  amused  himself  with  translating  them ;  and 
at  fourteen  made  a  version  of  the  first  book  of  the  Thebais,  which, 
with  some  revision,  lie  afterwards  published.  He  must  have  been 
at  this  time,  if  he  had  no  help,  a  considerable  proficient  in  the 
Latin  tongue. 

By  Dryden's  fables,  which  had  then  been  not  long  published, 
and  were  much  in  the  hands  of  poetical  readers,  he  was  tempted 
to  try  his  own  skill  in  giving  Chaucer  a  more  fashionable  appear- 
ance, and  put  January  and  May,  and  the  Prologue  of  the  Wife  of 
Bath,  into  modern  English.  Retranslated  likewise  the  epistle  of 
Sappho  to  Phaon,  from  Ovid,  to  complete  the  version  which  was 
before  imperfect ;  and  wrote  some  other  small  pieces,  which  he 
afterwards  printed. 

He  sometimes  imitated  the  English  poets,  and  professed  to  have 
written  at  fourteen  his  poem  on  Silence,  after  Rochester's  Nothing. 
He  had  now  formed  his  versification,  and  the  smoothness  of  his 
numbers  surpassed  his  original:  but  this  is  a  small  part  of  his 
praise;  he  discovers  such  acquaintance  both  with  human  life  and 
public  affairs,  as  is  not  easily  conceived  to  have  been  attainable  by 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  in  Windsor  forest. 

Next  year,  he  was  desirous  of  opening  to  himself  new  sources 
of  knowledge,  by  making  himself  acquainted  with  modern  lan- 
guages; and  removed  for  a  time  to  London,  that  he  might  study 
French  and  Italian,  which,  as  he  desired  nothing  more  than  to 
read  them,  were  by  diligent  application  soon  despatched.  Of  Itali- 
an learning  he  does  not  appear  to  have  ever  made  much  use  in 
bis  subsequent  studies. 

He  then  returned  to  Binfield,  and  delighted  himself  with  his 
own  poetry.  He  tried  all  styles,  and  many  subjects.  He  wrote 
a  comedy,  a  tragedy,  an  epic  poem,  with  panegyrics  on  all  the 
princes  of  Europe ;  and,  as  he  confesses,  "  thought  himself  the 
greatest  genius  that  ever  was."  Self-confidence  is  the  first  re- 
quisite to  great  undertakings.  He,  indeed,  who  forms  his  opinion 
of  himself  in  solitude,  without  knowing  the  powers  of  other  men, 
is  very  liable  to  error :  but  it  was  the  felicity  of  Pope  to  rate  him- 
self at  his  real  value. 

Most  of  his  puerile  productions  were,  by  his  maturer  judgment, 
afterwards  destroyed  :  Alcander,  the  epic  poem,  was  burnt  by  the 
persuasion  cf  Atterbury .  The  tragedy  was  founded  on  the  legend 
of  St.  Genevieve.     Of  the  comedy  there  is  no  account. 

Concerning  his  studies,  it  is  related  that  he  translated  TuJly 
on  old  age  ;  and  that,  besides  his  books  of  poetry  and  criticism, 
lie  read  Temple's  essays,  and  Locke  on  human  understanding. 
His  reading,  though  his  favourite  authors  are  not  known,  appears 
to  have  been  sufficiently  extensive  and  multifarious  ;  for  his  early 
pieces  shew,  with  sufficient  evidence,  his  knowledge  of  books. 

He  that  is  pleased  with  himself  easily  imagines  that  he  shall 
please  others.  Sir  William  Trumbull,  who  had  been  ambassador 
at  Constantinople,  and  secretary  of  state,  when  he  retired  from 
business,  fixed  his  residence  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Binfield, 
Pope,  not  yet  sixteeD|  was  introduced  to  the  statesman  of  sixty, 


IJ  IIPE   OF  POPE. 

and  so  distinguished  himself,  that  their  interviews  ended  In 
friendship  and  correspondence.  Pope  was,  through  his  whole 
life,  ambitious  of  a  splendid  acquaintance ;  and  he  seems  to  have 
wanted  neither  diligence  nor  success  in  attracting  the  notice  of 
the  great ;  for,  from  his  first  entrance  into  the  world,  and  his 
entrance  was  very  early,  he  was  admitted  to  familiarity  with  those 
whose  rank  or  station  made  them  most  conspicuous. 

From  the  age  of  sixteen,  the  life  of  Pope,  as  an  author,  may 
be  properly  computed.  He  now  wrote  his  pastorals,  which  were 
shewn  to  the  poets  and  critics  of  that  time  :  As  they  well  de- 
served, they  were  read  with  admiration,  and  many  praises  were 
bestowed  upon  them  and  upon  the  preface,  which  is  both  elegant 
and  learned  in  a  high  degree  ;  they  were,  however,  not  published 
till  five  years  afterwards. 

Cowley,  Milton,  and  Pope,  are  distinguished  among  the  English 
poets,  by  the  early  exertion  of  their  powers;  but  the  works  of 
Cowley  alone  were  published  in  his  childhood,  and  therefore  to 
him  only  can  it  be  certain  that  his  puerile  performances  received 
no  improvement  from  his  maturer  studies. 

At  this  time  began  his  acquaintance  with  Wycherley,  a  man 
who  seems  to  have  had  among  his  contemporaries  his  full  share 
of  reputation,  to  have  been  esteemed  without  virtue,  and  caressed 
without  good-humour.  Pope  was  proud  of  his  notice ;  Wycherley 
wrote  verses  in  his  praise,  which  he  was  charged  by  Dennis  with 
writing  to  himself,  and  they  agreed  for  a  while  to  flatter  one 
another.  It  is  pleasant  to  remark  how  soon  Pope  learned  the 
cant  of  an  author,  and  began  to  treat  critics  with  contempt,  though 
he  had  yet  sufllered  nothing  from  them. 

But  the  fondness  of  Wycherley  was  too  violent  to  last.  His 
esteem  of  Pope  was  such,  that  he  submitted  some  poems  to  his 
revision;  and  when  Pope,  perhaps  proud  of  such  confidence,  was 
sufficiently  bold  in  his  criticisms,  and  liberal  in  his  alterations, 
the  old  scribbler  was  angry  to  see  his  pages  defaced,  and  felt  more 
pain  from  the  detection,  than  content  from  the  amendment,  of  his 
faults.  They  parted ;  but  Pope  always  considered  him  with  kind- 
ness, and  visited  him  a  little  time  before  he  died. 

Another  of  his  early  correspondents  was  Mr.  Cromwell,  cf 
whom  I  have  learned  nothing  particular,  but  that  he  used  to  ride 
a-hunting  in  a  tye-wig.  He  was  fond,  and  perhaps  vain,  of 
amusing  himself  with  poetry  and  criticism  ;  and  sometimes  sent 
his  performances  to  Pope,  who  did  not  forbear  such  remarks  as 
were  now  and  then  unwelcome.  Pope,  in  his  turn,  put  the  juve- 
nile version  of  Statins  into  his  hands  for  correction. 

Their  correspondence  afforded  the  public  its  first  knowledge  of 
Pope's  epistolary  powers ;  for  his  letters  were  given  by  Cromwell 
to  one  Mrs.  Thomas ;  and  she,  many  years  afterwards,  sold  them 
to  Curll,  who  inserted  them  in  a  volume  of  his  miscellanies. 

Walsh,  a  name  yet  preserved  among  the  minor  poets,  was  one 
of  his  first  encouragers.  His  regard  was  gained  by  the  pastorals, 
and  from  him  Pope  received  the  counsel  by  which  he  seems  to 
have  regulated  his  studies.      Walsh  advised  him  to  correctness, 


MFE   OF  POPB.  IS 

which,  as  ne  told  him,  the  English  poets  had  hitherto  neglected, 
and  which  therefore  was  left  to  him  as  a  basis  of  fame ;  and,  being 
delighted  with  rural  poems,  recommended  to  him  to  write  a  pastoral 
comedy,  like  those  which  are  read  so  eagerly  in  Italy;  a  design 
which  Pope  probably  did  not  approve,  as  he  did  not  follow  it. 

Pope  had  not  declared  himself  a  poet ;  and,  thinking  himself 
tMititled  to  poetical  conversation,  began  at  seventeen  to  frequent 
Will's,  a  coffee-house  on  the  north  side  of  Russel-street  in 
Covent-Garden,  where  the  wits  of  that  time  used  to  assemble, 
and  where  Dryden  had,  when  he  lived,  been  accustomed  to 
preside. 

During  this  period  of  his  life  he  was  indefatigably  diligent,  and 
insatiably  curious  ;  wanting  health  for  violent,  and  money  for  ex- 
pensive pleasures,  and  having  excited  in  himself  very  strong 
desires  of  intellectual  eminence,  he  spent  much  of  bis  time  over  his 
books ;  but  he  read  only  to  store  his  mind  with  facts  and  images, 
seizing  all  that  his  authors  presented  with  undistinguishing 
voracity,  and  with  an  appetite  for  knowledge  too  eager  to  be  nice. 
In  a  mind  like  his,  however,  all  the  faculties  were  at  once  invo- 
luntarily improving.  Judgment  is  forced  upon  us  by  experience. 
He  that  reads  many  books  must  compare  one  opinion  or  style 
with  another;  and,  when  he  compares,  must  necessarily  distin- 
guish, reject,  and  prefer.  But  the  account  given  by  himself  of 
his  studies  was,  that  from  fourteen  to  twenty  he  read  only  for 
amusement,  from  twenty  to  twenty-seven  for  improvement  and 
instruction ;  that  in  the  first  part  of  his  time  he  desired  only  to 
know,  and  in  the  second  he  endeavoured  to  judge. 

The  pastorals,  which  had  been  for  some  time  handed  about 
among  poets  and  critics,  were  at  last  printed  (1709)  in  Tonson's 
miscellany,  in  a  volume  which  began  with  the  pastorals  of  Philips, 
and  ended  with  those  of  Pope. 

The  same  year  was  written  the  Essay  on  Criticism  ;  a  work  which 
displays  such  extent  of  comprehension,  such  nicety  of  distinction, 
such  acquaintance  with  mankind,  and  such  knowledge  both  of 
ancient  and  modern  learning,  as  are  not  often  attained  by  the 
maturest  age  and  longest  experience. 

It  was  published  about  two  years  afterwards  ;  and,  being  praised 
by  Addison,  in  the  Spectator,  with  sufficient  liberality,  met  with 
so  much  favour  as  enraged  Dennis,  "who,"  he  says,  "found 
himself  attacked,  without  any  manner  of  provocation  on  his  side, 
and  attacked  in  his  person  instead  of  his  writings,  by  one  who 
was  wholly  a  stranger  to  him,  at  a  time  when  all  the  world  knew 
he  was  persecuted  by  fortune ;  and  not  only  saw  that  this  was 
attempted  in  a  clandestine  manner,  with  the  utmost  falsehood 
and  calumny,  but  found  that  all  this  was  done  by  a  little  affected 
hypocrite,  who  had  nothing  in  his  mouth,  at  the  same  time,  but 
truth,  candour,  friendship,  good-nature,  humanity,  and  mag- 
nanimity." 

How  the  attack  was  clandestine  is  not  easily  perceived,  nor 
how  his  person  is  depreciated;  but  he  seems  to  have  known 

a 


14  LIFE   OF   POPE. 

Bomething  of  Pope's  character,  in  whom  may  be  discovered  an 

appetite  to  talk  too  frequently  of  his  own  virtues. 

Tlie  pamphlet  is  such  as  rage  might  be  expected  to  dictate. 
He  supposes  himself  to  be  asked  two  questions  ;  Whether  the 
essay  will  succeed  ?  and,  Who  or  what  is  the  author  ? 

Its  success  he  admits  to  be  secured  by  the  false  opinions  then 
prevalent ;  the  author  he  concludes  to  be  *'  young  and  raw  :" — 

"  First,  because  he  discovers  a  sufficiency  beyond  his  little 
ability,  and  hath  rashly  undertaken  a  task  infinitely  above  his 
force.  Secondly,  while  this  little  author  struts,  and  affects  the 
dictatorian  air,  he  plainly  shews,  that  at  the  same  time  he  is 
under  the  rod;  and,  while  he  pretends  to  give  laws  to  others,  is 
a  pedantic  slave  to  authority  and  opinion.  Thirdly,  he  hath, 
like  school-boys,  borrowed  both  from  living  and  dead.  Fourthly, 
he  knows  not  his  own  mind,  and  frequently  contradicts  himself. 
Fifthly,  he  is  almost  perpetually  in  the  wrong." 

All  these  positions  he  attempts  to  prove  by  quotations  and  re- 
marks; but  his  desire  to  do  mischief  is  greater  than  his  power. 
He  has,  however,  justly  criticised  some  passages.     In  these  lines, 

There  are  whom  Heaven  has  hless'd  with  store  of  wit, 

Yet  want  as  much  again  to  manage  it ; 

For  wit  and  judgment  ever  are  at  strife- 
it  is  apparent  that  wit  has  two  meanings,  and  that  what  is  wanted, 
though  called  wit,  is  truly  judgment.  So  far  Dennis  is  un- 
doubtedly right;  but,  not  content  with  argument,  he  will  have  a 
little  mirth,  and  triumphs  over  the  firstj  couplet  in  terms  too 
elegant  to  be  forgotten.  *'  By  the  way,  what  rare  numbers  are 
here!  Would  not  one  swear  that  this  youngster  had  espoused 
some  antiquated  muse,  who  had  sued  out  a  divorce,  on  account 
of  impotence,  from  some  superannuated  sinner;  and,  having  been 
p-xed  by  her  former  spouse,  has  got  the  gout  in  her  decrepit  age, 
which  makes  her  hobble  so  damnably?"  This  was  the  man  who 
would  reform  a  nation  sinking  into  barbarity  ! 

In  another  place,  Pope  himself  allowed  that  Dennis  had 
detected  one  of  those  blunders  which  are  called  bulls.  The  first 
edition  had  this  line, 

What  is  this  wit— 

Wliere  wanted,  scorn'd ;  and  envied  where  acquir'd  f 

"  How,"  says  the  critic,  "can  wit  be  scorned  where  it  is  not? 
Is  not  this  a  figure  frequently  employed  in  Hibernian  land  ?  The 
person  that  wants  this  wit  may  indeed  be  scorned,  but  the  scorn 
shews  the  honour  which  the  contemner  has  for  wit."  Of  this  re- 
mark Pope  made  the  proper  use,  by  correcting  the  passage. 

I  have  preserved,  I  think,  all  th-it  is  reasonable  in  Dennis's 
criticism;  it  remains  that  justice  be  done  to  his  delicacy.  "For 
liis  acquaintance"  (says  Dennis)  **  he  names  Mr.  Walsh,  who  had 
by  no  means  the  qualification  which  this  author  reckons  absolutely 
necessary  to  a  critic,  it  being  very  certain  that  he  was,  like  this 


LIFE   OP   POPE.  IS 

essayer,  a  very  indifferent  poei ;  he  loved  to  be  well-dressed ;  and 
J  remember  a  little  gentleman  whom  Mr.  Walsh  used  to  take 
into  his  company,  as  a  double  foil  to  his  person  and  capacity. 
Inquire,  between  Sunninghill  and  Oakingham,  for  a  young,  short, 
squab  gentleman,  the  very  bow  of  the  god  of  love,  and  tell  me 
whether  he  be  a  proper  author  to  make  personal  reflections  ? — He 
may  extol  the  ancients,  but  he  has  reason  to  thank  the  gods  that 
he  was  born  a  modern;  for  had  he  been  born  of  Grecian  parents, 
and  his  father  consequently  had  by  law  had  the  absolute  disposal 
of  him,  his  life  had  been  no  longer  than  that  of  one  of  his 
poems,  the  life  of  half  a  day. — Let  the  person  of  a  gentleman  of 
his  parts  be  never  so  contemptible,  his  inward  man  is  ten  times 
more  ridiculous ;  it  being  impossible  that  his  outward  form, 
though  it  be  that  of  downright  monkey,  should  differ  so  much  from 
human  shape,  as  his  unthinking,  immaterial  part  does  from 
human  understanding."  Thus  began  the  hostility  between  Pope 
and  Dennis,  which  though  it  was  suspended  for  a  short  time,  never 
was  appeased.  Pope  seems,  at  first,  to  have  attacked  him  wan- 
tonly ;  but,  though  he  always  professed  to  despise  him,  he  dis- 
covers, by  mentioning  him  very  often,  that  he  felt  his  force  or  his 
venom. 

Of  this  Essay,  Pope  declared,  that  he  did  not  expect  the  sale  to 
be  quick,  because  "  not  one  gentleman  in  sixty,  even  of  liberal 
education,  could  understand  it."  The  gentlemen,  and  the  educa- 
tion of  that  time,  seem  to  have  been  of  a  lower  character  than  they 
are  of  this.  He  mentioned  a  thousand  copies  as  a  numerous  im- 
pression. 

Dennis  was  not  his  only  censurer  ;  the  zealous  papists  thought 
the  monks  treated  with  too  much  contempt,  and  Erasmus  too 
studiously  praised ;  but  to  these  objections  he  had  not  much 
regard. 

The  Essay  has  been  translated  into  French  by  Hamilton,  author 
of  the  Comte  de  Grammoni,  whose  version  was  never  printed  ;  by 
Robotham,  secretary  to  the  king  for  Hanover  ;  and  by  Resnel ; 
and  commented  by  Dr.  Warburton,  who  has  discovered  in  it  such 
order  and  connection  as  was  not  perceived  by  Addison,  nor,  as  is 
Eaid,  intended  by  the  author. 

Almost  every  poem,  consisting  of  precepts,  is  so  far  arbitrary 
and  immethodical,  that  many  of  the  paragraphs  may  change  places 
with  no  apparent  inconvenience  ;  for  of  two  or  more  positions, 
depending  upon  some  remote  and  general  principle,  there  is 
j^eldom  any  cogent  reason  why  one  should  precede  the  other.  But 
for  the  order  in  which  they  stand,  whatever  it  be,  a  little  ingenuity 
may  easily  discover  a  reason.  "  It  is  impossible,"  says  Hooker, 
"  that,  by  long  circumduction,  from  any  one  truth  all  truth  may  be 
inferred."  Of  all  homogeneous  truths,  at  least  of  all  truths  re- 
specting the  same  general  end,  in  whatever  series  they  may  be 
produced,  a  concatenation  by  intermediate  ideas  may  be  formed, 
Buch  as,  when  it  was  once  shewn,,  shall  appear  natural ;  but  if  this 
order  be  reversed,  another  mode  of  connection  equally  spacious 
may  he  found  or  made.      Aristotle  is  praised  for  naming  fortitude 


IB  IIFB   OF   POPE. 

first  of  the  cardinal  virtues,  as  that  without  which  no  other  virtue 
can  steadily  be  practised  ;  but  he  might,  with  equal  propriety, 
have  placed  prudence  and  justice  before  it ;  since  without  pru- 
dence, fortitude  is  mad  ;  without  justice,  it  is  mischievous. 

As  the  end  of  method  is  perspicuity,  that  series  is  sufficiently 
regular  that  avoids  obscurity;  and  where  there  is  no  obscurity, 
it  will  not  be  difficult  to  discover  method. 

In  the  Spectator  was  published  the  Messiah,  which  he  first  sub- 
mitted to  the  perusal  of  Steele,  and  corrected  in  compliance  with 
his  criticisms. 

It  is  reasonable  to  infer,  from  his  letters,  that  the  verses  on  the 
unfortunate  lady  were  written  about  the  time  when  his  Essay  was 
published.  The  lady's  name  and  adventures  I  have  sought  witli 
fruitless  inquiry. 

I  can  therefore  tell  no  more  than  I  have  learned  from  Mr. 
Ruffhead,  who  writes  with  the  confidence  of  one  who  could  trust 
his  information.  She  was  a  woman  of  eminent  rank  and  large 
fortune,  the  ward  of  an  uncle,  who,  having  given  her  a  proper 
education,  expected,  like  other  guardians,  that  she  should  make 
at  least  an  equal  match;  and  such  he  proposed  to  her,  but  found 
it  rejected  in  favour  of  a  young  gentleman  of  inferior  condition. 

Having  discovered  the  correspondence  between  the  two  lovers, 
and  finding  the  young  lady  determined  to  abide  by  her  own  choice, 
he  supposed  that  separation  might  do  what  can  rarely  be  done  by 
arguments,  and  sent  her  into  a  foreign  country,  where  she  was 
obliged  to  converse  only  with  those  from  whom  her  uncle  had 
nothing  to  fear. 

Her  lover  took  care  to  repeat  his  vows ;  but  his  letters  were 
intercepted  and  carried  to  her  guardian,  who  directed  her  to  be 
watched  with  still  greater  vigilance,  till  of  this  restraint  she  grew 
BO  impatient,  that  she  bribed  a  woman  servant  to  procure  her  a 
Bword,  which  she  directed  to  her  heart. 

From  this  account,  given  from  evident  intention  to  raise  the 
lady's  character,  it  does  not  appear  that  she  had  any  claim  to 
praise,  nor  much  to  compassion.  She  seems  to  have  been  im- 
patient, violent,  and  ungovernable.  Her  uncle's  power  could  not 
have  lasted  long  ;  the  hour  of  liberty  and  choice  would  have  come 
in  time.  But  her  desires  were  too  hot  for  delay,  and  she  liked 
self-murder  better  than  suspense. 

Nor  is  it  discovered  that  the  uncle,  whoever  he  was,  is  with 
much  justice  delivered  to  posterity  as  •*  a  false  guardian ;  "  he 
Beams  to  have  done  only  that  for  which  a  guardian  is  appointed  ; 
hs  endeavoured  to  direct  his  niece  till  she  should  be  able  to  direct 
herself.  Poetry  has  not  often  been  worse  employed  than  in  digni- 
fying the  amorous  fury  of  a  raving  girl. 

Not  long  after,  he  wrote  the  Rape  of  the  Loch,  the  most  airy, 
the  most  ingenious,  and  the  most  delightful  of  all  his  composi- 
tions, occasioned  by  a  frolic  of  gallantry,  rather  too  familiar,  in 
which  Lord  Petre  cut  off"  a  lock  of  Mrs.  Arabella  Termor's  hair. 
This,  whether  stealth  or  violence,  was  so  much  resented,  that  the 
commerce  of  the  two  families,  before  very  friendly,  was  inter- 


LIFE    OF  POPE.  17 

ntpted.  Mr.  Caryl,  a  gentleman  who,  being  secretary  to  king 
James's  queen,  had  followed  his  mistress  into  France,  and  who, 
being  the  author  of  Sir  Solovion  Single,  a  comedy,  and  some  trans., 
lations,  was  entitled  to  the  notice  of  a  wit,  solicited  Pope  to 
endeavour  a  reconciliation  by  a  ludicrous  poem,  which  might 
bring  both  the  parties  to  a  better  temper.  In  compliance  with 
Caryl's  request,  though  his  name  was  for  a  long  time  marked  only 
by  the  first  and  last  letter,  C — 1,  a  poem  of  two  cantos  was  written, 
(1711),  as  is  said,  in  a  fortnight,  and  sent  to  the  offended  lady, 
who  liked  it  well  enough  to  shew  it;  and,  with  the  usual  process 
of  literary  transactions,  the  author,  dreading  a  stirreptitious  edi- 
tion, was  forced  to  publish  it. 

The  event  is  said  to  have  been  such  as  was  desired,  the  pacification 
and  diversion  of  all  to  whom  i:  related,  except  Sir  George  Brown, 
who  complained  with  some  bitterness,  that,  in  the  character  of  Sir 
Plume,  he  was  made  to  talk  nonsense.  Whether  all  this  be  true  I 
have  some  doubt ;  for  at  Paris,  a  few  years  ago,  a  niece  of  Mrs. 
Fermor,  who  presided  in  an  English  convent,  mentioned  Pope's 
work  with  very  little  gratitude,  rather  as  an  insult  than  an  honour  ; 
and  she  may  be  supposed  to  have  inherited  the  opinion  of  her 
family. 

At  its  first  appearance  it  was  termed  by  Addison  merum  sal. 
Pope,  however,  saw  that  it  was  capable  of  improvement;  and 
having  luckily  contrived  to  borrow  his  machinery  from  the 
Rosicrucians,  imparted  the  scheme  with  which  his  head  was 
teeming'  to  Addison,  who  told  him  that  his  work,  as  it  stood,  was 
**  a  delicious  little  thing,"  and  gave  him  no  encouragement  to 
retouch  it. 

This  has  been  too  hastily  considered  as  an  instance  of  Addison's 
jealousy ;  for,  as  he  could,  not  guess  the  conduct  of  the  new 
design,  or  the  possibilities  of  pleasure  comprised  in  a  fiction  in 
which  there  had  been  no  examples,  he  might  very  reasonably  and 
kindly  persuade  the  author  to  acquiesce  in  his  own  prosperity, 
and  forbear  an  attempt  which  he  considered  as  an  unnecessary 
hazard. 

Addison's  counsel  was  happily  rejected.  Pope  foresaw  the 
future  efflorescence  of  imagery  then  budding  in  his  mind,  and 
resolved  to  spare  no  art,  or  industry  of  cultivation.  The  soft 
luxuriance  of  his  fancy  was  already  shooting,  and  all  the  gay  va- 
rieties of  diction  were  ready  at  his  hand  to  colour  and  embellish  it. 

His  attempt  was  justified  by  its  success.  The  Rape  of  th« 
Lock  stands  forward  in  the  classes  of  literature,  as  the  most  ex- 
quisite example  of  ludicrous  poetry.  Berkeley  congratulated  him 
upon  the  display  of  powers  more  truly  poetical  than  he  had  shewn 
before;  with  elegance  of  description  and  justness  of  precepts,  he 
had  now  exhibited  boundless  fertility  of  invention. 

He  always  considered  the  intermixture  of  the  machinery  with 
the  action  as  his  most  successful  exertion  of  poetical  art.  He 
indeed  could  never  afterwards  produce  any  thing  of  such  unex- 
ampled excellence.  Those  performances  which  strike  with  won- 
der, are  combinations  of  skilful  genius  with  happy  casualty ;  and 

2* 


IS  LIFE   OF   POPE. 

it  is  not  likely  that  any  felicity  like  the  discovery  of  a  new  race 
of  preternatural  agents,  should  happen  twice  to  the  same  man. 

Of  this  poem,  the  author  was,  I  think,  allowed  to  enjoy  the 
praise  for  a  long  time  without  disturbance.  Many  years  after- 
wards, Dennis  published  some  remarks  upon  it,  with  very  little 
force,  and  with  no  effect;  for  the  opinion  of  the  public  was  al- 
ready settled,  and  it  was  no  longer  at  the  mercy  of  criticism. 

About  this  time  he  published  the  Temple  of  Fame,  which,  as 
he  tells  Steele  in  their  correspondence,  he  had  written  two  years 
before  ;  that  is,  when  he  was  only  twenty-two  years  old,  an  early 
time  of  life  for  so  much  learning,  and  so  much  observation  as 
that  work  exhibits. 

On  this  poem  Dennis  afterwards  published  some  remarks,  of 
which  the  most  reasonable  is,  that  some  of  the  lines  represent 
motion  as  exhibited  by  sculpture. 

Of  the  epistle  from  Eloisa  to  Ahelard,  I  do  not  know  the  date. 
His  first  inclination  to  attempt  a  composition  of  that  tender  kind 
arose,  as  Mr.  Savage  told  me,  from  his  perusal  of  Prior's  nut- 
hrown  maid.  How  much  he  has  surpassed  Prior's  work  it  is  not 
necessary  to  mention,  when  perhaps  it  may  be  said  with  justice, 
that  he  has  excelled  every  composition  of  the  same  kind.  The 
mixture  of  religious  hope  and  resignation  gives  an  elevation  and 
dignity  to  disappointed  love,  which  images  merely  natural  can- 
not bestow.  The  gloom  of  a  convent  strikes  the  imagination 
with  far  greater  force  than  the  solitude  of  a  grove. 

This  piece  was,  however,  not  much  his  favourite  in  his  latter 
years,  though  I  never  heard  upon  what  principle  he  slighted  it. 

In  the  next  year  (1713)  he  published  Windsor  Forest ;  of  which 
part  was,  as  he  relates,  written  at  sixteen,  about  the  same  time 
as  his  pastorals ;  and  the  latter  part  was  added  afterwards :  where 
the  addition  begins,  we  are  not  told.  The  lines  relating  to  the 
peace  confess  their  own  date.  It  is  dedicated  to  Lord  Lansdowne, 
who  was  then  high  in  reputation  and  influence  among  the  tories  ; 
and  it  is  said  that  the  conclusion  of  the  poem  gave  great  pain  to 
Addison,  both  as  a  poet  and  a  politician.  Reports  like  this  are 
often  spread  with  boldnessvery  disproportionate  to  their  evidence. 
Why  should  Addison  receive  any  particular  disturbance  from  the 
last  lines  of  Windsor  Forest  1  If  contrariety  of  opinion  could 
poison  a  politician,  he  would  not  live  a  day  ;  and,  as  a  poet,  he 
must  have  felt  Pope's  force  of  genius  much  more  from  many  other 
parts  of  his  works. 

Thopain  that  Addison  might  feel  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would 
confess ;  and  it  is  certain  that  he  so  well  suppressed  his  discon- 
tent, that  Pope  now  thought  himself  his  favourite  ;  for,  having 
been  consulted  in  the  revisal  of  Cato,  he  introduced  it  by  a  pro- 
logue ;  and,  when  Dennis  published  his  remarks,  undertook,  not 
indeed  to  vindicate,  but  to  revenge  his  friend,  by  a  narrative  of 
the  frenzy  of  John  Dennis. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  Addison  gave  no  encouragement 
to  this  disingenuous  hostility;  for,  says  Pope,  in  a  letter  to  him, 
'•  indeed  your  opinion,  that  'tis  entirely  to  be  neglected,  would  b« 


-«, 


LIFE   OF   POPE.  1^ 

my  own  in  my  own  case;  but  I  felt  more  warmth  here  than  I  did 
when  I  first  saw  his  book  against  myself  (though  in  two  minutes  it 
made  me  heartily  merry)."  Addison  was  not  a  man  on  whom 
such  cant  of  sensibility  could  make  much  impression.  He  let'i 
the  pamphlet  to  itself,  having  disowned  it  to  Dennis,  and  perhaps 
did  not  think  Pope  to  have  deserved  much  by  his  officioiusness. 

This  year  was  printed  in  the  Guardian,  the  ironical  comparison 
between  the  pastorals  of  Philips  and  Pope  ;  a  composition  of 
artifice,  criticism,  and  literature,  to  which  nothing  equal  will 
easily  be  found.  The  superiority  of  Pope  is  so  ingeniously  dis- 
sembled, and  the  feeble  lines  of  Philips  so  skilfully  preferred, 
that  Steele,  being  deceived,  was  unwilling  to  print  the  paper,  lest 
Pope  should  be  offended.  Addison  immediately  saw  the  writer's 
design  ;  and,  as  it  seems,  had  malice  enough  to  conceal  his  dis- 
covery, and  to  permit  a  publication  which,  by  making  his  friend 
Philips  ridiculous,  made  him  for  ever  an  enemy  to  Pope. 

It  appears  that  about  this  time  Pope  had  a  strong  inclination 
to  unite  the  art  of  painting  with  that  oi poetry,  and  put  himself 
under  the  tuition  of  Jervas.  He  was  near-sighted,  and  therefore 
not  formed  by  nature  for  a  painter  :  he  tried,  however,  how  far  he 
could  advance,  and  sometimes  persuaded  his  friends  to  sit.  A 
picture  of  Betterton,  supposed  to  be  drawn  by  him,  was  in  the 
possession  of  Lord  Mansfield  :  if  this  was  taken  from  the  life,  he 
must  have  begun  to  paint  earlier ;  for  Betterton  was  now  dead. 
Pope's  ambition  of  this  new  art  produced  some  encomiastic  verses 
to  Jervas,  which  certainly  shew  his  power  as  a  poet;  but  1  have 
been  told  that  they  betray  bis  ignorance  of  painting. 

He  appears  to  have  regarded  Betterton  with  kindness  and 
esteem;  and,  after  his  death,  published,  under  his  name,  a  ver- 
sion into  modern  English  of  Chaucer's  prologues,  and  one  of  his 
tales,  which,  as  was  related  by  Mr.  Harte,  were  believed  to  have 
been  the  performance  of  Pope  himself  by  Fenton,  who  made  him 
a  gay  offer  of  five  pounds,  if  he  would  shew  them  in  the  hand  of 
Betterton. 

The  next  year  (1713)  produced  «  bolder  attempt,  by  which 
profit  was  sought  as  well  as  praise.  The  poems  which  he  had 
hitherto  written,  however  they  might  have  diffused  his  name,  had 
made  very  little  addition  to  his  fortune.  The  allowance  which 
his  father  made  him,  though,  proportioned  to  what  he  had,  it 
might  be  liberal,  could  not  be  large ;  his  religion  hindered  him 
from  the  occupation  of  any  civil  employment ;  and  he  complained 
that  he  wanted  even  money  to  buy  books. 

He  therefore  resolved  to  try  how  far  the  favour  of  the  public 
extended,  by  soliciting  a  subscription  to  a  version  of  the  Iliad, 
with  large  notes. 

To  print  by  subscription  was,  for  some  time,  a  practice  peculiar 
to  the  English.  The  first  considerable  work,  for  which  this  ex- 
pedient was  employed,  is  said  to  have  been  Dryden's  Virgil; 
and  it  had  been  tried  again  with  great  success  when  the  Tatlers 
were  collected  into  volumes. 

There  was  reason  to  believe  that  Pope's  attempt  would  be  sue- 


20  tIFE    OF   POPE. 

cessfm.  He  was  in  the  full  bloom  of  reputation,  and  was  person- 
ally known  to  almost  all  whom  dignity  of  employment  or  splen- 
dour of  reputation  had  made  eminent ;  he  conversed  indifferently 
with  both  parties,  and  never  disturbed  the  public  with  his  political 
opinions ;  and  it  might  be  naturally  expected,  as  each  faction  then 
boasted  its  literary  zeal,  that  the  great  men,  who  on  other  occa- 
sions practised  all  the  violence  of  opposition,  would  emulate  each 
other  in  their  encouragement  of  a  poet  who  had  delighted  all,  and 
by  whom  none  had  been  offended. 

With  those  hopes,  he  offered  an  English  Iliad  to  subscribers,  in 
six  volumes  in  quarto,  for  six  guineas ;  a  sum,  according  to  the 
value  of  money  at  that  time,  by  no  means  inconsiderable,  and 
greater  than  I  believe  to  have  been  ever  asked  before.  His  pro- 
posal, however,  was  very  favourably  received  ;  and  the  patrons  of 
literature  were  busy  to  recommend  his  undertaking,  and  promote 
his  interest.  Lord  Oxford,  indeed,  lamented  that*  such  a  genius 
should  be  wasted  upon  a  work  not  original ;  but  proposed  no 
means  by  which  he  might  live  without  it.  Addison  recommended 
caution  and  moderation,  and  advised  him  not  to  be  content  with 
the  praise  of  half  the  nation,  when  he  might  be  universally 
favoured. 

The  greatness  of  the  design,  the  popularity  of  the  author,  and 
the  attention  of  the  literary  world,  naturally  raised  such  expecta- 
tions of  the  future  sale,  that  the  booksellers  made  their  offers  with 
great  eagerness  ;  but  the  highest  bidder  was  Bernard  Lintot,  who 
became  proprietor,  on  condition  of  supplying  at  his  own  expense 
all  the  copies  which  were  to  be  delivered  to  subscribers,  or  pre- 
sented to  friends,  and  paying  two  hundred  pounds  for  every 
volume. 

Of  the  quartos,  it  was,  I.  believe,  stipulated  that  none  should  be 
printed  but  for  the  author,  that  the  subscription  might  not  be 
depreciated ;  but  Lintot  impressed  the  same  pages  upon  a  small 
folio,  and  paper  perhaps  a  little  thinner;  and  sold  exactly  at  half 
the  price,  for  half-a-guinea  each  volume,  books  so  little  inferior 
to  the  quartos,  that,  by  a  fraud  of  trade,  those  folios,  being  after- 
wards shortened  by  cutting  away  the  top  and  bottom,  were  sold  as 
copies  printed  for  the  subscribers. 

Lintot  printed  two  hundred  and  fifty  on  royal  paper  in  folio,  for 
two  guineas  a  volume;  of  the  small  folio,  having  printed  seven- 
teen hundred  and  fifty  copies  of  the  first  volume,  he  reduced  the 
number  in  the  other  volumes  to  a  thousand. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  relate,  that  the  bookseller,  after  alibis  hopes 
and  all  his  liberality,  was,  by  a  very  unjust  and  illegal  action, 
defrauded  of  his  profit.  An  edition  of  the  English  Iliad  was 
printed  in  Holland  in  duodecimo,  and  imported  clandestinely  for 
the  gratification  of  those  who  were  impatient  to  read  what  they 
could  not  yet  afford  to  buy.  This  fraud  could  only  be  counter- 
acted by  an  edition  equally  cheap  and  more  commodious  :  and 
Lintot  was  compelled  to  contract  his  folio  at  once  inro  a  duode- 
cimo, and  lose  the  advantage  of  an  intermediate  gradation.  The 
aotes,  which  in  the  Dutch  copies  were  placed  at  the  end  of  eack 


L5FK   OF  POPK.  41 

book,  as  tliey  had  been  in  the  large  volumes,  were  now  suDjoiried 
to  the  text  in  the  same  page,  and  are  therefore  more  easily  con- 
sulted. Of  this  edition  two  thousand  five  hundred  were  first 
printea,  and  five  thousand  a  few  weeks  afterwards;  but  indeed 
great  numbers  were  necessary  to  produce  considerable  profit. 

Pope,  having  now  emitted  his  proposals,  and  engaged  not  only 
his  own  reputation,  but  in  some  degree  that  of  his  friends  who 
patronized  his  subscription,  began  to  be  frighted  at  his  own 
undertaking ;  and  finding  himself  at  first  embarrassed  with  diffi- 
culties, which  retarded  and  oppressed  him,  he  was  for  a  time 
timorous  and  uneasy,  had  his  nights  disturbed  by  dreams  of  long 
journeys,  through  unknown  ways,  and  wished,  as  he  said,  "that 
somebody  would  hang  him. " 

This  misery,  however,  was  not  of  long  continuance ;  he  grew  by 
degrees  more  acquainted  with  Homer's  images  and  expressions, 
and  practice  increased  his  facility  of  versification.  In  a  short 
time  he  represents  himself  as  dispatching  regularly  fifty  verses  a 
day,  which  would  shew  him,  by  an  easy  computation,  the  termina- 
tion of  his  labour. 

His  own  diffidence  was  not  his  only  vexation.  He  that  asks  for  a 
subscription  soon  finds  that  he  has  enemies.  All  who  do  not 
encourage  him,  defame  him.  He  that  wants  money  will  rather  be 
thought  angry  than  poor;  and  he  that  wishes  to  save  his  money 
conceals  his  avarice  by  his  malice.  Addison  had  hinted  his  sus- 
picion that  Pope  was  too  much  a  tory ;  and  some  of  the  tories 
suspected  his  principles,  because  he  had  contributed  to  the  Guar- 
dian, which  was  carried  on  by  Steele. 

To  those  who  censured  his  politics  were  added  enemies  yet  more 
dangerous,  who  called  in  question  his  knowledge  of  Greek,  and 
his  qualifications  for  a  translator  of  Homer.  To  these  he  made 
no  public  opposition ;  but,  in  one  of  his  letters,  escapes  from  them 
as  well  as  he  can.  At  an  age  like  his,  for  he  was  not  more  thfn 
twenty-five,  with  an  irregular  education,  and  a  course  of  life 
which  much  seems  to  have  passed  in  conversation,  it  is  not  very 
likely  that  he  overflowed  with  Greek.  But  when  he  felt  himself 
deficient,  he  sought  assistance ;  and  what  man  of  learning  would 
refuse  to  help  him  ?  Minute  inquiries  into  the  force  of  words  are 
less  necessary  in  translating  Homer  than  other  poets,  because  his 
positions  are  general,  and  his  representations  natural,  with  very 
little  dependence  on  local  or  temporary  customs,  or  those  change- 
able scenes  of  artificial  life,  which,  by  mingling  original  with 
accidental  notions,  and  crowding  the  mind  with  images  which 
time  effaces,  produces  ambiguity  in  diction,  and  obscurity  in 
books.  To  this  open  display  of  unadulterated  nature,  it  must  be 
ascribed,  that  Homer  has  fewer  passages  of  doubtful  meaning  than 
any  other  poet,  either  in  the  learned  or  in  modern  languages.  I  have 
read  of  a  man,  who  being,  by  his  ignorance  of  Greek,  compelled 
to  gratify  his  curiosity  with  the  Latin  printed  on  the  opposite 
page,  declared,  that,  from  the  rude  simplicity  of  the  lines  literally 
rendered,  he  formed  nobler  ideas  of  the  Homeric  majesty,  than 
from  the  laboured  elegance  of  polished  versions. 


22  l-'FE  OF   POPE. 

Those  literal  translations  were  always  at  hand,  and  from  tliem 
he  could  easily  obtain  his  author's  sense  with  sufficient  certainty; 
and,  among  the  readers  of  Homer,  the  number  is  very  small  of 
those  who  find  much  in  the  Greek  more  than  in  the  Latin,  except 
the  music  of  the  numbers. 

If  more  help  was  wanting,  he  had  the  poetical  translation  of 
Eohanus  Hessus,  an  unwearied  writer  of  Latin  verses ;  he  had 
the  French  Homers  of  La  Valterie  and  Dacier,  and  the  English 
of  Chapman,  Hobbes,  and  Ogylby.  With  Chapman,  whose  work, 
though  now  totally  neglected,  seems  to  have  been  popular  almost 
to  the  end  of  the  last  century,  he  had  very  frequent  consultations, 
and  perhaps  never  translated  any  passage  till  he  had  read  his 
version,  which  indeed  he  has  been  sometimes  suspected  of  using 
instead  of  the  original. 

Notes  were  likewise  to  be  provided ;  for  the  six  volumes  would 
have  been  very  little  more  than  six  pamphlets  without  them.  What 
the  mere  perusal  of  the  text  could  suggest,  Pope  wanted  no  assist- 
ance to  collect  or  methodize  ;  but  more  was  necessary  •  many 
pages  were  to  be  filled,  and  learning  must  supply  materials  to  wit 
and  judgment.  Something  might  be  gathered  from  Dacier;  but  no 
man  loves  to  be  indebted  to  his  contemporaries,  and  Dacier  was 
accessible  to  common  readers.  Eustathius,  was  therefore  neces- 
sarily consulted.  To  read  Eustathius,  of  whose  work  there  was 
then  no  Latin  version,  1  suspect  Pope,  if  he  had  been  willing,  not 
to  have  been  able ;  some  other  was  therefore  to  be  found,  who  had 
leisure  as  well  as  abilities  ;  and  he  was  doubtless  most  readily 
employed  who  would  do  much  work  for  little  money. 

The  history  of  the  notes  has  never  been  traced.  Broome,  in  hia 
preface  to  his  poems,  declares  himself  the  commentator  "in  part 
upon  the  Iliad ;  "  and  it  appears  from  Fenton's  letter,  preserved 
in  the  Museum,  that  Broome  was  at  first  engaged  in  consulting 
Eustathius  ;  but  that  after  a  time,  whatever  was  the  reason;  he 
desisted:  another  man  of  Cambridge  was  then  employed,  who 
soon  grew  weary  of  the  work ;  and  a  third,  that  was  recommended 
by  Thirlby,  is  now  discovered  to  have  been  Jortin,  a  man  since 
well  known  to  the  learned  world,  who  complained  that  Pope, 
having  accepted  and  approved  his  performance,  never  testified  any 
curiosity  to  see  him,  and  who  professed  to  have  forgotten  the 
terms  on  which  he  worked.  The  terms  which  Fenton  uses  are 
very  mercantile :  "  I  think  at  first  sight  that  his  performance  is 
very  commendable,  and  have  sent  word  for  him  to  finish  the  17th 
book,  and  to  send  it  with  his  demands  for  his  troulle.  I  have 
here  inclosed  the  specimen ;  if  the  rest  come  before  the  return,  I 
will  keep  them  till  I  receive  your  order." 

Broome  then  offered  his  service  a  second  time,  which  was  pro- 
bably accepted,  as  they  had  afterwards  a  closer  correspondence. 
Parnell  contributed  the  life  of  Homer,  wliich  Pope  found  so 
harsh,  that  he  took  great  pains  in  correcting  it ;  and  by  h>s  own 
diligence,  with  such  help  as  kindness  or  money  could  procure  him, 
in  somewhat  more  than  five  years  he  completed  his  version  of  the 


LIFE    OP   POPE.  23 

Iliad,  with  the  notes.     He  began  it  in  1712,  his  twenty-fifth  yeari 
fand  concluded  it  in  1718,  his  thirtieth  year. 

When  we  find  him  translating  fifty  lines  a  day,  it  is  natural  to 
suppose  that  he  would  have  brought  his  work  to  a  more  speedy 
conclusion.  The  Iliad,  containing  less  than  sixteen  thousand 
verses,  might  have  been  despatched  in  less  than  three  hundred 
and  twenty  days,  by  fifty  verses  in  a  day.  The  notes,  compiled 
with  the  assistance  of  his  mercenaries,  could  not  be  supposed  to 
require  more  time  than  the  text. 

According  to  this  calculation,  the  progress  of  Pope  may  seem 
to  have  been  slow ;  but  the  distance  is  commonly  very  great  be- 
tween actual  performances  and  speculative  possibility.     It  is  natu- 
ral to  suppose,  that  as  much  as  has  been  done  to-day  may  b« 
done  to-morrow ;  but  on  the  morrow  some  difficulty  emerges,  o^ 
some  external   impediment  obstructs.     Indolence,  interruption 
business,  and  pleasure,  all  take  their  turns  of  retardation ;  an 
every  long  work  is  lengthened  by  a  thousand  causes  that  can,  an 
ten  thousand  that  cannot,  be  recounted.     Perhaps  no  extensiv 
and  multifarious  performance  was  ever  effected  within  the  term 
originally  fixed  in  the  undertaker's  mind.     He  that  runs  against 
time  has  an  antagonist  not  subject  to  casualties. 

The  encouragement  given  to  this  translation,  though  report 
•eems  to  have  over-rated  it,  was  such  as  the  world  has  not  often 
seen.  The  subscribers  were  five  hundred  and  seventy-five.  The 
copies,  for  which  subscriptions  were  given,  were  six  hundred  and 
fifty-four :  and  only  six  hundred  and  sixty  were  printed.  For 
these  copies  Pope  had  nothing  to  pay ;  he  therefore  received,  in- 
cluding the  two  hundred  pounds  a  volume,  five  thousand  three 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  four  shillings  without  deduction,  as 
the  books  were  supplied  by  Lintot. 

By  the  success  of  his  subscription,  Pope  was  relieved  from 
those  pecuniary  distresses  with  which,  notwithstanding  his  popu- 
larity, he  had  hitherto  struggled.  Lord  Oxford  had  often  la- 
mented his  disqualification  for  public  employment,  but  never 
proposed  a  pension.  While  the  translation  of  Homer  was  in  its 
progress,  Mr.  Craggs,  then  secretary  of  state,  offered  to  procure 
him  a  pension,  which,  at  least  during  his  ministry,  might  be  en- 
joyed with  secrecy.  This  was  not  accepted  by  Pope,  who  told 
him,  however,  that,  if  he  should  be  pressed  with  want  of  money, 
he  would  send  to  him  for  occasional  supplies.  Craggs  was  not 
long  in  power,  and  was  never  solicited  for  money  by  Pope,  who 
disdained  to  beg  what  he  did  not  want. 

With  the  product  of  this  subscription,  which  he  had  too  much 
discretion  to  squander,  he  secured  his  future  life  from  want,  by 
considerable  annuities.  The  estate  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham 
was  found  to  have  been  charged  with  five  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
payable  to  Pope,  which  doubtless  his  translation  enabled  him  to 
purchase. 

It  cannot  be  unwelcome  to  literary  curiosity,  that  I  deduce 
thus  minutely  the  history  of  the  English  Iliad.  It  is  certainly 
the  noblest  version  of  poetry  which  the  world  has  ever  seen ;  and 


i 


V-^g*.!    -I*,- 


24  tIFE   OP  POPE. 

ita  publication  must  therefore  be  considered  as  one  of  the  great 
events  in  the  annals  of  learning. 

The  original  copy  of  the  Iliad  was  obtained  by  Bolingbroke  as 
a  curiosity ;  it  descended  from  him  to  Mallet,  and  is  now,  by  the 
solicitation  of  the  late  Dr.  Maty,  reposited  in  the  Museum. 

The  Iliad  was  published  volume  by  volume,  as  the  translation 
proceeded  :  the  first  four  books  appeared  in  1715.  The  expecta- 
tion of  this  work  was  undoubtedly  high,  and  every  man  who  had 
connected  his  name  with  criticism,  or  poetry,  was  desirous  of  such 
intelligence  as  might  enable  him  to  talk  upon  the  popular  topic. 
Halifax,  who,  by  having  been  first  a  poet,  and  then  a  patron  of 
poetry,  had  acquired  the  right  of  being  a  judge,  was  willing  to 
hear  some  books  while  they  were  yet  unpublished.  Of  this  re- 
hearsal Pope  afterwards  gave  the  following  account : 

"  The  famous  Lord  Halifax  was  rather  a  pretender  to  taste, 
than  really  possessed  of  it. — When  I  had  finished  the  two  or  three 
first  books  of  my  translation  of  the  Iliads  that  lord  desired  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  them  read  at  his  house. — Addison, 
Congreve,  and  Garth,  were  there  at  the  reading.  In  four  or  five 
places,  Lord  Halifax  stopt  me  very  civilly,  and,  with  a  speech 
each  time  of  much  the  same  kind,  ♦  I  beg  your  pardon  Mr.  Pope  ; 
but  there  is  something  in  that  passage  that  does  not  quite  please 
me.  Be  so  good  as  to  mark  the  place,  and  consider  it  a  little  at 
your  leisure. — I  am  sure  you  can  give  it  a  little  turn.' — 1  returned 
from  Lord  Halifax's  with  Dr.  Garth,  in  his  chariot;  and,  as  we 
were  going  along,  was  saying  to  the  doctor,  that  my  lord  had  laid 
me  under  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  by  such  loose  and  general 
observations ;  that  I  had  been  thinking  over  the  passages  almost 
ever  since,  and  could  not  guess  at  what  it  was  that  offended  his 
lordship  in  either  of  them.  Garth  laughed  heartily  at  my  embar- 
rassment ;  said  I  had  not  been  long  enough  acquainted  with  Lord 
Halifax  to  know  his  way  yet ;  that  I  need  not  puzzle  myself  about 
looking  those  places  over  and  over  when  I  got  home.  *  All  you 
need  do  (says  he)  is  to  leave  them  just  as  they  are  ;  call  on  Lord 
Halifax  two  or  three  months  hence,  thank  him  for  his  kind  obser- 
vations on  those  passages,  and  then  read  them  to  him  as  altered. 
I  have  known  him  much  longer  than  you  have,  and  will  be  an- 
swerable for  the  event.'  I  followed  his  advice ;  waited  on  Lord 
Halifax  some  time  after;  said,  I  hope  he  would  find  his  objections 
to  those  passages  removed ;  read  them  to  him  exactly  as  they  were 
at  first ;  and  his  lordship  was  extremely  pleased  with  them,  and 
cried  out,  *  Ay,  now  they  are  perfectly  right:  nothing  can  be 
better."  ' 

It  is  seldom  that  the  great  or  the  wise  suspect  that  they  are 
despised  or  cheated.  Halifax,  thinking  this  a  lucky  opportunity 
of  securing  immortality,  made  some  advances  of  favour,  and  some 
overtures  of  advantage  to  Pope,  which  he  seems  to  have  received 
with  sullen  coldness.  All  our  knowledge  of  this  transaction  is 
^  derived  from  a  single  letter,  (Dec.  1,  1714),  in  which  Pope  says, 
"  1  am  obliged  to  you,  both  for  the  favours  you  have  done  me,  and 
those  you  intend  me.  I  distrust  neither  your  will  nor  your  memory, 


S,TFR    OP    FO?E.  2S 

^hftrt  ii  is  to  do  gool:  u.ul  if  I  evjc  bocooie  troublesome  or 
solicitous,  it  must  not  be  out  of  expectation,  but  out  of  gratitude. 
Your  lordship  may  cause  me  to  live  agreeably  ia  the  town,  or 
contentedly  in  the  country,  which  is  really  all  the  difference  I  set 
between  an  easy  fortune  and  a  small  one.  It  is  indeed  a  high 
strain  of  generosity  to  think  of  making  me  easy  all  my  life,  only 
because  t  have  been  so  happy  as  to  divert  you  some  few  hours; 
but,  if  I  may  have  leave  to  add  it  is  because  you  think  me  no 
enemy  to  my  native  country,  there  will  appear  a  better  reason ; 
for  I  must  of  consequence  be  very  much  (as  I  sincerely  am) 
yours,  &c." 

These  voluntary  offers,  and  this  faint  acceptance,  ended  with- 
out effect.  The  patron  was  not  accustomed  to  such  frigid  grati- 
tude ;  and  the  poet  fed  his  own  pride  with  the  dignity  of  inde- 
pendence. They  probably  were  suspicious  of  each  other.  Pope 
would  not  dictate  till  he  saw  at  what  rate  his  praise  was  valued; 
he  would  be  *'  troublesome  out  of  gratitude,  not  expectation." 
Halifax  thought  himself  entitled  to  confidence  ;  and  would  give 
nothing,  unless  he  knew  what  he  should  receive.  Their  com- 
merce had  its  beginning  in  hope  of  praise  on  one  side,  and  of 
money  on  the  other,  and  ended  because  Pope  was  less  eager  of 
money  than  Halifax  of  praise.  It  is  not  likely  that  Halifax  had 
any  personal  benevolence  to  Pope  ;  it  is  evident  that  Pope  looked 
on  Halifax  with  scorn  and  hatred. 

The  reputation  of  this  great  work  failed  of  gaining  him  a 
patron ;  but  it  deprived  him  of  a  friend.  Addison  and  he  were 
now  at  the  head  of  poetry  and  criticism  ;  and  both  in  such  a  state 
of  elevation,  that,  like  the  two  rivals  in  the  Roman  state,  one 
could  no  longer  bear  an  equal,  nor  the  other  a  superior.  Of  the 
gradual  abatement  of  kindness  between  friends,  the  beginning  is 
often  scarcely  discernible  to  themselves,  and  the  process  is  con- 
tinued by  petty  provocations,  and  incivilities  sometimes  peevishly 
returned,  and  sometimes  contemptuously  neglected,  which  would 
escape  all  attention  but  that  of  pride,  and  drop  from  any  memory 
but  that  of  resentment.  That  the  quarrel  of  these  two  wits  should 
be  minutely  deduced,  is  not  to  be  expected  from  a  writer  to  whom, 
as  Homer  says,  "  nothing  but  rumour  has  reached,  and  who  has 
no  personal  knowledge." 

Pope  doubtless  approached  Addison,  when  the  reputation  of 
their  wit  first  brought  them  together,  with  the  respect  due  to  a 
man  whose  abilities  were  acknowledged,  and  who,  having  attained 
that  eminence  to  which  he  was  himself  aspiring,  had  in  his  hands 
the  distribution  of  literary  fame.  He  paid  court  with  sufficient 
diligence  by  his  prologue  to  Cato,  by  his  abuse  of  Dennis,  and 
with  praise  yet  more  direct,  by  his  poem  on  the  dialogues  on  medals., 
of  which  the  immediate  publication  was  then  intended.  In  al] 
this  there  was  no  hypocrisy  ;  for  he  confessed  that  he  found  in 
Addison  something  more  pleasing  than  in  any  other  man. 

It  may  be  supposed,  that,  as  Pope  saw  himself  favoured  by  the 
world,  and  more  frequently  compared  his  own  powers  with  thoss 
of  others,  bis  confidence  increased,  and  his  submission  lessened; 


26  LIFE    OF    POPE. 

and  that  Addison  felt  no  delight  from  the  advances  of  a  young 
wit,  who  might  soon  contend  with  hiin  for  the  hij^hest  place. 
Every  gi'eat  man,  of  whatever  kind  be  his  greatness,  has  among 
his  friends  those  who  officiously  or  insidiously  quicken  his  atten- 
tion to  offences,  heighten  his  disgust,  and  stimulate  his  resent- 
ment. Of  such  adherents  Addison  doubtless  had  many ;  and 
Pope  was  now  too  high  to  be  without  them. 

From  the  emission  and  reception  of  the  proposals  for  the  Iliad, 
the  kindness  of  Addison  seems  to  have  abated.  Jervas  the 
painter  once  pleased  himself  (Aug.  20,  1714)  with  imagining  that 
he  had  re-established  their  friendship  ;  and  wrote  to  Pope  that 
Addison  once  suspected  him  of  too  close  a  confederacy  with 
Swift,  but  was  now  satisfied  with  his  conduct.  To  this  Pope 
answered,  a  week  after,  that  his  engagements  to  Swift  were  such 
as  his  services  in  regard  to  the  subscription  demanded,  and  that 
the  tories  never  put  him  under  the  necessity  of  asking  leave  to  be 
grateful.  "  But,"  says  he,  "as  Mr.  Addison  must  be  the  judge 
in  what  regards  himself,  and  seems  to  have  no  very  just  one  in 
regard  to  me,  so  I  must  own  to  you  I  expect  nothing  but  civility 
from  him." 

In  the  same  letter  he  mentions  Philips,  as  having  been  busy  to 
kindle  animosity  between  them  ;  but,  in  a  letter  to  Addison,  he 
exjjresses  some  consciousness  of  behaviour,  inattentively  deficient 
in  respect. 

Of  Swift's  industry  in  promoting  the  subscription  there  re- 
mains the  testimony  of  Kenuet,  no  iViend  to  either  him  or  Pope  : — 

"  Nov.  2,  1713,  Dr.  Swift  came  iiito  the  coffee-house,  and  had 
a  bow  from  every  body  but  me,  who,  I  confess,  could  not  but  des- 
pise hiin.  When  I  came  to  the  'inti-cbariit>er  to  wait,  before 
prayers.  Dr.  Swift  was  the  principal  mc.o  of  wlk  and  business 
and  acted  as  master  of  requests. — Then  he  instructed  a  young 
nobleman  that  the  btst  poet  in  England  was  Mr.  Pope  (a  papist), 
who  had  began  a  translation  of  Homer  into  English  verse,  for 
which  he  miut  have  them  all  subscribe ;  for,  says  he,  the  author 
shall  not  begin  to  print  till  /  have  a  thousand  guineas  for  him." 

About  this  time,  it  is  likely  that  Steele,  who  was,  with  all  his 
political  fury,  good-natured  and  officious,  procured  an  interview 
between  these  angry  rivals,  which  ended  in  aggravated  malevo- 
lence. On  this  occasion,  if  the  reports  be  true.  Pope  made  his 
complaint  with  frankness  and  spirit,  as  a  man  undeservedly 
neglected  or  opposed  ;  and  Addison  affected  a  contemptuous  un- 
concern, and,  in  a  calm  even  voice,  reproached  Pope  with  his 
vanity ;  and,  telling  him  of  the  improvements  which  his  early 
works  had  received  from  his  own  remarks  and  those  of  Steele, 
said,  that  he  being  now  engaged  in  public  business,  had  no  longer 
any  care  for  his  poetical  reputation,  nor  had  any  other  desire, 
with  regard  to  Pope,  than  that  he  should  not,  by  too  much  arro- 
gance, alienate  the  public. 

To  this  Pope  is  said  to  have  replied  with  great  keenness  and 
severity,  upbraiding  Addison  with  perpetual  dependence,  and 
with  the  abuse  of  those  qualiftcatjons  which  he  had  obtaiwed  a^ 


LIFE   OF   POPE.  37 

the  public  cost,  and  charging  him  with  mean  endeavours  to  ob- 
•truct  the  progress  of  rising  merit.  The  contest  rose  so  high, 
that  they  parted  at  last  without  any  interchange  of  civility. 

The  first  volume  oi Homer  was  (1715)  in  time  published;  and 
a  rival  version  of  the  first  Iliad  (for  rivals  the  time  of  their  ap-« 
pearance  inevitably  made  them)  was  immediately  printed,  with 
the  name  of  Tickeli.  It  was  soon  perceived  that,  among  the 
followers  of  Addison,  Tickeli  had  the  preference,  and  the  critics 
and  poets  divided  into  factions.  '*  I,"  says  Pope,  "  have  the 
town,  that  is,  the  mob,  on  my  side  ;  but  it  is  not  uncommon  for 
the  smaller  party  to  supply  by  industry  what  it  wants  in  numbers. 
— I  appeal  to  the  people  as  my  rightful  judges,  and,  while  they 
are  not  inclined  to  condemn  me,  shall  not  fear  the  high -flyers  at 
Bulton's."  This  opposition  he  immediately  imputed  to  Addison, 
and  complained  of  it  in  terms  sufficiently  resentful  to  Craggs, 
their  common  friend. 

When  Addison's  opinion  was  asked,  he  declared  the  versiors 
to  be  both  good,  but  Tickell's  the  best  that  had  ever  been  writ- 
ten ;  and  sometimes  said,  that  they  were  both  good,  but  that 
Tickeli  had  more  of  Homer. 

Pope  was  now  sufficiently  irritated ;  his  reputation  and  his 
interest  were  at  hazard.  He  once  intended  to  print  together  the 
four  versions  of  Dryden,  Maynwaring,  Pope,  and  Tickeli,  that 
they  might  be  readily  compared,  and  fairly  estimated.  This  de- 
sign seems  to  have  been  defeated  by  the  refusal  of  Tonson,  who 
was  the  proprietor  of  the  other  three  versions. 

Pope  intended,  at  another  time,  a  rigorous  criticism  of  Tickell's 
translation,  and  had  marked  a  copy,  which  I  have  seen,  in  all 
places  that  appeared  defective.  But,  while  he  was  thus  medi- 
tating defence  or  revenge,  his  adversary  sunk  before  him  without 
a  blow ;  the  voice  of  the  public  was  not  long  divided,  and  the 
preference  was  universally  given  to  Pope's  performance* 

He  was  convinced,  by  adding  one  circumstance  to  another,  that 
the  other  translation  was  the  work  of  Addison  himself;  but,  if  he 
knew  it  in  Addison's  lifetime,  it  does  not  appear  that  he  lold  it. 
He  left  his  illustrious  antagonist  to  be  punished  by  what  has  been 
considered  as  the  most  painful  of  all  reflections,  the  remembrance 
of  a  crime  perpetrated  in  vain. 

The  other  circumstances  of  their  quarrel  were  thus  related  by 
Pope: — 

"  Philips  seemed  to  have  been  encouraged  to  abuse  me  in  coffee- 
houses, and  conversations:  and  Gildon  wrote  a  thing  about 
Wycherley,  in  which  he  had  abused  both  me  and  my  relations  very 
grossly.  Lord  Warwick  liimself  told  me  one  day,  that  it  was  in 
vain  for  me  to  endeavour  to  be  well  with  M  ■.  Addison  ;  that  his 
jealous  temper  would  never  admit  of  a  stttic-d  friendship  between 
Lu%:  asid,  to  convince  me  of  what  he  had  said,  assured  me,  that 
Au.ilsuu  had  encouraged  Giidon  to  puldis'i  those  scandals,  and 
hr.'.;  given  him  ten  guineas  afcer  they  we)  e  published.  The  next 
da}',  while  1  was  heated  with  what  1  had  h  ard,  I  wrote  a  letter 
to  Mr.  Addison,  lo  let  him  know  that  I  was  not  unacquainted  with 


r~ 


n  LIFB   OF   FOFE. 

this  behaviour  of  his ;  that  if  I  was  to  speak  severely  of  him  in 
return  for  it,  it  should  not  be  in  such  a  dirty  way ;  that  I  should 
rather  tell  him,  himself,  fairly  of  his  faults,  and  allow  his  good 
qualities  ;  and  that  it  should  be  something  in  the  following  man-> 
ner:  1  then  adjoined  the  first  sketch  of  what  has  since  been 
called  my  satire  on  Addison.  Mr.  Addison  used  me  very  civilly 
ever  after." 

The  verses  on  Addison,  when  they  were  sent  to  Atterbury,  were 
considered  by  him  as  the  most  excellent  of  Pope's  performances  ; 
and  the  writer  was  advised,  since  he  knew  where  his  strength  lay, 
not  to  suffer  it  to  remain  unemployed. 

This  year  (1715)  being,  by  the  subscription,  enabled  to  live 
more  by  choice,  having  persuaded  his  father  to  sell  their  estate  at 
Biiifield,  he  purchased,  I  think  only  for  his  life,  that  house  at 
Twickenham,  to  which  his  residence  afterwards  procured  so  much 
celebration,  and  removed  thither  with  his  father  and  mother. 

Here  he  planted  the  vines  and  the  quincunx  which  his  verses 
mention;  and,  being  under  the  necessity  of  making  a  subter- 
raneous passage  to  a  garden  on  'the  other  side  of  the  road,  he 
adorned  it  with  fossile  bodies,  and  dignified  it  with  the  title  of  a 
grotto,  a  place  of  silence  and  retreat,  from  which  he  endeavoured 
to  persuade  his  friends,  and  himself,  that  cares  and  passions  could 
be  excluded. 

A  grotto  is  not  often  the  wish  or  pleasure  of  an  Englishman, 
who  has  more  frequent  need  to  solicit  than  exclude  the  sun  ;  but 
Pope's  excavation  was  requisite,  as  an  entrance  to  his  garden ; 
and,  as  some  men  try  to  be  proud  of  their  defects,  he  extracted  an 
ornament  from  an  inconvenience,  and  vanity  produced  a  grotto, 
where  necessity  enforced  a  passage.  It  may  be  frequently  re- 
marked, of  the  studious  and  speculative,  that  they  are  proud  of 
trifies,  and  that  their  amusements  seem  frivolous  and  childish:-— 
whether  it  be  that  men,  conscious  of  great  reputation,  think  them- 
selves above  the  reach  of  censure,  and  safe  in  the  admission  of 
negligent  indulgencies ;  or,  that  mankind  expect,  from  elevated 
genius,  a  uniformity  of  greatness,  and  watch  its  degradation  with 
malicious  wonder;  like  him  who,  having  followed  with  his  eye  an 
eagle  into  the  clouds,  should  lament  that  she  ever  descended  to  a 
perch 

While  the  volumes  of  his  Homer  were  annually  published,  he 
collected  his  former  works  (1717)  into  one  quarto  volume,  to 
which  he  prefixed  a  preface,  written  with  great  sprightliness  and 
elegance,  which  was  afterwards  reprinted,  with  some  passages 
subjoined,  that  he  at  first  omitted;  other  marginal  additions  of  the 
same  kind,  he  made  in  the  later  editions  of  his  poems.  Waller 
remarks,  that  poets  lose  half  their  praise,  because  the  reader 
knows  not  what  they  have  blotted.  Pope's  voracity  of  fame  taught 
him  the  art  of  obtaining  the  accumulated  honour,  both  of  what  he 
had  published,  and  of  what  he  had  suppressed. 

In  this  year  his  father  died  suddenly,  in  his  seventy-fifth  year, 
having  passed  twenty-nine  years  in  privacy.  He  is  not  known 
but  by  the  character  which  his  son  has  given  him.     If  the  money 


LIPE   OF   POPE.  29 

irith  which  he  retired  was  all  gotten  by  himself,  he  had  traded 
very  successfully,  in  times  when  sudden  riches  were  rarely  at- 
tainable. 

The  publication  of  the  Iliad  was  at  last  completed  in  1720. 
The  splendour  and  success  of  this  work  raised  Pope  many 
enemies,  that  endeavoured  to  depreciate  his  abilities.  Burnet, 
who  was  afterwards  a  judge  of  no  mean  reputation,  censured  him 
in  a  piece  called  Homerides,  before  it  was  published.  Ducket 
likewise  endeavoured  to  make  him  ridiculous.  Dennis  was 
the  perpetual  persecutor  of  all  his  studies.  But,  whoever  his 
critics  were,  their  writings  are  lost;  and  the  names  which  are  pre- 
served are  preserved  in  the  Dunciad. 

In  this  disastrous  year  (1720)  of  national  infatuation,  when  more 
riches  than  Peru  can  boast  were  expected  from  the  South  sea, 
when  the  contagion  of  avarice  tainted  every  mind,  and  even  poets 
panted  after  wealth,  Pope  was  seized  with  the  universal  passion, 
and  ventured  some  of  his  money.  The  stock  rose  in  its  price; 
and  for  a  while  he  thought  himself  the  lord  of  thousands.  But 
this  dream  of  happiness  did  not  last  long ;  and  he  seems  to  have 
waked  soon  enough  to  get  clear  with  the  loss  of  what  he  once 
thought  himself  to  have  won,  and  perhaps  not  wholly  of  that. 

Next  year,  he  published  some  select  poems  of  his  friend  Dr. 
Parnell,  with  a  very  elegant  dedication  to  the  earl  of  Oxford ; 
who,  after  all  his  struggles  and  dangers,  then  lived  in  retirement, 
still  under  the  frown  of  a  victorious  faction,  who  could  take  no 
pleasure  in  hearing  his  praise. 

He  gave  the  same  year  (1721) ^n  edition  of  5/iaA-*/je>e.  His 
name  was  now  of  so  much  authority,  that  Tonson  thought  himself 
entitled,  by  annexing  it,  to  demand  a  subscription  of  six  guineas 
for  Shakspere's  Plays,  in  sis'  quarto  volumes ;  nor  did  his  expecta- 
tion much  deceive  him  ;  for,  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  whicli  he 
printed,  he  dispersed  a  great  number  at  the  price  proposed.  The 
reputation  of  that  edition,  indeed,  sunk  afterwards  so  low,  that 
one  hundred  and  forty  copies  were  sold  at  sixteen  shillings  each. 

On  -this  undertaking,  to  which  Pope  was  induced  by  a  reward 
of  two  hundred  and  seventeen  pounds  twelve  shillings,  he 
seems  never  to  have  reflected  afterwards  without  vexation ;  for 
Theobald,  a  man  of  heavy  diligence,  with  very  slender  powers, 
first,  in  a  book  called  Shahspere  Restored,  and  then  in  a  formal 
edition,  detected  his  deficiencies  with  all  the  insolence  of  victory; 
and,  as  he  was  now  high  enough  to  be  feared  and  hated,  Theobald 
had  from  others  all  the  help  that  could  be  supplied,  by  the  desire 
of  humbling  a  haughty  character. 

From  this  time  Pope  became  an  enemy  to  editors,  collaters, 
commentators,  and  verbal  critics ;  and  hoped  to  persuade  the 
world,  that  he  miscarried  in  this  undertaking  only  by  having  a 
mind  too  great  for  such  minute  employment. 

Pope,  in  his  edition,  undoubtedly  did  many  things  wrong,  and 
left  many  things  undone  ;  but  let  him  not  be  defrauded  of  his  due 
praise.  He  was  the  first  that  knew,  at  least  the  first  that  told,  by 
what  helps  the  text  might  be  improved.     If  he  inspected  tha 

a* 


so  tIFE   OF   POPE. 

«arly  editions  negligently,  he  taught  others  to  be  more  accuratesi 
In  his  preface,  he  expanded  with  great  skill  and  elegance  the 
character  which  had  been  given  of  Shakspere  by  Dryden  ;  and 
drew  the  public  attention  upon  his  works,  which,  though  often 
mentioned,  had  been  little  read. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  Iliad,  resolving  not  to  let  the 
general  kindness  cool,  he  published  proposals  for  a  translation  of 
the  Odyssey,  in  five  volumes,  for  five  guineas.  He  was  willing, 
however,  now  to  have  associates  in  his  labour,  being  either  weary 
with  toiling  upon  another's  thoughts,  or  having  heard,  as  Ruffhead 
relates,  that  Fenton  and  Broome  had  already  begun  the  work, 
and  liking  better  to  have  them  confederates  than  rivals. 

In  the  patent,  instead  of  saying  that  he  had  "  translated  "  the 
Odyssey,  as  he  said  of  the  Iliad,  he  says,  that  he  had  "  under- 
taken" a  translation  ;  and,  in  the  proposals,  the  subscription  is 
said  to  be  not  solely  for  his  own  use,  but  for  that  of  •'  two  of  his 
friends,  who  have  assisted  him  in  this  work." 

In  1723,  while  he  was  engaged  in  this  new  version,  he  appeared 
before  the  lords,  at  the  memorable  trial  of  bishop  Atterbury,  with 
whom  he  had  lived  in  great  familiarity,  and  frequent  correspond- 
ence. Atterbury  had  honestly  recommended  to  him  the  study  of 
the  Popish  controversy,  in  hope  of  his  conversion  ;  to  which  Pope 
answered  in  a  manner  that  cannot  much  recommend  his  princi- 
ples, or  his  judgment.  In  questions  and  projects  of  learning, 
they  agreed  better.  He  was  called  at  the  trial  to  give  an  account 
of  Atterbury's  domestic  life  and  private  employment,  that  it  might 
appear  how  little  time  he  had  left  for  plots.  Pope  had  but  few 
words  to  utter,  and  in  those  few  he  made  several  blunders. 

His  letters  to  Atterbury  express  the  utmost  esteem,  tenderness, 
and  gratitude  :  "  Perhaps,"  says  he,  "  it  is  not  only  in  this  v/orld 
that  I  may  have  cause  to  remember  the  bishop  of  Rochester." 
At  their  last  interview  in  the  Tower,  Atterbury  presented  him 
with  a  bible. 

Of  the  Odyssey,  Pope  translated  only  twelve  books ;  the  rest 
were  the  work  of  Broome  and  Fenton;  the  notes  were  written 
wholly  by  Broome,  who  was  not  over-liberaily  rewarded.  The 
public  was  carefully  kept  ignorant  of  the  several  shares  ;  and  an 
account  was  subjoined  at  the  conclusion,  which  is  now  known  not 
to  be  true. 

The  first  copy  of  Pope's  books,  with  those  of  Fenton,  are  to  be 
seen  in  the  Museum.  The  parts  of  Pope  are  less  interlined  than 
the  Iliad;  and  the  latter  books  of  the  Iliad  less  than  the  former. 
He  grew  dexterous  by  practice,  and  every  sheet  enabled  him  to 
write  the  next  with  more  facility.  The  books  of  Fenton  have  very 
few  alterations  by  the  hand  of  Pope.  Those  of  Broome  have  not 
been  found  ;  but  Pope  complained,  as  it  is  reported,  that  he  had 
much  trouble  in  correcting  them. 

His  contract  with  Lintot  was  the  same  as  for  the  Iliad,  except 
that  only  one  hundred  pounds  were  to  be  paid  him  for  each  vo- 
lume. The  number  of  subscribers  were  five  hundred  and  seventy- 
four,  and  of  copies  eight  hundred  and  iiinLteen  ;  so  that  his  profit;, 


LIFE  OF  ropfc.  SI 

^hen  he  had  paid  his  assistants,  was  still  very  considerable.  The 
^afork  was  finished  in  1725  ;  and  from  that  time  he  resolved  to 
Eeak^  no  more  translations. 

The  sale  did  not  answer  Lintot's  expectation  ;  and  he  then 
pretended  to  discover  something  of  fraud  in  Pope,  and  commenced 
or  threatened  a  suit  in  chancery. 

On  the  English  Odyssey  a  criticism  was  published  by  Spence, 
4t  that  time  prelector  of  poetry  at  Oxford  ;  a  man  whose  learning 
was  not  very  great,  and  whose  njiiul  was  not  very  powerful.  His 
criticism,  however,  was  commonly  just;  what  he  thougl)t,  he 
thought  rightly;  and  his  remarks  were  recommended  by  his 
coolness  and  candour.  In  him  Pope  had  the  fii*st  experience  of  a 
critic  without  malevolence,  who  thought  it  as  much  his  duty  to 
display  beauties  as  expose  faults  ;  who  censured  with  respect,  and 
praised  with  alacrity. 

With  this  criticism  Pope  was  so  little  offended,  that  he  sought 
the  acquaintance  of  the  writer,  who  lived  with  him  from  that 
time  in  great  familiarity,  attended  him  in  his  last  hours,  and 
compiled  memorials  of  his  conversation.  The  regard  of  Pope 
recommended  him  to  the  great  and  powerful ;  and  he  obtained 
very  valuable  preferments  in  the  church. 

Not  long  after,  Pope  was  returning  home  from  a  visit  in  a 
friend's  coach  which,  in  passing  a  bridge,  was  overturned  into 
the  water ;  the  windows  were  closed,  and  being  unable  to  force 
them  open,  he  was  in  danger  of  immediate  death,  when  the  postil- 
lion snatched  him  out  by  breaking  the  glass,  of  which  the  frag- 
ments cut  two  of  his  fingers  in  such  a  manner,  that  he  lost  their 
use. 

Voltaire,  who  was  then  in  England,  sent  him  a  letter  of  conso- 
lation. He  had  been  entertained  by  Pope  at  his  table,  where  he 
talked  with  so  much  grossness,  that  Mrs.  Pope  v?as  driven  from 
the  room.  Pope  discovered,  by  a  trick,  that  he  was  a  spy  for  the 
court,  and  never  considered  him  as  a  man  worthy  of  confidence. 

He  soon  afterwards  (1727)  joined  with  Swift,  who  was  then  in 
England,  to  publish  three  volumes  of  miscellanies,  in  which, 
amongst  other  things,  he  inserted  the  Memoirs  of  a  Parish  Clerk, 
in  ridicule  of  Burnet's  importance  in  his  own  history,  and  a  Z)e- 
hate  upon  Black  and  White  Horses,  written  in  all  the  formalities 
of  a  legal  process,  by  the  assistance,  as  is  said,  of  Mr.  Fortescue, 
afterwards  master  of  the  rolls.  Before  these  miscellanies  is  a  pre- 
face signed  by  Swift  and  Pope,  but  apparently  written  by  Pope ; 
in  which  he  makes  a  ridiculous  and  romantic  complaint  of  the 
robberies  committed  upon  authors  by  the  clandestine  seizure  and 
sale  of  their  papers.  He  tells,  in  tragic  strains,  how  "  the  cabi- 
nets of  the  sick  and  the  closets  of  the  dead  have  been  brokeJi 
open  and  ransacked ;"  as  if  those  violences  were  often  committed 
for  papers  of  uncertain  and  accidental  value,  which  are  rareiy 
provoked  by  real  treasures  ;  as  if  epigrams  and  essays  were  in 
danger,  where  gold  and  diamonds  are  safe.  A  cat,  hunted  foj. 
his  musk,  is,  according  to  Pope's  account,  but  the  emblesa  of  a 
wit  winded  by  booksellerai. 


82  LIFJE   OP  FOPS. 

His  complaint,  however,  received  s  )me  attestation ;  for,  tho 
same  year,  the  letters  written  by  him  to  Mr.  Cromwell,  in  his 
youth,  were  sold  by  Mrs.  Thomas  to  Curll,  who  printed  them. 

In  these  miscellanies  was  first  published  the  Art  of  Sinking  in 
Poetry,  which,  by  such  a  train  of  consequences  as  usually  passes 
in  literary  quarrels,  gave,  in  a  short  time,  according  to  Pope's 
account,  occasion  to  the  Dunciad. 

In  the  following  year,  (1728),  he  began  to  put  Atterbury's 
advice  in  practice ;  and  shewed  his  satirical  powers  by  publishing 
the  Dunciad,  one  of  his  greatest  and  most  elaborate  performan- 
ces, in  which  he  endeavoured  to  sink  into  contempt  all  the  writers 
by  whom  he  had  been  attacked,  and  some  others,  whom  he  thought 
unable  to  defend  themselves. 

At  the  head  of  the  dunces  he  placed  poor  Theobald,  whom  he 
accused  of  ingratitude :  but  whose  real  crime  was  supposed  to 
be  that  of  having  revised  Shakspere  more  happily  than  himself. 
This  satire  had  the  effect  which  he  intended,  by  blasting  the 
characters  which  it  touched.  Ralph,  who,  unnecessarily  inter- 
posing in  the  quarrel,  got  a  place  in  a  subsequent  edition,  com- 
plained that  for  a  time  he  was  in  danger  of  starving,  as  the  book- 
sellers had  no  longer  any  confidence  in  his  capacity. 

The  prevalence  of  this  poem  was  gradual  and  slow ;  the  plan,  if 
not  wholly  new,  was  little  unders^^ood  by  common  readers.  Many 
of  the  illusions  required  illustt  Aiion ;  the  names  were  often  ex- 
pressed  only  by  the  initial  and  tii>al  letters,  and,  if  they  had  been 
printed  at  length,  were  such  as  few  had  known  or  recollected. 
The  subject  itself  had  nothing  generally  interesting;  for,  whom 
did  it  concern  to  know  that  one  or  another  scribbler  was  a  dunce  ? 
If,  therefore,  it  had  been  possible  for  those  who  were  attacked  to 
conceal  their  pain  and  their  resentment,  the  Dunciad  might  have 
made  its  way  very  slowly  in  the  world. 

This,  however,  was  not  to  be  expected :  every  man  is  of  import- 
ance to  himself,  and  therefore,  in  his  own  opinion,  to  others; 
and,  supposing  the  world  already  acquainted  with  all  his  plea- 
sures and  his  pains,  is  perhaps  the  first  to  publish  injuries  or  mis- 
fortunes, which  had  never  been  known  unless  related  by  himself, 
and  at  which  those  that  hear  them  will  only  laugh ;  for  no  man 
sympathises  with  the  sorrows  of  vanity. 

The  history  of  the  Dunciad  is  very  minutely  related  by  Pope 
himself,  in  a  dedication  which  he  wrote  to  lord  Middlesex,  in  the 
name  of  Savage  : — 

"I  will  relate  the  war  of  theduiKes,  (for  so  it  has  been  com- 
monly called),  which  began  in  the  year  1727,  and  ended  in  1730. 

"  When  J)r.  Swift  and  Mr.  Pope  thought  it  proper,  for  reasons 
specified  in  the  preface  to  their  miscellanies,  to  publish  such  little 
pieces  of  theirs  as  had  casually  got  abroad,  tliere  was  added  to 
them  the  Treatise  of  the  Bathos,  or  the  Art  of  Sinking  in  Poetry. 
It  happened  that,  in  one  chapter  in  this  piece,  the  several  species 
of  bad  poets  were  ranged  in  classes,  to  which  were  prefixed  almost 
all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  (the  greatest  part  of  them  ai 
random)  :  but  such  was  the  number  of  poets  eminent  in  that  art. 


LIFE   OP  POPE.  88 

that  some  one  or  other  took  every  letter  to  himself:  all  fell  into  so 
violent  a  fury,  that,  for  half  a  year  or  more,  the  common  news- 
papers (in  most  of  which  they  had  some  property,  as  being  hired 
writers)  were  filled  with  the  most  abusive  falsehoods  and  scurri- 
lities they  could  devise  ;  a  liberty  in  no  way  to  be  wondered  at  in 
those  people,  and  in  those  papers,  that,  for  many  years,  during 
the  uncontrolled  license  of  the  press,  had  aspersed  almost  all  the 
great  characters  of  the  age ;  and  this  with  impunity,  their  own 
persons  and  names  being  utterly  secret  and  obscure. 

"This  gave  Mr.  Pope  the  thought,  that  he  had  now  some  op- 
portunity of  doing  good,  by  detecting  and  dragging  into  light 
these  common  enemies  of  mankind ;  since,  to  invalidate  this 
universal  slander,  it  sutRced  to  shew  what  contemptible  men 
were  the  authors  of  it.  He  was  not  vvitiiout  hopes  that,  by  mani- 
festing the  dulness  of  those  who  had  only  malice  to  recommend 
them,  either  the  booksellers  would  not  find  their  account  in 
employing  them,  or  the  men  themselves,  when  discovered,  want 
courage  to  proceed  in  so  unlawful  an  occupation.  This  it  was 
that  gave  birth  to  the  Z)?mcmc^ ;  and  he  thought  it  a  happiness, 
that,  by  the  late  flood  of  slander  on  himself,  he  had  acquired 
such  a  peculiar  right  over  their  names  as  was  necessary  to  this 
design. 

"  On  the  12th  of  March,  1729,  at  St.  James's,  that  poem  was 
presented  to  the  king  and  queen,  (who  had  before  been  pleased 
to  read  it),  by  the  right  honourable  Sir  Robert  Walpole ;  and, 
some  days  after,  the  whole  impression  was  taken  and  dispersed 
by  several  noblemen  and  persons  of  the  first  distinction. 

*'  It  is  certainly  a  true  observation,  that  no  people  are  so  impa- 
tient of  censure  as  those  who  are  the  greatest  slanderers,  which 
was  wonderfully  exemplified  on  this  occasion.  On  the  day  the 
book  was  first  vended,  a  crowd  of  authors  besieged  the  shop  ; 
entreaties,  advices,  threats  of  law  and  battery,  nay  cries  of  treason, 
were  all  employed  to  hinder  the  coming  out  of  the  Dunciad  :  on 
the  other  side,  the  booksellers  and  hawkers  made  as  great  efforts 
to  procure  it.  What  could  a  few  poor  authors  do  against  so  great 
a  majority  as  the  public?  There  was  no  stopping  a  torrent  v/ith 
the  finger  ;  so  out  it  came. 

"  Many  ludicrous  circumstances  attended  it.  The  dunces  (for 
by  this  name  they  were  called)  held  weekly  clubs,  to  consult  of 
hustilities  against  the  author  ;  one  wrote  a  letter  to  a  great  minis- 
ter, assuring  him  Mr.  Pope  was  the  greatest  enemy  the  govern- 
ment had ;  and  another  bought  his  image  in  clay,  to  execute  him 
in  effigy  ;  with  which  sad  sort  of  satisfaction  the  gentlemen  were 
a  little  comforted. 

"  Some  false  editions  of  the  book  having  an  owl  in  their  fron- 
tispiece, the  true  one,  to  distinguish  it,  fixed  in  its  stead  an 
ass  laden  with  authors.  Then,  another  surreptitious  one  being 
printed  with  the  same  ass,  the  new  edition,  in  octavo,  returned, 
for  distinction,  to  the  owl  agaia  Hence  arose  a  great  contest 
of  booksellers  against  booksellors,  and  advertisements  against 
advertisements  ;  some  recommending  the  edition  oi  the  owl,  and 


S4  tIFE   OF  POPE. 

Others  the  edition  of  the  ass ;  by  which  names  they  came  to  b 
distinguished,  to  the  great  honour  also  of  the  gentlemen  of  th« 
Dunciad.** 

Pope  appears,  by  this  narrative,  to  have  contemplated  his  vic- 
tory over  the  dunces  with  great  exultation ;  and  such  was  his 
delight  in  the  tumult  which  he  had  raised,  that  for  a  while  his 
natural  sensibility  was  suspended,  and  he  read  reproaches  and 
invectives  without  emotion,  considering  them  only  as  the  neces- 
sary effects  of  that  pain  which  he  rejoiced  in  having  given. 

It  cannot  however  be  concealed,  that,  by  his  own  confession,  he 
was  the  aggi'essor ;  for  nobody  believes  that  the  letters  in  the 
Bathos  were  placed  at  random ;  and  it  may  be  discovered  that, 
when  he  thinks  himself  concealed,  he  indulges  the  common 
vanity  of  common  men,  and  triumphs  in  those  distinctions  which 
he  had  affected  to  despise.  He  is  proud  that  his  book  was  pre- 
sented to  the  king  and  queen  by  the  right  honourable  Sir  Robert 
Walpole  ;  he  is  proud  that  they  read  it  before ;  he  is  proud  that 
the  edition  was  taken  off  by  the  nobility  and  persons  of  the  first 
distinction. 

The  edition  of  which  he  speaks  was,  I  believe,  tLat  which,  by 
telling  in  the  text  the  names,  and  in  the  notes  the  characters,  of 
tliose  whom  he  had  satirised,  was  made  intelligible  and  divert- 
ing. The  critics  had  now  declared  their  approbation  of  the  plan, 
and  the  common  reader  began  to  like  it  without  fear;  those  who 
Were  strangers  to  petty  literature,  and  therefore  unable  to  deci- 
pher initials  and  blanks,  had  now  names  and  persons  brought 
within  their  view  ;  and  delighted  in  the  visible  effect  of  those 
shafts  of  malice,  which  they  had  hitherto  contemplated  as  shot 
into  the  air. 

Dennis,  upon  the  fresh  provocation  now  given  him,  renewed 
the  enmity  which  had  for  a  time  been  appeased  by  mutual  civili- 
ties ;  and  published  remarks,  which  he  had  till  then  suppressed, 
upon  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  Many  more  grumbled  in  secr«?t,  or 
vented  their  resentment  in  the  newspapers,  by  epigrams  or  in- 
vectives. 

Ducket,  indeed,  being  mentioned  as  loving  Burnet,  with  "pious 
passion,"  pretended  that  his  moral  character  was  injured,  and 
for  some  time  declared  his  resolution  to  take  vengeance  with  a 
cudgel.  But  Pope  appeased  him,  by  changing  "  pious  passion  "  to 
*'  cordial  friendship  ;"  and  by  a  note,  in  which  he  vehemently  dis- 
claims the  malignity  of  meaning  imputed  to  the  first  expression. 

Aaron  Hill,  who  was  represented  as  diving  for  the  prize,  expos- 
tulated with  Pope  in  a  manner  so  much  superior  to  all  mean 
solicitation,  that  Pope  was  reduced  to  sneak  and  shuffle,  some- 
times to  deny,  and  sometimes  to  apologize  ;  he  first  endeavours  to 
wound,  and  is  then  afraid  to  own  that  he  meant  a  blow. 

The  Dunciad,  in  the  complete  edition,  is  addressed  to  Dr. 
Swift;  of  the  notes,  part  were  written  by  Dr.  Arbuthnot ;  and  an 
apologetical  letter  was  prefixed,  signed  by  Cleland,  but  supposed 
to  have  been  written  by  Pope, 

After  this  general  war  upon  dulness,  he  seems  to  have  indulged 


LIFE   OF   POPE.  35 

himself  awhile  in  tranquility  ;  but  his  subsequent  productions 
prove  that  he  was  not  idle.  He  published  (1731)  a  poem  on 
taste,  in  which  he  very  particularly  and  severely  criticises  the 
house,  the  furniture,  the  gardens,  and  the  entertainments,  of 
Timon,  a  man  of  great  wealth  and  little  taste.  By  Timon  he  was 
universally  supposed,  and  by  the  earl  of  Burlington,  to  whom  the 
poem  is  addressed,  was  privately  said,  to  mean  the  dukeof  Chan- 
dos ;  a  man  perhaps  too  much  delighted  with  pomp  and  show, 
but  of  a  temper  kind  and  beneficent,  and  who  had  consequently 
the  voice  of  the  public  in  his  favour. 

A  violent  outcry  was  therefore  raised  against  the  ingratitude 
and  treachery  of  Pope,  who  was  said  to  have  been  indebted  to 
the  patronage  of  Chandos  for  a  present  of  a  thousand  pounds,  and 
who  gained  the  opportunity  of  insulting  him  by  the  kindness  ot 
his  invitation. 

The  receipt  of  the  thousand  pounds  Pope  publicly  denied  ;  but, 
from  the  reproach  which  the  attack  on  a  character  so  amiable 
brought  upon  him,  he  tried  all  means  of  escaping.  The  name  oi 
Cleland  was  again  employed  in  an  apology,  by  which  no  man  was 
satisfied  ;  and  he  was  at  last  reduced  to  shelter  his  temerity  be- 
hind dissimulation,  and  endeavour  to  make  that  disbelieved  which 
lie  never  had  confidence  openly  to  deny.  He  wrote  an  exculpa- 
tory letter  to  the  duke,  which  was  answered  with  great  magnani- 
mity, as  by  a  man  who  accepted  his  excuse,  without  believing 
his  professions.  He  said,  that  to  have  ridiculed  his  taste,  or  his 
buildings,  had  been  an  indifferent  action  in  another  man  ;  but 
that  in  Pope,  after  the  reciprocal  kindness  that  had  been  ex- 
changed between  them,  it  had  been  less  easily  excused. 

Pope,  in  one  of  his  letters,  complaining  of  the  treatment  which 
his  poem  had  found,  *'  owns  that  such  critics  can  intimidate  him, 
nay  almost  persuade  him  to  write  no  more,  which  is  a  compliment 
this  age  deserves."  The  man  who  threatens  the  world  is  always 
ridiculous  ;  for  the  world  can  easily  go  on  without  him,  and  in 
a  short  time  will  cease  to  miss  him.  I  have  heard  of  an  idiot, 
who  used  to  revenge  his  vexations,  by  lying  all  night  upon  the 
bridge.  "  There  is  nothing,"  says  Juvenal,  "  that  a  man  will 
not  believe  in  his  own  favour."  Pope  had  been  flattered  till  he 
thought  himself  one  of  the  moving  powers  in  the  system  of 
life.  When  he  talked  of  laying  down  his  pen,  those  who  sat 
round  him  entreated  and  implored  ;  and  self-love  did  not  suffer 
him  to  suspect  that  they  went  away  and  laughed. 

The  following  year  deprived  him  of  Gay,  a  man  whom  he  had 
known  early,  and  whom  he  seemed  to  love  with  more  tenderness 
than  any  other  of  his  literary  friends.  Pope  was  now  forty-four 
years  old  ;  an  age  at  which  the  mind  begins  less  easily  to  admit 
new  confidence,  and  the  will  to  grow  less  flexible ;  and  when, 
therefore,  the  departure  of  an  old  friend  is  very  acutely  felt. 

In  the  next  year  he  lost  his  mother,  not  by  an  unexpected 
death,  for  she  had  lasted  to  the  age  of  ninety-three  :  but  she  did 
not  die  unlamented.  The  filial  piety  of  Pope  was  in  the  highest 
degree  amiable  and  exemplary ;  iiis  parents  had  the  hapoiness  oi 


00  LIFE    OF   POPS. 

livinsf  till  he  w<is  at  the  summit  of  poetical  reputation,  till  he  wai 
at  ease  in  his  fortune,  and  without  a  rival  in  his  fame,  and  found 
no  diminution  in  his  respect  or  tenderness.  Whatever  was  his 
pride,  to  them  he  was  obedient;  and  whatever  was  his  irritability, 
to  them  he  was  gentle.  Life  has,  among  its  soothing  and  quiet 
comforts,  few  things  better  to  give  than  such  a  son. 

One  of  the  passages  of  Pope's  life,  which  seems  to  deserve 
some  inquiry,  was  a  publication  of  letters  between  him  and  many 
of  his  friends,  which  falling  into  the  hands  of  Curll,  a  rapacious 
bookseller  of  no  good  fame,  were  by  him  printed  and  sold.  This 
volume  containing  some  letters  from  noblemen.  Pope  incited  a 
prosecution  against  him  in  the  house  of  lords  for  a  breach  of  pri- 
vilege, and  attended  himself  to  stimulate  the  resentment  of  his 
friends,  Curll  appeared  at  the  bar,  and  knowing  himself  in  no 
great  danger,  spoke  of  Pope  with  very  little  reverence :  "  He 
has,"  said  Curll,  "a  knack  at  versifying,  but  in  prose  I  think 
myself  a  match  for  him."  When  the  orders  of  the  house  were 
examined,  none  of  them  appeared  to  have  been  infringed  ;  Curll 
went  away  triumphant ;  and  Pope  was  left  to  seek  some  other 
remedy. 

Curll's  account  was,  that  one  evening  a  man  in  a  clergyman's 
gown,  but  with  a  lawyer's  band,  brought  and  offered  to  sale  a 
number  of  printed  volumes,  which  he  found  to  be  Pope's  epistolary 
correspondence ;  that  he  asked  no  name,  and  was  told  none,  but 
gave  the  price  demanded,  and  thought  himself  authorised  to  use 
his  purchase  to  his  own  advantage. 

That  Curll  gave  a  true  account  of  the  transaction  it  is  reason- 
able to  believe,  because  no  falsehood  was  ever  detected :  and 
when,  some  years  afterwards,  I  mentioned  it  to  Lintot,  the  son  of 
Bernard,  he  declared  his  opinion  to  be,  that  Pope  knew  better 
than  any  body  else  how  Curll  obtained  the  copies,  because  another 
parcel  was  at  tlve  same  time  sent  to  himself,  for  whicli  no  price 
had  ever  been  demanded,  as  he  made  known  his  resolution  not 
to  pay  a  porter,  and  consequently  not  to  deal  with  a  nameless 
agent. 

Such  care  had  been  taken  to  make  them  public,  that  they  were 
sent  at  once  to  two  booksellers ;  to  Curll,  who  was  likely  to  seize 
them  as  a  prey;  and  to  Lintot,  wlio  might  be  expected  to  give 
Pope  information  of  the  seeming  injury.  Lintot,  I  believe,  did 
nothing  :  and  Curll  did  what  was  expected.  That  to  make  them 
public  was  the  only  purpose  may  be  reasonably  supposed,  because 
the  numbers  offered  to  sale  by  the  private  messengers,  sliewed 
that  hope  of  gain  could  not  have  been  the  motive  of  the  impres- 
sion. 

It  seems  that  Pope,  being  desirous  of  printing  hvs  letters,  and 
not  knowing  how  to  do,  without  imputation  of  vanity,  what  has  in 
this  country  been  done  very  rarely,  contrived  an  appearance  of 
compulsion  ;  that,  when  he  could  complain  that  his  letters  were 
turreptitiously  published,  he  might  decently  and  defensively  pub- 
lish them  himself. 

Pope's  private  correspondence,  thus  promulgated,   filled   the 


tIFE    OF    POPE.  87 

nation  with  praises  of  his  candour,  tenderness,  and  benevolence, 
the  purity  of  his  purposes,  and  the  fidelity  oi  his  friendship 
There  were  some  letters  which  a  very  good  or  a  very  wise  man 
would  wish  suppressed;  but,  as  they  had  been  already  exposed,  it 
was  impracticable  now  to  retract  them. 

From  the  perusal  of  those  letters,  Mr.  Allen  first  conceived  the 
desire  of  knowing  him  ;  and  with  so  much  zeal  did  he  cultivate 
the  friendship  which  he  had  newly  formed,  that  when  Pope  told 
his  purpose  of  vindicating  his  own  property  by  a  genuine  edition, 
he  offered  to  pay  the  cost. 

This  however  Pope  did  not  accept ;  but  in  time  solicited  a  sub' 
scription  for  a  quarto  volume,  which  appeared,  (1737),  I  believe 
with  sufficient  profit.  In  the  preface  he  tells,  that  his  letters 
were  reposited  in  a  friend's  library,  said  to  be  the  earl  of  Oxford's, 
and  that  the  copy  thence  stolen  was  sent  to  the  press.  The  story 
was  doubtless  received  vvith^differeut  degrees  of  credit.  It  may  be 
suspected  that  the  preface  to  the  miscellanies  was  written  to  pre- 
pare the  public  for  such  an  incident;  and,  to  strengthen  this 
opinion,  James  Worsdale,  a  painter,  who  was  employed  in  clan- 
destine negociations,  but  whose  veracity  was  very  doubtful,  de- 
clared that  he  was  the  messenger  who  carried,  by  Pope's  direc- 
tion, the  books  to  Curll. 

When  they  were  thus  published  and  avowed,  as  they  had  rela» 
tion  to  recent  facts,  and  persons  either  then  living  or  not  yet  for- 
gotten, they  may  be  supposed  to  have  found  readers ;  but  as  the 
facts  were  minute,  and  the  characters,  being  either  private,  or 
literary,  were  little  known,  or  little  regarded,  they  awakened  no 
popular  kindness  or  resentment ;  the  book  never  became  much 
the  subject  of  conversation  ;  some  read  it  as  a  contemporary  his- 
tory, and  some  perhaps  as  a  model  of  epistolary  language  ;  but 
those  who  read  it  did  not  talk  of  it.  Not  much  therefore  was 
added  by  it  to  fame  or  envy  ;  nor  do  I  remember  that  it  produced 
either  public  praise,  or  public  censure. 

It  had,  however,  in  some  degree,  the  recommendation  of 
novelty.  Our  language  had  few  letters,  except  those  of  states- 
men. Howel,  indeed,  al)out  a  century  ago,  published  his  letters, 
which  are  commended  by  Morholf,  and  which  alone,  of  his  hun- 
dred volumes,  continue  his  memory.  Loveday's  letters  were 
printed  only  once;  those  of  Herbert  and  Suckling  are  hardly 
known.  Mrs.  Phillips's  [Orinda's]  are  equally  neglected.  And 
those  of  Walsh  seem  written  as  exercises,  and  were  never  sent  to 
any  living  mistress  or  friend.  Pope's  epistolary  excellence  had 
an  opeti  held ;  he  had  no  English  rival,  living  or  dead. 

Poy)e  is  seen  in  this  collection  as  connected  with  the  other 
contemporary  wits,  and  certainly  suffers  no  disgrace  in  the  com- 
parison ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  had  the  power  of 
favouring  himself;  he  might  have  originally  had  publication  in 
his  mind,  and  have  written  witli  care,  or  have  afterwards  selected 
those  which  he  had  most  happily  conceived,  or  most  diligently 
laboured  ;  and  I  know  not  whetlier  there  does  not  appear  some- 
thing more  studied  and  artificial  in  his  productions  than  the  rest. 


S8  LIFE   OF   POPE. 

except  one  long  letter  by  Bolingbroke,  composed  with  the  skill 
and  industry  of  a  professed  author.  It  is  indeed  not  easy  to 
distinguish  affectation  from  habit ;  he,  that  has  once  studiously 
formed  a  style,  rarely  writes  afterwards  with  complete  ease. 
Pope  may  be  said  to  write  always  with  his  reputation  in  his  head  ; 
Swift,  perhaps,  like  a  man  wlio  remembered  he  was  writing  to 
Pope;  but  Arbuthnot,  like  one  who  lets  thoughts  drop  from  his 
pen  as  they  rise  into  his  mind. 

Before  these  letters  appeared,  he  publisbed  the  first  part  of 
what  be  persuaded  himself  to  think  a  system  of  ethics,  under  the 
title  of  an  Essay  on  Man  ;  which,  if  his  letter  to  Swift  (of  Sept. 
14,  1725),  be  rightly  explained  by  the  commentator,  liad  be.-n 
eight  years  under  his  consideration,  and  of  which  he  seems  to 
have  desired  the  success  with  great  solicitude.  He  had  now 
fnany  open,  and  doubtless  many  secret,  enemies.  The  dunces 
were  yet  smarting  with  the  war ;  and  the  superiority  which  he 
publicly  arrogated,  disposed  the  world  to  wish  his  humiliation. 

All  this  he  knew,  and  against  all  this  he  provided.  His  own 
name,  and  that  of  his  friend  to  whom  the  work  is  inscribed,  were 
in  the  first  editions  carefully  suppressed  ;  and  the  poem,  being  of 
a  new  kind,  was  ascribed  to  one  or  another,  as  favour  determined, 
or  conjecture  wandered  ;  it  was  given,  says  Warburton,  to  every 
man,  except  him  only  who  could  write  it.  Those  who  like  only 
when  they  like  the  author,  and  who  are  under  the  dominion  of  a 
name,  condemned  it ;  and  those  admired  it  who  are  willing  to  scat- 
ter praise  at  random,  which,  while  it  is  unappropriated,  excites 
no  envy.  Those  friends  of  Pope,  that  were  trusted  with  the 
secret,  went  about  lavishing  honours  on  the  new-born  poet,  and 
hinting  that  Pope  was  never  so  much  in  danger  from  any  former 
rival. 

To  those  authors  whom  he  had  personally  offended,  and  to  those 
whose  opinion  the  world  considered  as  decisive,  and  whom  he 
suspected  of  envy  or  malevolence,  he  sent  his  essay,  as  a  present, 
before  publication,  that  they  might  defeat  their  own  enmity  by 
praises,  which  they  could  not  afterwards  decently  retract. 

With  these  precautions,  (1733),  was  published  the  first  part  of 
the  Essay  on  Man.  There  had  been  for  some  time  a  report  that 
Pope  was  busy  upon  a  system  of  morality ;  but  this  design 
was  not  discovered  in  the  new  poem,  which  had  a  form  and  a 
title  with  which  its  readers  were  unacquainted.  Its  reception  was 
not  uniform  ;  some  thought  it  a  very  imperfect  piece,  though  not 
without  good  lines.  While  the  author  was  unknown,  some,  as 
will  always  happen,  favoured  him  as  an  adventurer,  and  some  cei»- 
sured  him  as  an  intruder  ;  but  all  tlu)ught  him  above  neglect ;  the 
Bale  increased,  and  editions  were  multiplied. 

The  subsequent  editions  of  the  first  epistle  exhibited  two  me- 
morable corrections.     At  first,  the  poet  and  his  friend 

Expatiate  freely  o'er  this  scene  of  man, 
A  mighty  ma/e  of  walks  without  a  plcMt 

For  which  he  wrote  afterwards 


ttFE    OP    POPE.  99 

A  mighty  maze,  iut  not  without  a  plan  i 

for  if  there  were  no  plan,  it  were  in  vain  to  describe  or  to  trace 
the  maze. 
The  other  alteration  was  of  these  lines  : 

And  spite  of  pride,  and  in  thy  reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right. 

C'.it  having  afterwards  discovered,  or  been  shewn,  that  the  "  truth  " 
which  subsisted  "  in  spite  of  reason  "  could  not  be  very  '*  clear," 
he  substituted 

And  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 

To  such  oversights  will  the  most  vigorous  mind  be  liable,  when 
it  is  employed  at  once  Mpon  argument  aud  poetry. 

The  second  and  third  epistles  were  published  ;  and  Pope  was,  I 
believe,  more  and  more  suspected  of  wrUi-ig  them  ;  at  last,  in 
M'd^,  he  avowed  the  fourth,  and  claimed  the  honour  of  amoral 
poet. 

In  the  conclusion,  it  is  sufficiently  acknowledged,  that  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Essay  on  Man  was  received  from  Bolingbroke,  who  is 
said  to  have  ridiculed  Pope,  among  those  who  enjoyed  his  confi- 
dence, as  having  adopted  and  advanced  principles  of  which  he  did 
not  perceive  the  consequence,  and  as  blindly  propagating  opinions 
contrary  to  his  own.  That  those  communications  had  been  con- 
solidated into  a  scheme  regularly  drawn,  and  delivered  to  Pope, 
from  whom  it  returned  only  transformed  from  prose  to  verse,  has 
been  reported,  but  can  hardly  be  true.  The  essay  plainly  appears 
the  fabric  of  a  poet;  what  Bolingbroke  supplied  could  be  only 
the  first  principles ;  the  order,  illustration,  and  embellishments, 
must  all  be  Pope's. 

These  principles  it  is  not  my  business  to  clear  from  obscurity, 
dogmatism,  or  falsehood;  but  they  were  not  immediately  exa- 
mined ;  philosophy  and  poetry  have  not  often  the  same  readers  . 
and  the  essay  abounded  in  splendid  amplifications  and  sparkling 
sentences,  which  were  read  and  admired  with  no  great  attenti'  n 
to  their  ultimate  purpose ;  its  flowers  caught  the  eye,  which  did 
not  see  what  the  gay  foliage  concealed,  and  for  a  time  flourished 
in  the  sunshine  of  universal  approbation.  So  little  was  any  evil 
tendency  discovered,  that,  as  innocence  is  unsuspicious,  many 
re.id  it  for  a  manual  of  piety. 

Its  reputation  soon  invited  a  translator.  It  was  first  turned 
into  French  prose,  and  afterwards  by  Resnel  into  verse.  Both 
translations  fell  into  the  hands  of  Crousaz,  who  first,  when  he 
had  the  version  in  prose,  wrote  a  general  censure,  and  afterwards 
reprinted  Resnel's  version,  with  particular  remarks  upon  every 
paragraph. 

Crousaz  was  a  professor  of  Switzerland,  eminent  for  his  trea- 
tise of  logic,  and  his  Examen  de  Pyrrhonisme  ;  and,  however  littlu 
known  or  regarded  here,  was  no  mean  antagonist.  His  mind  wa» 
one  of  those  in  which  philosophy  and  piety  are  happily  united 


40  LIFE   OF  POPE. 

Ke  was  accustomed  to  argument  and  disquisition,  and  perhaps 
was  grown  too  desirous  of  detecting  faults ;  but  his  intentions 
were  always  right,  his  opinions  were  solid,  and  his  religion  pure. 

His  incessant  vigilence  for  the  promotion  of  piety  disposed  hirn 
to  look  with  distrust  upon  all  mataphysical  systems  of  theology, 
and  all  schemes  of  virtue  and  happiness  purely  rational ;  and 
therefore  he  was  not  long  before  he  was  persuaded  that  the  posi- 
tions of  Pope,  as  they  terminated  for  the  most  part  in  natural 
religion,  were  intended  to  draw  mankind  away  from  revelation, 
and  to  represent  the  whole  course  of  things  as  a  necessary  conca- 
tenation of  indissoluble  fatality  ;  and  it  is  undeniable,  that,  in 
m my  passages,  a  religious  eye  may  easily  discover  expressions 
not  very  favourable  to  morals  or  to  liberty. 

About  this  time  Warburton  began  to  make  his  appearance  in 
the  first  ranks  of  learning.  He  was  a  ruan  of  vigorous  faculties, 
a  mind  fervid  and  vehement,  supplied  by  incessant  and  unlimited 
inquiry,  with  wonderful  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge,  which  yet 
li.id  not  oppressed  his  imagination,  nor  clouded  his  perspicacity. 
To  every  work  he  brought  a  memory  full  fraught,  together  with 
a  fancy  fertile  of  original. combinations,  and  at  once  exerted  the 
powers  of  the  scholar,  the  reasoner,  and  the  wit.  But  his  know- 
ledge was  too  multifarious  to  be  always  exact,  and  his  pursuits 
too  eager  to  be  always  cautious.  His  abilities  gave  him  a 
haughty  confidence,  which  he  disdained  to  conceal  or  mollify; 
and  his  impatience  of  opposition  disposed  him  to  treat  his  adver- 
saries with  such  contemptuous  superiority  as  made  his  readers 
commonly  his  enemies,  and  excited  against  the  advocate  the 
wishes  of  some  who  favoured  the  cause.  He  seems  to  have 
adopted  the  Roman  emperor's  determination,  oderint  dum  metuant; 
he  used  no  allurements  of  gentle  language,  but  wished  to  compel 
rather  than  persuade. 

His  style  is  copious  without  selection,  and  forcible  without 
neatness  ;  he  took  the  words  that  presented  themselves  ;  his  dic- 
tion is  coarse  and  impure  ;  and  his  sentences  are  unmeasured. 

He  had,  in  the  early  part  of  his  life,  pleased  himself  with  the 
notice  of  inferior  wits,  ami  corresponded  with  the  enemies  of  Pope. 
A  letter  was  produced,  when  he  had  perhaps  himself  forgotten  it, 
in  which  he  tells  Concanen,  "  Dryden,  1  observe,  borrows  for 
want  of  leisure,  and  Pope  for  want  of  genius  ;  Milton  out  of 
pride,  and  Addison  out  of  modesty."  And,  when  Theobald  pub- 
lished Shakspere,  in  opposition  to  Pope,  the  best  notes  were  sup- 
plied by  Warburton. 

iJut  the  time  was  now  come  when  Warburton  was  to  change  his 
opinion;  and  Pope  was  to  find  a  defender  in  him  who  had  con- 
tributed so  much  to  the  exaltation  of  his  rival. 

The  arrogance  of  Warburton  excited  against  him  every  artifice 
of  offence,  and  therefore  it  may  be  supposed  thac  his  union  with 
pope  was  censured  as  hypocritical  inconstancy ;  but  surely  to 
think  differ'^ntly,  at  different  times,  of  poetical  merit  may  be 
easily  allowed.  Such  opinions  are  often  admitted,  and  dismissed, 
without   nice   examination.      Who   is  there  that  has  not  found 


IIFE   or  POPE.  41 

reason  for  changing  his  mind  about  questions  of  greater  impor- 
tance ? 

Warburton,  whatever  was  his  motive,  undertook,  without  solici- 
tation, to  rescue  Pope  from  the  talons  of  Crousaz,  by  freeing  him 
from  the  imputation  of  favouring  fatality,  or  rejecting  revelation;' 
and  from  month  to  month  continued  a  vindication  of  the  Essay  on 
Man,  in  the  literary  journal  of  that  time  called  The  Republic  of 
Letters. 

Pope,  who  probably  began  to  doubt  the  tendency  of  his  own 
woik,  was  glad  that  the  positions,  of  which  he  perceived  himself 
not  to  know  the  full  meaning,  could  by  any  mode  of  interpreta- 
tion be  made  to  mean  well.  How  much  he  was  pleased  with  his 
gratuitous  defender,  the  following  letter  evidently  shews, 

"April  11,  1732. 
"  Sir, — I  have  just  received  from  Mr.  R.  two  more  of  your 
letters.  It  is  in  the  greatest  hurry  imaginable  that  I  write  this ; 
but  I  cannot  help  thanking  you  in  particular  for  your  third  letter, 
which  is  so  extremely  clear,  short,  and  full,  that  I  think  Mr. 
Crousaz  ought  never  to  have  another  answer,  and  deserved  not  so 
good  a  one.  I  can  only  say,  you  do  him  too  much  honour,  and 
me  too  much  right,  so  odd  as  the  expression  seems  ;  for  you  have 
made  my  system  as  clear  as  1  ought  to  have  done,  and  could  not. 
It  is  indeed  the  same  system  as  mine,  but  illustrated  with  a  ray  of 
your  own,  as  they  say  our  natural  body  is  the  same  still  when  it  is 
glorified.  I  am  sure  I  like  it  better  than  I  did  before,  and  so  will 
every  man  else.  I  know  I  meant  just  what  you  explain  ;  but  I 
did  not  explain  my  own  meaning  so  well  as  you.  You  under- 
stand me  as  well  as  I  do  myself  ;  but  you  express  me  better  than 
I  could  express  myself.  Pray,  accept  the  sincerest  acknowledg- 
ments. I  cannot  but  wish  these  letters  were  put  together  in  one 
book,  and  intend  (with  your  leave)  to  procure  a  translation  of 
part  at  least,  or  of  all  of  them,  into  French ;  but  I  shall  not  proceed 
a  step  without  your  consent  and  opinion,  &c." 

By  this  fond  and  eager  acceptance  of  an  exculpatory  comment, 
Pope  testified,  that,  whatever  might  be  the  seeming  or  real  im- 
port of  the  principles  which  he  had  received  from  Bolingbroke, 
he  had  not  intentionally  attacked  religion ;  and  Bolingbroke,  if 
he  meant  to  make  him,  without  his  own  consent,  an  instrument  of 
mischief,  found  him  now  engaged,  with  his  eyes  open,  on  the  sida 
of  truth.' 

It  is  known  that  Bolingbroke  concealed  from  Pope  his  real 
opinions.  He  once  discovered  them  to  Mr.  Hooke,  who  related 
them  again  to  Pope,  and  was  told  by  him  that  he  must  have  mis- 
taken the  meaning  of  what  he  heard ;  and  Bolingbroke,  when 
Pope's  uneasiness  incited  him  to  desire  an  explanation,  declared 
that  Hooke  had  misunderstood  him. 

Bolingbroke  hated  Warburton,  who  had  drawn  his  pupil  from 
him;  and  a  little  before  Pope's  death  they  had  a  dispute,  from 
which  they  parted  with  inutu;il  aversion. 

from  this  time  Pope  lived  in  the  closest  intimacy  with  his  coni- 

4* 


12  LIVE    OF   rOPE» 

mentator,  and  amply  rewarded  his  kindness  and  his  zeal;  for  h« 
introduced  him  to  Mr.  Murraj^  by  whose  interest  he  became 
preacher  at  Lincoln's-inn  ;  and  to  Mr.  Allen,  who  gave  him  his 
.  niece  and  his  estate,  and  by  consequence  a  bishopric.  When  he 
died,  he  left  him  the  property  of  his  works  ;  a  legacy  which  may 
be  reasonably  estimated  at  four  thousand  pounds. 

Pope's  fondness  for  the  Essay  on  Man  appeared  by  his  desire  of 
its  propagation.  Dobson,  who  had  gained  reputation  by  his  ver- 
sion of  Prior's  Solomon,  was  employed  by  him  to  translate  it  into 
Latin  verse,  and  was  for  that  purpose  some  time  at  Twickenham  ; 
but  he  left  his  work,  whatever  was  the  reason,  unfinished  ;  and, 
by  Benson's  invitation,  undertook  the  longer  task  of  Paradise 
Lost.  Pope  then  desired  his  friend,  to  find  a  scholar  who  should 
turn  his  essay  into  Latin  prose;  but  no  such  performance  has  ever 
appeared. 

Pope  lived  at  this  time  among  the  great,  with  that  reception  and 
respect  to  which  his  works  entitled  him,  and  which  he  had  not 
impaired  by  any  private  misconduct  or  factious  partiality.  Though 
Bolingbroke  was  his  friend,  Walpole  was  not  his  enemy  ;  but 
treated  him  with  so  much  consideration  as,  at  his  request,  to 
solicit  and  obtain  from  the  French  minister  an  abbey  for  Mr. 
Southcot,  whom  he  considered  himself  as  obliged  to  reward,  by 
this  exertion  of  his  interest,  for  the  benefit  which  he  had  received 
from  his  attendance  in  a  long  illness. 

It  was  said,  that  when  the  court  was  at  Richmond,  queen 
Caroline  had  declared  her  intention  to  visit  him.  This  may  have 
been  only  a  careless  eftusion,  thought  on  no  more :  tlie  report  of 
such  notice,  however,  was  soon  in  many  mouths  ;  and,  if  I  do  not 
forget  or  misapprehend  Savage's  account,  Pope,  pretending  to  de- 
cline what  was  not  yet  offered,  left  his  house  for  a  time,  not,  I 
suppose,  for  any  other  reason  than  lest  he  should  be  thought  to 
stay  at  home  in  expectation  of  an  honour  which  would  not  be  con- 
ferred. He  was  therefore  angry  at  Swift,  who  represents  him  as 
"refusing  the  visits  of  a  queen,"  because  he  knew  that  what  had 
never  been  offered  had  never  been  refused. 

Beside  the  general  system  of  morality,  supposed  to  be  con- 
tained in  the  Essay  on  Man,  it  was  his  intention  to  write  distinct 
poems  upon  the  different  duties  or  conditions  of  life  ;  one  of 
which  is  the  epistle  to  Lord  Bathurst  (1733)  on  the  use  of  riches, 
a  piece  on  which  he  declared  great  labour  to  have  been  bestowed. 
Into  this  poem  some  hints  are  historically  thrown,  and  some 
known  characters  are  introduced,  with  others  of  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  how  far  they  are  real  or  fictitious ;  but  the  praise  of 
Kyrl,  the  man  of  Ross,  deserves  particular  examination,  who,  after 
a  long  and  pompous  enumeration  of  his  public  works  and  private 
charities,  is  said  to  have  diffused  all  those  blessings  from  fve  hun- 
dred a-year.  Wonders  are  willingly  told,  and  willingly  heard.  The 
trutli  is,  that  Kyrl  vi  as  a  man  of  known  integrity  and  active  bene- 
volence, by  whose  solicitation  the  wealthy  were  ])ersuaded  to  pay 
contributions  to  his  charitable  schemes.  This  influence  he  ob- 
tained by  an  example  of  liberality  exerted  to  the  utmost  extent 


tirE  OP  POPE,  43 

of  his  power,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  give  more  than  he  had. 
Th's  account  Mr.  Victor  received  from  the  minister  of  the  place ; 
and  1  have  preserved  it,  that  the  praise  of  a  good  man,  being 
made  more  credible,  may  be  more  solid.  Narrations  of  romantic 
and  impracticable  virtue  will  be  read  with  wonder,  but  that  which 
is  unattainable  is  recommended  in  vain;  that  good  may  be  endea- 
voured, it  must  be  shewn  to  be  possible. 

This  is  the  only  piece  in  which  the  author  has  given  a  hint  of  his 
religion,  by  ridiculing  the  ceremony  of  burning  the  pope,  and  by 
mentioning  with  some  indignation  the  inscription  on  the  monu- 
ment. 

When  this  poem  was  first  published,  the  dialogue,  having  no 
letters  of  direction,  was  perplexed  and  obscure.  Pope  seems  to 
have  written  with  no  very  distinct  idea ;  for  he  calls  that  an 
Epistle  to  Bathurst,  in  which  Bathurst  is  introduced  as  speaking. 

He  afterwards  (1734)  inscribed  to  Lord  Cobham  his  Characters 
of  Men,  written  with  close  attention  to  the  operations  of  the  mind 
and  modifications  of  life.  In  this  poem  he  has  endeavoured  to 
establish  and  exemplify  his  favourite  theory  of  the  ruling  passion, 
by  which  he  means  an  original  direction  of  desire  to  some  parti- 
cular object ;  an  innate  aifection.  which  gives  all  action  a  de- 
terminate and  invariable  tendency,  and  operates  upon  the  whole 
system  of  life,  either  openly,  or  more  secreily,  by  the  intervention 
of  some  accidental  or  subordinate  propension. 

To  the  Characters  of  Men,  he  added  soon  after,  in  an  epistle 
supposed  to  have  been  addressed  to  Martha  Blount,  but  which 
the  last  edition  has  taken  from  her,  the  Characters  of  Women, 
This  poem,  which  was  laboured  with  great  diligence,  and  in  the 
author's  opinion  with  great  success,  was  neglected  at  its  first 
pul)lication,  as  the  commentator  supposes,  because  the  public  was 
informed,  by  an  advertisement,  that  it  contained  no  character 
drawn  from  the  life  ;  an  assertion  which  Pope  probably  did  not  ex- 
pect nor  wish  to  have  been  believed,  and  which  he  soon  gave  his 
readers  sufficient  distrust,  by  telling  them  in  a  note  that  the  work 
was  imperfect,  because  part  of  his  subject  was  vice  too  high  to  be 
yet  exposed. 

The  time,  however,  soon  came,  in  which  it  was  safe  to  display 
the  duchess  of  Marlborough  under  the  name  of  Aiossa;  and  her 
character  was  inserted,  with  no  great  honour  to  the  writer's 
gratitude. 

He  published  from  time  to  time,  (between  1730  and  1740), 
imitations  of  different  poems  of  Horace,  generally  with  his  naiiie, 
and  once,  as  was  suspected,  without  it.  What  he  was  upon  moral 
principles  ashamed  to  own,  he  ought  to  have  suppressed.  Of 
these  pieces  it  is  useless  to  settle  the  dates,  as  they  had  seldom 
much  relation  to  the  times,  and  perhaps  had  been  long  in  his 
hands. 

This  mode  of  imitation,  in  which  the  ancients  are  familiarised, 
by  adapting  their  sentiments  to  modern  topics,  by  making 
Horace  say  of  Shakspere  what  he  originally  said  of  Ennius,  and 
accommodating  his  satires  on  Pantolabus  and  Nomeutanus  to  the 


p^ 


44)  LIFE   OF  FOFE. 

flatterers  and  prodigals  of  our  own  time,  was  first  practised  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  second  by  Oldham  and  Rochester,  at  least  I 
remember  no  instances  more  ancient.  It  is  a  kind  of  middle 
composition  between  translation  and  original  design,  which 
pleases  when  the  thoughts  are  unexpectedly  applicable,  and  the 
parallels  lucky.  It  seems  to  have  been  Pope's  favourite  amuse- 
ment ;  for  he  has  carried  it  farther  than  any  former  poet. 

He  published  likewise  a  revival,  in  smoother  numbers,  of  Dr. 
Donne's  satires,  which  was  recommended  to  him  by  the  duke  of 
Shrewsbury  and  the  earl  of  Oxford.  They  made  no  great  impres- 
sion on  the  public.  Pope  seems  to  have  known  their  imbecility, 
and  therefore  suppressed  them  while  he  was  yet  contending  to  rise 
in  reputation,  but  ventured  them  when  he  thought  their  deficien- 
cies more  likely  to  be  imputed  to  Donne  than  to  himself. 

The  epistle  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  which  seems  to  be  derived,  in 
its  first  design,  from  Boileau's  address  a  son  Esprit,  was  pub- 
lished in  January  1735,  about  a  month  before  the  death  of  him  to 
whom  it  is  inscribed.  It  is  to  be  regretted,  that  either  honour  or 
pleasure  should  have  been  missed  by  Arbuthnot;  a  man  esti- 
mable for  his  learning,  amiable  for  his  life,  and  venerable  for  his 
piety. 

In  this  poem  Pope  seems  to  reckon  with  the  public.  He  vin- 
dicates himself  from  censures ;  and  with  dignity,  rather  than 
arrogance,  enforces  his  own  claims  to  kindness  and  respect. 

Into  this  poem  are  interwoven  several  paragraphs  which  had 
been  before  printed  as  a  fragment,  and  among  them  the  satirical 
lines  upon  Addison,  of  which  the  last  couplet  has  been  twice  cor- 
rected.    It  was  at  first. 

Who  would  not  smile,  if  such  a  man  there  bet 
Who  would  not  laugh,  if  Addison  were  he ! 

Then, 

Who  would  not  grieve,  if  such  a  man  there  bet 
Who  would  not  laugh,  if  Addison  were  he? 

At  last  it  is, 

Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  bet 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he? 

He  was  at  this  time  at  open  war  with  Lord  Hervey,  who  had 
distinguished  himself  as  a  steady  adherent  to  the  ministry  ;  and, 
being  offended  with  a  contemptuous  answer  to  one  of  his  pam- 
phlets, had  summoned  Pulteney  to  a  duel.  Whether  he  or  Pope 
made  the  first  attack,  perhaps  cannot  now  be  easily  known :  he 
had  written  an  invective  against  Pope,  whom  he  calls,  "Hard  as 
thy  heart,  and  as  thy  birth  obscure  ;"  and  hints  that  his  father 
was  a  hatter.  To  this  Pope  wrote  a  reply  in  verse  and  prose ; 
the  verses  are  in  this  poem  ;  and  the  prose,  though  it  was  never 
sent,  is  printed  among  his  letters ;  but,  to  a  cool  reader  of  the 
present  time,  exhibits  nothing  but  tedious  malignity. 

His  last  satires,  of  the  general  kind,  were  two  dialogues,  named, 
from  the  vear  in  which  they  were  published.  Seventeen  Hundred 
and  TJiirii/-ei^ht.     In  these  poems  many  are  praised,  and  many 


LIFE   OP   POPE, 


45 


.eproached.  Pope  was  then  entangled  in  the  opposition  ;  a  fol- 
lower of  the  prince  of  Wales,  wlio  dined  at  his  house,  and  the 
friend  of  many  who  obstructed  and  censured  the  conduct  of  the 
ministers.  His  political  partiality  was  too  plainly  shewn:  he 
forg'ot  the  prudence  with  which  he  passed,  in  his  early  years, 
uninjured  and  unoffending,  through  much  more  violent  conflicts 
of  faction. 

In  the  first  dialogue,  having  an  opportunity  of  praising  Allen 
jf  Bath,  he  asked  his  leave  to  mention  him  as  -a  man  not  ihus- 
trious  by  any  merit  of  his  ancestors,  and  called  him  in  his  verses 
**  low-born  Allen."  Men  are  seldom  satisfied  with  praise  intro- 
duced or  followed  by  any  mention  of  defect.  Allen  seems  not  to 
have  taken  any  pleasure  in  his  epithet,  which  was  afterwards 
softened  into  "  humble  Allen." 

In  the  second  dialogue,  he  took  some  liberty  with  one  of  the 
Foxes,  among  others ;  which  Fox,  in  a  reply  to  Lyttelton,  took 
an  opportunity  of  repaying,  by  reproaching  him  with  the  friend- 
ship of  a  lampooner,  who  scattered  his  ink  without  fear  or  decency, 
and  against  whom  he  hoped  the  resentment  of  the  legislature 
would  quickly  be  discharged. 

About  this  time,  Paul  Whitehead,  a  small  poet,  was  summoned 
before  the  lords  for  a  poem  cal'ed  Manners,  together  with  Dodsley 
his  publisher.  Whitehead,  who  hung  loose  upon  society,  skulked, 
and  escaped  ;  but  Dodsley's  shop  and  family  made  his  appearance 
necessary.  He  was,  however,  soon  dismissed  ;  and  the  whole 
proce;ss  was  probably  intended  rather  to  intimidate  Pops,  than  to 
punish  Whitehead. 

Pope  never  afterwards  attempted  to  join  the  patriot  with  the 
poet,  nor  drew  his  pen  upon  statesmen.  That  he  desisted  from 
his  attempts  of  reformation,  is  imputed,  by  his  commentator,  to 
his  despair  of  prevailing  over  the  corruption  of  the  time.  He 
was  not  likely  to  have  been  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  dread  of  his 
satire  would  countervail  the  love  of  power  or  of  money ;  he 
pleased  himself  with  being  important  and  formidable,  and  grati- 
fied sometimes  his  pride,  and  sometimes  his  resentment ;  till  at 
last  he  began  to  think  he  should  be  more  safe,  if  he  were  less  busy. 

The  Memoirs  of  Scriblerus,  published  about  this  time,  extend 
only  to  the  first  book  of  a  work  projected  in  concert  by  Pope, 
Swift,  and  Arbuthnot,  who  used  to  meet  in  the  time  of  queen 
Anne,  and  denominated  themselves  the  Scriblerus  Club.  Their 
purpose  was  to  censure  the  abuses  of  learning,  by  a  fictitious  life 
of  an  infatuated  scholar.  They  were  dispersed ;  the  design  was 
never  completed ;  and  Warburton  laments  its  miscarriage,  as  an 
event  very  disastrous  to  polite  letters. 

If  the  whole  may  be  estimated  by  this  specimen,  which  seems 
to  be  the  production  of  Arbuthnot,  with  a  few  touches  perhaps  by 
Pope,  the  want  of  more  will  not  be  much  lamented  ;  for  the  follies 
which  the  writer  ridicules  are  so  little  practised,  that  they  are  not 
known  ;  nor  can  the  satire  be  understood  but  by  the  learned  :  he 
raises  phantoms  of  absurdity,  and  then  drives  them  away.  He 
cures  diseases  that  were  never  felt. 


46  LIFE   OF    rOi'E. 

For  this  reason,  this  juint  production  of  ihres  great  writers 
lias  never  obtained  any  notice  from  mankind  ;  it  has  been  little 
read,  or,  when  read,  has  been  forgotten,  as  no  man  could  be  wiser, 
better,  or  merrier,  by  remembering  it. 

The  design  cannot  boast  of  much  originality ;  for  besides  its 
general  resemblance  to  Don  Quixote,  there  will  be  found  in  it  par- 
ticular imitations  of  the  tlistori/  of  Mr.  Ouffle. 

Swift  carried  so  much  of  it  into  Ireland  as  supplied  him  with 
hints  for  his  travels  ;  and  with  those  the  world  might  have  been 
contented,  though  the  rest  had  been  suppressed. 

Pope  had  sought  for  images  and  sentiments  in  a  region  not 
known  to  have  been  explored  by  many  other  of  the  English 
writers  :  he  had  consulted  the  modern  writers  of  Latin  poetry,  a 
class  of  authors  whom  Boileau  endeavoured  to  bring  into  con- 
tempt, and  who  are  too  generally  neglected.  Pope,  however,  was  not 
ashamed  of  their  acquaintance,  nor  ungrateful  for  the  advantages 
which  he  might  have  derived  from  it.  A  small  selection  from  the 
Italians,  who  wrote  in  Latin,  had  been  published  at  London, 
about  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century,  by  a  man  who  concealed 
his  name,  but  whom  his  preface  shews  to  have  been  well  qualified 
for  his  undertaking.  This  collection  Pope  amplified  by  more 
than  half,  and  (1740^  published  it  in  two  volumes,  but  injuriously 
omitted  his  predecessor's  preface.  To  these  books,  which  had 
nothing  but  the  mere  text,  no  regard  was  paid  ;  the  authors  were 
still  neglected,  and  the  editor  was  neither  praised  nor  censured. 

He  did  not  sink  into  idleness  ;  he  had  planned  a  work,  which 
he  considered  as  subsequent  to  his  Essay  on  Man^  of  which  he  has 
given  this  account  to  Dr.  Swift : — 

"  March  25,  1736. 

*'  If  ever  I  write  any  more  epistles  in  verse,  one  of  them  shall 
be  addressed  to  you.  I  have  long  concerted  it,  and  begun  it ;  but 
I  Would  make  what  bears  your  name  as  finished  as  my  last 
work  ought  to  be,  that  is  to  say,  more  finished  than  any  of  the 
rest.  The  subject  is  large,  and  will  divide  into  four  epistles, 
which  naturally  follow  the  Essay  on  Man;  viz.  1.  Of  the  extent 
and  limits  of  human  reason  and  science.  2.  A  view  of  the  useful, 
and  therefore  attainable  ;  and  of  the  unuseful,  and  therefore,  un- 
attainable, arts.  3.  Of  the  nature,  ends,  application,  and  use,  of 
different  capacities.  4.  Of  the  use  of  learning,  of  the  science  of 
the  world,  and  of  wit.  It  will  conclude  with  a  satire  against  the 
misapplication  of  all  these,  exemplified  by  pictures,  characters^ 
and  examples.'' 

This  work  in  its  full  extent,  being  now  afilicted  with  an  asthma, 
and  finding  the  powers  of  life  gradually  declining,  he  had  no 
longer  courage  to  undertake  ;  but,  from  the  materials  which  he  had 
provided,  he  added,  at  Warburton's  request,  another  book  to  the 
Dunciad,  of  which  the  design  is  to  ridicule  such  studies  as  ars 
either  hopeless  or  useless,  as  either  pursue  what  is  unattainable, 
or  wliat,  if  it  be  attained,  is  of  no  use. 

When  this  book  was  printed,  (1742),  the  laurel  had  been  for 
iome  time  upon  the   head  of  Gibber  ;  a  man  whom  it  cannot  be 


L!FE     OF    TOPS.  VJ 

supposed  that  Pope  cotiM  rei^ard  with  much  kindrtess  GT  cstsem, 
choLigK  ill  one  of  the  imitations  of  Horace  he  has  liberally  enough 
praised  the  Careless  Husband.  In  the  Dunciad,  among  other 
worthless  sciMbblers,  he  bad  mentioned  Gibber;  who,  in  hia 
Apology,  complains  of  the  great  poet's  unkindness  as  more  inju- 
rious, "  because,"  says  he,  "  I  never  have  offended  bim." 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  Pope  should  have  been,  in 
some  degree,,  mollified  by  this  submissive  gentleness  ;  but  no  such 
consequence  appeared.  Though  he  condescended  to  commend 
Gibber  once,  he  mentioned  him  afterwards  contemptuously  in  one 
of  his  satires,  and  again  in  his  epistle  to  Arbuthnot ;  and,  in  the 
fourth  book  of  the  Dunciad,  attacked  him  with  acrimony,  to  which 
the  provocation  is  not  easily  discoverable.  Perhaps  he  imagined 
that,  in  ridiculing  the  laureat,  he  satirised  those  by  whom  the 
laurel  had  been  given,  and  gratified  that  ambitious  petulance  with 
which  he  affected  to  insult  the  great. 

The  severity  of  this  satire  left  Gibber  no  longer  any  patience. 
He  had  confidence  enough  in  his  own  powers  to  believe  that  he 
could  disturb  the  quiet  of  his  adversary,  and  doubtless  did  not 
want  instigators,  who,  without  any  care  about  the  victory,  desired 
to  amuse  themselves  by  looking  on  the  contest.  He  therefore 
gave  the  town  a  pamphlet,  in  which  he  declares  his  resolution  from 
that  time  never  to  bear  another  blow  without  returning  it,  and  to 
tire  out  his  adversary  by  perseverance,  if  he  cannot  conquer  him 
by  strength. 

The  incessant  and  unappeasable  malignity  of  Pope  he  imputes 
to  a  very  distant  cause.  After  the  Three  Hours  after  Marriage 
had  been  driven  off  the  stage,  by  the  offence  which  the  mummy 
and  crocodile  gave  the  audience,  while  the  exploded  scene  was  yet 
fresh  in  memory,  it  happened  that  Gibber  played  Batjes  in  the 
Rehearsal ;  and,  'as  it  had  been  usual  to  enliveri  the  part  by  the 
mention  of  any  recent  theatrical  transactions,  he  said,  that  he  once 
thought  to  have  introduced  his  lovers  disguised  in  a  mummy  and 
a  crocodile.  "This,"  says  he,  "was  received  with  loud  claps, 
which  indicated  contempt  of  the  play."  Pope,  who  was  behind 
the  scenes,  meeting  him  as  he  left  the  stage,  attacked  him,  as  he 
*ays,  with  all  the  virulence  of  a  "  wit  out  of  his  senses ; "  to 
vwhich  he  replied,  "  that  he  would  take  no  other  notice  of  what 
was  said  by  so  particular  a  man,  than  to  declare,  that,  as  often  as 
he  played  that  part,  he  would  repeat  the  same  provocation." 

He  shews  his  opinion  to  be,  that  Pope  was  one  of  the  authors 
of  the  play  which  he  so  zealously  defended  ;  and  adds  an  idla 
3tory  of  Pope's  behaviour  at  a  tavern. 

The  pamphlet  was  written  with  little  power  of  thought  or  lan- 
guage, and,  if  suffered  to  remain  without  notice,  would  have  been 
very  soon  forgotten.  Pope  had  now  been  enough  acquainted  with 
human  life  to  know,  if  his  passion  had  not  been  too  powerful  for 
his  understanding,  that  from  a  contention  like  his  with  Gibber,  th^ 
world  seeks  nothing  but  diversion,  which  is  given  at  the  expense 
of  the  higher  character.  When  Gibber  lampooned  Pope,  curiosity 
was  excited  ;  what  Pope  would  say  of  Gibber  nobody  inquire  J-  but 


48  LIFE    OP    POPB. 

in  hope  that  Pope's  asperity  might  betray  his  pain,  and  lessen  hii 
iignity. 

He  should  therefore  have  suffered  the  pamphlet  to  flutter  and 
die,  without  confessing  that  it  stung  him.  The  dishonour  of  being 
shewn  as  Gibber's  antagonist  could  never  be  compensated  by  the 
victory.  Gibber  had  nothing  to  lose;  when  Pope  had  exhausted 
all  his  malignity  upon  him,  he  would  rise  in  the  esteem  both  of  his 
friends  and  his  enemies.  Silence  only  could  have  made  him  des- 
picable ;  the  blow  which  did  not  appear  to  be  felt  would  have 
been  struck  in  vain. 

But  Pope's  irascibility  prevailed,  and  he  resolved  to  tell  the 
whole  English  world  that  he  was  at  war  with  Gibber ;  and,  to 
shew  that  he  thought  him  no  common  adversary,  he  prepared  no 
common  vengeance  ;  he  published  a  new  edition  of  the  Dunciad, 
(1743)  in  which  he  degraded  Theobald  from  his  painful  pre-emi- 
nence, and  enthroned  Gibber  in  his  stead.  Unhappily  the  two  heroes 
were  of  opposite  characters,  and  Pope  was  unwilling  to  lose  what 
he  had  already  written  ;  he  has  therefore  depraved  his  poem,  by 
giving  to  Gibber  the  old  books,  the  old  pedantry,  and  the  sluggish 
pertinacity  of  Theobald. 

Pope  was  ignorant  enough  of  his  own  interest,  to  make  another 
change,  and  introduced  Osborne  contending  for  the  prize  among 
the  booksellers.  Osborne  was  a  man  entirely  destitute  of  shame, 
without  sense  of  any  disgrace  but  that  of  poverty.  He  told  me, 
when  he  was  doing  that  which  raised  Pope's  resentment,  that  he 
should  be  put  into  the  Dunciad :  but  he  had  the  fate  of  Cassandra ; 
I  gave  no  credit  to  his  prediction,  till  in  time  1  saw  it  accom- 
plished. The  shafts  of  satire  were  directed  equally  in  vain 
against  Gibber  and  Osborne ;  being  repelled  by  the  impenetrable 
impudence  of  one,  and  deadened  by  the  impassive  dulness  of  the 
other.  Pope  confessed  his  own  pain  by  his  anger;  but  he  gave 
no  pain  to  those  who  had  provoked  him.  He  was  able  to  hurt 
none  but  himself ;  by  transferring  the  same  ridicule  from  one  to 
another,  he  reduced  himself  to  the  insignificance  of  his  own  mag- 
pie, who  from  his  cage  calls  cuckold  at  a  venture. 

Gibber,  according  to  his  engagement,  repaid  the  Dunciad  with 
another  pamphlet,  which  Pope  said,  "  would  be  as  a  dose  of 
hartshorn  to  him;"  but  his  tongue  and  heart  were  at  variance. 
I  have  heard  Mr.  Richardson  relate,  that  he  attended  his  father, 
the  painter,  on  a  visit,  when  one  of  Gibber's  pamphlets  came  into 
the  hands  of  Pope,  who  said,  "  these  things  are  my  diversion." 
They  sat  by  him  while  he  perused  it,  and  saw  his  features  writh- 
ing with  anguish ;  and  young  , Richardson  said  to  his  father, 
when  they  returned,  that  he  hoped  to  be  preserved  from  such 
diversion  as  had  been  that  day  the  lot  of  Pope. 

From  this  time,  finding  his  diseases  more  oppressive,  and  his 
vital  powers  gradually  declining,  he  no  longer  strained  his  fiacul- 
ties  with  any  original  composition,  nor  proposed  any  other  em- 
ployment for  his  remaining  life  than  the  revisal  and  correction  of 
his  former  works  ;  in  which  he  received  advice  and  assistance 


LIFE    OF    POPE,  43 

ft'om  Warburton,  whom  he  appears  to  have  trusted  and  honoured 
iu  the  highest  degree. 

He  laid  aside  his  epic  poem,  perhaps  without  much  loss  to 
mankind  ;  for  his  hero  was  Brutus  the  Trojan,  who,  according  to 
a  ridiculous  fiction,  established  a  colony  in  Britain.  The  subject 
therefore  was  of  the  fabulous  age ;  the  actors  were  a  race  upon 
whom  imagination  had  been  exhausted,  and  attention  wearied,  and 
to  whom  the  mind  will  not  easily  be  recalled,  when  it  is  invited 
in  blank  verse,  which  Pope  had  adopted  with  great  imprudence, 
and,  I  think,  without  due  consideration  of  the  nature  of  our  lan- 
guage. The  sketch  is,  at  least  in  part,  preserved  by  RufFliead ; 
by  which  it  appears  that  Pope  was  thoughtless  enough  to  model 
the  names  of  his  heroes  with  terminations  not  consistent  with  the 
time  or  country  in  which  he  places  them. 

He  lingered  through  the  next  year ;  but  perceived  himself,  as 
he  expresses  it,  "going  down  the  hill,"  He  had  for  at  least  live 
years  been  afflicted  with  an  asthma,  and  other  disorders,  which 
his  physicians  were  unable  to  relieve.  Towards  the  end  of  his 
life  he  consulted  Dr.  Thomson,  a  man  who  had,  by  large  pro- 
mises, and  free  censures  of  the  common  practice  of  physic,  forced 
himself  up  into  sudden  reputation.  Thomson  declared  his  dis- 
temper to  be  a  di*opsy,  and  evacuated  part  of  the  water  by  tincture 
of  jalap  ;  but  confessed  that  his  belly  did  not  subside.  Thomsou 
had  many  enemies,  and  Pope  was  persuaded  to  dismiss  him. 

While  he  was  yet  capable  of  amusement  and  conversation,  as 
he  was  one  day  sitting  in  the  air  with  lord  Bolingbroke  and  lord 
Marchmont,  he  saw  his  favourite  Martha  Blount  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ten*ace,  and  asked  lord  Bolingbroke  to  go  and  hand  her  up. 
Bolingbroke,  not  liking  his  errand,  crossed  his  legs  and  sat  still ; 
but  lord  Marchmont,  who  was  younger  and  less  captious,  waited 
on  the  lady,  who,  when  he  came  to  her,  asked,  "  What  I  is  he  not 
dead  yet  ?"  She  is  said  to  have  neglected  him  with  shameful 
unkindness,  in  the  latter  time  of  his  decay;  yet,  of  the  little 
which  he  had  to  leave  she  had  a  very  great  part.  Their  acquain- 
tance began  early ;  the  life  of  each  was  pictured  on  the  other's 
mind  ;  their  conversation  therefore  was  endearing,  for  when  they 
met,  there  was  an  immediate  coalition  of  congenial  notions. 
Perhaps  he  considered  her  unwillingness  to  approach  the  chamber 
of  sickness  as  female  weakness,  or  human  frailty;  perhaps  he 
was  conscious  to  himself  of  peevishness  and  impatience,  or, 
though  he  was  offended  by  her  inattention,  might  yet  consider  her 
merit  as  overbalancing  her  fault ;  and  if  he  had  suffered  his  heart 
to  be  alienated  from  her,  he  could  have  found  nothing  that  might 
fill  her  place  ;  he  could  have  only  shrunk  within  himself;  it  was 
too  late  to  transfer  his  confidence  or  fondness. 

In  May  1744,  his  death  was  approaching ;  on  the  6th,  he  was 
all  day  delirious,  which  he  mentioned  four  days  afterwards  as  a 
sufficient  humiliation  of  the  vanity  of  man  ;  he  afterwards  com- 
plained of  seeing  things  as  through  a  curtain,  and  in  false  colours; 
and  one  day,  in  the  presence  of  Dodsley,  asjioa  viiat  arai  it  wia 

6 


69  LIFE    OF   POPE. 

that  came  out  of  the  wall.  He  said  that  his  greatest  incoiivenienee 
was  inability  to  think. 

Bolingbroke  sometimes  wept  over  him  in  this  state  of  helpless 
decay ;  and,  being  told  by  Spence,  that  Pope,  at  the  intermission 
of  his  deliriousness,  was  always  saying  sonjething  kind  either  of 
his  present  or  absent  friends,  and  that  his  humanity  seemed  to 
have  survived  his  understanding,  answered,  "It  has  so:"  and 
added,  "  I  never  in  my  life  knew  a  man  that  had  so  tender  a 
heart  for  his  particular  friends,  or  more  general  friendship  for 
mankind."     At  another  time  he  said,  *'  I  have  known  Pope  these 

thirty  years,  and  value  myself  more  in  his  friendship  than" 

His  grief  then  suppressed  his  voice. 

Pope  expi-essed  undoubting  confidence  of  a  future  state. 
Being  asked  by  his  friend  Mr.  Hooke,  a  papist,  whether  he  would 
not  die  like  his  father  and  mother,  and  whether  a  priest  should 
not  be  called  ;  he  answered,  "  I  do  not  think  it  is  essential, 
but  it  will  be  very  right;  and  I  thank  you  for  putting  me  in 
mind  of  it." 

In  the  morning,  after  the  priest  had  given  him  the  last  sacra- 
ments, he  said,  "  There  is  nothing  that  is  meritorious  but  virtue  and 
friendship,  and  indeed  friendship  itself  is  only  a  part  of  virtue." 

He  died  in  the  evening  of  the  thirtieth  day  of  May,  1744,  so 
placidly,  that  the  attendants  did  not  discern  the  exact  time  of  his 
expiration.  He  was  buried  at  Twickenham,  near  his  father  and 
mother,  where  a  monument  has  been  erected  to  him  by  his  com- 
mentator, the  bishop  of  Gloucester. 

He  left  the  care  of  his  papers  to  his  executors;  first  to  lord 
Bolingbroke,  and,  if  he  should  not  be  living,  to  the  earlof  March- 
mont ;  undoubtedly  expecting  them  to  be  proud  of  the  trust,  and 
eager  to  extend  his  fame.  But  let  no  man  dream  of  influence 
beyond  his  life.  After  a  decent  time,  Dodsley  the  bookseller 
went  to  solicit  preference  as  the  publisher,  and  was  told  that  the 
parcel  had  not  been  yet  inspected ;  and,  whatever  was  the  reason, 
the  world  has  been  disappointed  of  what  was  "reserved  for  the 
next  age." 

He  lost,  indeed,  the  favour  of  Bolingbroke  by  a  kind  of  pos- 
thumous offence.  The  political  pamphlet  called  The  Patriot 
King  had  been  put  into  his  hands  that 'he  might  procure  the  im- 
pression of  a  very  few  copies,  to  be  distributed,  according  to  the 
author's  direction,  among  his  friends,  and  Pope  assured  him  that 
no  more  had  been  printed  than  were  allowed  ;  but,  soon  after  his 
death,  the  printer  brought  and  resigned  a  complete  edition  of 
fifteen  hundred  copies,  which  Pope  had  ordered  him  to  print,  and 
retain  in  secret.  He  kept  as  was  observed  his  engagement  to  Pope, 
better  than  Pope  had  kept  it  to  his  friend  ;  and  nothing  was  known 
of  the  transaction,  till,  upon  the  death  of  his  employer,  he  thought 
himself  obliged  to  deliver  the  books  to  the  right  owner,  who,  with 
great  indignation,  made  a  fire  in  his  yard,  and  delivered  the 
wliole  impression  to  the  flames. 

Hitherto  nothing  had  been  done  which  was  not,  naturally  die- 


I.IFB  OF  POPE.  n 

tated  by  resentment  of  violated  faith  ;  resentment  more  acrimoni- 
ous, as  the  violator  had  been  more  loved  or  more  trusted.  But 
here  the  anger  might  have  stopped  ;  the  injury  was  private,  and 
there  was  little  danger  from  the  example. 

Bolingbroke,  however,  was  not  yet  satisfied  ;  his  thirst  of  ven- 
geance excited  him  to  blast  the  memory  of  the  man  over  wliom  he 
had  wept  in  his  last  struggles ;  and  he  employed  Mallet,  another 
friend  of  Pope,  to  tell  the  tale  to  the  public  with  all  its  aggrava- 
tions. Warburton,  whose  heart  was  warm  with  his  legacy,  and 
tender  by  the  recent  separation,  thought  it  proper  for  him  to  in- 
terpose ;  and  undertook,  not  indeed  to  vindicate  the  action,  for 
breach  of  trust  has  always  something  criminal,  but  to  extenuate 
it  by  an  apology.  Having  advanced  what  cannot  be  denied,  that 
moral  obliquity  is  made  more  or  less  excusable  by  the  motives  that 
produce  it,  he  inquires,  What  evil  purpose  could  hav^e  induced  Pope 
to  break  his  promise?  He  could  not  delight  his  vanity  by  usurp- 
ing the  work,  which,  though  not  sold  in  shops,  had  been  shewn 
to  a  number  more  than  sufficient  to  preserve  the  author's  claim ; 
he  could  not  gratify  his  avarice,  for  he  could  not  sell  his  plunder 
till  Bolingbroke  was  dead;  and  even  then,  if  the  copy  was  left  to 
another,  his  fraud  would  be  defeated,  and  if  left  to  himself  would 
be  useless. 

He  brought  some  reproach  upon  his  own  memory  by  the  petu- 
lant and  contemptuous  mention  made  in  his  will  of  Mr.  Allen,  and 
an  affected  repayment  of  his  benefactions.  Mrs.  Blount,  as  the 
known  friend  and  favourite  of  Pope,  had  been  invited  to  the  house 
of  Allen,  where  she  comported  herself  with  such  indecent  arro- 
gance, that  she  parted  from  Mrs.  Allen  in  a  state  of  irreconcilable 
dislike,  and  the  door  was  for  ever  barred  against  her.  This  ex- 
clusion she  resented  with  so  much  bitterness  as  to  refuse  any 
legacy  from  Pope,  unless  he  left  the  world  with  a  disavowal  of 
obligation  to  Allen.  Having  been  long  under  her  dominion,  now 
tottering  in  the  decline  of  life,  and  unable  to  resist  the  violence 
of  her  temper,  or  perhaps,  with  the  prejudice  of  a  lover,  per- 
suaded that  she  had  suffered  improper  treatment,  he  complied 
with  her  demand,  and  polluted  his  will  with  female  resentment. 
Allen  accepted  the  legacy,  which  he  gave  to  the  hospital  at  Bath, 
©bserving  that  Pope  was  always  a  bad  accomptant,  and  that  if 
to  150/.  he  had  put  a  cipher  more,  he  had  come  nearer  to  the  truth. 

The  person  of  Pope  is  well  known  not  to  have  been  formed  by 
the  nicest  model.  He  has,  in  his  account  of  the  Little  Club, 
compared  himself  to  a  spider,  and  by  another  is  desciibed  as  pro- 
tuberant behind  and  before.  He  is  said  to  have  been  beautiful 
in  his  infancy ;  but  he  was  of  a  constitution  originally  feeble  and 
weak  ;  and,  as  bodies  of  a  tender  frame  are  easily  distorted,  his 
deformity  was  probably  in  part  the  efiect  of  his  application.  His 
stature  was  so  low,  that,  to  bring  him  to  a  level  with  common 
tables,  it  was  necessary  to  raise  his  seat  But  his  face  was  not 
displeasing,  and  his  eyes  were  animated  and  vivid. 

Bj  natural  deformity,  or  accidental  distortion,  his  vital  func- 


59  ITFE  OF   POPS. 

tions  were  so  much  disordered,  that  his  life  was  a  "long  disease." 
His  most  frequent  assailant  was  the  headach,  which  he  used  to 
relieve  by  inhaling  the  steam  of  coffee,  which  he  very  frequently 
required. 

Most  of  what  can  be  told  concerning  his  petty  peculiarities 
was  communicated  by  a  female  domestic  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford, 
who  knew  him  perhaps  after  the  middle  of  life.  He  was  then  so 
weak  as  to  stand  in  perpetual  need  of  female  attendance  ;  ex- 
tremely sensible  of  cold,  so  that  he  wore  a  kind  of  fur  doublet, 
under  a  shirt  of  very  coarse  warm  linen,  with  fine  sleeves.  When 
he  rose,  he  was  invested  in  a  bodice  made  of  stiff  canvas,  being 
scarcely  able  to  hold  himself  erect  till  they  were  laced,  and  he 
then  put  on  a  flannel  waistcoat.  One  side  was  contracted.  His 
legs  were  so  slender,  that  he  enlarged  their  bulk  with  three  pair 
of  stockings,  which  were  drawn  on  and  off  by  the  maid ;  for  he 
was  not  able  to  dress  or  undress  himself,  and  neither  went  to  bed 
nor  rose  without  help.  His  weakness  made  it  very  difficult  for 
him  to  be  clean. 

His  hair  had  fallen  almost  all  away ;  and  he  used  to  dine 
Bometimes  with  Lord  Oxford,  privately,  in  a  velvet  cap.  His 
dress  of  ceremony  was  black,  with  a  tie-wig,  and  a  little  sword. 

The  indulgence  and  accommodation  which  his  sickness  required, 
had  taught  him  all  the  unpleasing  and  unsocial  qualities  of  a 
valetudinary  man.  He  expected  that  every  thing  should  give 
way  to  his  ease  or  humour ;  as  a  child,  whose  parents  will  not 
hear  her  cry,  has  an  unresisted  dominion  in  the  nursery. 

C'est  que  I'enfant  toujours  est  homme, 
C'est  que  riiomme  est  toujours  enfant. 

\Vhen  he  wanted  to  sleep,  he  "  nodded  in  company ;"  and  once 
slumbered  at  his  own  table  while  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  talking 
of  poetry. 

The  reputation  which  his  friendship  gave  procured  him  many 
invitations  ;  but  he  was  a  very  troublesome  inmate.  He  brought 
no  servant,  and  had  so  many  wants,  that  a  numerous  attendance 
was  scarcely  able  to  supply  them.  Wherever  he  was,  he  left  no 
room  tor  another,  because  he  exacted  the  attention,  and  employed 
the  activity,  of  the  whole  family.  His  errands  were  so  frequent 
and  frivolous,  that  the  footmen  in  time  avoided  and  neglected 
him  ;  and  the  earl  of  Oxford  discharged  some  of  the  servants  for 
their  resolute  refusal  of  his  messages.  The  maids,  when  they  had 
neglected  their  business,  alleged  that  they  had  been  employed 
by  Mr.  Pope.  One  of  his  constant  demands  was  of  coffee  in  the 
night,  and  to  the  woman  that  waited  on  him  in  his  chamber  he 
was  very  burthensome  :  but  he  was  careful  to  recompense  her  want 
of  sleep ;  and  lord  Oxford's  servant  declared,  that  in  the  house 
where  her  business  was  to  answer  his  call,  she  would  not  ask  for 
•rages. 

He  had  another  fault,  easily  incident  to  those  who,  sufferin/r 
much  pain,  think  themselves  entitled  to  whatever  pleasures  they 
can  snatch.     He  was  too  indulgent  to  his  appetite :  he  loved 


LIFE   OF  POPE.  89 

meat  hi2;Tily  seasoned  and  of  srrong-  taste ;  and,  at  the  intervals  of 
the  table,  amused  himself  with  biscuits  and  dry  conserves.  ]f"  he 
sat  dtwn  to  a  variety  of  dishes,  he  would  oppress  his  stomach 
with  repletion ;  and  though  he  seemed  ang;ry  when  a  dram  was 
offered  him,  did  not  forbear  to  drink  it.  His  friends,  who  knew 
the  avenues  to  his  heart,  pampered  him  with  presents  of  luxury, 
which  he  did  not  suffer  to  stand  neglected.  The  death  of  great 
men  is  not  always  proportioned  to  the  lustre  of  their  lives. 
Hannibal,  says  Juvenal,  did  not  perish  by  the  javelin  or  the 
sword  ;  the  slaughters  of  Cannae  were  revenged  by  a  ring.  The 
death  of  Pope  was  imputed  by  some  of  his  friends  to  a  silver 
saucepan,  in  which  it  was  his  delight  to  heat  potted  lampreys. 

That  he  loved  too  well  to  eat,  is  certain  ;  but  that  his  sensuality 
shortened  his  life  will  not  be  hastily  concluded,  when  it  is  remem- 
bered that  a  conformation  so  irregular  lasted  six  and  fifty  years, 
notwithstanding  such  pertinacious  diligence  of  study  and  medi- 
tation. 

In  all  his  intercourse  with  mankind,  he  had  great  delight  in 
artifice,  and  endeavoured  to  attain  all  his  purposes  by  indirect 
and  unsuspected  methods.  **  He  hardly  drank  tea  without  a  stra- 
tagem." If,  at  the  house  of  his  friends,  he  wanted  any  accommoda- 
tion, he  was  not  willing  to  ask  for  it  in  plain  terms,  but  would 
mention  it  remotely  as  some  thing  convenient ;  though,  when  it 
was  procured,  he  soon  made  it  appear  for  whose  sake  it  had  been 
recommended.  Thus  he  teased  Lord  Orrery  till  he  obtained  a 
screen.  He  practised  his  arts  on  such  small  occasions,  that  lady 
Bolingbroke  used  to  say,  in  a  French  phrase,  that  "he  played  the 
politician  about  cabbages  and  turnips."  His  unjustifiable  impres- 
sion of  the  Patriot  King,  as  it  can  be  imputed  to  no  particular 
motive,  must  have  proceeded  from  his  general  habit  of  secrecy 
and  cunning  ;  he  caught  an  opportunity  of  a  sly  trick,  and  pleased 
himself  with  the  thought  of  outwitting  Bolingbroke. 

In  familiar  or  convivial  conversation,  it  does  not  appear  that 
he  excelled.  He  may  be  said  to  have  resembled  Dryden,  as  be- 
ing not  one  that  was  distinguished  by  vivacity  in  company.  It 
is  remarkable,  that,  so  near  his  time,  so  much  should  be  known 
of  what  he  has  written,  and  so  little  of  what  he  has  said  :  tradi- 
tional memory  retains  no  sallies  of  raillery,  nor  sentences  of  obser- 
vation ;  nothing  either  pointed  or  solid,  either  wise  or  merry. 
One  apophthegm  only  stands  upon  record.  When  an  objection, 
raised  against  his  inscription  for  Shakspere,  was  defended  by  the 
authority  of  Patrick,  he  replied — horresco  referens — that  "  he 
would  allow  the  publisher  of  a  dictionary  to  know  the  meaning  of 
a  single  word,  but  not  of  two  words  put  together." 

He  was  fretful  and  easily  displeased,  and  allowed  himself  to  be 
capriciously  resentful.  He  would  sometimes  leave  Lord  Oxford 
silently,  no  one  could  tell  why ;  and  was  to  be  courted  back  by 
more  letters  and  messages  than  the  footmen  were  willing  to  carry. 
The  table  was  indeed  infested  by  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  who  was 
the  friend  of  Lady  Oxford,  and  who,  knowing  his  peevishness, 
could  by  no  intreaties  be  restrained  from  contradicting  hiui,  till 

5* 


54  IIPE   OF  POPE. 

their  disputes  were  sTiarpened  to  such  asperity,  that  one  or  tlift 
other  quitted  the  house. 

He  sometimes  condescended  to  be  jocular  with  servants  or  in- 
feriors ;  but  by  no  merriment,  either  of  others  or  his  own,  was  he 
ever  seen  excited  to  laughter. 

Of  his  domestic  character,  frugality  was  a  part  eminently  re- 
markable. Having  determined  not  to  be  dependent,  he  deter- 
mined not  to  be  in  want,  and  therefore  wisely  and  magnanimously 
rejected  all  temptations  to  expense  unsuitable  to  his  fortune; 
This  general  care  must  be  universally  approved ;  but  it  some- 
times appeared  in  petty  artifices  of  parsimony,  such  as  the  prac- 
tice of  writing  his  compositions  on  the  back  of  letters,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  remaining  copy  of  the  Iliad,  by  which  perliaps  in  five 
years  five  sliillings  were  saved ;  or  in  a  niggardly  reception  of  his 
friends,  and  scantiness  of  entertainment,  as,  when  he  had  two 
guests  in  his  house,  he  would  set  at  supper  a  single  pint  upon  the 
table ;  and,  having  himself  taken  two  small  glasses,  would  retire, 
and  say,  "Gentlemen,  I  leave  you  to  your  wine."  Yet  he  tells 
his  friends,  that  '*  he  has  a  heart  for  all,  a  house  for  all,  and,  what- 
ever they  may  think,  a  fortune  for  all." 

Of  this  fortune,  which,  as  it  arose  from  public  approbation,  was 
very  honourably  obtained,  his  imagination  seems  to  have  been 
too  full ;  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  man,  so  well  entitled  to  notice 
by  his  wit,  that  ever  delighted  so  much  in  talking  of  his  money. 
In  his  letters  and  in  his  poems,  his  garden  and  his  grotto — his 
quincunx  and  his  vines — or  some  hints  of  his  opulence — are 
always  to  be  found.  The  great  topic  of  his  ridicule  is  poverty; 
the  crimes  with  which  he  reproaches  his  antagonists  are  their 
debts,  their  habitation  in  the  Mint,  and  their  want  of  a  dinner. 
He  seems  to  be  of  an  opinion,  not  very  uncommon  in  the  world, 
that  to  want  money  is  to  want  every  thing. 

Next  to  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  his  possessions,  seems  to 
be  that  of  enumerating  the  men  of  high  rank  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted,  and  whose  notice  he  loudly  proclaims  not  to  have 
been  obtained  by  any  practices  of  meanness  or  servility ;  a  boast 
which  was  never  denied  to  be  true,  and  to  which  very  few  poets 
have  ever  aspired.  Pope  never  set  his  genius  to  sale,  he  never 
flattered  those  whom  he  did  not  love,  or  praised  those  whom  he 
did  not  esteem.  Savage  however  remarked,  that  he  began  a 
little  to  relax  his  dignity  when  he  wrote  a  distich  for  his  highness's 
dog. 

His  admiration  of  the  great  seems  to  have  increased  in  the  ad- 
vance of  life.  He  passed  over  peers  and  statesmen  to  inscribe  his 
Iliad  to  Congreve,  with  a  magnanimity  of  which  the  praise  had 
been  complete,  had  his  friend's  virtue  been  equal  to  his  wit. 
Why  he  was  chosen  for  so  great  an  honour,  it  is  not  now  possible 
to  know;  there  is  no  trace  in  literary  history  of  any  particular 
intimacy  between  them.  The  name  of  Congreve  appears  in  the 
letters  among  those  of  his  other  friends,  but  without  any  observa- 
ble distinction  or  consequence. 

To  his  latter  works,  however,  he  took  care  to  annex  names 


LIFE   OF   POPE.  65 

dignilied  with  titles,  but  he  was  not  very  happy  in  his  choice :  for, 
except  Lord  Bathurst,  none  of  his  noble  fiiends  were  such  as  that 
a  good  man  would  wish  to  have  his  intimacy  with  them  known  to 
posterity ;  he  can  derive  little  honour  from  the  notice  of  Cobham, 
Burlington,  or  Bolingbroke. 

Of  his  social  qualities,  if  an  estimate  he  made  from  his  letters, 
an  opinion  too  favourable  cannot  easily  be  formed ;  they  exhibit 
a  perpetual  and  unclouded  effulgence  of  general  benevolence  and 
particular  fondness.  There  is  nothing  but  liberality,  gratitude, 
constancy,  and  tenderness.  It  has  been  so  long  said  as  to  be 
commonly  believed,  that  the  true  characters  of  men  may  be  found 
in  their  letters,  and  that  he  who  writes  to  his  friend  lays  his  heart 
open  before  him.  But  the  truth  is,  that  such  were  the  simple 
friendships  of  the  golden  age,  and  are  now  the  firiendships  only  of 
children. 

If  the  letters  of  Pope  are  considered  merely  as  compositions, 
they  seem  to  be  premeditated  and  artificial.  It  is  one  thing  to 
write,  because  there  is  something  which  the  mind  wishes  to  dis- 
charge ;  and  another,  to  solicit  the  imagination,  because  ceremony 
or  vanity  require  something  to  be  written.  Pope  confesses  his 
early  letters  to  be  vitiated  with  affectation  and  ambition :  to  know 
whether  he  disentangled  himself  from  these  perverters  of  episto- 
lary integrity,  his  book  and  his  life  must  be  set  in  comparison. 

One  of  his  favourite  topics  is  contempt  of  his  own  poetry.  For 
this,  if  it  had  been  real,  he  would  deserve  no  commendation  ;  and 
in  this  he  was  certainly  not  sincere,  for  his  high  value  of  himself 
was  sufficiently  observed ;  and  of  what  could  he  be  proud  but  of 
his  poetry?  He  writes,  he  says,  when  *'  he  has  just  nothing  else 
to  do  ;"  yet  Swift  complains  that  he  was  never  at  leisure  for  conver- 
sation, because  he  had  "  always  some  poetical  scheme  in  his  head.'* 
It  was  punctually  required  that  his  writing- box  should  be  set 
upon  his  bed  before  he  rose ;  and  lord  Oxford's  domestic  related, 
that,  in  the  dreadful  winter  of  forty,  she  was  called  from  her  bed 
by  him  four  times  in  one  night,  to  supply  him  with  paper,  lest  he 
should  lose  a  thought. 

He  pretends  insensibility  to  censure  and  criticism,  though  it 
was  observed,  by  all  who  knew  him,  that  every  pamphlet  disturbed 
his  quiet,  and  that  his  extreme  irritability  laid  him  open  to  per- 
petual vexation ;  but  he  wished  to  despise  his  critics,  and  there- 
fore hoped  that  he  did  despise  them. 

As  he  happened  to  live  in  two  reigns  when  the  court  paid  little 
attention  to  poetry,  he  nursed  in  his  mind  a  foolish  disesteem  of 
kings,  and  proclaims  that  **  he  never  sees  courts."  Yet  a  little 
regard  shewn  him  by  the  prince  of  Wales  melted  his  obduracy ; 
and  he  had  not  much  to  aay  when  he  was  asked  by  his  royal  high- 
ness, "  How  he  could  love  a  prince  while  he  disliked  kings  ?" 

He  very  frequently  professes  contempt  of  the  world,  and  repre- 
sents himself  as  looking  on  mankind,  sometimes  with  gay  indiflfe- 
rence,  as  on  emmets  of  a  hillock,  below  his  serious  attention  ;  and 
sometimes  with  gloomy  indignation,  as  on  monsters  more  worthy 
of  hatred  than  of  pity.     These  were  dispositions  apparently  coua- 


58  S.IFE   OP  POPE. 

terleited.  How  could  he  despise  those  on  whom  he  lived  by 
pleasing,  and  on  whose  approbation  his  esteem  of  himself  was 
superstructed  ?  Why  should  he  hate  those  to  whose  favour  he 
owed  his  honour  and  his  ease?  Of  things  that  terminate  in 
human  life,  the  world  is  the  proper  judge ;  to  despise  its  sentence, 
if  it  were  possible,  is  not  just ;  and  if  it  were  just,  is  not  possible. 
Pope  was  far  enough  from  this  unreasonable  temper:  he  was 
sufficiently  a  fool  to  fame,  and  his  fault  was,  that  he  pretended  to 
neglect  it.  His  levity  and  his  sullenness  were  only  in  his  letters ; 
he  passed  through  common  life,  sometimes  vexed  and  sometimes 
pleased,  with  the  natural  emotions  of  common  men. 

His  scorn  of  the  great  is  too  often  repeated  to  be  real  ;  no  man 
thinks  much  of  that  which  he  despises ;  and,  as  falsehood  is 
always  in  danger  of  inconsistency,  he  makes  it  his  boast  at 
another  time  that  he  lives  among  them. 

It  is  evident  that  his  own  importance  swells  often  in  his  mind. 
He  is  afraid  of  writing,  lest  the  clerks  of  the  Post-office  should 
know  his  secrets  ;  he  has  many  enemies  ;  he  considers  himself  as 
surrounded  by  universal  jealousy :  "  after  many  deaths,  and  many 
dispersions,  two  or  three  of  us,"  says  he,  *'  may  still  be  brought 
together,  not  to  plot,  but  to  divert  ourselves,  and  the  world  too, 
if  it  pleases  :  "  and  they  can  live  together,  and  "  shew  what 
friends  wits  may  be,  in  spite  of  all  the  fools  in  the  world."  All 
this  while  it  was  likely  that  the  clerks  did  not  know  his  hand ; 
he  certainly  had  no  more  enemies  than  a  public  character  like  his 
inevitably  excites ;  and  with  what  degree  of  friendship  the  wita 
might  live,  very  few  were  so  much  fools  as  ever  to  inquire. 

Some  part  of  this  pretended  discontent  he  learned  from  Swift ; 
and  expresses  it,  I  think,  most  frequently  in  his  correspondence 
with  him.  Swift's  resentment  was  unreasonable,  but  it  was  sin- 
cere ;  Pope's  was  the  mere  mimicry  of  his  friend,  a  fictitious  part 
which  he  began  to  play  before  it  became  him.  When  he  was  only 
twenty-five  years  old,  he  related  that  "a  glut  of  study  and  retire- 
ment had  thrown  him  on  the  world,"  and  that  there  was  danger 
lest  "  a  glut  of  the  world  should  throw  him  back  upon  study  and 
retirement."  To  this  Swift  answered  with  great  propriety,  that 
Pope  had  not  yet  acted  or  suffered  enough  in  the  world  to  have 
become  weary  of  it.  And,  indeed,  it  must  have  been  some  very 
powerful  reason  that  can  drive  back  to  solitude  him  who  has  once 
enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  society. 

In  the  letters  both  of  swift  and  Pope  there  appears  such  nar- 
rowness of  mind,  as  makes  them  insensible  of  any  excellence  that 
has  not  some  affinity  with  their  own,  and  confines  their  esteem 
aiid  approbation  to  so  small  a  number,  that  whoever  should  form 
his  opinion  of  the  age  from  their  representation,  would  suppose 
them  to  have  lived  amidst  ignorance  and  barbarity,  unable  to  find 
among  their  contemporaries  either  virtue  or  intelligence,  and  per- 
eecuted  by  those  that  could  not  understand  them. 

When  Pope  murmurs  at  the  world,  when  he  professes  contempt 
of  fame,  when  he  speaks  of  riches  and  poverty,  of  success  and 
disappointment,  wiih  negligent  indifference,  he  certainly  does  not 


LIFE   OF  POPE.  67 

express  his  habitual  and  settled  sentiments,  but  either  wilfully 
diS3;uises  his  own  character,  or,  what  is  more  likely,  invests  him- 
self with  temporary  qualities,  and  sallies  out  in  the  colours  of  the 
p.esent  moment.  His  hopes  and  fears,  his  joys  and  sorrows,  acted 
strongly  upon  his  mind  ;  and,  if  he  differed  from  others,  it  was  not 
by  carelessness ;  he  was  irritable  and  resentful ;  his  malignity  to 
Philips,  whom  he  had  first  made  ridiculous,  and  then  hated  for 
bein^  angry,  continued  too  long.  Of  his  vain  desire  to  make 
Bentley  contemptible,  I  never  heard  any  adequate  reason.  He 
was  sometimes  wanton  in  his  attacks  ;  and,  before  Chandos,  lady 
Wortley,  and  Hill,  was  mean  in  his  retreat. 

The  virtues  which  seem  to  have  had  most  of  his  affection  wei-e 
liberality  and  fidelity  of  friendship,  in  which  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  was  other  than  he  describes  himself.  His  fortune  did  not 
Buffer  his  charity  to  be  splendid  and  conspicuous ;  but  he  assisted 
Dodsley  with  a  hundred  pounds,  that  he  might  open  a  shop  ;  and, 
of  the  subscription  of  forty  pounds  a  year  that  he  raised  for 
Savage,  twenty  were  paid  by  himself.  He  was  accused  of 
loving  money  ;  but  his  love  was  eagerness  to  gain,  not  solicitude 
to  keep  it. 

In  the  duties  of  friendship  he  was  zealous  and  constant ;  his 
early  maturity  of  mind  commonly  united  him  with  men  older  than 
himself,  and  therefore,  without  attaining  any  considerable  length 
of  life,  he  saw  many  companions  of  his  youth  sink  into  the  grave; 
but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  lost  a  single  friend  by  coldness  or 
by  injury  ;  those  who  loved  him  once,  continued  their  kindness. 
His  ungrateful  mention  of  Allen  in  his  will,  was  the  effect  of  his 
adherence  to  one  whom  he  had  known  much  longer,  and  whom  he 
naturally  loved  with  greater  fondness.  His  violation  of  the  trust 
rej)03ed  in  him  by  Bolingbroke,  could  have  no  motive  inconsis- 
tent with  the  warmest  affection  ;  he  either  thought  the  action  so 
near  to  indifferent  that  he  forgot  it,  or  so  laudable  that  he  expect- 
ed his  friend  to  approve  it. 

It  was  reported,  with  such  confidence  as  almost  to  enforce  belief, 
that  in  the  papers  entrusted  to  his  executors  was  found  a  defama- 
tory life  of  Swift,  which  he  had  prepared  as  an  instrument  of 
vengeance,  to  be  used  if  any  provocation  should  be  ever  given. 
About  this  I  inquired  of  the  Earl  of  Marchmont,  who  assured  me 
that  no  such  piece  was  among  his  remains. 

The  religion  in  which  he  lived  and  died  was  that  of  the  church 
of  Rome,  to  which  in  his  correspondence  with  Racine  he  professes 
himself  a  sincere  adherent.  That  he  was  not  scrupulously  pious 
in  some  part  of  his  life,  is  known  by  many  idle  and  indecent  ap- 
plications of  sentences  taken  from  the  scriptures;  a  mode  of 
merriment  which  a  good  man  dreads  for  its  profaneness,  and  a 
witty  man  disdains  for  its  easiness  and  vulgarity.  But,  to  what- 
ever levities  he  has  been  betrayed,  it  does  not  appear  that  his 
principles  were  ever  corrupted,  or  that  he  ever  lost  his  belief  of 
revelation.  The  positions  which  he  transmitted  from  Boling- 
broke he  seems  not  to  have  understood,  and  was  pleased  with  aa 
interpretation  that  made  them  orthodox. 


58  LIFE   OF  POPE. 

A  rcan  of  such  exalted  superiority,  and  so  little  moderation, 
would  naturally  have  all  his  delinquencies  observed  and  ao;gra- 
vated ;  those  who  could  not  deny  that  he  was  excellent,  would 
rejoice  to  find  that  he  was  not  perfect. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  imputed  to  the  unwillingness  with  which 
the  same  man  is  allowed  to  possess  many  advantages,  that  his 
learning  has  been  depreciated.  He  certainly  was,  in  his  early 
life,  a  man  of  great  literary  curiosity ;  and,  when  he  wrote  his 
Essay  on  Criticism,  had,  for  his  age,  a  very  wide  acquaintance 
with  books.  When  he  entered  into  the  living  world,  it  seems  to 
have  happened  to  him  as  to  many  others,  that  he  was  less  atten- 
tive to  dead  masters ;  he  studied  in  the  academy  of  Paracelsus, 
and  made  the  universe  his  favourite  volum.e.  He  gathered  his 
notions  fresh  from  reality,  not  from  the  copies  of  authors,  but  the 
originals  of  nature.  Yet  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  litera- 
ture ever  lost  his  esteem  ;  he  always  professed  to  love  reading; 
and  Dobson,  who  spent  some  time  at  bis  house  translating  his  Essay 
on  Man,  when  I  asked  him  what  learning  he  found  him  to  possess, 
answered,  **  More  than  I  expected."  His  frequent  references  to 
history,  his  allusions  to  various  kinds  of  knowledge,  and  his 
images  selected  from  art  and  nature,  with  his  observations  on  the 
operations  of  the  minds  and  the  modes  of  life,  shew  an  intelligence 
perpetually  on  the  wing,  excursive,  vigorous,  and  diligent,  eager 
to  pursue  knowledge,  and  attentive  to  retain  it. 

From  this  curiosity  arose  the  desire  of  travelling,  to  which  he 
alludes  in  his  verses  to  Jervas,  and  which,  though  he  never 
found  an  opportunity  to  gratify  it,  did  not  leave  him  till  his  life 
declined. 

Of  this  intellectual  character,  the  constituent  and  fundamental 
principle  was  good  sense,  a  prompt  and  intuitive  perception  of 
consonance  and  propriety.  He  saw  immediately,  of  his  own  con- 
ceptions, what  was  to  be  chosen,  and  what  to  be  rejected  ;  and  in 
the  works  of  others,  what  was  to  be  shunned,  and  what  was  to  be 
copied. 

But  good  sense  alone  is  a  sedate  and  quiescent  quality,  which 
manages  its  possessions  well,  but  does  not  increase  them  ;  it  col- 
lects few  materials  for  its  own  operations,  and  preserves  safety, 
but  never  gains  supremacy.  Pope  had  likewise  genius ;  a  mind 
active,  ambitious,  and  adventurous,  always  investigating,  always 
aspiring ;  in  its  widest  searches  still  longing  to  go  forward,  in  its 
highest  flights  still  wishing  to  be  higher ;  always  imagining  some« 
thing  greater  than  it  knows,  always  endeavouring  more  than  it 
can  do. 

To  assist  these  powers,  he  is  said  to  have  had  great  strength  and 
exactness  of  memory.  That  which  he  had  heard  and  read  was 
not  easily  lost ;  and  he  had  before  him  not  only  what  his  own 
meditations  suggested,  but  what  he  had  found  in  other  writers  that 
might  be  accommodated  to  his  present  purpose. 

These  benefits  of  nature  he  improved  by  incessant  and  un- 
wearied diligence  ;  he  had  recourse  to  every  source  of  intelligence, 
and  lost  no  opportunity  of  information ;  he  consulted  the  living 


LIFE   OF   POPE.  59 

as  well  as  the  dead  ;  he  read  his  compositions  to  his  friends,  and 
was  never  content  with  mediocrity,  when  excellence  could  be 
attained.  He  considered  poetry  as  the  business  oihis  life;  and» 
however  he  might  seem  to  lament  his  occupation,  he  followed  it 
with  constancy  ;  to  make  verses  was  his  first  labour,  and  to  mend 
them  was  his  last. 

From  his  attention  to  poetry  he  was  never  diverted.  If  con- 
versation offered  any  thing  that  could  be  improved,  he  committed 
it  to  paper  ;  if  a  thought,  or  perhaps  an  expression  more  happy  than 
was  common,  rose  to  his  mind,  he  was  careful  to  write  it;  an  in- 
dependent distich  was  preserved  for  an  opportunity  of  insertion  ; 
and  some  little  fragments  have  been  found  containing  lines,  ok* 
parts  of  lines,  to  be  wrought  upon  at  some  other  time. 

He  was  one  of  those  few  whose  labour  is  their  pleasure ;  he 
was  never  elevated  to  negligence,  nor  wearied  to  impatience  ;  he 
never  passed  a  fault  unamended  by  inditFerence,  nor  quitted  it  by 
despair.  He  laboured  his  works  first  to  gain  reputation,  and 
afterwards  to  keep  it. 

Of  composition  there  are  different  methods.  Some  employ  at 
once  memory  and  invention,  and,  with  little  intermediate  use  of 
the  pen,  form  and  polish  large  masses  by  continued  meditation, 
and  write  their  productions  only  when,  in  their  own  opinion,  they 
have  completed  them.  It  is  related  of  Virgil,  that  his  custom 
Was  to  pour  out  a  great  number  of  verses  in  the  morning,  and 
pass  the  day  in  retrenching  exuberances,  and  correcting  inaccu- 
racies. The  method  of  Pope,  as  may  be  collected  fi-om  his  trans- 
lation, was  to  write  his  first  thoughts  in  his  first  words,  and 
gradually  to  amplify,  decorate,  rectify,  and  refine  them. 

With  such  faculties,  and  such  dispositions,  he  excelled  every 
other  writer  in  poetical  prudence :  he  wrote  in  such  a  manner  as 
might  expose  him  to  few  hazards.  He  used  almost  always  the 
same  fabric  of  verse ;  and,  indeed,  by  those  few  essays  which  he 
made  of  any  other,  he  did  not  enlarge  his  reputation.  Of  this 
uniformity  the  certain  consequence  was  readiness  and  dexterity. 
By  perpetual  practice,  language  had,  in  his  mind,  a  systematical 
arrangement ;  having  always  the  same  use  for  words,  he  had  words 
so  selected  and  combined  as  to  be  ready  at  his  call.  This  increase 
of  facility  he  confessed  himself  to  have  perceived  in  the  progress 
of  his  translation. 

But,  what  was  yet  of  more  importance,  his  effusions  were  always 
voluntary,  and  his  subjects  chosen  by  himself.  His  independence 
secured  him  from  drudging  at  a  task,  and  labouring  upon  a  barren 
topic  ;  he  never  exchanged  praise  for  money,  nor  opened  a  shop  of 
condolence  or  congratulation.  His  poems,  therefore,  were  scarcely 
ever  temporary.  He  suffered  coronations  and  royal  marriages 
to  pass  without  a  song ;  and  derived  no  opportunities  from  recent 
events,  nor  any  popularity  from  the  accidental  disposition  of  his 
readers.  He  was  never  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  soliciting  the 
sun  to  shine  upon  a  birth-day,  of  calling  the  graces  and  virtues 
•o  a  wedding,  oi  of  saying  what  multitudes  have  said  before  him. 


60  IIPE   OF  POPE. 

When  be  could  produce  nothing  new,  he  was  at  liberty  to  be 
silent. 

His  publications  were  for  the  same  reason  never  hasty.  He  is 
Baid  to  have  sent  nothing  to  the  press  till  it  had  lain  two  years 
under  his  inspection  ;  it  is  at  least  certain,  that  he  ventured  no- 
thing without  nice  examination.  He  suffered  the  tumult  of  ima- 
gination to  subside,  and  the  naveUies  of  invention  to  grow  fami- 
liar. He  knew  that  the  mind  is  always  enamoured  of  its  own 
productions,  and  did  not  trust  his  first  fondness.  He  consulted 
his  friends,  and  listened  with  great  willingness  to  criticism  ;  and, 
what  was  of  more  importance,  he  consulted  himself,  and  let  nothing 
pass  against  his  own  judgment. 

He  professed  to  have  learnt  his  poetry  from  Dryden,  whom, 
whenever  an  opportunity  was  presented,  he  praised  through  his 
whole  life  with  unvaried  liberality  ;  and  perhaps  his  character 
may  receive  some  illustration,  if  he  be  compared  with  his  master. 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment  were  not 
allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The  recti- 
tude of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shewn  by  the  dismission 
of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts 
and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to  apply  all  the 
judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed  to  write,  merely 
for  the  people;  and  when  he  pleased  others,  he  contented  himself, 
He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers  ;  he  never 
attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good,  nor  often 
to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty.  He  wrote,  as  he 
tells  us,  with  very  little  consideration  ;  when  occasion  or  necessity 
called  upon  him,  he  poured  out  what  the  present  moment  hap- 
pened to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed  the  press,  ejected 
it  from  his  mind ;  for,  when  he  had  no  pecuniary  interest,  he  had 
no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy  ;  he  desired  to  excel,  and  there- 
fore always  endeavoured  to  do  his  best ;  he  did  not  court  the 
candour,  but  dared  the  judgment,  of  his  reader,  and,  expecting 
no  indulgence  from  others,  he  shewed  none  to  himself.  He  ex- 
amined lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observation, 
and  retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till  he  had 
left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands,  while 
he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems  which 
can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  regard  to  the 
times  as  might  hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two  satire^  of 
Thirty-eight',  of  which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were  brought 
to  him  by  the  author,  that  they  might  be  fairly  copied.  "  Almost 
every  line,"  he  said  *'  was  then  written  twice  over  ;  I  gave  him  a 
clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  afterwards  to  me  for  the 
press,  with  almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a  second  time." 

His  declaration,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their  pub 
lication,  was  not  strictly   true.      His   parental   attention    nevei 
abandoned  them ;  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he 


LIFE   OF   POPE,  61 

Bilently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  8pi?ears  to  have 
revised  thfe  Iliad,  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  unperttictions  ;  anu 
the  Essay  on  Criticism  received  many  improvements  after  its  hrsr 
appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he  altered  v/ithout  ada- 
ing  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigour.  Pope  had  pe.haps  the  juaor- 
ment  of  Dryden;  but  Dryden  certainly  wanted  the  diligence  ol' 
Pope. 

Jn  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he 
became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study,  with 
better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range,  and 
he  collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive  cir- 
cumference of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his  general 
nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions  of  Dryden 
were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation ;  and  those  of  Pope  by 
minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the  knowledge  ot 
Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either ;  for  both  excelled  like- 
wise in  prose ;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his  prede- 
cessor. The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied ;  that  of 
Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  observes  the  motions  of 
his  own  mind  ;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  compo- 
sition. Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid  ;  Pope  is  always 
smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  natural  field, 
rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance 
of  abundant  vegetation  ;  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the 
scythe,  and  levelled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet ;  that  quality 
without  which  judgment  is  cold,  and  knowledge  is  inert ;  that 
energy  which  collects,  combines, .amplifies,  and  animates,  the  su- 
periority must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dryden.  It  is 
not  to-  be  inferred,  that  of  this  poetical  vigour  Pope  had  only  a 
little,  because  Dryden  had  more;  for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope ;  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be 
said,  that,  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better  poems. 
Diyden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited  by  some 
external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity  ;  he  composed 
without  consideration,  and  published  without  correction.  What 
his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one  excursion,  was  all 
that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The  dilatory  caution  of 
Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  sentiments,  to  multiply  his 
images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  might  produce,  or  chance 
might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden  therefore  are  higher.  Pope 
continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of  Dryden's  fire  the  blaze 
is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more  regular  and  constant. 
Dryden  often  surpasses  expectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  below 
it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  astonishment,  and  Pope  with 
perpetual  delight. 

This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  considered,  be  found 
just ;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect  myself,  of 
Korae  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Dryden,  let  him  not  too 

6 


Hf  LIFE   OP   POPE. 

hastily  condemn  me;  for  meditation  and  inquiry  may,  perhaps 
shew  him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination. 


The  WORKS  of  POPE  are  now  to  be  distinctly  examined,  not 
so  much  with  attention  to  slight  faults  or  petty  beauties,  as  to  the 
general  character  and  effect  of  each  performance. 

It  seems  natural  for  a  young  poet  to  initiate  himself  by  pasto- 
rals, which,  not  professing  to  imitate  real  life,  require  no  experi- 
ence ;  and,  exhibiting  only  the  simple  operation  of  unmingled 
passions,  admit  no  subtle  reasoning  or  deep  inquiry.  Pope's 
pastorals  are  not  however  composed  but  with  close  thought;  they 
have  reference  to  the  times  of  the  day,  the  seasons  of  the  year, 
and  the  periods  of  human  life.  The  last,  that  which  turns  the 
attention  upon  old  age  and  death,  was  the  author's  favourite. 
To  tell  of  disappointment  and  misery,  to  thicken  the  darkness  of 
futurity,  and  perplex  the  labyrinth  of  uncertainty,  has  been  always 
a  delicious  employment  of  the  poets.  His  preference  was  proba- 
bly just.  I  wish,  however,  that  his  fondness  bad  not  overlooked 
a  line  in  which  the  zephyrs  are  made  io  lament  in  silence. 

To  charge  these  pastorals  with  want  of  invention,  is  to  require 
what  was  never  intended.  The  imitations  are  so  ambitiously  fre- 
quent, that  the  writer  evidently  means  rather  to  shew  his  litera- 
ture than  his  wit.  It  is  surely  sufficient  for  an  author  of  sixteen, 
not  only  to  be  able  to  copy  the  poems  of  antiquity  with  judicious 
selection,  but  to  have  obtained  sufficient  power  of  language,  and 
skill  in  metre,  to  exhibit  a  series  of  versification,  which  had  in 
English  poetry  no  precedent,  nor  has  since  had  an  imitation. 

The  design  of  Windsor  Forest  is  evidently  derived  from  Cooper's 
Hill,  with  some  attention  to  Waller's  poem  on  The  Park',  but 
Pope  cannot  be  denied  to  excel  his  masters  in  variety  arid  ele- 
gance, and  the  art  of  interchanging  description,  narrative,  and 
morality.  The  objection  made  by  Dennis  is  the  want  of  plan,  of 
a  regular  subordination  of  parts  terminating  in  the  principal  and 
original  design.  There  is  this  want  in  most  descriptive  poems  ; 
because,  as  the  scenes,  which  they  must  exhibit  successively,  ai'e 
all  subsisting  at  the  same  time,  the  order  in  which  they  are  shewn 
must  by  necessity  be  arbitrary ;  and  more  is  not  to  be  expected 
from  the  last  than  from  the  first.  The  attention,  therefore,  which 
cannot  be  detained  by  suspense,  must  be  excited  by  diversity,  such 
as  his  poem  offers  to  its  reader. 

But  the  desire  of  diversity  may  be  too  much  indulged;  the  parts 
of  fVindsor  Forest  which  deserve  least  praise,  are  those  whicli 
we»-e  added  to  enliven  the  stillness  of  the  scene — the  appearance 
of  father  Thames,  and  the  transformation  of  Lodona.  Addison 
had,  in  his  Campaign,  derided  the  rivers  that  "  rise  from  theix 
oozy  beds"  to  tell  stories  of  heroes;  and  it  is  therefore  strange 
that  Pope  should  adopt  a  fiction  not  cnly  unnatural  but  lately 
censured.  Tlie  story  of  Lodona  is  told  with  sweetness  ;  but  a  new 
metamorphosis  is   'i  ready   and  puerile   expedient;    nothing  is 


LIFE   OF   PCFE.  63 

easier  than  to  tell  how  a  flower  was  ouce  a  blooming  virgin,  or  a 
rock  an  obdurate  tyrant. 

The  Temple  of  Fame  has,  as  Steele  warmly  declared,  "  a  thou- 
sand beauties."  Every  part  is  splendid  ;  there  is  great  luxuriance 
of  ornaments ;  the  original  version  of  Chaucer  was  never  denied 
to  be  much  improved ;  the  allegory  is  very  skilfully  continued, 
the  imagery  is  properly  selected,  and  learnedly  displayed ;  yet, 
with  all  this  comprehension  of  excellence,  as  its  scene  is  laid  in 
remote  ages,  and  its  sentiments,  if  the  concluding  paragraph  be 
excepted,  have  little  relation  to  general  manners  or  common  life, 
it  never  obtained  much  notice,  but  is  turned  silently  over,  and 
seldom  quoted  or  mentioned  with  either  praise  or  blame. 

That  the  Messiah  excels  the  Pollio  is  no  great  praise,  if  it  be  con- 
Bidered  from  what  original  the  improvements  are  derived. 

The  verses  on  the  unfortunate  lady  have  drawn  much  attention, 
by  the  illaudable  singularity  of  treating  suicide  with  respect;  and 
they  must  be  allowed  to  be  written  in  some  parts  with  vigorous 
animation,  and  in  others  with  gentle  tenderness ;  nor  has  Pope 
produced  any  poem  in  which  the  sense  predominates  more  over 
the  diction.  But  the  tale  is  not  skilfully  told  ;  it  is  not  easy  to 
discover  the  character  of  either  the  lady  or  her  guardian.  History 
relates  that  she  was  about  to  disparage  herself  by  marriage  with 
an  inferior ;  Pope  praises  her  for  the  dignity  of  ambition,  and  yet 
condemns  the  uncle  to  detestation  for  his  pride;  the  ambitious 
love  of  a  niece  may  be  opposed  by  the  interest,  malice,  or  envy  of 
an  uncle,  but  never  by  his  pride.  On  such  an  occasion  a  poet 
may  be  allowed  to  be  obscure,  but  inconsistency  never  can  be 
right. 

The  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  was  undertaken  at  the  desire  of 
Steele  :  in  this  the  author  is  generally  confessed  to  have  miscar- 
ried, yet  he  has  miscarried  only  as  compared  with  Dryden ;  for 
he  has  far  outgone  other  competitors.  Dryden's  plan  is  better 
chosen  ;  history  will  always  take  stronger  hold  of  the  attention 
than  fable;  the  passions  excited  by  Dryden  are  the  pleasures  and 
pains  of  real  life  ;  the  scene  of  Pope  is  laid  in  imaginary  exis- 
tence ;  Pope  is  read  with  calm  acquiescence,  Dryden  with  turbu- 
lent delight ;  Pope  hangs  upon  the  ear,  and  Dryden  finds  the 
passes  of  the  mind. 

Both  the  odes  want  the  essential  constituent  of  metrical  com- 
positions, the  stated  recurrence  of  settled  numbers.  It  may  be 
alleged  that  Pindar  is  said  by  Horace  to  have  written  numeris 
'  lege  soluiis :  but  as  no  such  lax  performances  have  been  transmit- 
ted to  us,  the  meaning  of  that  expression  cannot  be  fixed  ;  and 
perhaps  the  like  return  might  properly  be  made  to  a  modern 
Pindarist,  as  Mr.  Cobb  received  from  Bentley,  who,  when  he 
found  his  criticisms  upon  a  Greek  exercise,  which  Cobb  had  pre- 
sented, refuted  one  after  another  by  Pindar's  authority,  cried  out 
at  last,  "  Pindar  was  a  bold  fellow,  but  thou  art  an  impudent  one.'* 

If  Pope's  ode  be  particularly  inspected,  it  will  be  found  that 
the  first  stanza  consists  of  sounds  well  chosen  indeed,  but  only 
tounds 


tf4  IIFE   OF   POPE, 

The  second  consists  of  hyperbolical  common-places,  easily  to 
be  found,  and  perhaps  without  much  difficulty  to  be  as  v/elt  ex- 
pressed. 

In  the  third,  however,  there  are  numbers,  images,  harmony, 
and  vigour,  not  unworthy  the  antagonist  of  Dryden.  Haa  ail  been 
like  this — but  every  part  cannot  be  the  best. 

The  next  stanzas  place  and  detain  us  in  the  dark  and  dismal 
regions  of  mythology,  where  neither  hope  nor  fear,  neither  joy  nor 
sorrow,  can  be  found :  the  poet,  however,  faithfully  attends  us : 
we  have  all  that  can  be  performed  by  elegance  of  diction,  or 
sweetness  of  versification ;  but  what  can  form  avail  without  better 
matter  ? 

The  last  stanza  recurs  again  to  common-places.  The  conclu- 
sion is  too  evidently  modelled  by  that  of  Dryden  ;  and  it  may  be 
remarked  that  both  end  with  the  same  fault;  the  comparison  of 
each  is  literal  on  one  side,  and  metaphorical  on  the  other. 

Poets  do  not  always  express  their  own  thoughts  ;  Pope,  with  all 
this  labour  in  the  praise  of  music,  was  ignorant  of  its  principles, 
and  insensible  of  its  effects. 

One  of  his  greatest,  though  of  his  earliest  works,  is  the  Essay 
on  Criticism,  which,  if  he  had  written  nothing  else,  would  have 
placed  him  among  the  first  critics  and  the  first  poets,  as  it  exhibits 
every  mode  of  excellence  that  can  embellish  or  dignify  didactic 
composition,  selection  of  matter,  novelty  of  arrangement,  justness 
of  precept,  splendour  of  illustration,  and  propriety  of  digression. 
1  know  not  whether  it  be  pleasing  to  consider  that  he  produced 
tliis  piece  at  twenty,  and  never  afterwards  excelled  it;  he  that 
delights  himself  with  observing  that  such  powers  may  be  so  soon 
attained,  cannot  but  grieve  to  think  that  life  was  ever  after  at  a 
stand. 

To  mention  the  particular  beauties  of  the  essay  would  be  un- 
profitably  tedious  ;  but  I  cannot  forbear  to  observe,  that  the  com- 
parison of  a  student's  progress  in  the  sciences  with  the  journey  of 
a  traveller  in  the  Alps,  is  perhaps  the  best  that  English  poetry 
can  shew.  A  simile,  to  be  perfect,  must  both  illustrate  and  en- 
noble the  subject:  must  shew  it  to  the  understanding  in  a  clearer 
view,  and  display  it  to  the  fancy  with  greater  dignity ;  but  either 
of  these  qualities  may  be  sufficient  to  recommend  it.  In  didactic 
poetry,  of  which  the  great  purpose  is  instruction,  a  simile  may  be 
praised  which  illustrates,  though  it  does  not  ennoble ;  in  heroics, 
that  may  be  admitted  which  ennobles,  though  it  does  not  illus- 
trate. That  it  may  be  complete,  it  is  required  to  exhibit,  inde-  ■■ 
pendently  of  its  references,  a  pleasing  image ;  for  a  simile  is  said 
to  be  a  short  episode.  To  this  antiquity  was  so  attentive,  tliat 
circumstances  were  sometimes  added,  which,  having  no  parallels, 
served  only  to  fill  the  imagination,  and  produced  what  Perrault, 
ludicrously  called  "comparisons  with  a  long  tail."  In  their  sitnilt-s, 
the  greatest  writers  have  sometimes  failed ;  the  ship-race,  com- 
pared with  the  chariot-race,  is  neither  illustrated  nor  aggran- 
dised ;  land  and  water  male  all  the  difi'erence :  when  Apollo, 
runaing  after  Daphne,  is  lil  eued  to  a  gvey-hound  chasing  a  har« 


LfFE    OF   POPE.  as 

there  is  nothing  gained;  tlie  ideas  of  pursuit  and  flight  are  too 
plain  to  be  made  plainer;  and  a  god,  and  the  daughter  of  a  god, 
are  not  represented  much  to  their  advantage  ty  a  hare  and  dog. 
The  simile  of  the  Alps  has  no  useless  parts,  yet  affords  a  striking 
picture  by  itself;  iOnakes  the  foregoing  position  better  understood, 
and  enables  it  to  take  faster  hold  on  the  attention ;  it  assists  the 
apprehension,  and  elevates  the  fancy. 

Let  me  likevsrise  dwell  a  little  on  the  celebrated  paragraph,  in 
which  it  is  directed  that  "  the  sound  should  seem  an  echo  to  the 
sense  ;  "  a  precept  to  which  Pope  is  allowed  to  have  observed  be- 
yond any  other  English  poet. 

This  motion  of  repi'esentative  metre,  and  the  desire  of  dis- 
covering frequent  adaptations  of  the  sound  to  the  sense,  have 
produced,  in  my  opinion,  many  wild  conceits  and  imaginary 
beauties.  AH  that  can  furnish  this  representation  are  the  sounds 
of  the  words  considered  singly,  and  the  time  in  which  they  are 
pronounced.  Every  language  has  some  words  framed  to  exhibit 
the  noises  which  they  express,  as  thump,  rattle,  growl,  hiss.  These 
hnwever  are  but  few,  and  the  poet  cannot  make  them  more,  nor  can 
they  be  of  any  use  but  when  sound  is  to  be  mentioned.  The  time 
of  pronunciation  was,  in  the  dactylic  measures  of  the  learned 
languages,  capable  of  considerable  variety ;  but  that  variety  could 
be  accommodated  only  to  motion  or  dui'ation,  and  different  degrees 
of  motion  were  perhaps  expressed  by  verses  rapid  or  slow,  with- 
out much  attention  of  the  writer,  when  the  image  had  full  posses- 
sion of  his  fancy;  but  our  language  having  little  flexibility,  our 
verses  can  differ  very  little  in  their  cadence.  The  fancied  resem- 
blances, I  fear,  arise  sometimes  merely  from  the  ambiguity  of 
words  ;  there  is  supposed  to  be  some  relation  between  a  soft  line 
and  a  soft  couch,  or  between  hard  syllables  and  hard  fortune. 

Motion,  however,  may  be  in  some  sort  exemplified  ;  and  yet  it 
may  be  suspected  that  in  such  resemblances  the  mind  often 
governs  the  ear,  and  the  sounds  are  estimated  by  their  meaning. 
One  of  their  most  successful  attempts  has  been  to  describe  the  la- 
bour of  Sisyphus : 

With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many  a  groan, 

Up  a  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone  ; 

The  huge  round  stone,  resulting  with  a  bound, 

Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes  along  the  ground. 

Who  does  not  perceive  the  stone  to  move  slowly  upward,  and  roll 
violently  back  1     But,  set  the  same  numbers  to  another  sense. 

While  many  a  merry  tale,  and  many  a  song, 
Cheer'd  the  rough  road,  we  wish'd  the  rough  road  long; 
The  rough  road  then,  returning  in  a  round, 
Mock'd  our  impatient  steps,  for  all  was  fairy  ground; 

we  have  now  surely  lost  much  of  the  delay,  and  much  of  the 

rapidity. 

Cut,  to  shew  how  little  the  greatest  master  of  numbers  can  fix 
tiie  principles  of  representative  harmony,  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
remark  that  the  poet,  who  tells  us,  that 

6» 


66  tIFE   OF   POPE. 

Wlien  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw» 

Tiie  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow; 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  mair  } 

when  he  had  enjoyed  for  about  thirty  years  the  praise  of  iCamilla'll 
lightness  of  foot,  he  tried  another  experiment  upon  sound  and  timet 
and  produced  this  memorable  triplet ; 

Waller  was  smooth ;  but  Dryden  taught  to  join      \ 
The  Taryinj  verse,  the  full  resounding  line,  > 

The  long  majestic  march,  and  energy  divine.  ) 

Here  are  the  swiftness  of  the  rapid  race,  and  the  march  of  slow» 
paced  majesty,  exhibited  by  the  same  poet  in  the  same  sequence 
of  syllables,  except  that  the  exact  prosodist  will  find  the  line  of 
twiflness  by  one  time  longer  than  that  of  tardiness. 

Beauties  of  this  kind  are  commonly  fancied ;  and,  when  real, 
are  technical  and  nugatory,  not  to  be  rejected,  and  not  to  be 
solicited. 

To  the  praises  which  have  been  accumulated  on  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  by  readers  of  every  class,  ft-om  the  critic  to  the  waiting- 
maid,  it  is  diilicult  to  make  any  addition.  Of  that  which  is  uni- 
versally allowed  to  be  the  most  attractive  of  all  ludicrous  compo- 
sitions, let  it  rather  be  now  inquired  from  what  sources  the  power 
of  pleasing  is  derived. 

Dr.  Warburton,  who  excelled  in  critical  perspicacity,  has  remarked 
that  the  preternatural  agents  are  very  happily  adapted  to  the  pur- 
poses of  the  poem.  The  heathen  deities  can  no  longer  gain 
attention :  we  should  have  turned  away  from  a  contest  between 
Venus  and  Diana.  The  employment  of  allegorical  persons  always 
excites  conviction  of  its  own  absurdity ;  they  may  produce  effects, 
but  cannot  conduct  actions  ;  when  the  phantom  is  put  in  motion,  it 
dissolves ;  thus  discord  may  raise  a  mutiny ;  but  discord  cannot 
conduct  a  march,  [or  besiege  a  town.  Pope  brought  into  view  a 
new  race  of  beings  ;  with  powers  and  passions  proportionate  to 
their  operation.  The  sylphs  and  gnomes  act,  at  the  toilet  and  the 
tea-table,  what  more  terrific  and  more  powerful  phantoms  perform 
on  the  stormy  ocean,  or  the  field  of  battle ;  they  give  their  proper 
help,  and  do  their  proper  mischief. 

Pope  is  said,  by  an  objector,  not  to  have  been  the  inventor  of 
this  petty  nation  ;  a  charge  which  might  with  more  justice  have 
been  brought  against  the  author  of  the  Iliad,  who  doubtless 
adopted  the  religious  system  of  his  country ;  for  what  is  there  but 
the  names  of  his  agents,  which  Pope  has  not  invented.  Has  he 
not  assigned  them  characters  and  operations  never  heard  of  be- 
fore? Has  he  not,  at  least,  given  tliem  their  first  poetical  exLs- 
tence  ?  If  this  is  not  sufficient  to  denominate  his  work  original, 
nothing  original  ever  can  be  written. 

In  this  work  are  exhibited,  in  a  very  high  degree,  the  two  most 
engaging  powers  of  an  author.  New  things  are  made  familiar, 
and  iamiliar  things  are  made  new.  A  race  of  aerial  people,  never 
heard  oc  before,  is  presented  to  us,  in  a  manner  so  clear  and  easy. 


U 


LIFE    OF  POPE.  67 

that  tlie  reader  seeks  for  no  further  information,  but  immediately 
mingles  with  his  new  acquaintance,  adopts  their  interests,  and  at- 
tends their  pursuits,  loves  a  &ylph,  and  detests  a  gnome. 

That  familiar  things  are  made  new,  every  paragraph  will  prove. 
The  subject  of  the  poem  is  an  event  below  the  common  incidents 
of  common  life ;  nothing  real  is  introduced  that  is  not  seen  so 
often  as  to  be  no  longer  regarded ;  yet  the  whole  detail  of  a 
female-day  is  here  brought  before  us,  invested  with  so  much  art  of 
decoration,  that,  though  nothing  is  disguised,  every  thing  is  strik- 
ing, and  we  feel  all  the  appetite  of  curiosity  for  that  from  which 
we  have  a  thousand  times  turned  fastidiously  away. 

The  purpose  of  the  poet  is,  as  he  tells  us,  to  laugh  at  "  the 
little  unguarded  follies  of  the  female  sex."  It  is  therefore  with- 
out justice  that  Dennis  charges  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  with  the 
want  of  a  moral,  and  for  that  reason  sets  it  below  the  Lutrin, 
which  exposes  the  pride  and  discord  of  the  clergy.  Perhaps  nei- 
ther Pope  nor  Boileau  has  made  the  world  much  better  than  he 
found  it;  but  if  they  had  both  succeeded  it  were  easy  to  tell  who 
would  have  deserved  most  from  public  gratitude.  The  freaks,  and 
humours,  and  spleen,  and  vanity  of  women,  as  they  embroil  fami- 
lies in  discord,  and  fill  houses  with  disquiet,  do  more  to  obstruct 
the  happiness  of  life  in  a  year  than  the  ambition  of  the  clergy  in 
many  centuries.  It  has  been  well  observed,  that  the  misery  of 
man  proceeds  not  from  any  single  crush  of  overwhelming  evil,  but 
from  small  vexations  continually  repeated. 

It  is  remarked  by  Dennis  likewise,  that  the  machinery  is  super- 
fluous ;  that,  by  all  the  bustle  of  preternatural  operation,  the  main 
event  is  neither  hastened  nor  retarded.  To  this  charge  an  effica- 
cious answer  is  not  easily  made.  The  sylphs  cannot  be  said  to 
help  or  to  oppose;  and  it  must  be  allowed  to  imply  some  want  of 
art,  that  their  power  has  not  been  suflSciently  intermingled  with 
the  action.  Other  parts  may  likewise  be  charged  with  want 
of  connection  ;  the  game  at  ombre  might  be  spared ;  but,  if  the 
lady  had  lost  her  hair  while  sbe  was  intent  upon  her  cards,  it 
might  have  been  inferred  that  those  who  are  too  fond  of  play  will 
be  in  danger  of  neglecting  more  important  interests.  Those  per- 
haps are  faults;  but,  what  are  such  faults  to  so  much  excellence  ? 

The  epistle  of  Eloise  to  Ahelard  is  one  of  the  most  happy  pro- 
ductions of  human  wit:  the  subject  is  so  judiciously  chosen,  that 
it  would  be  difficult,  in  turning  over  the  annals  of  the  world,  to 
find  another  which  so  many  circumstances  concur  to  recommend. 

We  regularly  interest  ourselves  most  in  the  fortune  of  those 
who  most  deserve  our  notice.  Abelard  and  Eloise  were  conspi- 
cuous in  tlieir  days  for  eminence  of  merit.  The  heart  naturally 
loves  truth.  The  adventures  and  misfortunes  of  this  illustrious 
pair  are  known  from  undisputed  history.  Their  fate  does  not 
leave  the  mind  in  hopeless  dejection  ;  for  they  both  found  quiet 
and  consolation  in  retirement  and  piety.  So  new  and  so  aifecting 
is  their  story,  that  it  supersedes  invention ;  and  imagination 
ranges  at  full  liberty  without  straggling  into  scenes  of  fable. 

The  story,  thus  skilfully  adopted,  has  been  iil^gently  improved. 


(rS  LIFE  OP  POPE. 

Pope  has  left  nothing  behind  him  which  seems  more  the  effect  of 
studious  perseverance  and  laborious  revisal.  Here  is  particularly 
observable  the  curiosa  felicitas,  a  fruitful  soil  and  careful  cultiva- 
tion.    Here  is  no  crudeness  of  sense,  nor  asperity  of  language. 

The  sources  from  which  sentiments,  which  have  so  much  vigour 
and  efficacy,  have  been  drawn,  are  shewn  to  be  the  mystic  writers, 
by  the  learned  author  of  the  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of 
Pope ;  a  book  which  teaches  how  the  brow  of  criticism  may  be 
smoothed,  and  how  she  may  be  enabled,  with  all  her  severity,  to 
attract  and  to  delight. 

The  train  of  my  disquisition  has  now  conducted  me  to  that 
poetical  wonder,  the  translation  of  the  Iliad,  a  performance  which 
no  age  or  nation  can  pretend  to  equal.  To  the  Greeks  translation 
was  almost  unknown  ;  it  was  totally  unknown  to  the  inhabitants 
of  Greece.  They  had  no  recourse  to  the  barbarians  for  poetical 
beauties,  but  sought  for  everything  in  Homer,  where,  indeed, 
there  is  but  little  that  they  might  not  find. 

The  1  talians  have  been  very  diligent  translators ;  but  I  can  hear 
of  no  version,  unless  perhaps  Anguilara's  Ovid  may  be  excepted, 
which  is  read  with  eagerness.  The  Iliad  of  Salvini  every  reader 
may  discover  to  be  punctiliously  exact;  but  it  seems  to  be  the 
work  of  a  linguist  skilfully  pedantic  ;  and  his  countrymen,  the 
proper  judges  of  its  povver  to  please,  reject  it  with  disgust. 

Their  predecessors,  the  Romans,  have  left  some  specimens  of 
translations  behind  them ;  and  that  employment  must  have  had 
some  credit  in  which  TuUy  and  Germanicus  engaged  :  but,  unless 
we  suppose,  what  is  perhaps  true,  that  the  plays  of  Terence  were 
versions  of  Menander,  nothing  translated  seems  ever  to  have  risen 
to  high  reputation.  The  French,  in  the  meridian  hour  of  their 
learning,  were  very  laudably  industrious  to  enrich  their  own  lan- 
guage with  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients;  but  found  themselves 
reduced,  by  whatever  necessity,  to  turn  the  Greek  and  Roman  poe- 
try into  prose.  Whoever  could  read  an  author  could  translate 
him.     From  such  rivals  little  can  be  feared. 

The  chief  help  of  Pope  in  this  arduous  undertaking  was  drawn 
from  the  versions  of  Dryden.  Virgil  had  borrowed  much  of  his 
imagery  from  Homer,  and  part  of  the  debt  was  now  paid  by  his 
translator.  Pope  searched  the  pages  of  Dryden  for  happy  combi- 
nations of  heroic  diction;  but  it  will  not  be  denied  that  he  added 
much  to  what  he  found.  He  cultivated  our  language  with  so 
much  diligence  and  art,  that  he  has  left  in  his  Homer  a  treasure 
of  poetical  elegancies  to  posterity.  His  version  may  be  said  to 
have  tuned  the  English  tongue;  for  since  its  appearance,  no 
writer,  however  deficient  in  other  powers,  has  wanted  melody. 
Such  a  series  of  lines,  so  elaborately  corrected,  and  so  sweetly 
modulated,  took  possession  of  the  public  ear ;  the  vulgar  was 
enamoured  of  the  poem,  and  the  learned  wondered  at  the  transla- 
tion. 

But,  in  the  most  general  applause,  discordant  voices  will  always 
be  heard.  It  has  been  objected  by  some,  who  wish  to  be  num- 
bered among  the  sons  of  learning,  that  Pope's  version  of  Homer 


tlFE    OF   POPE.  .     69 

Is  not  Homerical ;  that  it  exhibits  no  resemblance  of  the  original 
and  characteristic  manner  of  the  father  of  poetry,  as  it  wants  his 
awful  simplicity,  his  artless  grandeur,  his  unaffected  majesty. 
This  cannot  be  totally  denied,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
necessitas  quod  cogit  defendit  ;  that  njay  be  lawfully  done  which 
cannot  be  forborne.  Time  and  place  will  always  enforce  regard. 
In  estimating  this  translation,  consideration  must  be  had  of  the 
nature  of  our  language,  the  form  of  our  metre,  and,  above  all,  of 
the  change  which  two  thousand  years  have  made  in  the  modes  of 
life  and  the  habits  of  thought.  Virgil  wrote  in  language  of  the 
same  general  fabric  with  that  of  Homer,  in  verses  of  the  same 
measure,  and  in  an  age  nearer  to  Homer's  time  by  eighteen  hun- 
dred years ;  yet  he  found,  even  then,  the  state  of  the  world  so 
much  altered,  and  the  demand  for  elegance  so  much  increased, 
that  mere  nature  would  be  endured  no  longer ;  and  perhaps,  in  the 
multitude  of  borrowed  passages,  very  few  can  be  shewn  which  he 
has  not  embellished. 

There  is  a  time  when  nations,  emerging  from  barbarity,  and 
falling  into  regular  subordination,  gain  leisure  to  grow  wise,  and 
feel  the  shame  of  ignorance  and  the  craving  pain  of  unsatisfied 
curiosity.  To  this  hunger  of  the  mind  plain  sense  is  grateful ; 
that  which  fills  the  void  removes  uneasiness,  and  to  be  free  from 
pain  for  a  while  is  pleasure  ;  but  repletion  generates  fastidiousness ; 
a  saturated  intellect  soon  becomes  luxurious,  and  knov/ledge  finds 
no  willing  reception  till  it  is  recommended  by  artificial  diction. 
Thus  it  will  be  found,  in  the  progress  of  learning,  that,  in  all 
nations,  the  first  writers  are  simple  ,  and  that  every  age  improves 
in  elegance.  One  refinement  always  makes  way  for  another:  and 
what  was  expedient  to  Virgil  was  necessary  to  Pope. 

I  suppose  many  readers  of  the  English  Iliad,  when  they  have 
been  touched  with  some  unexpected  beauty  of  the  lighter  kind, 
have  tried  to  enjoy  it  in  the  original,  where,  alas !  it  was  not  to 
be  found.  Homer  doubtless  owes  to  his  translator  many  Ovidian 
graces  not  exactly  suitable  to  his  character ;  but  to  have  added 
can  be  no  great  crime,  if  nothing  be  taken  away.  Elegance  is 
surely  to  be  desired,  if  it  be  not  gained  at  the  expense  of  dignity. 
A  hero  would  wish  to  be  loved,  as  well  as  to  be  reverenced. 

To  a  thousand  cavils  one  answer  is  suflBcient ;  the  purpose  of  a 
Writer  is  to  be  read,  and  the  criticism  which  would  destroy  the 
power  of  pleasing  must  be  blown  aside.  Pope  wrote  for  his  own 
age  and  his  own  nation  :  he  knew  that  it  was  necessary  to  colour 
the  images  and  point  the  sentiments  of  his  author;  he  therefore 
made  him  graceful,  but  lost  him  some  of  his  sublimity. 

The  copious  notes  with  which  the  version  is  accompanied,  and 
by  which  it  is  recommended  to  many  readers,  though  they  were 
undoubtedly  written  to  swell  the  volumes,  ought  not  to  pass  with' 
out  praise  :  commentaries  which  attract  the  reader  by  the  pleasure 
of  perusal  have  not  often  appeared;  the  notes  of  others  are  read 
to  clear  difficulties,  those  of  Pope  to  vary  entertainment. 

It  has  however  been  objected,  with  sufficient  reason,  that  there  is 
in  the  commentary  too  much  of  unseasonable  levity  and  affected 


70  IIPE   07  POPE. 

gaiety  j  that  too  many  appeals  are  made  to  the  ladies,  and  the 
case  which  is  so  carefully  preserved  is  sometimes  the  ease  of  a 
trifler.  Every  art  has  its  terms,  and  every  kind  of  instruction  it» 
proper  style  ;  the  gravity  of  common  critics  may  be  tedious,  but  is 
less  despicable  than  childish  merriment. 

Of  the  Odyssey  nothing  remains  to  be  observed ;  the  same 
general  praise  may  be  given  to  both  translations,  and  a  particular 
examination  of  either  would  require  a  large  volume.  The  notes 
were  written  by  Broome,  who  endeavoured,  not  unsuccessfully,  to 
imitate  his  master. 

Of  the  Dunciad  the  hint  is  confessedly  taken  from  Dryden's 
Mac  Flecknoe ;  but  the  plan  is  so  enlarged  and  diversified  as 
justly  to  claim  the  praise  of  an  original,  and  affords  the  best  speci- 
men that  has  yet  appeared  of  personal  satire  ludicrously  pompous 

That  the  design  was  moral,  whatever  the  author  might  tell 
either  his  readers  or  himself,  I  am  not  convinced.  The  first  mo- 
tive was  the  desire  of  revenging  the  contempt  with  which  Theobald 
had  treated  his  Shakspere,  and  regaining  the  honour  which  he  had 
lost,  by  crushing  his  opponent.  Theobald  was  not  of  bulk  enough 
to  fill  a  poem,  and  therefore  it  was  necessary  to  find  other  enemies, 
with  other  names,  at  whose  expense  he  might  divert  the  public. 

In  this  design  there  was  petulance  and  malignity  enough  ;  but 
I  cannot  think  it  very  criminal.  An  author  places  himself,  un- 
called, before  the  tribunal  of  criticism  ;  and  solicits  fame,  at  the 
hazard  of  disgrace.  Dulness  or  deformity  are  not  culpable  in 
themselves,  but  may  be  very  justly  reproached,  when  they  pretend 
to  the  honour  of  wit,  or  the  influence  of  beauty.  If  bad  writers 
were  to  pass  without  reprehension,  what  should  restrain  them  t 
impune  diem  consumpserit  ingens  Telephus ;  and  upon  bad  writers 
only  will  censure  have  much  effect.  The  satire  which  brought 
Theobald  and  Moore  into  contempt,  dropped  impotent  from 
Bentley,  like  the  javelin  of  Priam. 

All  truth  is  valuable,  and  satirical  criticism  may  be  considered 
as  useful  when  it  rectifies  error  and  improves  judgment;  he  that 
refines  the  public  taste  is  a  public  benefactor. 

The  beauties  of  this  poem  are  well  known  ;  its  chief  fault  is  the 
grossness  of  its  images.  Pope  and  Swift  had  an  unnatural  delight 
in  ideas  physically  impure,  such  as  every  other  tongue  utters 
with  unwillingness,  and  of  which  every  ear  shrinks  from  thie 
mention. 

But  even  this  fault,  ofFenslve  as  it  is,  may  be  forgiven  for  the 
excellence  of  other  passages ;  such  as  the  formation  and  dissolution 
of  Moore,  the  account  of  the  traveller,  the  misfortune  of  the  florist^ 
and  the  crowded  thoughts  and  stately  numbers  which  dignify  the 
concluding  paragraph. 

The  alterations  which  have  been  made  in  the  Dunciad,  not  al- 
ways for  the  better,  require  that  it  should  be  published,  as  in  the 
present  collection,  with  all  its  variations. 

The  Essay  on  Man  was  a  work  of  great  labour  and  long  consi- 
deration, but  certainly  not  the  happiest  of  Pope's  performances. 
The  subject  is  perhaps  not  very  proper  for  poetry ;  and  the  poet 


ttFE    or  POPE.  M 

Tvas  not  sufficiently  master  of  his  subject :  metaphysical  moralitj 
was  to  him  a  new  study ;  he  was  proud  of  his  acquisition^,  and, 
supposing  himself  master  of  o^reat  secrets,  was  in  haste  to  teach 
what  he  had  not  learned.  Thus  he  tells  us,  in  his  first  epistle, 
that,  from  the  nature  of  the  Supreme  Being,  may  he  deduced  an 
order  of  beings  such  as  mankind,  because  Infinite  Excellence  cai» 
do  only  what  is  best.  He  finds  out  that  these  beings  must  be 
tomewhere  ;  and  that  "  all  the  question  is,  whether  man  be  in  a 
wrong  place?"  Surely,  if,  according  to  the  poet's  Leibnitiaft 
reasoning,  we  may  infer  that  man  ought  to  be,  only  because  he  is, 
we  may  allow  that  his  place  is  the  right  place,  because  he  has  it. 
Supreme  Wisdom  is  not  less  infallible  in  disposing  than  in  creat- 
ing. But  what  is  meant  by  somewhere,  and  place,  and  wrong  place, 
it  had  been  vain  to  ask  Pope,  who  probably  had  never  asked 
himself. 

Having  exalted  himself  into  the  chair  of  wisdom,  he  tells  us 
much  that  every  man  knows,  and  much  that  he  does  not  know 
himself ;  that  we  see  but  little,  and  that  the  order  of  the  universe 
is  beyond  our  comprehension ;  an  opinion  not  very  uncommon ; 
and  that  there  is  a  chain  of  subordinate  beings  "  from  infinite  to 
nothing,"  of  which  himself  and  his  readers  are  equally  ignorant. 
But  he  gives  us  one  comfort,  which  without  his  help  he  supposes 
unattainable,  in  the  position  "  that  though  we  are  fools,  yet  God 
is  wise." 

The  essay  affords  an  egregious  instance  of  the  predominance  of 
genius,  the  dazzling  splendour  of  imagery,  and  the  seductive 
powers  of  eloquence.  Never  were  penury  of  knowledge  and 
vulgarity  of  sentiment  so  happily  disguised.  The  reader  feels  his 
mind  full,  though  he  learns  nothing;  and,  when  he  meets  it  in  its 
new  array,  no  longer  knows  the  talk  of  his  mother  and  his  nurse. 
When  these  wonder-working  sounds  sink  into  sense,  and  the 
doctrine  of  the  essay,  disrobed  of  its  ornaments,  is  left  to  the 
powers  of  its  naked  excellence,  what  shall  we  discover  ?  That 
we  are,  in  comparison  with  our  Creator,  very  weak  and  ignorant ; 
that  we  do  not  uphold  the  chain  of  existence ;  and  that  we  could 
not  make  one  another  with  more  skill  than  we  are  made.  We 
may  learn  yet  more :  that  the  arts  of  human  life  were  copied 
from  the  instinctive  operations  of  other  animals ;  that  if  the  world 
be  made  for  man,  it  may  be  said  that  man  was  made  for  geese. 
To  these  profound  principles  of  natural  knowledge  are  added 
some  moral  instructions  equally  new:  that  self-interest,  well  un- 
derstood, will  produce  social  concord;  that  men  are  mutual 
gainers  by  mutual  benefits  ;  that  evil  is  sometimes  balanced  by 
good ;  that  human  advantages  are  unstable  and  fallacious,  of  uncer- 
tain duration,  and  doubtful  effect ;  that  our  true  honour  is,  not  to 
have  a  great  part,  but  to  act  it  well ;  that  virtue  only  is  our  own  i 
and  that  happiness  is  always  in  our  power. 

Surely  a  man  of  no  very  comprehensive  search  may  venture  t« 
say  that  he  has  heard  all  this  before ;  but  it  was  never  till  now  re- 
commended by  such  a  blaze  of  embellishments,  or  such  sweetness 
of  melody.     The  vigorous  contraction  of  some  thoughts,  the  luX' 


72  LIFE    OF   POPS, 

uriant  amplification  of  others,  the  incidental  illustrations,  and 
sometimes  the  dignity,  sometimes  the  softness  of  the  verses,  en- 
chain philosophy,  suspend  criticism,  and  oppress  judgment,  by 
overpowering  pleasure. 

This  is  true  of  many  paragraphs ;  yet,  if  I  had  undertaken  to 
exemplify  Pope's  felicity  of  composition  before  a  rigid  critic,  I 
should  not  select  the  Essay  on  Man  ;  for  it  contains  more  lines  un- 
successfully laboured,  more  harshness  of  diction,  more  thoughts 
imperfectly  expressed,  more  levity  without  elegance,  and  more 
eaviness  without  strength,  than  will  easily  be  found  in  all  his 
ther  works. 

The  Characters  of  Men  and  Women  are  the  product  of  diligent 
speculation  upon  human  life :  much  labour  has  been  bestowed  up- 
on them,  and  Pope  very  seldom  laboured  in  vain.  That  his  ex- 
cellence may  be  properly  estimated,  I  recommend  a  comparison  of 
his  Characters  of  Women  with  Boileau's  satire ;  it  will  then  be  seen 
with  how  much  more  perspicacity  female  nature  is  investigated, 
and  female  excellence  selected ;  and  he  surely  is  no  mean  writer 
to  whom  Boileau  should  be  found  inferior.  The  Characters  of 
Men,  however,  are  written  with  more,  if  not  with  deeper,  tliought, 
and  exhibit  many  passages  exquisitely  beautiful.  The  Gem  and 
the  Flower  will  not  easily  be  equalled.  In  the  woman's  part  are 
some  defects :  the  character  of  Atossa  is  not  so  neatly  finished  as 
that  of  Clodio ;  and  some  of  the  female  characters  may  be  found 
perhaps  more  frequently  among  men ;  what  is  said  of  Philomede 
was  true  of  Prior. 

In  the  epistles  to  Lord  Bathurst  and  Lord  Burlington,  Dr. 
Warburton  has  endeavoured  to  find  a  train  of  thought  which  was 
never  in  the  writer's  head,  and,  to  support  his  hypothesis,  has 
printed  that  first  which  was  published  last.  In  one,  the  most 
valuable  passage  is  perhaps  the  eulogy  on  good  sense ;  and  the  other, 
the  end  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

The  epistle  to  Arbuthnot,  now  arbitrarily  called  the  prologue  to 
the  satires,  is  a  performance  consisting,  as  it  seems,  of  many  frag- 
ments wrought  into  one  design,  which,  by  this  union  of  scattered 
beauties,  contains  more  striking  paragraphs  than  could  probably 
have  been  brought  together  into  an  occasional  work.  As  there  is 
no  stronger  motive  to  exertion  than  self-defence,  no  part  has  more 
elegance,  spirit,  or  dignity,  than  the  poet's  vindication  of  his  own 
character.     The  meanest  passage  is  the  satire  upon  Sporus. 

Of  the  two  poems  which  derived  their  names  from  the  year,  and 
which  are  called  the  epilogue  to  the  satires,  it  was  very  justly  re- 
marked by  Savage,  that  the  second  was  in  the  whole  more  strongly 
conceived,  and  more  equally  supported,  but  that  it  had  no  single 
passages  equal  to  the  contention  in  the  first  for  the  dignity  of 
vice,  and  the  celebration  of  the  triumph  of  corruption. 

The  imitations  of  Horace  seem  to  have  been  written  as  relaxa- 
tions of  genius.  This  employment  became  his  favourite  by  its 
facility ;  the  plan  was  ready  to  his  hand,  and  nothing  was  required 
but  to  accommodate  as  he  could  the  sentiments  of  an  old  author 
to  recent  facts  or  familiar  images ;  but  what  is  easy  is  seldom  ex- 


LIFE    OF    pops.  7S 

callent;  such  imitations  c;iuaac  give  pleasure  to  common  readers  , 
the  man  of  learning'  may  be  sometimes  surprised  and  delighted  by 
an  unexpected  parallel ;  but  the  comparison  requires  knowledge 
of  the  original,  which  will  likewise  often  detect  strained  applica- 
tions. Between  Roman  images  and  English  manners,  there  will 
be  an  irreconcilable  dissimilitude,  and  the  work  will  be  generally 
uncouth  and  party-coloured;  neither  original  nor  translated,  nei- 
ther ancient  nor  modern. 

Pope  had,  in  proportions  very  nicely  adjusted  to  each  other,  all 
the  qualities  that  constitute  genius.  He  had  invention,  by  which 
new  trains  of  events  are  formed,  and  new  scenes  of  imagery  dis- 
played, as  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  ;  and  by  which  extrinsic  and 
adventitious  embellishments  and  illustrations  are  connected  with 
a  known  subject,  as  in  the  Essay  on  Criticism  :  he  had  imagina- 
tion, which  strongly  impresses  on  the  writer's  mind,  and  enables 
him  to  convey  to  the  reader,  the  various  forms  of  nature,  incidents 
of  life,  and  energies  of  passion,  as  in  his  Eloisa,  Windsor  Forest,  and 
Ethic  Epistles  i  he  had  judgment,  which  selects  from  life  or  nature 
what  the  present  purpose  requires ;  and,  by  separating  the  essence 
of  things  from  its  concomitants,  often  makes  the  representation 
more  powerful  than  the  reality:  and  he  had  colours  of  language 
always  before  him,  ready  to  decorate  his  matter  with  every  grace 
of  elegant  expression,  as  when  he  accommodates  his  diction  to  the 
wonderful  multiplicity  of  Homer's  sentiments  and  descriptions. 

Poetical  expression  includes  sound  as  well  as  meaning ;  "  Music,** 
says  Dryden,  "  is  inarticulate  poetry :  "  among  the  excellencies  of 
Pope,  therefore,  must  be  mentioned  the  melody  of  his  metre.  By 
perusing  the  works  of  Dryden,  he  discovered  the  most  perfect  fa« 
l)ric  of  English  verse,  and  habituated  himself  to  that  only  which 
he  found  the  best ;  in  consequence  of  which  restraint,  his  poetry 
has  been  censured  as  too  uniformly  musical,  and  as  glutting  the 
ear  with  unvaried  sweetness.  I  suspect  this  objection  to  be  the 
cant  of  those  who  judge  by  principles  rather  than  perception ;  and 
who  would  even  themselves  have  less  pleasure  in  his  works, 
if  he  had  tried  to  relieve  attention  by  studied  discords,  or  affected 
to  break  his  lines  and  vary  liis  pauses. 

But,  though  he  was  thus  careful  of  his  versification,  he  did  not 
oppi'css  his  powers  with  superfluous  rigour.  He  seems  to  have 
tlioughtwith  Boileau,  that  the  practice  of  writing  might  be  refined 
till  the  difficulty  should  overbalance  the  advantage.  The  con- 
Btruction  of  his  language  is  not  always  strictly  grammatical ;  with 
those  rhymes  which  prescription  had  conjoined,  he  contented  hini- 
Belf,  without  regard  to  Swift's  remonstrances,  though  there  was  i.e 
striking  consonance;  nor  was  he  very  careful  to  vary  his  termina- 
tions, or  to  refuse  admission,  at  a  small  distance,  to  the  same; 
rhymes. 

To  Swift's  edict  for  exclusion  of  alexandrines  and  triplets  be 
paid  little  regard  ;  he  admitted  them,  but,  in  the  opinion  of  Fen* 
ton,  too  rarely;  he  uses  them  more  liberally  in  his  translation  thar 
kia  poems. 


74  tlFB   OP   POPE, 

He  has  a  few  double  rhymes ;  and  always,  I  think,  unsuccess- 
fully, except  once  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock. 

Expletives  he  very  early  ejected  from  his  verses ;  but  he  now 
and  then  admits  an  epithet  rather  commodious  than  important. 
Each  of  the  first  six  lines  of  the  Iliad  might  lose  two  syllables 
with  very  little  diminution  of  the  meaning;  and  sometimes,  after 
all  his  art  and  labour,  one  verse  seems  to  be  made  for  the  sake  of 
another.  In  his  latter  productions  the  diction  is  sometimes 
vitiated  by  French  idioms,  with  which  Bolingbroke  had  perha^)S 
infected  him. 

I  have  been  told  that  the  couplet  by  which  he  declared  his  own 
ear  to  be  most  gratified  was  this : 

Lo,  where  Masotis  sleeps,  and  hardly  flows 
The  freezing  Tanais  through  a  waste  of  snowf* 

But  the  reason  of  this  preference  I  cannot  discover. 

It  is  remarked  by  Watts,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  happy  com- 
bination of  words,  or  a  phrase  poetically  elegant  in  the  English 
language,  which  Pope  has  not  inserted  into  his  version  of  Homer. 
How  he  obtained  possession  of  so  many  beauties  of  speech,  it 
were  desirable  to  know.  That  he  gleaned  from  authors,  obscura 
as  well  as  eminent,  what  he  thought  brilliant  or  useful,  and  pre- 
served it  all  in  a  regular  collection,  is  not  unlikely.  When,  in  his 
last  years,  Hall's  satires  were  shewn  him,  he  wished  that  he  had 
seen  them  sooner. 

New  sentiments  and  new  images  others  may  produce  ;  but  to  at- 
tempt any  farther  improvement  of  versification  will  be  dangerous. 
Art  and  diligence  have  now  done  their  best,  and  what  shall  be 
added  will  be  the  effort  of  tedious  toil  and  needless  curiosity. 

After  all  this,  it  is  surely  superfluous  to  answer  the  question 
that  has  once  been  asked,  WTi ether  Pope  was  a  poet?  other- 
wise than  by  asking  in  return.  If  Pope  be  not  a  poet,  v/here  is 
poetry  to  be  found  ?  To  circumscribe  poetry  by  a  definition  will 
only  shew  the  narrowness  of  the  definer,  though  a  definition  which 
shall  exclude  Pope  will  not  easily  be  made.  Let  us  look  round 
upon  the  present  time,  and  back  upon  the  past ;  Let  us  inquire  to 
whom  the  voice  of  mankind  has  decreed  the  wreath  of  poetry  ; 
let  their  productions  be  examined,  and  their  claims  stated,  and  the 
pretentions  of  Pope  will  be  no  more  disputed.  Had  he  given  the 
world  only  his  version,  the  name  of  poet  must  have  been  allowed 
him :  if  the  writer  of  the  Iliad  were  to  class  his  successors,  he 
would  assign  a  very  high  place  to  his  translator,  without  requiring 
any  other  evidence  of  genius. 


r 


TMS 

RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK. 

A  HEROI-COMIC  POEM. 


CANTO  I. 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mij^hty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing. — This  verse  to  Caryl,  Muse  I  is  due : 
This,  ev'n  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  to  assault  a  gentle  belle  ? 
O,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ? 
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  returned  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  press'd. 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolong'd  the  balmy  rest; 
'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  ev'n  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to  glow, 
Secm'd  to  her  ear  his  winning  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  touched  thy  infant  thought. 
Of  all  the  nurse  and^ll  the  priest  have  taught; 
Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen. 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green. 


RAPE   OP   THE    LOCK. 


77 


Oi  virgins  visited  by  angel-powers 

With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heavenly  floweri; 

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  revealed ; 

What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may  give; 

Tlie  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe: 

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  rovmd  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. 

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  caidt. 

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. 

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  farther  ^et ;  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. 
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  ^>.  the  word  with  men  below. 

*  Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of  their  face^ 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace. 

These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their  pride, 
When  offers  are  disdain'd  and  love  denied:  ^ 

%* 


78  RAPE    OF   THE    LOCK. 

Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 

While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping  tra!a5 

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  hidden  blush  to  know, 

And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau. 

'  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 ;    [strive, 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword  knots  sword  knots 
Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call ; 
O,  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. 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or  where  ; 
Warn'd  by  the  sylph,  O  pious  maid,  beware  I 
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  ardors  were  no  sooner  read, 
But  all  the  vision  vanish'd  from  thy  head. 

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; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  cui'ious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 


1 


IIAFE    OF    THE    LOCK. 


r^ 


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, 

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  gowas 

And  Betty's  praised  for  labours  not  her  owfi. 


CANTO  ir. 

Not  witli  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain, 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 

Then,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 

Launch'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dress'd  youths  around  hershonej 

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; 

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  them  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind. 
Nourish 'd  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
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  insnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

The  adventurous  bavon  the  bright  locks  admii*ed; 
He  saw,  he  wish'd,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way. 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  v/hen  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  tro])hies  of  his  former  loves; 
With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire, 


RAPE   OF   THE    LOCK.  81 

Then  piostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eye» 
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  sun-beams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  soften'd  sounds  along  the  waters  die; 
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  wo  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  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; 
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  dies ; 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colours  flings, 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their  wingl* 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed ; 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun  t — 

*  Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief  give  earl 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 

Ye  know  the  spheres  and  various  tasks  assign'd 
By  laAvs  eternal  to  the  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day; 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandei-ing  orbs  on  high) 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky ; 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  tlie  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mist  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brev^r  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  guards  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 

*  Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  tl\ough  less  glorious  care : 


■^1— ^  ■■■!         .  ■■         ■—  ,■■■■■  .,  ■■■,  .1.,—  , -■■« ■  ■■     -fcl        ,  , 

82  RAPE  OF  THK   LOCK. 

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. 

'  This  day  black  omens  threat  the  brightest  faif 

That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care  ; 

Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force  or  slight ; 

Bat  what  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapp'd  in  night. 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law, 
^     Or  some  frail  China  jar  receive  a  flaw, 

Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  ne\V  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  tall* 

Haste  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge  repair: 

Tiie  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care  : 

Tlie  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign ; 

And,  Monientilla,  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  seven-fold  fence  to  fail, 
Thoiigli  stiff  with  hoops,  andarm'd  with  ribs  of  whale  | 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 

And  guard  the  wide  circumferance  ai-ound. 

*  Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 
Sliall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his  sin^ 
lie  stopp'd  in  vials,  or  ti-ansfixed  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  vaini 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  shrivel'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  pendents  of  her  ear ; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  tliey  wait; 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  €ate. 

: — . [ 


83 


CANTO  III. 

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  neighbouring  Hampton  takes  its  naiue^ 
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 ; 
In  various  talk  the  instructive  hours  they  pass'd, 
Who  gave  the  hall,  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  &il  tl.?t 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ; 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine ; 
The  merchant  from  th'  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  arms  to  join, 
Eaclfband  the  number  of  the  sacred  Nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  the  aerijjl  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 
First  Ariel  pwrch'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, 
The  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power ; 


84  RAPE    OF  THE    LOCK. 

Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band, 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  hand  f 
And  party-colour'd  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Drawn  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 

The  skilful  nymph  reviews  hsr  force  with  care — 
'Let  spades  be  trumps !  *  she  said,  and  trumps  they  werow 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord  I 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the  board } 
As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 
And  marched  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  g 
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. 
Ev'n  mighty  Pam,  that  kings  and  queens  o'erthrew. 
And  mow'd  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  Lu  ;— 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid. 
Falls  undistingiuished  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  Clubs'  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died. 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien  and  barbarous  pride  t 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head. 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldly  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. 
Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  contusion  different  nations  fty. 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  die; 
The  pierc'd  battalions  disunited  fall. 
In  heaps  on  heaps  ;  one  fate  o'crwhelms  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  ; 


RAPE   OF   THE   LOCK.  85 

She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 

Justin  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  step  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  woot'w,  and  long  canals  reply. 

O  thoughtless  mortals !  ever  blind  to  fate. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden  these  honours  shall  be  snatch'd  away. 
And  curs'd  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crowii'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: 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
S*aight  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  thro'  all  things  with  his  half  shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
Ah  cease,  rash  youth !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late  ; 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate! 
Chang'd  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injur'd  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-edg'd  weapon  from  her  shining  case 
So  ladies,  in  romance,  assist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  rev'rence,  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,  blov/  back  the  hair ; 
And  thrice  they  twitcli'd  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
Thrice  she  look'd  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 
Just  ii'.  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought 


^1 


86  RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK. 

As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclin'd, 
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. 
Amaz'd,  contus'd,  he  found  his  povv'r  expir'dl 
Resign 'd  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glitt'ring  forfex  wide, 
T'  inclose  the  lock ;  now  joins  it  to  divide. 
E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  clos'd, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interpos'd: 
Fate  urg'd  the  sheers,  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  th'  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heav'n  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  wnen  lap-dogs,  breathe  their  last; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fall'n  from  high, 
In  glitt'ring  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie  I 

'  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  shall  be  read. 
Or  the  small  pillow  gi-ace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
Whennum'rous  wax -lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
W^hile  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall  live  ! 
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  tow'rs  of  Troy; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound. 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph !  thy  hair  should  feel 
The  conq'uring  force  of  unresisted  steel?  * 


87 


CA^^TO  IV 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppress'd, 

And  secret  passions  labour'il  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. 

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  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  afl  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a  grotto,  shelter'd  close  from  air, 
And  screen'd  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  lil-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  fiU'd;  her  bosom  with  lampoons. 

There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien. 
Shows  in  her  cheeu  the  roses  of  eighteen ; 
Practis'd  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs  and  languishes  with  pride. 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  wo, 
Wrapt  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; 


88  RAPE    OF   THE    LOCK. 

Ureadful  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  ev'ry  side  are  seen, 
Of  bodies  chang'd  to  various  forms  by  spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out. 
One  bent ;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout; 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,  walks  ; 
Here  sighs  ajar,  and  there  a  goose-])ie  talks: 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  pow'rful  fancy  works 
And  maids,  turn'd  bottles,  call  aloud  for  corks. 

Safe  past  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic  band, 
A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then    thus    address'd    the    pow'r — 'Hail,   wayward 
Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen:  [Queen 

Parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit. 
Who  gave  th'  hysteric  or  poetic  fit, 
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 ; 
If  e'er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads, 
Or  rum])led  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds, 
Or  caus'd  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dogs  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  pray'i. 
A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she  binds. 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds; 
'J'here  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. 

?unk  in  Thalestries'  arms  the  nymph  he  found. 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound 


RAPE   OF   THE    LOCK.  89 

Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  hag  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  aroimd  ? 

For  this  with  fillets  strain'd  your  tender  head? 

And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead? 

Gods !  shall  the  ravishers  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. 

Me  thinks  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 ! 

How  shall  I,  tlien,  your  hapless  fame  defend? 

'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend  ? 

And  shall  this  prize,  the  inestimable  prize, 

Expos'd  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  air,  earth,  sea,  to  chaos  fall. 

Men,  monkies,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all!* 

She  said  ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  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  vmthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  open'd,  then  the  case, 
And  thus  broke  out — '  My  Lord,  v/hy,  what  the  devil  I 

Z — ds !  d the  lock !  'fore  Gad,  you  must  be  civil  I 

Plague  on't!  'tis  past  a  jest — nay,  prithee,  pox! 
Give  her  the  hair.' — He  spoke  and  rapp'd  his  box. 

*  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. 
8* 


90  KAPE    OP   THE   LOCK. 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome !  forbears  not  so ; 
Fie  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  heav'd  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Which  with  a  sigh  she  rais'd,  and  thus  she  said— 

•  For  ever  curs'd  be  this  detested  day, 
Which  snatch'd  my  best,  my  fav'rite  curl  away  I 
Happy  I  ah  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton-Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid, 
By  love  of  courts  to  num'rous  ills  betray'd. 
Oh  had  I  rather  unadmir'd  remain'd 
Jn  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land. 
Where  tlie  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  mov'd  my  mind  with  youthful  loi'ds  to  roam? 
O  had  I  stay'd,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home  I 
'Twas  this  the  morning  omens  seem'd  to  tell; 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box  fell  • 
The  tott'ring  China  shook  without  a  wind ; 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shook  was  most  unkind! 
A  sylph,  too,  warn'd  me  of  the  threats  of  fate, 
In  mystic  visions  now  believ'd  too  late! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  rapine  spares s 
These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck ; 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own ; 
Uncuvl'd  it  hangs;  the  fatal  sheers  demands, 
And  tempts  once  more  thy  sacrilegious  hands 
Oh  hadst  thou,  cruel  I  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  thes0.' 


U 


9i 


CANTO  V, 


She  said:  tlie  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  Behnda  tails  f 

Not  half  so  fix'd  the  Trojan  could  remain^ 

While  Anna  begg'd  and  Dido  rag  d  in  vam. 

Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  tan; 

Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began : 

*  Say  why  are  beauties  prais'd  and  honour  d  most. 

The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man  s  toast? 

Why  deck'd  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford, 
Whv  angels  call'd,  and  angel-like  adored  f 
Whv  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white  glov  d  beaux  T 
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  chas'd  old  age  away, 
Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife  s  cares  produce, 
Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of  use  i 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint ; 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  pamt. 
But  since,  alas  !  frail  beauty  must  decay ; 
Ciirl'd  or  uncurl'd,  since  locks  will  turn  to  gray; 
Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  rade, 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a  maid. 
What  then  remains,  but  well  our  pow  r  to  use, 
And  keep  good  humour  still  whate'er  we  lose  t 
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  tiies. 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  the  attack; 
Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones  crack, 


m 


92  EAPE   OF   THE  LOCK. 

Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly  rise, 
And  base  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  tlieir  hands  are  found ; 
Like  c?ods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage, 
And  heav'nly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage ; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars;  Latona,  Hermes  arms  ;    , 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms ; 
Jove's  thunder  roars,  heav'n  trembles  all  around,  ^ 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  resound: 
Earth  shakes  her  nodding  tow'rs,  the  ground  gives  way, 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day ! 
Triumphant  Umbriel,  on  a  sconce's  height, 
Clappd  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the  fight; 
Propp'd  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites  survey 
Tlie  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 
While  through  the  press  enrag'd  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. 
'  O  cruel  nymph!  a  living  death  I  bear,' 
Cry'd  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mornful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards  cast, 
'Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing ' — was  his  last 
Thus  on  Mseander's  flow'ry  margin  lies 
Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 

When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa  down, 
Chloe  stepp'd  in,  and  kill'd  him  with  a  frown  : 
She  smil'd  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain. 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  reviv'd  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs  the  mens'  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  finder  and  a  thumb  subdued  : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snufi'  the  wily  virgin  threw 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  ev'ry  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,'  incens'd  Belinda  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 
Her  great  grandsire  wore  about  his  neck 


RAPE   OF   THE   LOCK.  93 

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  gingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  grac'd  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

*  Byast  not  my  fall,'  he  cried,  *  insulting  foe  I 
Thou  by  some  other  shall  be  laid  as  low. 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind: 
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  aii  around 
*  Restore  the  lock  !  '  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roar'd  for  the  handkerchief  that  caus'd  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  ev'ry  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain: 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest. 
So  Heav'n  decrees!  with  Heav'n  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  pond'rous  vases, 
And  beaux  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer  cases. 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  ribband  bound, 
The  courtiers'  promises,  and  sick  men's  prayers, 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs. 
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  heav'ns  withdrew^ 
To  Proculus  alone  confess'd  in  view,) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air. 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trial  of  hair, 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright. 
The  heav'ns  bespangled  with  dishevell'd  light. 
The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies. 
And  pleaa'd  pursue  its  progress  through  the  skies. 

This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the  Mall  survey 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray ; 
This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take. 
And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake ; 
This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless  skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galilaeo's  eyes; 


94  RAPE   OP   THE    LOCK. 

And  hence  the  egregious  wizzard  shall  foredoom 
The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease  bright  nymph!  to  morn  thy  ravish'd  bair, 
Which  adds  new  glories  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  nam** 


ESSAY    ON    MAN. 


THE  DESIGN. 

Having  proposed  to  write  some  pieces  on  human  life 
and  manners,  sncli  as,  to  use  my  Lord  Bacon's  expres- 
sion, '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  j  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  pvurpose  of  its  being. 

The  science  of  human  nature  is,  like  all  other  science^ 
reduced  to  a  few  clear  points:  there  are  not  many  cer- 
tain 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  atf.ending  to  the  large,  open,  and 
perceptible  parts,  than  by  studying  too  much  such 
iiner  nei-ves  and  vessels,  the  conformations  and  uses  of 
which  will  for  ever  escape  om*  observation:  the  dis- 
putes are  all  on  these  last ;  and,  I  will  venture  to  sa}', 
they  have  less  sharpened  the  wits  than  the  hearts  of 
men  against  each  other,  and  have  diminislied  the  prac- 
tice, more  than  advanced  the  theory,  of  morality.  If 
I  could  flatter  myself  that  this  Kssay  has  any  merit,  it 
is  in  steering  betwixt  the  extremes  of  doctrines  seenv- 
Ingiy  opposite,  in  passing  over  terms  utterly  unintelli- 
gible, and  in  forming  a  temperate,  yet  not  inconsistent, 
and  a  short,  yet  not  imperfect,  system  ©f  ethics. 

This  I  might  have  done  in  prose ;  but  I  chose  verse, 
and  even  rhyme,  for  two  reasons  :  the  one  will  appear 
obvious^  that  principles,maxima,  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,  bat  it  is  true:  1  found  I  could  expreaa 


96 


TIIK    DESIGN. 


L 


them  more  shortly  this  way  tlian  in  prose  itseif ;  and 
nothing  is  more  certain,  tlian  that  niucli  of  the  force  as 
well  as  grace  of  arguments  or  instructions  depends  on 
conciseness.  I  was  unable  to  treat  tliis  part  of  my 
subject  more  in  detail,  without  becoming  dry  and 
tedious;  or  more  poetically,  without  sacrificing  per- 
spicuity to  ornament,  without  wandering  from  the  pre- 
cision, or  breaking  the  chain  of  reasoning:  if  a  man 
can  unite  all  these  without  diminution  of  any  of  them, 
I  freely  confess  he  will  compass  a  thing  above  my 
capacity. 

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  con- 
nexion, but  leaving  the  particular  to  be  more  fully 
delineated  in  the  charts  which  are  now  to  follow ;  con- 
sequently these  Epistles  in  their  progress  (if  1  have 
health  and  leisure  to  make  any  progress)  will  be  less 
dry,  and  more  susceptible  of  poetical  ornament.  1  am 
here  only  opening  the  fountains,  and  clearing  the  pas- 
sage :  to  deduce  the  rivers,  to  follow  them  in  their 
course,  and  to  observe  their  efiects,  may  be  a  task 
">;re  agreeable, 

PoPBo 


^n.1 


97 


EPISTLE  I. 


OF  THE    SATTJRE    AND   STATE    OF   MAN,    WITH    RESPECT 
TO    THE    UNIVERSE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Of  Man  in  the  abstract.  I.  That  we  can  judge  onlj'  with  regaird  tn 
©urowa  system,  being  ignorant  of  the  relations  of  systems  and  things, 
H.  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.  III.  That 
it  is  partly  on  his  ignorance  of  future  events,  and  partly  upon  the  hops 
of  a  future  state,  that  all  his  happiness  in  the  present  depends.  IV. 
The  pride  of  aiming  at  more  knowledge,  and  pretending  to  more  per- 
fection, 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. 
V  The  absurdity  of  conceiting  himself  the  final  cause  of  the  crestion, 
Of  expecting  that  perfection  in  the  moral  world  which  is  not  in  the 
natural.  VI.  The  unreasonableness  of  his  complaints  against  Provi- 
dence, while,  on  the  one  hand,  he  demands  the  perfections  of  the  an- 
gels, and,  on  the  other,  the  bodily  qualifications  of  the  brutes ;  though 
to  possess  any  of  the  sensitive  faculties  in  a  higher  degree,  would  ren 
der  him  miserable.  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  gradation  of  sense,  instinct,  thought,  re- 
flection, reason;  that  reason  alone  countervails  all  the  other  faculties. 
Vlil.  How  much  farther  this  order  and  subordination  of  living  crea- 
tures may  exend  above  and  below  us ;  were  any  part  of  which  broken, 
not  that  part  only,  but  the  whole  connected  creation  must  be  destroy- 
ed. IX.  The  extravagance,  madness,  and  pride  of  such  a  desire.  X. 
Th3  consequence  of  all,  the  absolute  submission  due  to  Providence^ 
both  as  to  our  present  and  f  utui'e  state. 

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  phm  ; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flow'rs  promiscuous  shoot; 
Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field,  ^ 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield ; 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore, 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep  or  sightless  soar ; 
9 


98  ESSAY    ON    MAN, 

P'ye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  Folly  as  ii  flies, 
And  catch  the  Manners  living  as  they  rise ; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  he  candid  where  we  can; 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  Man. 

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? 
Thro'  worlds  unnumber'd  tho'  the  God  be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He,  who  thro'  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  beings  people  ev'ry  star, 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies, 
Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 
Look'd  thro'?  or  can  a  part  contain  the  whole? 
Istlie  great  chain  that  draws  all  to  agree, — 
And,  drawn,  supports — upheld  by  God  or  thee? 

J  I.  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, 
Wliy  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 : 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above. 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  pos?ible,  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; 
Tlien,  in  the  scale  of  reas'ning  life,  'tis  pla;n 
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. 

Respecting  Man,  whatever  wrong  we  call. 
May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  tho'  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. 


ESSAY   ON    MAN.  99 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man  restrams 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains, — 
When  the  dull  ox,  wliy  now  he  hieaks  the  clod, 
Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god, — 
Then  shall  Man's  pride  and  dulness  comprehend 
His  actions',  passions',  heing's,  use  and  end ; 
Why  doing,  suf^'ring,  check 'd,  impell'd,  and  why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  Man  's  imperfect,  Heav'n  in  fault, — 
Say  rather  Man  's  as  perfect  as  he  ought: 
His  knowledge  measur'd  to  his  state  and  place, 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere, 
W^hat  matter  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there  ? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so, 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

III.  Heav'n  from  all  creatin-es  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescrib'd,  their  present  state; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know: 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day. 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play? 
Pleas'd  to  the  last  he  crops  the  flow'ry  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  rais'd  to  shed  his  blood. 
O  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  giv'n, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heav'n: 
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. 

Hope  humbly  then;  with  trembling  pinions  soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death,  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
B\it  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  confin'd  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; 
His  soul  proud  Science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  Nature  to  his  hope  has  giv'n, 
Behind  the  cloud-topp'd  hill,  a  humbler  heav'n; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embrac'd, 
Some  haj)pier  island  in  the  wat'ry  waste. 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  tn  rment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold  .' 


r 


100  ESSAY    OH    5IAIC. 

To  be,  contents  liis  natvn-al  desire ; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire: 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  tliat  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  sliall  bear  him  company. 

IV.  Go,  wiser  thou!  and,  in  thy  scale  cf  seiiiic 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence: 

Call  imperiection  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  ingross  not  Heav'n's  high  care, 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there : 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Rejudge  his  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reas'ning  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  th'  Eternal  Cause. 

V.  Ask  for  what  end  the  heav'nly  bodies  shine. 
Earth  for  whose  use.  Pride  answers,  '*  'Tis  for  mine ! 
"  For  me  kind  Nature  wakes  her  genial  pow'r, 

**  Suckles  each  herb  and  spreads  out  ev'ry  flow'r; 
"  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!" 

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  gen'ral  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? 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  show'rs  and  sunshine,  as  of  Man's  desires: 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  for  ever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 


ESSAY    ON    MAN.  lOl 

if  plagues  or  eaithquakes  break  not  Heav'n's  design, 

Why  then  a  Borgia,  or  a  Catiline  ? 

Who  knows  but  He,  whose  hand  the  lightning  forms, 

Who  heaves  old  Ocean,  and  who  v/ings  the  storms  ; 

Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind, 

Or  turns  young  Ammon  loose  to  scourge  mankind? 

From  pride,  from  pride  our  very  reas'ning  springs; 

Account  for  moral,  as  for  nat'ral  things : 

Why  charge  we  Heav'n  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  discompos'd  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife ; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life. 
The  gen'ral  Order  since  the  whole  began 
Is  kopt  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  downward,  just  as  griev'd  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  pow'rs  of  all  ? 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion  kind, 
The  proper  organs,  proper  pow'rs  assign'd  ; 
Each  seeming  want  compensated  of  course, 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  offeree: 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state  ; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  beast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own: 
Is  Heav'n  unkind  to  Man,  and  Man  alone? 
Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call. 
Be  pleas'd  with  nothing,  if  not  bless'd  with  all  ? 

The  bliss  of  Man,  (could  Pride  that  blessing  find) 
Is  not  to  think  or  act  beyond  mankind; 
No  pow'rs  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  heav'n ; 
Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er, 
To  smart  and  agonize  at  ev'ry  pore? 
Or  quick  effluvia  darting  thro'  the  brain, 
Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain  ? 
If  Nature  thunder'd  in  his  op'ning  ears. 
And  stunn'd  him  v^Jth  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
9* 


102  ESSAY  ON   MAN, 

How  would  he  wish  that  Heav'n  had  left  him  stiL 
The  whisp'ring  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  pow'rs  ascends: 
Mark  how  it  mounts  to  Man's  imperial  race, 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass  : 
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  thro'  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  pois'nous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew? 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  grov'ling  swme, 
Compar'd,  half-reas'ning  elephant,  with  thine; 
'Twixt  that  and  reason  what  a  nice  barrier! 
For  ever  sep'rate,  yet  for  ever  near ! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied. 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide! 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  th'  insuperable  line ! 
Without  this  just  gradation  could  there  be 
Subjected  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee? 
The  pow'rs  of  all  subdu'd  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  pow'rs  in  one? 

VIII.  See,  thro'  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  e}'e  can  see. 
No  glass  can  reach — from  infinite  to  thee. 
From  thee  to  nothing. — On  superior  pow'rs 
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 
i'hat  system  cnl^^ ,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 


f 


ESSAY    0?I    MAN. 


103 


Let  earth  unbalanc'd  from  lier  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  thro'  the  sky: 
Let  ruHng  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurl  d, 
Being  on  i)eing  wreck 'd,  and  world  on  world; 
Heav'n's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod, 
And  Nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All  this  dread  order  break— for  whom  ?^  for  thee  J 
Vile  worm !— oh  madness !  pride !  impiety ! 

IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordain'd  the  dust  to  tread. 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspir'd  to  be  the  head? 

What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repm'd 
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  ])arts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whr,se  body  Nature  is,  and  (iod  the  soul; 

That,  chang'd  tiiro'  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame; 
Warms  in  the  smi,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  thro'  all  life,  extends  thro'  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent; 
Breatlies  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. 

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,  Heav'n  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit. — In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 

Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear : 

Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Pow'r, 

Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 

All  Nature  is  but  Art,  unknown  to  thee ; 

All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see. 

All  discord,  harmony  not  understood, 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good : 

And,  spite  of  pi-ide,  in  erring  reason's  spite. 

One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right. 


«l 


104 


EPISTLE  II. 

OP   THE    NATURE    AND    STATE    OF    MAN,    WITn    RESPECff 
TO    HIMSELF,    AS    AN    INDIVIDUAL. 

ARGUMENT. 

I.  The  business  of  man  not  to  pry  into  God,  but  lo  study  himself. 
His  middle  nature;  his  powers  and  frailties.  The  limits  of  his 
capacity.  II.  The  two  principles  of  man,  self-love  and  reason,  both 
necessary.     Self-love  the  stronger,  and  why.     Their  end  the  same. 

III.  The  passions,  and  their  use.  The  predominant  passion,  and  its 
force.  Its  necessity  in  directing  men  to  different  purposes.  Its  pro- 
vidential use  in  fixing  our  principle,    and  ascertaining  our  virtue. 

IV.  Virtue  and  vice  joined  in  our  mixed  nature;  the  limits  near,  yet 
tlie  thitigs  separate  and  evident:  what  is  the  office  of  reason.  How 
odious  vice  in  itself,  and  how  we  deceive  ourselves  in  it.  VI.  That, 
however,  the  ends  of  Providence  and  general  good  are  answered  in 
our  passions  and  imperfections.  How  usefully  these  are  distributed 
to  all  orders  of  men.  How  useful  they  are  to  society,  and  to  indivi- 
duals, in  every  state,  and  every  age  of  life. 

I.  Know  then  tliyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan, 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  Man. 
Phic'd  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  dovibt  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  reas'ning  but  to  err; 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such. 

Whether  he  thinks  too  little,  or  too  much : 

Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  confus'd; 

Still  by  himself  abus'd,  or  disabus'd  ; 

Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall ; 

Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  lo  all ; 

Sole  judge  of  Truth,  in  endless  Error  hurl 'd: 

The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world ! 

Go,  wond  'rous  creature !  mount  where  Science  guides. 

Go,  measure  earth,  weigh  air,  and  state  the  tides; 

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  ; 


ESSAY    ON    MAN. 


105 


Or  tread  the  mazy  round  his  followers  trod, 
And  quitting  sense  call  imitating  God; 
A.3  Eastern  priests  in  giddy  circles  run, 
And  turn  their  heads  to  imitate  the  Sun. 
no,  teach  Eternal  Wisdom  how  to  rule- 
Then  drop  into  thyself,  and  be  a  fool ! 

Superior  beings,  when  of  late  they  saw 
A  mortal  Man  unfold  all  Nature's  law: 
Admir'd  such  wisdom  in  an  earthly  shape, 
And  shew'd  a  Newton  as  we  shew  an  Ape.^ 

Could  he,  whose  rules  the  rapid  Comet  bind, 
Describe  or  fix  one  movement  of  his  Mind? 
Who  saw  it's  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 ; 
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  shew  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  ; 
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  lieason,  to  restrain ; 
Nor  this  a  good,  nor  that  a  bad  we  call. 
Each  works  it's  end,  to  move  or  govern  all  • 
And  to  their  proper  operation  still. 
Ascribe  all  Good  ;  to  their  improper.  111. 

Self-love,  the  spring  of  motion,  acts  the  soul , 
Reason's  comparing  balance  rules  the  whole. 
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  thro'  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,  dehb'rate,  and  advise- 
Self-love  still  stronger,  es  its  objects  nigh  ; 
Reason's  at  distance,  and  in  prospect  lie  : 


106  ESSAY   ON    MAN, 

Reason  itself  I)ut  gives  it  edge  and  pow'r, 
That  sees  immediate  good  by  present  sense ; 
Thicker  than  arguments,  temptations  throng, 
At  best  more  watchful  this,  but  that  more  strung, 
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  restrain?. 
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  flowV 
Pleasure,  or  wrong  or  rightly  luiderstood, 
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  ev'ry  good  we  can  divide, 
And  reason  bids  us  for  our  own  provide ; 
Passions,  tho*  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. 

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. 

Passions,  like  elements,  tho'  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. 
liove,  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  confiu'd, 
Make  and  maintain  the  balance  of  the  mind : 


ESSAY    ON    MAN.  107 

The  lights  and  shades,  whose  well-accovded  strife, 
Gives  all  the  strength  and  colour  of  onr  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  hody  and  of  mind. 
All  spread  their  charms,  but  charm  not  all  alike; 
On  dift"rent  senses  diff'rent  objects  strike  ; 
Hence  diff'rent  passions  more  or  less  inflame, 
As  strong  or  weak  the  organs  of  the  frame; 
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  deatli ; 
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  ])assion,  came  ; 
Each  vital  humour,  which  should  feed  the  whole, 
Soon  flows  to  this,  in  body  and  in  soul: 
Whatever  warms  the  heart,  or  fills  the  head. 
As  the  mind  opens,  and  its  functions  spread, 
Imagination  plies  her  dang'rous  art, 
And  pours  it  all  upon  the  peccant  part. 

Nature  its  mother.  Habit  is  its  nurse ; 
"Wit,  spirit,  faculties  but  make  it  worse  ; 
Reason,  the  future  and  the  consequence. 
As  Heav'n's  blest  beam  turns  vinegar  more  sour* 
We,  wretched  subjects  tho'  to  lawful  sway, 
In  this  weak  queen  some  fav'rite  still  obey. 
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. 

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  pow'r  the  strong  direction  sends. 
And  sev'ral  men  impels  to  sev'ral  ends  : 
Like  varying  winds,  by  other  passions  toss'd, 
This  drives  them  constant  to  a  certain  coast ; 
Let  pow'r  or  knowledge,  gold  or  glory  please; 
Or  (oft  more  strong  than  all)  the  love  of  ease  • 


108  ESSAY    ON    MAN. 

rhro'  life  'tis  follow'd  ev'n  at  life's  expense; 
The  merchant's  toil,  the  sage's  indolence, 
'J'he  monk's  humiUty,  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  th\is  the  mercury  of  man  is  fix'd. 
Strong  grows  the  virtue  with  his  nature  mix'd; 
'I'he  dross  cements  what  else  were  too  refin'd, 
And  in  one  int'rest  body  acts  with  mind. 

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  : 
Ev'n  av'rice,  prudence;  sloth,  philosophy; 
Lust,  thro'  some  certain  strainers  well  refin'd. 
Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind ; 
Envy,  to  which  th'  ignoble  mind  's  a  slave, 
Is  emulation  in  the  leai-n'd  or  brave  ; 
Nor  virtue,  male  or  female,  can  we  name, 
But  wliat  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 : 
The  same  ambition  can  destroy  or  save, 
And  makes  a  pati'iot  as  it  makes  a  knave. 

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  ; 
Tho'  each  by  turns  the  other's  bounds  invade, 
As,  in  some  well-wrought  picture,  light  and  shade 
And  oft  so  mix,  the  ditf'rence  is  too  nice, 
Where  ends  the  virtue,  or  begins  the  vice. 

Fools!  who  from  hence  into  the  notion  fail, 
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. 

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. 


ESSAY   ON    MAN.  109 

But  where  tli'  extreme  of  vice  was  ne'er  agreed: 

Ask  Where's  the  North?  at  York,  'tis  on  the  Tweed  f 

In  Scotland,  at  the  Orcades;  and  there, 

At  Greenland,  Zembla,  or  the  Lord  knows  where. 

No  creature  owns  it  in  the  iirst  degree. 

But  thinks  his  neighbour  farther  gone  than  he  ; 

Ev'n  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. 

Virtuous  aud  vicious  ev'ry  man  must  be, 
Few  in  the  extreme,  but  all  in  the  degree ; 
'J'he  rogue  and  fool  by  fits  is  fair  and  wise ; 
And  ev'n  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  v^hole. 
That  counterv/orks  each  folly  and  caprice  ; 
Tbat  disappoints  the  effect  of  every  vice  ; 
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  builds  on  wants,  and  on  defects  of  mind. 
The  joy,  the  peace,  the  glory  of  mankind. 

Heaven  forming  each  on  other  to  depend,  V 
A  master,  or  a  servant,  or  a  friend, 
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  mterests  to  resign; 
Taught  half  by  reason,  half  by  mere  decay. 
To  welcome  death,  and  calmly  pass  away. 

Whate'er  the  passions,  knowledge,  fame,  or  pell, 
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  ricli  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. 
10 


110  ESSAY    ON    MAK. 

See  some  strange  comfort  every  state  attond; 
And  pride  bestow'd  on  all,  a  common  friend: 
See  some  fit  passion  every  age  sup})ly  ; 
Hope  travels  through,  nor  quits  us  v/hen  we  die. 

Behold  the  child,  by  nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw: 
Some  livelier  jilaything  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  J 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before, 
rill  tired  he  sleeps,  and  life's  poor  play  is  o'er. 

Meanwhile  opiuion  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  ; 
Ev'n  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  ia  wise, 


ni 


EPISTLE  III. 

0?  THE   NATURE    AND    STATE    OF    MAN,   WITH    RESPECT 
TO    SOCIETY. 

ARGUMENT. 

I.  The  whole  universe  one  system  of  society.  Nothing  made 
wholly  for  itself,  nor  yet  wholly  for  another.  The  happiness  of 
animals  mutual.  II.  Reason  or  instinct  operate  alike  to  the  good  of 
each  individual.  Reason  or  instinct  operate  also  to  society  in  ail 
animals.  III.  How  far  society  carried  by  instinct.  How  much 
farther  by  reason.  IV.  Of  that  which  is  called  the  state  of  Na^ire. 
Reason  instructed  by  instinct  in  the  invention  of  arts.  And  in  the 
forms  of  society.  "V.  Origin  of  political  societies.  Origin  of  monarchy. 
Patriarchal  government.  VI.  Origin  of  true  religion  and  govern- 
ment, from  the  same  prniciple  of  love.  Origin  of  superstition  and 
tyranny,  from  the  same  principle  of  fear.  The  influence  of  self-love 
operating  to  the  social  and  public  good.  Restoration  of  true  religion 
and  governraenton  their  first  principle.  Mixed  government.  Various 
forms  of  each,  and  the  true  end  of  all. 

I.     Here  then  we  rest :  'The  Universal  Cause 
Acts  to  one  end,  but  acts  by  various  laws.' 
In  all  the  mad/iess  of  superflous  health, 
The  trim  of  pride,  thei^ipiidence  of  wealth, 
Let  this  great  truth  be  present  night  and  day  ; 
But  most  be  present  if  we  preach  or  pray. 

Look  round  our  world ;  behold  the  chain  of  love 
Combining  all  below  and  all  above. 
See  plastic  Nature  working  to  this  end, 
The  smgie  atoms  each  to  other  tend. 
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  g6n'ral  good. 
See  dying  vegetables  life  sustain. 
See  life  dissolving  vegetate  again  : 
All  forms  thst  perish  other  forms  supply,  _ 
(By  turns  we  catch  the  vital  breath,  and  die) 
Like  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  matter  borne, 
They  rise,  they  break,  and  to  that  sea  return 
Nothing  is  foreign  ;  parts  relate  to  whole  ; 
One  all-extending,  all-preserving  soul 
Connects  each  being,  greatest  with  the  least ; 
Made  beasts  in  aid  of  man,  and  man  of  beast ; 


112  ESSAY    ON    MAN. 

All  serv'd,  all  serving :  nothing  stands  alone ; 
The  chain  holds  on,  and  where  it  ends  unknown. 

Has  God,  thou  fool!  worked  solely  for  thy  good. 
Thy  joy,  thy  pastime,  thy  attire,  thy  food? 
Who  for  thy  table  feeds  the  wanton  fawn, 
P'orhim  as  kindly  spread  the  flow'ry  lawn! 
Is  it  for  thee  the  lark  ascends  and  sings? 
Joy  tunes  his  voice,  joy  elevates  his  wings  ; 
Is  it  for  thee  the  linnit  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  heav'n  shall  vindicate  their  grain: 
Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  golden  year? 
Part  pays,  and  justly,  the  deserving  steer: 
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  monai-ch  warm'd  a  bear. 
While  man  exclaims,  '  See  all  things  for  my  use  !' 
*  See  man  for  mine  !'  replies  a  pampered  goose  j 
And  just  as  short  of  reason  he  must  fall. 
Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  not  one  for  all. 

Grant  ihat  the  pow'rful  still  the  weak  control; 
Be  Man  the  wit,  and  tyrant  of  the  whole  : 
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  int'rest  jjrompts  him  to  provide, 
For  more  his  pleasure,  yet  for  more  his  pride  : 
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  paiu. 
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  ! 

To  each  unthinking  being,  Heav'n,  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 


ESSAY    ON    MAN.  113 

The  hour  conceal'd,  and  so  remote  the  fear. 
Death  still  draws  nearer,  never  seeming  near. 
Great  standing  miracle!  that  Heav'n  assign'd 
Its  only  thinking  thing  this  turn  of  mind. 

II.  Whethei  with  reason  or  with  instinct  bless'd, 
Know  all  enjoy  that  power  which  suits  them  best ; 
To  bliss  alike  by  that  direction  tend, 

And  find  the  means  proportion 'd  to  their  end. 
Say,  where  full  instinct  is  the  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; 
Sure  by  quick  nalin-e  happiness  to  gain. 
Which  heavier  reason  labors  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? 
Prescient,  the  tides  or  tempests  to  withstand, 
Build  on  the  wave,  or  arch  beneath  the  sand  ? 
Who  made  the  spider  parallels  design, 
Sure  as  Demoivre,  without  rule  or  line  ? 
Who  bid  the  stork,  Columbus-like,  explore 
Heav'ns  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 ; 
But  as  he  framed  the  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  beneatli  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. 
Each  loves  itself,  but  not  itself  alone. 
Each  sex  desires  alike,  till  two  are  one. 
10* 


m  ESSAY   ON    MAN. 

Nor  ends  the  pleasure  with  the  fierce  embrace  j 
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  tliere  ends  the  care ; 
The  link  dissolves,  each  seeks  a  fresh  embrace, 
Another  love  succeeds,  another  race. 
A  longer  care  man's  helpless  kind  demands; 
That  longer  care  contracts  more  lasting  hands: 
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: 
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. 
Pride  then  was  not;  nor  arts,  t'nat  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  imstain'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. 
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  copv  instinct  then  was  Reason's  part: 


L. 


ESSAY    ON    THAN.  115 

Thus  then  to  innn  (he  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: 

Here  subterranean  works  and  cities  see ; 

There  towns  aerial  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. 

In  vain  thy  reason  finer  webs  shall  draw; 

Entangle  justice  in  her  net  of  law; 

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  aflTord, 

Be  crown'd  as  monarchs,  or  as  gods  adored.' 

V.  Great  Nature  spoke;  observant  men  obey'd; 
Cities  were  built,  societies  were  made : 

Here  rose  one  little  state ;  another  near 
Grew  by  like  means,  and  join'd  througli  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  may  strongly  draw, 
V/hen  love  was  liberty,  and  nature  law: 
Thus  states  were  form'd;  the  name  of  king  unknown, 
Till  common  interest  placed  the  sway  in  one 
~  '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  sate, 
King,  priest,  and  parent  of  his  growing  state; 

On  him,  their  second  Providence,  they  hung; 
Their  law  his  eye,  their  oracle  his  tongue. 


116  ESSAY   ON   MAN, 

He  from  the  wondering  furrow  call'd  tlie  food; 
Taught  to  command  the  five,  control  the  flood ; 
Draw  forth  the  monsters  of  the  abyss  profound, 
Or  fetch  the  aerial  eagle  to  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 ' 
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  raa. 
That  was  but  love  of  God,  and  tins  of  man. 

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  work,  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  moimtains,  and  when  groan'd  the 
She  taught  the  weak  to  bend,  the  proud  to  pray,  [ground. 
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  bless'd  abodes; 
Fear  made  her  devils,  and  weak  hope  her  gods ; 
Gods  partial,  changeful,  passionate,  imjust. 
Whose  attributes  were  rage,  revenge,  or  lust; 
Such  as  the  souls  of  cowards  might  conceive ; 
And,  form'd  like  tyrants,  tyrants  would  believe, 
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. 


ESSAY    ON    MAN. 


ii: 


So  drives  self-love,  through  just  and  through  unjust 
To  one  man's  power,  ambition,  lucre,  lust: 
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  we  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, 
Ev'n  kings  learn'd  justice  and  benevolence: 
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 ; 
The  less  or  greater  set  so  justly  true, 
That  touching  one  must  strike  the  other  too ; 
Till  jarring  int'rests  of  themselves  create 
Th'  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  pow'rful  each  as  needful  to  the  rest, 
And  in  proportion  as  it  blesses,  blest ; 
Draw  to  one  point,  and  to  one  centre  bring 
Least,  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  thee  world  wnll  disagree, 
But  all  mankind's  concern  is  charily  : 
All  must  be  false  that  thwart  this  one  great  end; 
And  all  of  God,  that  bless  mankind,  or  mend. 

Man,  hke  the  gen'rous  vine,  supported  lives : 
She  strength  he  gains  is  from  th'  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  gen'ral  frame. 
And  bade  self-love  and  social  be  the  same. 


EPISTLE  IV 

OP   THE    NATURE    AND   STATE    OF    MAN,    WITH    UESPECl' 
TO    HAPPINESS 

ABGUMENT. 

I.  False  notions  of  happiness,  philosophical  and  popular,  answered. 
II.  It  is  the  end  of  all  men,  and  attainable  by  all.  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.     As  is  is  necessary  for  order,  and  the 

Eeace  and  welfare  of  society,  that  external  goods  should  be  unequal, 
appiness  is  not  made  to  consist  in  these.  But  notwithstanding  that 
inequality,  the  balance  of  happiness  among  mankind  is  kept  even  by 
Providence,  by  the  tv/o  passions  of  hope  and  fear.  111.  What  the 
happiness  of  individuals  is,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  the  constitution 
of  this  world;  and  that  the  good  man  has  here  tlie  advantage.  The 
error  of  imputing  to  virtue  what  are  only  the  calamities  of  nature,  or  of 
fortune.  IV.  The  folly  of  expecting  that  God  should  alter  his  general 
laws  in  favour  of  particulars.  V.  That  we  are  not  judges  who  are 
good:  but  that  whoever  they  are  they  must  be  happiest.  VI.  That 
external  goods  are  not  the  proper  rewards,  but  often  inconsistent 
with,  or  destructive  of,  virtue.  That  even  these  can  make  no  man 
happy  without  virtue:  instanced  in  riches,  in  honours,  nobility, 
greatness,  fame,  superior  talents,  with  pictures  of  human  infelicity 
in  men  possessed  of  them  all.  VII.  That  virtue  only  constitutes  a 
happiness,  whose  object  is  universal,  and  whose  prosj)ect  eternal. 
That  the  perfection  of  virtue  and  happiness  consi-ts  in  a  conformity 
to  the  order  of  Providence  here,  and  resignation  to  it  here  and  here- 
after. 

O  HAPPINESS  !  cm-  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  ; 

Whicn  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, 

Soy  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign'st  to  grow? 

Fair  op'ning  to  some  court's  propitious  shine, 

Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine  / 

Twin'd  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield, 

Or  reap'd  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  i 

Where  grows? — where  grows  it  not  ?  Ii  .ainour  toil, 

We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil: 

Fix'd  to  no  spot  is  Happiness  sincere, 

'Tis  uo  where  to  be  found,  or  ev'ry  where: 


ESSAY    ON    MAN.  119 

'lis  never  to  be  bought,  but  alwaj^s  free  ; 

And,  fled  from  monarchs,  St.  John  I  dwells  w if h  thee. 

Ask  of  the  learn'd  the  way,  the  learn 'd  are  blind; 
This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  niankiiid ; 
Some,  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in  ease, 
Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these  ; 
Some,  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  ]>ain  ; 
Some,  swell'd  to  gods  confess  e'en  virtue  vain  ; 
Or,  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall. 
To  trust  in  ev'ry  thing,  or  doubt  of  all. 

Who  thus  define  it,  say  they  more  or  less 
Than  this,  that  Happiness  is  Happiness? 

Take  Nature's  path,  and  mad  Opinion's  leave; 
All  states  can  reach  it  and  all  heads  conceive ; 
Obvious  her  goods,  hi  no  extreme  they  dwell ; 
There  needs  but  thinking  right,  and  meaning  vrell ; 
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  gen'ral  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  kmd: 
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  pleasure  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  Heav'n's  first  law  ;  and  this  confess'd 
Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the  rest. 
More  rich,  more  wise  ;  but  who  infers  from  hence 
That  such  are  happier,  shocks  all  common  sense. 
Heav'n  to  mankind  impartial  we  confess, 
If  all  are  equal  in  their  happiness: 
But  mutual  wants  this  happiness  increase, 
All  Nature's  difTrence  keeps  all  Nature's  peace. 
Condition,  circumstance  is  not  the  thing  ; 
Bhss  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: 
Heav'n  breaths  thro'  ev'ry  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 


m 


120  ESSAY    ON    MAN. 

Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dispose, 
And  these  be  happy  call'd,  unliappy  those; 
But  Heaven's  just  balance  equal  will  appear, 
While  those  are  placed  in  hope,  and  these  in  fear: 
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. 

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. 
But  health  consists  with  temperance  alone  ; 
And  peace,  O  Virtue  I  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  the  advantage  prosperous  Vice  attains, 
'Tis  but  what  Virtue  flies  from  and  disdains: 
And  grant  the  bad  Avhat  happiness  they  would, 
One  they  must  want,  which  is,  to  pass  for  good.  ; 

O,  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! 
See  Sidney  bleeds  amid  the  martial  strife! 
Was  this  their  virtue  or  contempt  of  life? 
Say,  was  it  virtue,  more  though  Heaven  ne'er  gavej 
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  purer  breath, 
When  Nature  sicken 'd,  and  each  gale  was  deatii? 
Or  why  so  long,  in  life  if  long  can  be. 
Lent  Heaven  a  parent  to  the  poor  and  me? 

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. 


ESSAY  ON   MAN,  121 

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. 

Think  we,  like  some  weak  prince,  the  Eternal  Cause 

Prone  for  his  favourites  to  reverse  his  laws? 

Shall  burning  Etna,  if  a  sage  requires, 
Forget  to  thunder,  and  recall  her  fires? 
On  air  or  sea  new  motions  be  impress'd, 
O  blameless  Bethel!  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'  head  reserve  the  hanging  wall  ? 

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: 
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  Csesar,  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? 
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  ? ' 
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? 
U 


m 


122  ESSAY    ON    MAN. 

What  nothing  earthly  gives  or  can  destroy, 
The  sonl's  cahn  sunshine,  and  the  heartfelt  jt>y, 
Is  Virtue's  prize:  a  better  would  you  fix? 
Then  give  Humility  a  coach  and  six, 
Justice  a  conq'ror's  sword,  or  Truth  a  gown, 
Or  Public  Spirit  its  great  cure,  a  crown. 
Weak,  foolish  man  !  will  Heav'n  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  god-like  mind. 
Rewards,  that  either  would  to  Virtue  briu 
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. 
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  cobler  apron'd,  and  the  parson  gown'd. 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crown'd. 
*  What  differ  more,'  you  cry,  '  than  crown  and  cowl? 
rU  tell  you,  friend  !   a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You'll  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 
Or,  cobler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk. 
Worth  makes  the  nian,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Stuck  o'er  with  titles,  and,  hung  round  with  striiig* 
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  father's  worth  if  your's  you  rate, 
Count  me  those  only  who  xrere  good  and  great. 
Go!  if  your  ancient,  but  ignoble,  blood 
Has  crept  thro'  scovmdrels  ever  since  tire  floo»t, 
Go  !  and  pretend  your  family  is  y^nmg ; 
Nor  own  your  fathers  have  been  fools  so  long. 
What  can  ennoble  sots,  or  slaves,  or  cowards? 
f\  las !  not  ail  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards 


ESSAY   ON    MAN.  123 

Look  next  on  greatness ;  say  where  greatness  lies? 
'Where,  but  among  the  heroes  and  the  wisef ' 
Heroes  are  much  the  same,  the  point's  agreed, 
From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede; 
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  farther  than  his  nose. 
No  less  alike  the  politic  and  wise  ; 
All  sly,  sloyv  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: 
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 
I/ike  Sociates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

What 's  fame?  a  fancied  life  in  others'  breath; 
A  thing  beyond  us,  ev'n  before  our  death. 
Just  what  you  hear,  you  have ;  and  what's  unknown 
The  same,  my  lord  !  if  TuUy's  or  your  own. 
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 
A  Eugene  living  as  a  Caesar  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 ; 
When  what  to  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  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels, 
Than  Cagsar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

In  parts  superior  what  advantage  lies ! 
Tell,  for  you  can,  what  is  it  to  be  wise? 
'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, 
AVithout  a  second,  or  without  a  judge: 
K'Truths  would  you  teach,  or  save  a  sinking  landf    ^' 
All  fear,  none  aid  you,  and  few  -.mderstand. 


f" 


124  ESSAY   ON    MAN. 

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  tliey  mount ; 
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  fah. 
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  Gi'ipus'  wife. 
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,  damn'd  to  everlasting  fame  I 
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 ! 
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. 
O  wealth  ill-fated !  which  no  act  of  fame 
E'er  taught  to  shine,  or  sanctified  from  shame  ! 
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 ! 

Know  then  this  truth,  enough  for  man  to  know,— 
*  Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below.' 
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  imequall'd  if  its  end  it  gain ; 
And  if  it  lose,  attended  with  no  pain : 


ESSAY    ON    MAN.  125 

Without  satiety,  though  e'er  so  bless 

And  but  more  relish 'd  as  the  more  distress'd 

The  broadest  mirth  unfeeling  folly  wears, 

Less  pleasing  far  than  virtue's  very  tears: 

Good  from  each  object,  from  each  place  acquired, 

For  ever  exei-cised,  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  ; 
Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private  road. 
But  looks  through  nature  up  to  nature's  God; 
Pursues  that  chain  which  links  the  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. 

For  him  alone  hope  leads  from  goal  to  goal, 
And  opens  still,  and  opens  on  his  soul ; 
Tilllengthen'd  on  to  faith,  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  ; 
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. 

God  loves  from  whole  to  parts:  but  human  soul 
Must  rise  from  individual  to  the  whole. 
Self-love  but  serves  the  vii-tuous  mind  to  wake, 
As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake ; 
The  centre  mov'd,  a  circle  strai;4ht  succeeds, 
.Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads ; 

11* 


126 


ESSAY    ON   waw. 


Friend,  parent,  neigbour,  first  it  will  embrace; 
His  country  next ;  and  next  all  human  race  ; 
Wide  and  more  wide  th'  o'erfiowings  of  the  mind 
Take  ev'ry  creature  in  of  ev'ry  kind  ; 
Earth  smiles  around,  with  boundless  bounty  bless'd, 
And  Heav'n  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  gi-ave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe  j 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloc^uent  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  statesman,  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? 
That  urg'd  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  gi-eat  aim ; 
That  true  Self-love  and  Social  are  the  same ; 
That  Virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below ; 
And  all  our  knowledge  is^  ourselves  to  kwov* 


SAPPHO  TO  PHAOiN. 


THE  ARGUMENT 

Phaon,  a  youth  of  exquisite  beauty,  was  deeply  enatnourcd  of 
Sappho,  a  lady  of  Lesbos,  from  whom  he  met  with  the  tenderest  re- 
turns of  passion;  but  his  affection  afterwards  decaying,  he  left  her, 
and  sailed  for  Sicily.  She,  unable  to  bear  the  loss  of  her  lover, 
hearkened  to  all  the  mad  suggestions  of  despair;  and  seeing  no 
other  remedy  for  her  present  miseries,  resolved  to  throw  herself  into 
the  sea,  from  Leucate,  a  promontory  of  Epirus,  which  was  thought  a 
cure  in  cases  of  obstinate  love,  and  therefore  had  obtained  the  name 
of  the  lover's  leap.  But  before  she  ventured  upon  this  last  step,  en- 
tertaining still  some  fond  hope  that  she  might  be  able  to  reclaim  her 
inconstant,  she  wrote  him  this  epistle,  in  which  she  gives  him  a  strong 
picture  of  her  distress  and  misery,  occasioned  by  his  absence;  and 
endeavours,  by  artful  insinuations  and  moving  expressions  she  is 
mistress  of,  to  sooth  him  to  softness  and  a  mutual  feeling. 

Say,  lovely  youth,  that  dost  my  heart  command, 

Can  Phaon's  eyes  forget  his  Sappho's  hand? 

Must  then  her  name  the  wretched  writer  prove, 

To  thy  remembrance  lost,  as  to  thy  love  ? 

Ask  not  the  cause  that  I  new  numbers  choose, 

The  lute  neglected,  and  the  lyric  muse ; 

Love  taught  my  tears  in  sadder  notes  to  flow. 

And  tun'd  my  heart  to  elegies  of  woe. 

I  burn,  I  burn,  as  when  through  ripened  corn 

By  driving  winds  the  spreading  flames  are  borne 

Phaon  to  ^Etna's  scorching  fields  retires, 

While  I  consume  with  more  than  Etna's  fires ! 

No  more  my  soul  a  charm  in  music  finds; 

Music  has  charms  alone  for  peaceful  minds. 

Soft  scenes  of  solitude  no  more  can  please  ; 

Love  enters  there,  and  I'm  my  own  disease. 

No  more  the  Lesbian  dames  my  passions  move. 

Once  the  dear  objects  of  my  guilty  love ; 

All  other  loves  are  lost  in  only  thine. 

Oh  youth,  ungrateful  to  a  flame  like  mine ! 

Whom  would  not  all  those  blooming  charms  surprise 

Those  heav'nly  looks,  and  dear  deluding  eyes  ? 

The  harp  and  bow  would  you  like  Phoebus  bear, 

A  brighter  Phoebus  Phaon  might  aj^pear ; 

Would  you  Vv'itli  ivy  wreath  your  flowing  hair. 

Not  Bacchus'  self  with  Phaon  covtld  compare: 

Yet  Phoebus  lov'd,  and  Bacchus  felt  the  flame; 

Oue  Daphne  warm'd,  and  one  the  Cretan  dame  i 


J 


128  SAPrHO   TO   PHAON. 

Nymphs  that  in  verse  no  more  could  rival  me, 

Than  e'en  those  gods  contend  in  charms  with  thee. 

The  muses  teach  me  in  their  softest  lays, 

And  the  wide  world  resounds  with  Sappho's  praise 

Though  great  Alcaeus  more  suhlimely  sings, 

And  strikes  with  bolder  rage  the  sounding  strings, 

No  less  renown  attends  the  moving  lyre 

Which  Venus  tunes,  and  all  her  loves  inspire; 

To  me  what  nature  has  in  charms  denied, 

Is  well  by  wit's  more  lasting  flames  supplied. 

Though  short  my  stature,  yet  my  name  extends 

To  heav'n  itself,  and  earth's  remotest  ends, 

Brown  as  I  am,  an  Ethiopian  dame 

Inspir'd  young  Perseus  with  a  gen'rous  flame ; 

Turtles  and  doves  with  different  hues  unite, 

And  glossy  jet  is  pair'd  with  shining  white. 

If  to  no  charms  thou  wilt  thy  heart  resign, 

But  such  as  merit,  such  as  equal  thine. 

By  none,  alas !  by  none  thou  canst  be  mov'd ; 

Phaon  alone  by  Phaon  must  be  loved ! 

Yet  once  thy  Sappho  could  thy  cares  employ, 

Once  in  her  arms  you  centered  all  your  joy : 

No  time  the  dear  remembrance  can  remove, 

For  oh  !  how  vast  a  memory  has  love  ? 

My  music,  then,  you  covdd  for  ever  hear, 

And  all  my  words  were  music  to  your  ear. 

You  stopp'd  with  kisses  my  enchanting  tongue. 

And  fovmd  my  kisses  sweeter  than  my  song. 

In  all  I  pleas'd,  but  most  in  what  was  best; 

And  the  last  joy  was  dearer  than  the  rest. 

Then  with  each  word,  each  glance,  each  motion  fired, 

You  still  enjoy'd,  and  yet  you  still  desired. 

'Till,  all  dissolving,  in  the  trance  we  lay. 

And  in  tumultuous  raptures  died  away. 

Tlie  fair  Sicilians  now  thy  soul  inflame  ; 

Why  was  I  born,  ye  gods !  a  Lesbian  dame  ? 

But  ah,  beware,  Sicilian  nymphs  !  nor  boast 

That  waud'ring-  heart  which  I  so  lately  lost; 

Nor  be  with  all  those  tempting  words  abus'd 

Those  tempting  words  were  all  to  Sappho  us'd 

And  you  that  rule  Sicilia's  happy  plains. 

Have  pity,  Venus,  on  your  poet's  pains! 

Shall  fortune  still  in  one  sad  tenor  run. 

And  still  increase  the  woes  so  soon  begun  ? 

Inur'd  to  sorrow  from  my  tender  years, 

My  parents'  ashes  drank  my  early  tears  ; 

My  brother  next,  neglecting  wealth  and  fame 

Ignobly  biu'n'd  in  a  destructive  flame: 

An  infant  daughter  late  my  griefs  increas'd, 

And  all  a  mother's  cares  distract  my  breast. 


SAPPHO    TO    PHAON.  129 

Alas  !  what  more  could  fate  itself  impose, 

But  thee,  the  last,  and  greatest  of  my  woes? 

No  more  my  robes  in  waving  purple  flow, 

Not  on  my  hand  the  sparkling  di'monds  glow  ; 

Nor  more  my  locks  in  ringlets  curl'd  diffuse 

The  costly  sweetness  of  Arahian  dews, 

For  braids  of  gold  the  varied  tresses  bind, 

That  fly  disorder'd  with  the  wanton  wind : 

For  whom  should  Sappho  use  such  arts  as  these 

He's  gone  whom  only  she  desir'd  to  please ! 

Cupid's  light  darts  my  tender  bosom  move, 

Still  is  there  cause  for  Sappho  still  to  love  : 

So  from  my  birth  the  Sisters  fix'd  my  doom, 

And  gave  to  Venus  all  my  life  to  come; 

Or,  while  my  muse  in  melting  notes  complains, 

My  yielding  heart  keeps  measure  to  my  strains. 

By  charms  like  thine,  which  all  my  soul  have  won. 

Who  might  not — ah !  who  would  not  be  undone? 

For  those,  Aurora  Cephalus  might  scorn. 

And  with  fresh  blushes  paint  the  conscious  morn: 

For  those,  might  Cynthia  lengthen  Phaon's  sleep, 

And  bid  Endymion  nightly  tend  his  sheep : 

Venus  for  those  had  rapt  thee  to  the  skies. 

But  Mars  on  thee  might  look  with  Venus'  eyes. 

O  scarce  a  youth,  yet  scarce  a  tender  boy ! 

O  useful  time  for  lovers  to  employ! 

Pride  of  thy  age,  and  glory  of  thy  race. 

Come  to  these  arms,  and  melt  in  this  embrace! 

The  vows  you  never  will  return,  receive; 

And  take  at  least  the  love  you  will  not  give. 

See,  while  I  write,  my  words  are  lost  in  tears ! 

The  less  my  sense,  the  more  my  love  appears. 

Sure  'twas  not  much  to  bid  one  kind  adieu: 

At  least,  to  feign  was  never  hard  to  you. 

*  Farewell,  my  Lesbian  love  ! '  you  might  have  said ; 

Or  coldly  thus, — '  Farewell  O  Lesbian  maid!' 

No  tear  did  you,  no  parting  kiss  receive. 

Nor  knew  I  then  how  much  I  was  to  grieve. 

No  lover's  gift  your  Sappho  could  confer ; 

And  wrongs  and  woes  were  all  you  left  with  her. 

No  charge  I  gave  you,  and  no  charge  could  give. 

But  this, — *  Be  mindful  of  our  loves,  and  live.' 

Now  by  the  Nine,  those  powers  adored  by  me ; 

And  Love,  the  god  that  ever  waits  on  thee ; — 

When  first  I  heard  (from  whom  I  hardly  knew) 

That  you  were  fled,  and  all  my  joys  with  you, 

Like  some  sad  statue,  speechless,  pale  I  stood; 

Grief  chill'dmy  breast,  and  stopp'd  my  freezing  blood; 

No  sigh  to  rise,  no  tear  had  power  to  flow, 

Fix'd  in  a  stupid  lethargy  of  woe  j 


130  SAPPHO   TO   PHAOW. 

But  when  its  way  the  impetuous  passion  found, 

I  rend  my  tresses,  and  my  breast  I  wound; 

I  rave,  then  weep ;  I  curse,  and  then  complain ; 

Now  swell  to  rage,  now  melt  in  tears  again. 

Not  fiercer  pangs  distract  the  mournful  dame, 

Whose  first-born  infant  feeds  the  funeral  flame. 

My  scornful  brother  with  a  smile  appears, 

Insults  my  woes,  and  triumphs  in  my  tears ; 

His  hated  image  ever  haunts  my  eyes; 

And  why  this  grief?  thy  daughter  lives,  he  cries. 

Stung  with  my  love,  and  furious  with  despair, 

All  torn  my  garments,  and  my  bosom  bare. 

My  woes,  thy  crimes,  I  to  the  world  prockiini ; 

Such  inconsistent  things  are  love  and  shame; 

'Tis  thou  art  all  my  care  and  my  delight. 

My  daily  longing,  and  my  dream  by  night: 

Oh  night  more  pleasing  than  the  brightest  day, 

When  fancy  gives  what  absence  takes  away: 

And,  dress'd  in  all  its  visionary  charms, 

Restores  my  fair  deserter  to  my  arms  ! 

Then  round  your  neck  in  wanton  wreaths  I  twine  ; 

Then  you,  methinks,  as  fondly  circle  mine : 

A  thousand  tender  words  I  hear  and  speak ; 

A  thousand  melting  kisses  give  and  take : 

Then  fiercer  joys,  I  blush  to  mention  these; 

Yet,  while  I  blush,  confess  how  much  they  please, 

But  when,  with  day,  the  sweet  delusions  lly, 

And  all  things  wake  to  life  and  joy  but  I, 

As  if  once  more  forsaken,  I  complain. 

And  close  my  eyes  to  dream  of  you  again: 

Then  frantic  rise,  and  like  some  fwry  rove 

Through  lonely  plains,  and  through  the  silent  gniire, 

As  if  the  silent  grove,  and  lonely  ])lains. 

That  knew  my  pleasures,  could  relieve  my  pains. 

1  view  the  grotto,  once  the  scene  of  love, 

The  rocks  around,  the  hanging  roofs  above, 

That  charm'd  me  more,  with  native  moss  o'ergrown, 

Than  Phrygian  marble,  or  the  Parian  stone. 

I  find  the  shades  that  veil'd  our  joys  before  ; 

But,  Phaon  gone,  those  shades  delight  no  more. 

Here  the  press'd  herbs  with  bending  tops  betr;iy 

Where  oft  entwin'd  in  am'rous  folds  we  lay ; 

I  kiss  that  earth  which  once  was  press'd  by  you. 

And  all  with  tears  the  withering  herbs  bedew 

For  thee  the  fading  trees  appear  to  mourn, 

And  birds  defer  their  songs  till  thy  return  ; 

Night  shades  the  groves,  and  all  in  silence  lie, 

All  but  the  mournful  Philomel  and  I: 

With  mournful  Philomel  I  join  my  strain; 

Of  Tereus  she  of  Pljaon  I  complain. 


SAPPHO    TO    PIIAON.  131 

A  spring  there  is,  whose  silver  waters  thow 
Clear  as  a  glass,  the  shining  sands  helow: 
A  flow'ry  lotos  spreads  its  arms  above, 
Shades  all  the  banks,  and  seems  itself  a  grove ; 
Eternal  greens  the  mossy  margin  grace, 
Watch'd  by  the  sylvan  genius  of  the  place. 
Here  as  I  lay,  and  swell'd  with  tears  the  flood, 
Before  my  sight  a  wat'ry  Virgin  stood : 
She  stood,  and  cry'd,  *  O  you  that  love  in  vain ' 
Fly  hence  and  seek  the  fair  Leucadian  main  ; 
There  stands  a  rock,  from  whose  impending  steep, 
Apollo's  fane  surveys  the  rolling  deep ; 
There  injur'd  lovers,  leaping  from  above. 
Their  flames  extinguish,  and  forget  to  love. 
Deucalion  once  with  hopeless  fury  burn'd. 
In  vain  he  lov'd,  relentless  Pyrrah  scorn'd: 
But  when  from  hence  he  plung'd  into  the  main, 
Deucalion  scorn'd,  and  Pyrrah  lov'd  in  vain. 
Haste,  Sappho,  haste,  from  high  Leucadia  tlirow 
Thy  wretched  weight,  nor  dread  the  deeps  below  ! 
She  spoke,  and  vanish'd  with  the  voice — I  rise, 
And  silent  tears  fall  trickling  from  my  eyes. 
I  go,  ye  nymphs!  those  rocks  and  seas  to  prove ; 
How  much  1  fear,  but  ah,  how  much  I  love! 
I  go,  ye  nymphs!  where  furious  love  inspires; 
Let  female  fears  submit  to  female  fires. 
To  rocks  and  seas  I  fly  from  Phaon's  hate, 
And  hope  from  seas  and  rocks  a  milder  fate. 
Ye  gentle  gales,  beneath  my  body  blow. 
And  softly  lay  me  on  the  waves  below ! 
And  thou,  kind  love,  my  sinking  limbs  sustain. 
Spread  thy  soft  wings,  and  waft  me  o'er  the  main, 
Nor  let  a  lover's  death  the  guiltless  flood  profane  ! 
On  Phoebus'  shrine  my  harp  I'll  then  bestow, 
And  this  inscription  shall  be  placed  below: 
*  Here  she  who  sung,  to  him  that  did  inspire, 
Sappho  to  Phoebus  consecrates  her  lyre : 
What  suits  with  Sappho,  Phoebus,  suits  with  thee , 
The  gift,  the  giver,  and  the  god  agree.' 
But  why,  alas!  relentless  youth,  ah !  why 
To  distant  seas  must  tender  Sappho  fly  ? 
Thy  charms  than  those  may  far  more  pow'rful  b.^. 
And  Phoebus'  self  is  less  a  god  to  me. 
Ah !  canst  thou  doom  me  to  the  rocks  and  sea  ? 
Oh  far  more  faithless  and  more  hard  than  they ! 
Ah  !  canst  thou  rather  see  this  tender  breast 
Dash'd  on  these  rocks  than  to  thy  bosom  press'd  ? 
This  breast  which  once,  in  vain !  you  lik'd  so  well ; 
Where  the  loves  play'd,  and  where  the  muses  dwell, 


132  SAPPHO    TO    PIIAON. 

Alas !  the  muses  now  no  more  inspire ; 

Untun'd  my  lute,  and  silent  is  my  lyre ; 

My  languid  numbers  have  forgot  to  flow, 

And  fancy  sinks  beneath  a  weight  of  woe. 

Ye  Lesbian  virgins,  and  ye  Lesbian  dames, 

Themes  of  my  verse,  and  objects  of  my  flames, 

No  more  your  groves  with  my  glad  songs  shall  ring, 

No  more  these  hands  shall  touch  the  trembling  string: 

My  Phaon's  fled,  and  I  those  arts  resign ; 

(Wretch  that  I  am,  to  call  that  Phaon  mine  !) 

Return,  fair  youth,  return,  and  bring  along 

Joy  to  my  soul,  and  vigour  to  my  song: 

Absent  from  thee,  the  poet's  flame  expires; 

But  ah!  how  fiercely  burns  the  lover's  fires? 

Gods  !  can  no  pray'rs,  no  sighs,  no  numbers  move 

One  savage  heart,  or  teach  it  how  to  love  I 

The  winds  my  pray'rs,  my  sighs  my  numbers  bear, 

The  flying  winds  have  lost  them  all  in  air ; 

Oh  when,  alas !  shall  more  auspicious  gales 

To  these  fond  eyes  restore  thy  welcome  sails  ! 

If  you  return — ah  why  these  long  delays  ? 

Poor  Sappho  dies  while  careless  Phaon  stays, 

O  launch  thy  bark,  nor  fear  the  watery  plain  ; 

Venus  for  thee  shall  smooth  her  native  main. 

O  launch  thy  bark,  secure  of  prosp'rous  gales ; 

Cupid  for  thee  shall  spread  the  swelling  sails. 

If  you  will  fly — (yet  ah!  what  cause  can  be. 

Too  cruel  youth,  that  you  should  fly  from  me  ?) 

If  not  from  Phaon  I  must  hope  for  ease, 

Ah  let  me  seek  it  from  the  raging  seas: 

To  raging  seas  unpitied  I'll  remove, 

And  either  cease  to  live  or  cease  to  love  I 


ELOISA  TO  ABELARD. 


ARGUMENT. 
ABELAKD  and  Eloisa  flourished  in  the  twelfth  century;  they  vrere 
Two  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  of  their  age  m  learning  and 
beauty,  bu??or  nothing  more  famous  than  for  their  \^ni»5^^»f « 
pSsion.  After  a  long  course  of  calamities,  they  retired  eacn  to  a 
reveial  convent,  and  consecrated  the  remainder  of  their  cays  to 
Son  It  was  many  years  after  this  separation  that  a  letter  o' 
Abelard's  to  a  friend,  which  contained  the  history  of  Ins  misfortune, 
fpMnfo  the  hands  of  Eloisa:  this,  awakening  all  her  tenderness, 
oeaSnedtho'e  celebrated  letters,  out  of  which  tlie  following  is 
partly  extracted;  which  give  so  lively  a  picture  of  the  struggles  of 
^race  and  nature,  virtue  and  passion.— ForE. 

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  vems .' 
Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyond  this  last  retreats 
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; 
Hide  it  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise, 
Where  mix'd  with  God's,  his  lov'd  idea  lies: 

0  write  it  not  my  hand— The  name  appear? 
Already  written— wash  it  out,  my  tears! 

In  vain  lost  Eloisa  weeps  and  prays, 

Her  heari  still  dictates,  and  her  hand  obeys.        ^ 

Relentless  walls !  whose  darksome  round  contain* 
Repentant  sighs,  and  voluntary  pains: 
Ye  rugged  rocks!  which  holy  knees  have  worn  ! 
Ye  grSts  and  caverns,  shagg'd  with  horrid  thorn ! 
Shrines,  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed  virgins  keep 
And  pitying  saints,  whose  statues  learn  to  weep  I 
Though  cold  like  you,  unmoved  and  silent  grown, 

1  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  restraiB 
Nor  tears  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in  vain, 
12 


^1 


134  ELOISA   TO   ABELARD. 

Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  unclose, 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all  my  woes, 
O,  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. 

Yet  write,  O,  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? 
Teal's  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. 
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 ; 
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. 
Dim  and  remote  the  joys  of  saints  I  see  ; 
Nor  envy  them  that  heaven  J  lose  for  thee. 

How  oft,  when  press'd  to  marriage,  have  I  said, 
Curse  on  all  laws  but  those  which  love  has  made  I 
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: 


ELOISA    TO    ABELAUD.  *  135 

Before  true  passion  all  those  views  remove; 

Fame,  wealth,  and  honoui !  what  are  you  to  Love? 

The  jealous  god,  when  we  profane  his  fires, 

Those  restless  passions  in  revenge  inspires; 

And  bidi*  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: 

>Jot  Caesar'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. 

O,  happy  state!  where  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: 

Ev'n  thought  meets  tliought,  ere  from  the  lips  it  part; 

And  each  warm  wish  sprmgs  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  I 
A  naked  lover  bound  and  bleeding  lies! 
Where,  where  was  Eloise?  her  voice,  her  hand, 
Her  poinard  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? 
TOnst  thou  forget  what  tears  that  moment  fell, 
When,  warm  in  youth,  I  bade  the  world  farewell  ? 
As  with  cold  lips  I  kiss'd  the  sacred  veil, 
The  shrines  all  trembled,  and  the  lamps  gi*ew  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  wex-e  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: 
Still  on  that  breast  enamour'd  let  me  lie. 
Still  drink  delicious  poison  from  Ihy  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  ; 
>yith  other  beauties  charm  my  partial  eyes; 
Full  in  my  view  set  all  the  bright  abode, 
And  make  my  soul  quit  Abelard  for  God. 


136  ELOISA    TO    ABELAKD. 

Ah !  think  at  least  thy  flock  deserves  thy  care, 
Plants  of  thy  hand,  and  children  of  thy  pray'r. 
From  the  false  world  in  early  youth  they  fled, 
By  thee  to  mountains,  wilds,  and  deserts  led. 
You  rais'd  these  hallow'd  walls;  the  desert  smil'd, 
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  giv'n, 
Here  brib'd  the  rage  of  ill-requited  Heav'n; 
But  such  plain  roofs  as  piety  could  raise, 
And  only  vocal  with  the  maker's  praise. 
In  these  lone  walls  (their  days  eternal  bound) 
These  moss-grown  domes  with  spiry  turrets  crown 'd, 
Where  awful  arches  make  a  noon-day  night, 
And  the  dim  windows  shed  a  solemn  light; 
Thy  eyes  diffiised  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'  pray'rs  I  try, 
(Oh  pious  fi-aud  of  am'rous  charity!) 
But  why  should  1  on  others'  pray'rs  depend? 
Come  thou,  my  father,  brother,  husband,  friend  i 
Ah  let  thy  handmaid,  sister,  daughter  move, 
And  all  those  tender  names  in  one,  thy  love  ! 
Tlie  darksome  pines,  that  o'er  yon  rocks  reclin'd. 
Wave  high,  and  murmer  to  the  hollow  wind ; 
The  wand'ring  sti-eams,  that  shine  between  the  hills; 
The  grots,  that  echo  to  the  tinkling  rills  ;  I 

The  dying  gales,  that,  pant  upon  the  trees 
The  lakes,  that  quiver  to  the  curling  bret 
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. 

Yet  here  for  ever,  ever  must  I  stay ; 
Sad  proof  how  well  a  lover  can  obey  ! 
Death,  only  death  can  break  the  lasting  chain ; 
A.nd  here,  e'en  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  1 


ELOISA   TO   ABELARD. 


137 


Assist  me,  Heaven !  but  whence  arose  that  prayer? 

Sprung  it  from  piety  or  from  despair? 

Ev'n  here,  where  frozen  chastity  retires, 

Love  finds  an  altar  for  ftn-bidden  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  ottence 

Now  think  of  thee,  and  curse  my  innocence. 

Of  all  a  ffliction  taught  a  lover  yet, 

'Tis  sure  the  hardest  science  to  lorget! 

How  shall  I  lose  the  sin,  yet  keep  the  sense? 

And  love  the  offender,  yet  detest  the  otfence  i 

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! 

But  let  Heaven  seize  it ;  all  at  once  tis  tired ; 

Not  touch'd,  but  rapt ;  not  waken  d,  but  mspired. 

O   come  !  O,  teach  me  nature  to  subdue, 

Renounce  my  love,  my  life,  myself— and  you: 

Fill  my  fond  heart  with  God  alone,  tor  he 

Alone  can  rival,  can  succeed  to  thee. 

H  ow  happy  is  the  blameless  vestal  s  lot ! 
Tlie  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot : 
Eternal  sunshine  of  the  spotless  mind  ! 
Each  prayer  accepted,  and  each  wish  resign  d. 
Labour  and  rest,  that  equal  periods  keep ; 
'  Obedient  slumbers,  that  can  wake  and  weep , 
Desires  composed,  affections  ever  even; 
Teal^  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 ; 
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. 


12. 


138  ELOISA    TO    ADELAllD. 

O,  cursed,  dear  horrors  of  all-conscious  night! 

How  glowing  guilt  exalts  the  keen  delight! 

Provoking  demons  all  restraint  remove, 

And  stir  within  me  every  source  of  love. 

1  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  !  _ 

Alas,  no  more !  methinks  we  wandering  go 

Through  dreary  wastes,  and  v/eep  each  other's  woe, 

Where  round  some  mouldering  tow'er  pale  ivy  creeps. 

And  low-hrow'd  rocks  hang  nodding  o'er  tlie  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 ; 

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  taugfit  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; 

Ev'n  thou  art  cold — yet  Eloisa  loves. 

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  I 

The  dear  ideas,  whei'e  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. 

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; 
Priest,  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  hurnble  grief  I  lie. 
Kind,  viituous  dr Dps  just  gathering  in  my  eyej 


ELOISA    TO    ABELARD.  139 

While  praying,  tremblino,  in  the  dust  1  roll, 
And  dawning  grace  is  opening  on  my  soul; 
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  bless'd  a'hode; 
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 ! 
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 
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  watched  the  dying  lamp  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  I 
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; 
E'en  superstition  loses  eveiy  fear: 
For  God,  not  man,  absolves  our  frailties  here.' 

I  come,  I  come!  prepare  your  roseate  bow'rs, 
Celestial  palms,  and  ever-blooming  flow'rs. 
Thither,  where  sinners  may  have  rest  I  go, 
Where  flames  refin'd  in  breasts  seraphic  glow. 
Thou  Abelard !  the  last  siid  office  pay, 
And  smooth  my  passage  to  the  realms  of  day: 
See  my  lips  tremble,  and  my  eye-balls  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, 


m^ 


i40  ELOISA   TO  ASELARD. 

Ah  then,  thy  once  lov'd  Eloisa  see  ; 
It  will  be  then  no  crime  to  gaze  on  me  ; 
See  from  my  cheek  the  transient  roses  fly  I 
See  the  last  sparkle  languish  in  my  eye! 
'Till  ev'ry  motion,  pulse,  and  breath  be  o'er; 
And  e'en  my  Abelard  be  lov'd  nu  njore. 
Oh  death,  all-eloquent!  you  only  prove 
What  dust  we  dote  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  rou 
From  op'ning  skies  may  streaming  glories  shine, 
And  saints  embrace  thee  with  a  love  love  like  mi 

May  one  kind  grave  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  moro; 
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 ; 
Then  sadly  say,  with  mutual  pity  moved, — 
*  O,  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  Heav* 
One  human  tear  shall  drop,  and  be  forgiv'n. 

And  sure  if  fate  some  future  bard  shall  join, 
In  sad  similitude  of  griefs  to  mine, 
Condemn'd  whole  years  in  absence  to  deplore. 
And  image  charms  he  must  behold  no  more ; 
Sufeh  if  there  be,  who  loves  so  long,  so  well; 
Let  him  our  sad,  our  tender  story  tell ! 
The  well-sung  woes  will  soothe  my  pensive  gh 
lie  best  can  paint  them  who  shall  feel  them  m 


WINDSOR  FOREST. 


TO  THE   RIGHT    HON.    GEORGE    LORD  LANSDOWN. 


TiiY  forest,  Windsor!  and  thy  green  retreats, 

At  once  the  Monarch's  and  the  Muses'  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: 
'i'hese,  were  my  breast  inspir'd  with  equal  flame, 
Like  them  in  beauty,  should  be  like  in  fame. 
Here  hills  and  vales,  the  woodland  and  the  plain. 
Here  earth  and  water  seem  to  strive  again ; 
Not  chaos-hke,  together  crush'd  and  bruis'd, 
But,  as  the  world,  harmoniously  confus'd; 
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. 
There  interspers'd  in  lawns  and  op'ning  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. 
E'en  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. 
While  by  our  oaks  the  precious  loads  are  borne, 
And  realms  commanded  which  those  trees  adorn, 
Not  proud  Olympus  yields  a  nobler  sight, 
Tho'  gods  assembled  grace  his  towering  height, 
Than  what  more  humble  mountain  offer  here. 
Where,  in  their  blessings  all  those  gods  appear. 


142  WINDSOR    FOREST. 

See  Pan  with  flocks,  with  fruits  Pomona  crown'd 
Here  blushing  Flora  paints  tli'  enamell'd  ground 
Here  Ceres'  gifts  in  waving  prospect  stana, 
And  nodding  tempt  the  joyful  reaper's  hand; 
Rich  industry  sits  smiling  on  the  plains, 
And  poi'vce  and  plenty  tell,  a  Stuart  reigns. 
Noi  Ihus  the  land  appear'd  in  ages  past, 
A  dreary  desert  and  a  gloomy  waste, 
I'o  savage  beasts  and  savage  laws  a  prey. 
And  kings  more  furious  and  severe  than  th«y 
Who  claim'd  the  skies,  dispeopled  air  and  floods; 
Tlie  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.) 
What  could  be  free  when  lawless  beasts  obey'd, 
And  e'en  the  elements  a  tyrant  sway'd? 
In  vain  kind  seasons  swell'd  the  teeming  grain, 
Soft  show'rs  distill'd  and  suns  grew  warm  in  vaia 
Tlie  swain  with  tears  his  frustrate  labour  yields, 
Andfamish'd  dies  amidst  his  ripen'd  fields. 
What  wonder  then  a  beast  or  subject  slain 
Where  equal  crimes  in  a  despotic  reign? 
Both  doom'd  alike,  for  sportive  tyrants  bled; 
But  while  the  subject  starv'd  the  beast  was  fed. 
Proud  Nimrod  first  the  bloody  chase  began, 
A  mighty  hunter,  and  his  prey  was  man ; 
Our  haugty  Norman  boasts  that  barb'rous  name, 
And  makes  his  trembling  slaves  the  royal  game. 
The  fields  are  ravish'd  from  th'  industrous  swaina, 
From  men  their  cities,  and  fi'om  gods  their  fanes : 
The  levell'd  towns  with  weeds  lay  cover'd  o'er. 
The  hollow  winds  thro'  naked  temples  roar; 
Round  broken  columns  clasping  ivy  twin'd; 
O'er  heaps  of  ruin  stalk'd  the  stately  hind; 
The  fox  obscene  to  gaping  tombs  retires, 
And  savage  bowlings  fill  the  sacred  quires. 
Aw'd  by  his  nobles,  by  his  commons  ciu's'd, 
Th'  oppressor  rul'd  tyranic  where  he  durst, 
Stretch'd  o'er  the  poor  and  church  his  iron  rod, 
And  serv'd  alike  his  vassals  and  his  God. 
Whom  e'en  the  Saxon  spar'd,  and  bloody  Dar.e, 
The  wanton  victims  of  his  sport  remain. 
But  see  the  man,  who  spacious  regions  gave 
A  waste  for  beasts,  himself  denied  a  grave  ! 
Stretch'd  on  the  lawn  his  second  hope  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  displeas'd  the  peaceful  cottage  rise: 


"WINDSOR    F0UE3T.  113 

Then  gath'ring  flocks  on  unknown  mountains  fed, 

O'er  sandy  wilds  were  yellov/  harvests  spread; 

The  forest  wonder'd  at  th'  unusal  grain, 

And  secret  transports  touch'd  the  conscious  swain. 

Fair  Liberty,  Brittania's  goddess,  rears 

Her  cheerful  head,  and  leads  the  golden  years. 

Ye  vig'rous  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  spi*ead  the  waving  net. 
When  milder  autumn  summer's  heat  succeeds, 
And  in  the  new-shorn  field  the  partridge  feeda; 
Before  his  lord  the  ready  spaniel  bounds; 
Panting  with  hope,  he  tries  the  fmTow'd  grounds  ; 
But  when  the  tainted  gales  the  game  betray. 
Couch 'd  close  he  lies,  and  meditates  the  prey  ; 
Secure  they  trust  th'  unfaithful  field  beset, 
'Till  hov'ring  o'er  them  sweeps  the  swellmg  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  th'  amaz'd  defenceless  prize, 
And  high  in  air  Britannia's  standard  flies. 

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  goldf  ■- 

Nor  yet,  when  moist  Arcturus  clouds  the  sky. 
The  woods  and  fields  their  pleasing  toils  deny. 
To  plains  with  well-breath 'd  beagles  we  repair, 
And  trace  the  mazes  of  the  circling  hare : 
(Beasts,  ui'g'd  by  us,  their  fellow  beasts  pursue. 
And  learn  of  man  each  other  to  undo.) 
With  slaught'ring  guns  th'  unv/eared  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  wat'ry  glade. 
He  lifts  the  tube,  and  levels  with  his  eye ; 
Straight  a  short  thunder  breaks  the  frozen  sky 
Oft,  as  in  airy  rings  they  skim  the  heath. 
The  clam'rous  lapwings  feci  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  quiv'ring  shade, 
Where  cooling  vapours  breath  along  the  mead. 


Ml  WINDSOR    FOREST. 

The  patient  fislier  takes  his  silent  stand 
Intent,  his  angle  trembling  in  his  hand ; 
With  looks  unmov'd,  he  hopes  the  scaly  breed, 
And  eyes  the  dancing  cork  and  bending  reed. 
Our  plenteous  streams  a  various  race  supply; 
'J'he  bright-ey'd  perch,  with  fins  of  Tyrian  dye  j 
The  silver  eel,  in  shining  volumes  roU'd; 
'i'he  yellow  carp,  in  scales  bedropp'd  with  gold  ; 
Swift  trouts,  diversified  with  crimson  stains; 
And  pikes,  the  tyrants  of  the  wat'ry  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, 
jiousc  the  fleet  hart,  and  cheer  th'  op'ning  hound. 
'I'll'  impatient  courser  pants  in  ev'ry  vein. 
And,  pawing,  seems  to  beat  the  distant  plain : 
Hills,  vales,  and  floods,  appear  already  cross'd, 
Aud  ere  he  starts  a  thousand  steps  are  lost. 
Si.  c  the  bold  youth  strain  up  the  threat'ning  steep, 
Rush  through  the  thickets,  down  the  valleys  sweep, 
Hang  o'er  the  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 ; 
Nor  envy,  Windsor !  since  thy  shades  have  seen 
As  bright  a  goddess,  and  as  chaste  a  queen  ; 
Whose  care,  like  her's,  protects  the  sylvan  reign, 
The  earth's  far  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  trac'd  the  dewy  lawn. 

Above  the  rest  a  rural  nymph  was  fam'd. 
Thy  offspring,  Thames!  the  fair  Lodona  nam'd  ; 
(Lodona's  fate,  in  long  oblivion  cast, 
'I'he  Muse  shall  sing,  and  what  she  sings  shall  last.) 
Scarce  could  the  goddess  from  her  nymph  be  knuvAU. 
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  chanc'd,  as  eager  of  the  chase,  the  maid 
Beyond  the  forest's  verdant  limits  stray'd. 
Pan  saw  and  lov'd,  and,  burning  with  desire, 
Pursu'd  her  flight;  her  flight  increas'd  his  fire. 
Not  half  so  swift  the  trembling  doves  can  fly 
When  the  fierce  eagle  cleaves  the  liquid  sky, 


WINDh'OR    FOREST.  145 

Not  Im'.r^o  swiftly  the  fierce  eagle  moves 

VVlieu  thro'  the  clouds  he  drives  the  trembling  doves, 

As  from  the  god  she  flew  with  furious  pace, 

Or  as  the  god,  more  furious,  urg'd  the  chase. 

Now  fainting,  sinking,  pale,  thy  nymph  appears; 

Now  close  behind  his  sounding  steps  she  hears; 

And  now  his  shadow  reach 'd  her  as  she  run, 

His  shadow,  iengthen'd  by  the  setting  sun ; 

And  now  his  shorter  breath,  with  sulti'y  air. 

Pants  on  her  neck,  and  fans  her  parting  hair 

In  vain  on  father  Thames  she  calls  for  aid. 

Nor  could  Diana  help  her  injur'd  maid. 

Faint,  breathless,  thus  she  pray'd,  nor  pray'd  iu  vaiu; 

*  Ah,  Cynthia !  ah — tho'  banish'd  from  thy  train. 

Let  me,  O  let  me,  to  the  shades  repair, 

My  native  shades — there  weep,  and  murmur  there,' 

She  said,  and  melting  as  in  tears  she  lay, 

In  a  soft  silver  stream  dissolv'd  away. 

The  silver  stream  her  virgin  coldness  keeps, 

For  ever  murmm's,  and  for  ever  weeps ; 

Still  bears  the  name  the  hapless  virgin  here, 

And  bathes  the  forest  where  she  rang'd  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; 

The  wat'ry  landscape  of  the  pendant  woods, 

And  absent  trees  that  tremble  in  the  floods : 

In  the  clear  azure  gleam  the  flocks  are  seen, 

And  floating  foi-ests  paint  the  v/aves  with  green. 

Thro'  the  fair  scene  roll  slow  the  ling'ring  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  tow'ring  oaks  their  growing  honours  rear, 
And  future  navies  on  thy  shores  appear. 
Not  Neptune's  self  from  all  his  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  poets  lays. 
While  led  along  the  skies  his  current  strays. 
As  thine,  which  visits  Windsor's  fam'd  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; 
Where  Jove,  subdu'd  by  mortal  passions  still. 
Might  change  Olympus  for  a  nobler  hill. 

Happy  the  man  whom  this  bright  court  approvei, 
His  sov'reign  favours,  and  his  country  loves: 
13 


146  WINDSOR    FOREST. 

Happy  next  him,  who  to  these  shades  retires, 

Whom  natvire  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 ; 

With  chemic  art  exalts  the  min'ral  pow'rs, 

And  draws  the  aromatic  souls  of  flow'rs  : 

Now  marks  the  course  of  rolling  orbs  on  high; 

O'er  figur'd  worlds  now  travels  with  his  eye  j 

Of  ancient  writ  unlocks  the  learned  store, 

Consults  the  dead,  and  lives  pasts  ages  o'er  : 

Or  wand 'ring  thoughtful  in  the  silent  wood, 

Attends  the  duties  of  the  v^'ise  and  good, 

T'  observe  a  mean,  be  to  himself  a  friend. 

To  follow  Nature,  and  regard  his  end; 

Or  looks  on  Heav'n  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  v/as  the  life  great  Scipio  once  admir'd. 

Thus  Atticus,  and  Trumball  thus  retir'd. 

Ye  sacred  Nine  !  that  all  my  soul  posses, 
Whose  raptures  fire  me,  and  whose  visions  bless, 
Bear  me,  oh  bear  me  to  sequester 'd  scenes. 
The  bow'ry  mazes,  and  surrounding  greens; 
To  Thames's  banks,  which  fragrant  breezes  fill. 
Or  where  ye  Muses  sport  on  Cooper's  Hill. 
(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. 
O  early  lost !  what  tears  the  river  shed, 
When  the  sad  pomp  along  his  banks  was  led ! 
His  drooping  swans  on  ev'ry  note  expire, 
And  on  his  willows  hung  each  muse's  lyre. 

Since  Fate  relentless  stopp'd  their  heav'nly  voice, 
No  more  the  forests  ring,  or  groves  rejoice: 
Who  now  shall  charm  the  shades  where  Cowley  .strt:ng 
Wis  living  harp,  and  lofty  Denham  sung? 
But  hark !  the  groves  rejoice,  the  forest  rings ! 
Are  these  reviv'd?  or  is  it  Granville  sings  ? 
'Tis  yours,  my  Lord,  to  bless  our  soft  retreats, 
And  call  the  Muses  to  their  ancient  seats; 
To  paint  anew  the  flow'ry  sylvan  scenes, 
To  crown  the  forests  with  immortal  greens; 


WINDSOR    FOREST, 

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  felt  the  sacred  rage ; 
Surrey,  the  Granville  of  a  former  age; 
Matchless  his  pen,  victorious  was  his  lance, 
Bold  in  the  lists,  and  graceful  in  the  dance: 
In  the  same  shades  the  Cupids  tun'd  his  lyre, 
To  the  same  notes  of  love  and  soft  desire: 
Fair  Geraldine,  bright  object  of  his  vow. 
Then  filled  the  groves,  as  heavenly  Mira  now. 

Oh  wouldst  thou  sing  what  heroes  Windsor  bore. 
What  kings  first  breath 'd  upon  her  winding  shore. 
Or  raise  old  warriors,  whose  ador'd  remains 
In  weeping  vaults  her  hallow'd  earth  contains ! 
With  Edward's  acts  adorn  the  shining  page, 
Stretch  his  long  triumphs  down  through  ev'ry  age, 
Draw  monarchs  chain'd,  and  Cressy's  glorious  field, 
The  lilies  blazing  on  the  regal  shield: 
Then  from  her  roofs  v/hen  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, 
And  palms  eternal  flourish  round  his  urn. 
Here  o'er  the  martyr  king  the  marble  weeps, 
And,  fast  beside  him,  once  fear'd  Edward  sleeps  • 
Whom  not  th'  extended  Albion  could  contain, 
From  old  Belerium  to  the  northern  main. 
The  grave  unites;  where  e'en  the  great  find  rest, 
And  blended  lie  th'  oppressor  and  th'  oppress'd! 

Make  sacred  Charles's  tomb  for  ever  known  ; 
(Obscure  the  place,  and  uninscrib'd  the  stone,) 
Oh  fact  accurs'd !  what  tears  has  Albion  shed  ! 
Heav'ns!  what  new  wounds!  and  howherold  have  bled! 
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  tliat  blest  moment  from  his  oozy  bed 
Old  father  Thames  advanc'd  his  reverend  head  ; 
His  tresses  dropp'd  with  dews,  and  o'er  the  stream 
His  shining  horns  diff'used  a  golden  gleam: 
Grav'd  on  his  urn  appear'd  the  moon,  that  guides 
His  swelling  waters,  and  alternate  tides  ; 
The  figur'd  streams  in  waves  of  silver  roU'd, 
And  on  her  banks  x^ugusta  rose  in  gold. 


148  WINDSOR    FOREST. 

Around  his  throne  the  sea-born  brothers  stcod, 
Who  swell  with  tributary  urns  his  flood : 
First  the  fam'd  authors  of  his  ancient  nam^. 
The  winding  Isis,  and  the  fruitful  Thame: 
The  Kennett  swift,  for  silver  eels  renown'd  ; 
The  Loddon  slow,  with  verdant  alders  crown 'd  ; 
Cole,  whose  dark  streams  his  flow'ry  islands  lave', 
And  chalky  Wey,  that  rolls  a  milky  wave: 
The  blue  transparent  Vandalis  appears; 
The  gulphy  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  reclin'd 
(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; 
Then  bow'd  and  spoke ;  the  whids  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  Tyber's  streams  immortal  Rome  behold, 
Though  foaming  Hermus  swells  with  tides  of  gold  ; 
From  Heav'n  itself  though  sevenfold  Nilus  flows, 
And  harvest  on  a  hundred  realms  bestows ; 
These  now  no  more  shall  be  the  Muses'  themes. 
Lost  in  my  fame,  as  in  the  sea  their  streams. 
Let  Volga's  banks  with  iron  squadrons  shine, 
And  groves  of  lances  glitter  on  the  Rhine, 
Let  barb'rous  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  chace ; 
The  trumpet  sleep,  while  cheerful  horns  are  blown, 
And  arms  employ *d  on  birds  and  beast  alone. 
Behold  th'  ascending  villas  on  my  side 
Project  long  shadows  o'er  the  crystal  tide; 
Behold !  -Augusta's  glittering  spires  increase, 
And  temples  rise,  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, 
"I'he  world's  great  oracle  in  times  to  come ; 
There  kings  shall  sue,  and  supplaint  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, 


WINDSOR    FOREST. 


H9 


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 ! 
For  me  the  balm  shall  bleed,  and  ambar  flow, 
The  coral  redden,  and  the  ruby  glow, 
The  pearly  shell  its  lucid  globe  unfold. 
And  Phoebus  warm  the  rip'ning  ore  to  gold.  ^ 
The  time  shall  oome,  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. 
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 ! 
Oh  stretch  thy  reign,  fair  peace  !  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  conquest  cease,  and  slav'ry  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, 
Exil'd  by  thee,  from  earth  to  deepest  hell. 
In  brazen  bonds,  shall  barb'ious  discord  dwell: 
Gigantic  pride,  pale  terror,  gloomy  care. 
And  mad  ambition,  shall  attend  her  there  : 
There  purple  vengeance,  bath  d  in  gore,  retires, 
Her  weapons  bkmted,  and  extinct  her  fires: 
There  hateful  envy  her  own  snakes  shall  feel. 
And  persecution  mourn  her  broken  wheel: 
There  faction  roar,  rebelion  bite  her  chain, 
And  gasping  furies  thirst  for  blood  in  vain. 

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  op'ning  fate  to  light. 
My  humble  muse,  in  unambitious  strains, 
Paints  the  green  forests  and  the  flow'ry  plains, 
Where  Peace  descending  bids  her  olives  spring. 
And  scatters  blessings  from  her  dove  like  wing. 
E'en  I  more  sweetly  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  sang  the  sylvan  strains. 


13* 


THE     DUNCIAD. 


TO  DR.  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


BY  AUTHORITY. 

By  virtue  of  the  Authority  in  us  vested  by  the  act  for 
subjecting  poets  to  the  power  of  a  licence,  we  have 
revised  this  piece  ;  where,  finding  the  style  and  appella- 
tion of  King  to  have  been  given  to  a  certain  pretender, 
pseudo-poet,  or  phantom,  of  the  name  of  Tibbald  ;  and 
apprehending  the  same  may  be  deemed  in  some  sort  a 
reflection  on  majesty,  or  at  least  an  insult  on  that  legal 
authority  which  has  bestowed  on  another  person  the 
crown  of  poesy:  We  have  ordered  the  said  pretender, 
pseudo-poet,  or  phantom,  utterly  to  vanish  and  evapo- 
rate out  of  this  work ;  and  to  declare  the  said  throne  of 
poesy  from  henceforth  to  be  abdicated  and  vacant, 
unless  duly  and  lawful/y  supplied  by  the  Laureate 
himself.  And  it  is  hereby  enacted,  that  no  other 
person  do  presume  to  fill  the  same. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR. 

A   DECLARATION. 

Whereas  certain  haberdashers  of  points  and  particles, 
being  instigated  by  the  spirit  of  pride,  and  assiuning 
to  themselves  the  name  of  critics  and  restorers,  have 
taken  upon  them  to  adulterate  the  common  and  current 
sense  of  our  glorious  ancestors,  poets  of  this  realm,  by 
clipping,  coining,  defacing  the  images,  mixing  tlicir 
own  base  alloy,  orotherwisefalsifying  the  same  ;  which 
they  publish,  utter,  and  vend   as  genuine ;    the  said 


THE    DUNCIAD.  151 

naberdashers  having  no  right  thereto,  as  neither  heirs, 
executors,  administrators,  assigns,  or  in  any  sort  related 
to  such  poets,  to  all  or  any  of  them.  Now  we,  having 
carefully  revised  this  our  Dunciad,  beginning  with  the 
words  '  The  Mighty  Mother,'  and  ending  vAi\\  the 
words  'buries  all,'  containing  the  entire  sum  of  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty-four  verses,  declare 
every  word,  figure,  point  and  comma,  of  this  impression 
to  be  authentic ;  and  do  therefore  strictly  enjoin  and 
forbid  any  person  or  persons  whatsoever,  to  erase, 
reverse,  put  between  hooks,  or  b)''  any  other  means, 
directly  or  indirectly,  change  or  mangle  any  of  them. 
And  we  do  hereby  earnestly  exhort  all  our  brethern  to 
follow  this  our  example,  which  we  heartily  wish  our 
great  predecessors  had  heretofore  set^  as  a  remedy  and 
prevention  of  all  such  abuses ;  provided  always,  that 
nothing  in  this  declaration  shall  be  construed  to  limit 
the  lawful  and  undoubted  right  of  every  subject  of  this 
realm  to  judge,  censure,  or  condemn,  in  the  whole,  or 
in  part,  any  poem  or  poet  whatsoever. 

Given  under  our  hand  at  London,  this  third  day  of 
January,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  thirty- two. 

Declarat'  cor*  me, 
JOHN  BARBER.  M«v<Mf. 


THE     DUNCIAD 


TO  DR.  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


BOOK  I. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  Proposition,  the  Invocaion,  and  the  Inscription.  Then  the 
original  of  the  great  Empire  of  Dulness,  and  cause  of  tlie  continuance 
thereof.  The  College  of  the  Goddess  in  the  city,  with  her  private 
academy  for  poets  in  particular;  the  governors  of  it,  and  the  four 
cardinal  virtues.  Then  the  poem  hastes  into  the  midst  of  things, 
presenting  her,  on  the  evening  of  a  Lord  Mayor's  day,  revolving  the 
long  succession  of  her  sons,  and  the  glories  past  and  to  come.  She 
fixes  her  eyes  onBayes,  to  be  the  instrument  of  that  great  event  which 
is  the  subject  of  the  poem.  He  is  described  pensive  among  his  books, 
giving  up  the  cause,  and  apprehending  tlie  period  of  her  empire. 
After  debating  whether  to  betake  himself  to  the  church,  or  to  gaming, 
or  to  party-writing,  he  raises  an  altar  of  proper  books,  and  (making 
first  his  solemn  prayer  and  declaration)  purposes  thereon  to  sacrifice 
all  his  unsuccessful  writings.  As  the  pile  is  kindled,  the  God  Jess, 
beholding  the  flame  from  her  seat,  flies  and  puts  it  out,  by  casting 
upon  it  the  poem  of  Thule.  She  forthwith  veveals  herself  to  him, 
transports  him  to  her  temple,  unfolds  her  arts,  and  initiates  him  into 
her  mysteries;  then  announcing  the  death  of  Eusden  the  Poet 
Laureate,  anoints  him,  carries  him  to  court,  and  proclaims  him 
successor. 

The  mighty  mother,  and  her  son,  who  urings 
'J'he  Smithheld  muses  to  the  ear  of  kings, 
I  sing.     Say  you,  her  instruments,  the  great! 
Called  to  this  work  by  Duhiess,  Jove,  and  Fate  ; 
Yor  by  whose  care,  in  vain  decried  and  curs' d, 
Stili  Dunce  the  second  reigns  Hke  Dunce  the  lirst ; 
Say  how  the  goddess  bade  Britannia  sleep, 
And  poured  her  spirit  o'er  the  land  and  deep. 

In  eldest  time,  ere  mortals  writ  or  read, 
Ere  Pallas  issued  from  the  Thunderer's  head, 
Dalncss  o'er  all  possessed  her  ancient  right, 
Daughter  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night: 
Fate  in  their  dotage  this  fair  idiot  gave. 
Gross  as  her  sire,  and  as  her  mother  grave ; 


THE    DUNCIAD.  153 

i.aborious,  heavy,  busy,  bold,  and  blind, 
She  ruled,  in  native  anarchy,  the  mind. 

Still  her  old  empire  to  restore  she  tries, 
For,  born  a  goddess,  Dulness  never  dies. 

O  thou !  whatever  title  please  thine  ear, 
Dean,  Drapier,  Bickerstalt',  or  Gulliver! 
Whetiier  thou  choose  Cervantes'  serious  air, 
Or  laugh  and  shake  in  Rabelais'  easy  chair, 
Or  praise  the  court,  or  magnify  mankind, 
Or  thy  grieved  country's  copper  chains  unbind ; 
From  thy  Boeotia  though  her  power  retires, 
Mourn  not,  my  Swift !  at  ought  our  realm  acquires. 
Here  pleased  behold  her  mighty  wings  outspread 
To  hatch  a  new  Saturnian  age  of  lead. 
Close  to  those  walls  where  Folly  holds  her  throne, 
And  laughs  to  think  Monroe  would  take  her  down, 
Where  o'er  the  gates,  by  his  famed  father's  hand 
Great  Gibber's  brazen,  brainless  brothers  stand, 
One  cell  there  is,  concealed  from  vulgar  eye. 
The  cave  of  poverty  and  poetry : 
Keen  hollow  winds  howl  through  the  black  recess. 
Emblem  of  music  caused  by  emptiness: 
Hence  bards,  like  Proteus  long  in  vain  tied  down. 
Escape  in  monsters,  and  amaze  the  town ; 
Hence  miscellanies  spring,  the  weekly  boast 
Of  Curl's  chaste  press,  and  Lintot's  rubric  post*' 
Hence  hymning  Tyburn's  elegiac  lines; 
Hence  journals,  medleys,  Merc'ries,  magazines: 
Sepulchral  lies,  our  holy  walls  to  grace, 
And  New-year  odes,  and  all  the  Grub-street  race. 

In  clouded  majesty  here  Dulness  shone ; 
Four  guardian  virtues,  round,  support  her  throne; 
Fierce  champion  Fortitude,  that  knows  no  fears 
Of  hisses,  blows,  or  want  or  loss  of  ears : 
Calm  Temperance,  wliose  blessings  those  partake 
"Who  hunger  and  who  thirst  for  scribbling  sake; 
Prudence,  whose  glass  presents  the  approaching  jail 
Poetic  Justice,  with  her  lifted  scale, 
Where,  in  nice  balance,  truth  and  gold  she  weighs. 
And  solid  pudding  against  empty  praise. 

Here  she  beholds  the  chaos  dark  and  deep, 
Where  nameless  somethings  in  their  causes  sleep, 
'Till  genial  Jacob,  on  a  warm  third  day, 
Call  forth  each  mass,  a  poem  or  a  play : 
How  hints,  like  spawn,  scarce  quick  in  embryo  lie. 
How  new-born  nonsense  first  is  taught  to  cry, 
Maggots  half-formed  in  rhyme  exactly  meet. 
And  learn  to  crawl  upon  poetic  feet. 
Here  one  poor  word  an  hundred  clenches  makes, 
And  ductile  Dulness  new  meanders  takes : 


154  THE   DUNCIAD. 

There  motley  images  her  fancy  strike, 
Figures  ill-paired,  and  similies  unlike. 
She  sees  a  mob  of  metaphors  advance, 
Pleased  with  the  madness  of  the  mazy  dance; 
How  tragedy  and  comedy  embrace ; 
How  farce  and  epic  get  a  jumbled  race ; 
How  Time  himself  stands  still  at  her  comrannd, 
Realms  shift  their  place,  and  ocean  turns  to  land 
Here  gay  description  Egypt  glads  with  showers, 
Or  gives  to  Zembla  fruits,  to  Barca  flowers; 
Glittering  with  ice  here  hoary  hills  are  seen. 
There  painted  vallies  of  eternal  green; 
In  cold  December  fragrant  chaplets  blow, 
And  heavy  harvests  nod  beneath  the  snow. 

All  these,  and  more,  the  cloud-compelling  queen 
Beholds  through  fogs  that  magnify  the  scene. 
She,  tinsel'd  o'er  in  robes  of  varying  hues, 
With  self-applause  her  wild  creation  views; 
Sees  momentary  monsters  rise  and  fall, 
And  with  her  own  fools-colours  gilds  them  all 
'Twas  on  the  day  when  T***d  rich  and  grave, 
Like  Cimon,  triumph'd  both  on  land  and  wave : 
Pomps  without  guilt,  of  bloodless  swords  and  maces, 
Glad  chains,  warm  furs,  broad  banners,  and  broad  faces 
Now  night  descending,  the  proud  scene  was  o'er. 
But  liv'd  in  Settle's  numbers  one  day  more. 
Now  mayors  and  shrieves  all  hush'd  and  satiate  lay, 
Yet  eat,  in  dreams,  the  custard  of  the  day  ; 
While  pensive  poets  painful  vigils  keep. 
Sleepless  themselves  to  give  their  readers  sleep 
Much  to  the  mindful  queen  the  feast  recalls 
What  city  swans  once  sung  within  the  walls  ; 
Much  she  revolves  their  arts,  their  ancient  praise, 
And  sure  succesion  down  from  Heyvvood's  days. 
She  saw  with  joy  the  line  immortal  run, 
Each  sire  impress'd  and  glaring  in  his  son : 
So  watchful  Bruin  forms,  with  plastic  care 
Each  growing  lump,  and  brings  it  to  a  bear. 
She  saw  old  Pryn  in  restless  Daniel  shine, 
And  Eusden  eke  out  Blackmore's  endless  lint; ; 
She  saw  slow  Philips  creep  like  Tate's  poor  pa^o, 
And  all  the  mighty  mad  in  Dennis  rage. 

In  each  she  marks  her  image  full  expressM. 
But  chief  in  Bayes's  monster-breeding  breast 
Bayes,  formed  by  Nature  stage  and  town  to  bless, 
And  act  and  be  a  coxcomb  with  success. 
Dulnees  with  transport  eyes  the  lively  dunce, 
Remembei'mg  she  herselt'  was  pcrtiiess  once. 
Now  (shame  to  fortune  !)  an  ill  run  at  play 
Blank'dhis  bold  visage,  and  a  thin  third  day: 


THK    DUNCIAD.  155 

Swearing  and  supperless  the  hero  sate, 

Blasphen::ed  his  gods,  the  dice,  and  damned  his  fate  ; 

Then  gnawed  his  pen,  then  dashed  it  on  the  ground, 

Sinking  from  thought  to  thought  a  vast  profound ! 

Plunged  for  his  sense,  hut  found  no  bottom  there 

Yet  wrote  and  floundered  on  in  mere  despair 

Round  him  much  embryo,  much  abortion  lay 

Much  future  ode,  and  abdicated  play ; 

Nonsense  precipitate,  like  running  lead, 

Then  slipp'd  through  cracks  and  ziz-zags  of  the  head; 

A.11  that  on  folly  frenzy  could  beget. 

Fruits  of  dull  heat,  and  sooterkins  of  wit. 

Next  o'er  his  books  his  eyes  began  to  roll, 

In  pleasing  memory  of  all  he  stole  ; 

How  here  he  sipp'd,  how  there  he  plundered  snug, 

And  sucked  all  o'er  like  an  industrious  bug. 

Here  lay  poor  Fletcher's  half-eat  scenes,  and  here 

The  frippery  of  crucified  Moliere  ; 

There  hapless  Shakspeare,  yet  of  Tibbald  sore. 

Wished  he  had  blotted  for  himself  before. 

The  rest  on  outside  merit  but  presume. 

Or  serve,  like  other  fools,  to  fill  a  room ; 

Such  with  their  shelves  as  due  proportion  hold, 

Or  their  fond  parents  dressed  in  red  and  gold; 

Or  where  the  pictures  for  the  page  atone. 

And  Quarles  is  saved  by  beauties  not  his  own. 

Here  swells  the  shelf  with  Ogilby  the  great; 

There,  stamped  with  arms,  Newcastle  shines  complete. 

Here  all  his  suftering  brotherhood  retire. 

And  'scape  the  martyrdom  of  jakes  and  fire  : 

A  Gothic  library  !  of  Greece  and  Rome 

Well  purged,  and  worthy  Settle,  Banks,  and  Broome. 

But,  high  above,  more  solid  learning  shone. 
The  classics  of  an  age  that  heard  of  none: 
There  Caxton  slept,  with  Wynkyn  at  his  side. 
One  clasped  in  wood,  and  one  in  strong  cow-hide  ; 
Ttiere,  saved  by  spice,  like  mummies  many  a  year, 
Dry  bodies  of  divinity  appear 
De  Lyra  there  a  dreadful  front  extends. 
And  here  the  groaning  shelves  Philemon  bends. 

Of  these  twelve  volume,  twelve  of  amplest  size, 
Redeemed  from  tapers  and  defrauded  pies, 
Inspired  he  seizes:  these  an  altar  raise  ; 
An  hecatomb  of  pure  unsullied  lays 
That  altar  crowns;  a  folio  common-place 
Founds  the  whole  pile,  of  all  his  works  the  base  J 
Quartos,  octavos,  shape  the  lessening  pyre, 
A  twisted  birth-day  ode  completes  the  spire. 

Then  he,  great  tamer  of  all  human  art  I 
First  in  my  care,  and  ever  at  mv  heart 


156  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Dulness !  whose  good  old  cause  I  yet  defend, 

With  whom  my  muse  began,  with  whom  shall  end, 

E'er  since  Sir  Fopling's  periwig  was  praise, 

To  the  last  honours  of  the  butt  and  ba3's: 

Oh  thou!  of  business  the  directing  soul ! 

To  this  our  head,  like  bias  to  the  bowl, 

Which,  as  more  ponderous,  made  its  aim  more  trua 

Obliquely  waddling  to  the  mark  in  view: 

Or!  ever  gracious  to  perplexed  mankind, 

Still  spread  a  healing  mist  before  the  mind; 

And,  lest  we  err  by  wit's  wild  dancing  light, 

Secure  us  kindly  in  our  native  night. 

Or,  if  to  wit  a  coxcomb  make  pretence, 

Guard  the  sure  barrier  between  that  and  sense ; 

Or  quite  unravel  all  the  reasoning  thread, 

And  hang  some  curious  cobweb  in  its  stead  ! 

As,  forced  fi'om  wind-guns,  lead  itself  can  fly, 

And  ponderous  slugs  cut  swiftly  through  the  sky ; 

As  clocks  to  weight  their  nimble  motions  owe, 

The  wheels  above  urged  by  the  load  below ; 

Me  Emptiness  and  Dulness  could  inspire, 

And  were  my  elasticity  and  fire. 

Some  demon  stole  my  pen  (forgive  the  offence) 

And  once  betrayed  me  into  common  sense, 

Else  all  my  prose  and  verse  were  much  the  same ; 
This  prose  on  stilts,  that  poetry  fallen  lame. 

Did  on  the  stage  my  fops  appear  confined? 

My  life  gave  ampler  lessons  to  mankind. 

Did  the  dead  letter  unsuccessful  prove? 

The  brisk  example  never  failed  to  move. 

Yet  sure,  had  Heaven  decreed  to  Gave  the  state, 

Heaven  had  decreed  these  works  a  longer  date. 

Could  Troy  be  saved  by  any  single  hand, 

This  gray-goose  weapon  must  have  made  her  stticd. 

What  can  I  now!  my  Fletclier  cast  aside, 

Take  up  the  Bible,  once  my  better  guide  ? 

Or  tread  the  path  by  venturous  heroes  trod ; 

This  box  my  thunder,  this  right  hand  my  God  ? 

Or,  chaired  at  White's,  amidst  the  doctors  sit, 

Teach  oaths  to  gamesters,  and  to  nobles  wit? 

Or  bidst  thou  rather  party  to  embrace? 

(A  friend  to  party  thou,  and  all  her  race ; 

'Tis  the  same  rope  at  different  ends  they  twist; 

To  Dulness  Ridpath  is  as  dear  as  Mist.) 

Shall  I,  like  Curtius,  desperate  in  my  zeal, 

O'er  head  and  ears  plunge  for  the  commonweal? 

Or  rob  Rome's  ancient  geese  of  all  their  glories, 

And  cackling  save  the  monarchy  of  Tories? 

Hold — to  the  minister  1  more  incline ; 

To  serve  his  cause,  O  queen  !  is  serviuir  thine 


THE    DUNCIAD,  lc7 

And  see '  tliy  very  Gazetters  give  o'er ; 

E'en  Ralph  repents,  and  Henley  writes  no  more. 

What  then  remains?  Ourself.     Still,  still  remain, 

Cibherian  forehead,  and  Cibberian  brain. 

This  brazen  brightness,  to  the  'squire  so  dear; 

This  polished  hardness,  that  reflects  the  peer; 

This  arch  absurd,  that  v.dt  and  fool  delights ; 

This  mess,  tossed  up  of  Hockley -hole  and  White's; 

Where  dukes  and  butchers  join  to  wreathe  my  crown; 

At  onf^e  the  bear  and  fiddle  of  the  town. 

O  boi-n  in  sin,  and  forth  in  folly  brought ! 
Works  damned,  or  to  be  damned !  (your  fathers's  fault) 
Go,  purified  by  flames,  ascend  the  sky. 
My  better  and  more  Christian  progeny ! 
Uunstained,  untouched,  and  yet  in  maiden  sheets, 
While  all  your  smutty  sisters  walk  the  streets. 
Ye  shall  not  beg,  like  gratis-given  Bland, 
Sent  with  a  pass,  and  vagrant  through  the  land ; 
Nor  sail  with  Ward  to  ape-and-monkey  climes, 
Where  vile  Mundungus  trucks  for  viler  rhymes: 
Not,  sulphur-tipp'd,  emblaze  an  ale-house  firel 
Nor  wrap  up  oranges  to  pelt  your  sire ! 
O  !  pass  more  innocent,  in  infant  state, 
To  the  mild  limbo  of  our  father  Tate : 
Or,  peaceably  forget,  at  once  be  bless'd 
In  Shadwell's  bosom  with  eternal  restl 
Soon  to  that  mass  of  nonsense  to  return, 
Where  things  destroyed  are  swept  to  things  unborn. 

With  that,  a  tear  (portentous  sign  of  grace !) 
Stole  from  the  master  of  the  sevenfold  face; 
And  thrice  he  lifted  high  the  birth-day  brand, 
And  thrice  he  dropp'd  it  from  his  quivering  hand ; 
Then  lights  the  structure  with  averted  eyes; 
The  rolling  smoke  involves  the  sacrifice. 
The  opening  clouds  disclose  each  work  by  turns. 
Now  flames  the  Cid,  and  now  Perolla  burns ; 
Great  Caesar  roars  and  hisses  in  the  fires : 
King  John  in  silence  modestly  expires; 
No  merit  now  the  dear  Nonjuror  claims, 
IMoliere's  old  stubble  in  a  moment  flames. 
Tears  gushed  again,  as  from  pale  Priam's  eyes, 
When  the  last  blaze  sent  llion  to  the  skies. 

Roused  by  the  light,  old  Dulness  heaved  the  head. 
Then  snatched  a  sheet  of  Thule  from  her  bed ; 
Sudden  she  flies,  and  whelms  it  o'er  the  pyre ; 
Down  sinks  the  flames,  and  with  a  hiss  expire. 

Her  ample  presence  fills  up  all  the  place ; 
A  veil  of  fogs  dilates  her  awful  face : 
Great  in  her  charms!  as  when  on  shrieves  and  mayors 
She  looks,  and  breathes  herself  into  their  airs. 
14 


158  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Sho  bids  him  wait  her  to  her  sacred  dome : 
Well  pleased  he  entered,  and  confessed  his  home. 
So  spirits,  ending  their  terrestial  race, 
Ascend,  and  recognise  their  native  place. 
This  the  great  mother  dearer  held  than  all 
The  clubs  of  quidnuncs,  or  her  own  Guildhall : 
Here  stood  her  opium,  here  she  nursed  her  owls. 
And  here  she  planned  the  imperial  seat  of  fools. 

Here  to  her  chosen  all  her  works  she  shows, 
Prose  swelled  to  verse,  verse  loitering  into  prose  : 
How  random  thoughts  now  meaning  chance  to  find. 
Now  leave  all  memory  of  sense  behmd; 
How  prologues  into  prefaces  decay. 
And  these  to  notes  are  frittered  quite  away: 
How  index-learning  turns  no  student  pale, 
Yet  holds  the  eel  of  science  by  the  tail: 
How,  with  less  reading  than  makes  felons  'scape, 
Less  human  genius  than  God  gives  an  ape, 
Small  thanks  to  France,  and  none  to  Rome  or  Greece, 
A  past,  vamped,  future,  old  revived,  new  \necc, 
'Twixt  Flatus,  Fletcher,  Shakespeare,  and  Corueillt, 
Can  make  a  Cibber,  Tibbald,  or  Ozell. 

The  goddess  then  o'er  his  anointed  head, 
With  mystic  words,  the  sacred  opium  shed. 
And,  lo  1  her  bird  (a  monster  of  a  fowl, 
Something  betwixt  a  heideggre  and  owl,) 
Percbed  on  his  crown,     '  All  hail!   and  hail  again. 
My  son!  the  promised  land  expects  thy  reign. 
Know  Eusden  thirsts  no  more  for  sack  or  praise  ; 
He  sleeps  among  the  dull  of  ancient  days  ; 
Safe  where  no  critics  damn,  no  duns  molest. 
Where  wretched  Withers,  Ward,  and  Gildon  rest, 
And  high-born  Howard,  more  majestic  sire, 
With  Fool  of  Quality  complete  the  quire. 
Thou,  Cibber !  thou  his  laurel  shalt  support ; 
Folly  my  son,  has  still  a  friend  at  court. 
Lift  up  your  gates,  ye  princes,  see  him  come  ! 
Sound,  sound,  ye  viols,  be  the  cat-call  dumb ! 
Bring,  bring  the  madding  bay,  the  drunken  vine; 
The  creeping,  dirty,  courtly  ivy  join. 
And  thou !  his  aid-de-camp,  lead  on  my  sons, 
Light  armed  with  points,  antitheses  and  puns. 
Let  bawdry.  Billingsgate,  my  daughters  dear, 
Support  his  front  and  oaths  bring  up  the  rear. 
And  under  his,  and  under  Archer's  M'ing, 
Gaming  and  Grub-street  skulk  behiiid  the  king, 

'  O !  when  shall  rise  a  monarch  all  our  own, 
And  I,  a  nursing  mother,  rock  the  throne  j 
'Twixt  prince  and  people  close  the  curtain  draw, 
Shade  him  from  light,  and  cover  him  from  law 


1 


THE    DUNCIAD.  159 

Fatten  the  courtier,  starve  tlie  learned  band, 
And  suckle  armies,  and  dry-nurse  the  land: 
■'Till  senates  nod  to  lullabies  divine, 
And  all  be  sleep,  as  at  an  ode  of  thine !' 

She  ceased.     Then  swells  the  chapel-royal  throat ; 
God  save  king  Cibber!  mounts  in  every  note. 
Familiar  White's,  God  save  king  CoUey  !  cries ; 
God  save  king  Colley !  Drury-lane  replies : 
To  Needham's  quick  the  voice  triumphal  rode, 
But  pious  Needman  dropp'd  the  name  of  God  ; 
Back  to  the  Devil  the  last  echoes  roll. 
And  Coll !  each  butchers  roars  at  Hockley-hole. 
So  when  Jove's  block  descended  from  on  high 
(As  sings  thy  great  forefather  Ogilby) 
Loud  thunder  to  its  bottom  shook  the  bog, 
And  the  hoarse  nation  croak'd,  '  God  save  king  Log  I' 


UOOK  11. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  king  being  proclaimed,  the  solemnity  is  graced  with  public 
games  and  sports  of  various  kinds ;  not  instituted  by  the  hero,  as  by 
jEneas  in  A'irgil,  but  for  greater  honour  by  the  goddess  in  person  (in 
like  manner  as  the  games  Pithia,  Ishmia,  &c.  were  anciently  said  to 
be  ordained  by  the  gods;  and  as  Thetis  herself  appearing,  according 
to  Homer,  Odyssey  xxiv  proposed  the  prizes  in  honour  of  her  son 
Achilles).  Hither  flock  the  poets  and  critics,  attended,  as  is  but  just, 
with  their  patrons  and  booksellers.  The  goddess  is  first  pleased,  for 
ner  disport,  to  propose  games  to  the  booksellers,  and  setteth  up  the 
phantom  of  a  poet,  which  they  contend  to  overtake.  The  races 
described,  with  their  divers  accidents.  Next  the  game  for  a  poetess. 
Tnen  follow  the  exercises  for  the  poets,  of  tickling,  vociferating, 
diving:  the  first  holds  forth  the  arts  and  practices  of  dedicators,  tlie 
second  of  disputants  and  fustian  poets,  the  third  of  profound,  dark, 
and  dirty  party-writers.  Lastly,  for  the  critics,  the  goddess  proposes 
(with  great  propriety)  an  exercise,  not  of  their  parts,  but  their 
patience,  in  hearing  the  works  of  two  voluminous  authors,  one  in 
verse  and  the  other  in  prose,  deliberately  read,  without  sleeping;  the 
various  effects  of  which,  with  the  several  degrees  and  manners  of 
their  operation,  are  here  set  forth,  till  the  whole  number,  not  of 
critics  only,  but  of  spectators,  actors,  and  all  present,  fall  fast  asleep; 
which  naturally  and  necessarily  ends  the  games. 

High  on  a  gorgeous  seat,  that  far  out-shone 

Henley's  gilt  tub,  or  Fleckno's  Irish  throne, 

Or  that  where  on  her  Curlls  the  public  pours, 

All  bounteous,  fragrant  grains  and  golden  show'rs, 

Great  Gibber  sat :  the  proud  Parnassian  sneer, 

The  conscious  simper,  and  the  jealous  leer, 

Mix  on  his  look  :  all  ej'es  direct  their  rays 

On  him,  and  crowds  turn  coxcombs  as  they  gaze. 

His  peers  shine  round  him  with  reflected  grace, 

New  edge  their  dulness,  and  new  bronze  their  face. 

So  from  the  sun's  broad  beam,  in  shallow  urns,  [horns. 

Heaven's  twinkling  sparks  draw  light,  and  point  tlieiv 

Not  with  more  glee,  by  hands  pontific  crown 'd, 
With  scarlet  hats  wide  waving  circled  round, 
Rome  in  her  Capitol  saw  Querno  sit, 
Thron'd  on  seven  hills,  the  Antichrist  of  wit. 

And  now  the  queen,  to  glad  her  sons,  proclaims 
By  herald  hawkers,  high  heroic  games. 
They  summon  all  her  race :  an  endless  band 
Pours  forth,  and  leaves  unpeopled  half  the  land. 


THE    DUNCIAD,  IGI 

A  motley  mixture  I  in  long  wigs,  in  bags, 
In  silks,  in  crapes,  in  garters,  and  in  rags, 
From  drawing-rooms,  from  colleges,  from  garrets. 
On  horse,  on  foot,  in  hacks,  and  gilded  chariots: 
All  who  true  Dunces  in  her  cause  appear 'd. 
And  all  who  knew  those  Dunces  to  reward. 

Amid  that  area  wide  they  took  their  stand. 
Where  the  tall  may-pole  once  o'erlook'd  the  Strand, 
But  now,  so  Anne  and  piety  ordain, 
A  church  collects  the  saints  of  Drury-lane. 

With  authors,  stationers  obey'd  the  call ; 
The  field  of  glory  is  a  field  for  all ! 
Glory  and  gain  the  industrous  tribe  provoke, 
And  gentle  Dulness  ever  lo*'es  a  joke. 
A  poet's  form  she  placed  before  their  eyes, 
And  bade  the  nimblest  racer  seize  the  prize : 
No  meagre,  muse-rid  mope,  adust  and  thin. 
In  a  dun  night-gown  of  his  own  loose  skin ; 
But  such  a  bulk  as  no  twelve  bards  could  raise. 
Twelve  starveling  bards  of  these  degenerate  days. 
All  as  a  partridge  plump,  full-fed  and  fair. 
She  form'd  this  image  of  well-bodied  air; 
With  pert  flat  eyes  she  window'd  well  its  head, 
A  brain  of  feathers,  and  a  heart  of  lead ; 
And  empty  words  she  gave,  and  sounding  strain. 
But  senseless,  lifeless  ;  idol  void  and  vain ! 
Never  was  dash'd  out,  at  one  lucky  hit, 
A  fool,  so  just  a  copy  of  a  wit ; 
So  like,  that  critics  said,  and  courtiers  swore, 
A  wit  it  was,  and  call'd  the  phantom  More. 

All  gaze  with  ardour :  some  a  poet's  name. 
Others  a  sword-knot  and  laced  suit  inflame: 
But  lofty  Lintot  in  the  circle  rose, 
*  This  prize  is  mine,  who  tempt  it  are  my  foes ; 
With  me  began  this  genius,  and  shall  end.' 
He  spoke,  and  who  with  Lintot  shall  contend? 

Fear  held  them  mute.     Alone  untaught  to  fear. 
Stood  dauntless  Curll:  'Behold  that  rival  here  ! 
The  race  by  vigour,  not  by  vaunts,  is  won  ; 
So  take  the  hindmost,  Hell ! '     He  said,  and  run. 
Swift  as  a  bard  the  bailiff  leaves  behind. 
He  left  huge  Lintot,  and  outstripp'd  the  wind. 
As  when  a  dab-chick  waddles  through  the  copse 
On  feet  and  wings,  and  flies,  and  wades,  and  hops; 
So  labouring  on,  with  shoulders,  hands,  and  head. 
Wide  as  a  windmill  all  his  figure  spread. 
With  arms  expanded,  Bernard  rows  his  state. 
And  left-legg'd  Jacob  seems  to  emulate. 
Full  in  the  mid<llfi  way  there  stood  a  lake, 
Which  Curll's  Corinna  chanc'd  that  morn  to  make: 
14* 


1C2  THE    DUNCIAD, 

Such  was  her  wont,  at  early  dawn  to  drop 
Her  evenhig  cates  before  his  neighbour's  shop; 
Here  fbrtvuied  Curll  to  slide;  loud  shout  ti.e  band; 
And  'Bernard!  Bernard!'  rings throygh  all  the  Strand. 
Obscene  with  filth  the  miscreant  lies  bewray 'd, 
Fallen  in  the  plash  his  wickedness  had  laid : 
Then  first,  if  poets  aught  of  truth  declare, 
The  caitiff  vaticide  conceived  a  prayer: — 

'  Hear,  Jove !  whose  name  my  bards  and  I  adoi'e, 
As  much  at  least  as  any  god's,  or  more  ; 
And  him  and  his,  if  more  devotion  warms, 
Down  with  the  Bible,  up  with  the  Pope's  arms,' 

A  place  there  is  betwixt  earth,  air,  and  seaa, 
Where  from  ambrosia,  Jove  retires  for  ease. 
There  in  his  seat,  two  spacious  vents  appear; 
On  this  he  sits,  to  that  he  leans  his  ear, 
And  hears  the  various  vows  of  fond  mankind; 
Some  beg  an  eastern,  some  a  western  wind: 
All  vain  petitions,  mounting  to  the  sky, 
With  reams  abundant  this  abode  supply: 
Amused  he  reads,  and  then  returns  the  bills, 
Sign'd  with  that  ichor  which  from  gods  distills. 

In  oftice  here  fair  Cloacina  stands, 
And  ministers  to  Jove  with  purest  hands. 
Forth  from  the  heap  she  pick'd  her  votary's  prayer, 
And  placed  it  next  him,  a  distinction  rare! 
Oft  had  the  goddess  heard  her  servant's  call, 
From  her  back  grottos  near  the  temple  wall, 
Listening  delighted  to  the  jest  unclean 
Of  link-boys  vile,  and  watermen  obscene ; 
Where,  as  he  fish'd  her  nether  realms  for  wit. 
She  oft  had  favoured  him,  and  favours  yet. 
Renewed  by  ordure's  sympathetic  force, 
As  oil'd  with  magic  juices  for  the  course, 
Vigorous  he  rises;  from  the  effluvia  strong, 
Imbibes  new  life,  and  scours  and  stinks  along; 
Repasses  Lintot,  vindicates  the  race, 
Nor  heeds  the  brown  dishonours  of  his  face. 

And  now  the  victor  stretched  his  eager  hand 
Where  the  tall  nothing  stood,  or  seemed  to  stand ; 
A  shapeless  shade,  it  melted  from  his  sight, 
Like  forms  in  clouds,  or  visions  of  the  night. 
To  seize  his  papers,  Curll,  was  next  thy  care; 
His  papers  light,  fly  diverse,  toss'd  in  air ; 
Songs,  sonnets,  epigrams,  the  wdnds  uplift, 
And  whisk  them  back  to  Evans,  Young,  and  Swift. 
The  embroidered  suit  at  least  he  deem'd  his  prey. 
That  suit  an  unpaid  tailor  snatch 'd  av/ay. 
No  rag,  no  scrap,  of  all  the  beau,  or  wit, 
That  once  so  buttered,  and  that  once  so  writ. 


THE    DUNCIAD.  163 

Heaven  rings  witli  laughter:  of  the  laughter  vain, 
Duhiess,  good  Queen,  repeats  the  jest  again. 
Three  wicked  imps,  of  her  own  Grub-street  choir, 
She  deck'd  like  Congreve,  Addison,  and  Prior 
Mears,  Warner,  Wilkins  run  :  delusive  thought ! 
Breval,  Bond,  Besaleel,  the  varlets  caught, 
Curll  stretches  after  Gay,  hut  Gay  is  gone ; 
He  grasps  an  empty  Joseph  for  a  John: 
So  Proteus,  hunted  in  a  nobler  shape, 
Became,  when  seized,  a  puppy,  or  an  ape. 

To  him  the  Goddess:  '  Son!  thy  grief  lay  down, 
And  turn  this  whole  illusion  on  the  town. 
As  the  sage  dame,  experienced  in  her  trade, 
By  names  of  toasts  retails  each  hattered  jade  ; 
(Whence  hapless  Monsieur  much  complains  at  Pa^is 
Of  wrong  from  duchesses  and  Lady  Maries;) 
Be  thine,  my  stationer !  this  magic  gift ; 
Cook  shall  be  Prior;  and  Concanen,  Swift: 
So  shall  each  hostile  name  become  our  own, 
And  we,  too,  boast  our  Garth  and  Addison.' 

With  that  she  gave  him  (piteous  of  his  case, 
Yet  smiling  at  his  rueful  length  efface) 
A  shaggy  tapestry,  worthy  to  be  spread 
On  Codrus'  old  or  Dun  ton's  modern  bed. 
Instructive  work  !  whose  wry-mouth'd  portraiture 
Display'dthe  fates  her  confessors  endure. 
Earless  on  high  stood  unbash'd  De  Foe, 
And  Tutchin  flagrant  from  the  scourge  below. 
There  Ridpath,  Roper,  cudgelled  might  ye  viow^ 
The  very  worsted  still  looked  black  and  blue. 
Himself  among  the  storied  chiefs  he  spies, 
As,  from  the  blanket,  high  in  air  he  flies, 
*  And  oh  ! '  he  cried,  '  what  street,  what  hr.io  but  knows 
Our  purgings,  pumpings,  blanketings,  and  blows? 
Jn  every  loom  our  labours  shall  be  seen, 
And  the  fresh  vomit  run  for  ever  green  ! ' 

See  m  the  circle  next  Eliza  placed. 
Two  babes  of  love  close- clinging  lo  her  waist; 
Fair  as  before  her  works  she  stands  confessed, 
In  flowers  and  pearls  by  bounteous  Kirkall  dressed. 

The  goddess  then:  "  Who  best  can  send  on  high 
The  salient  spout,  far-streaming  to  the  sky. 
His  be  yon  Juno  of  majestic  size, 
With  cow-like  hudders,  and  with  ox-like  eye^ 
This  China  Jordan  let  the  chief  o'ercome 
Replenish,  not  ingloriously,  at  home.' 

Osborne  and  Curll  accept  the  glorious  strife; 
(Though  tlus  his  son  dissuades,  and  that  his  wife.) 
One  on  his  manly  confidence  relies, 
Oufc  on  his  vigour  and  superior  size. 


164  THE    DUNCIAD. 

First  Osborne  leaned  against  his  lettered  post; 
It  rose  and  labour 'd  to  a  curve  at  most. 
So  Jove's  bright  bow  displays  its  watery  round, 
(Sure  sign  that  no  spectator  shall  be  drowned.) 
A  second  effort  brought  but  new  disgrace, 
The  wild  meander  washed  the  artist's  face  ; 
Thus  the  small  jet,  which  hasty  hands  unlock, 
Spirts  in  the  gardener's  eyes  who  turns  the  cock. 
Not  so  from  shameless  Curll;  impetuous  spread 
The  stream,  and  smoking  flourish'd  o'er  his  head. 
So  (famed  like  thee  for  turbulence  and  horns) 
Eridanus  his  humble  fountain  scorns ; 
Through  half  the  heavens  he  pours  the  exalted  urn 
His  rapid  waters  in  their  passage  burn. 

Swift  as  it  mounts,  all  follow  with  their  eyes; 
Still  happy  impudence  obtains  the  prize. 
Thou  triumph'st,  victor  of  the  high-wrought  day, 
And  the  pleased  dame,  soft  smiling,  lead'st  away. 
Osborne,  through  perfect  modesty  o'ercome, 
Crowned  with  the  Jordan,  walks  contented  home, 

But  now  for  authors  nobler  palms  remain : 
Room  for  my  lord !  three  jockies  in  his  train ; 
Six  huntsmen  with  a  shout  precede  his  chair: 
He  grins,  and  looks  broad  nonsense  with  a  stare. 
His  honour's  meaning  Dulness  thus  expressed: 
*He  wins  this  patron  who  can  tickle  best.' 

He  chinks  his  purse,  and  takes  his  seat  of  stale  ; 
With  ready  quills  the  dedicators  wait; 
Now  at  his  head  the  dexterous  task  commence, 
And,  instant,  fancy  feels  the  imputed  sense  ; 
Now  gentle  touches  wanton  o'er  his  face, 
He  struts  Adonis,  and  affects  grimace: 
Rolli  the  feather  to  his  ear  conveys ; 
Then  his  nice  taste  directs  our  operas: 
Bentley  his  mouth  with  classic  flattery  opes, 
And  the  puffed  orator  bursts  out  in  tropes. 
But  Welsted  most  the  poet'  healing  balm 
Strives  to  extract  from  his  self-giving  palm. 
Unlucky  Welsted  !  thy  vmfeelii;g  master, 
The  more  thou  ticklest  gripes  his  fist  the  faster. 

While  thus  each  hand  pi'oiHotes  the  pleasing  pain, 
And  quick  sensations  skip  from  vein  to  vein, 
A  youth  unknov/n  to  Phoebus,  in  despair. 
Puts  his  last  refuge  all  in  heaven  and  prayer. 
What  force  have  pious  vows!  The  queen  of  love 
Her  sister  sends  her  votress  from  above. 
As  taught  by  Venus,  Paris  learnt  the  art 
To  touch  Achilles'  only  tender  part; 
Secure  through  her,  the  noble  prize  to  carry, 
He  marches  off,  his  grace's  secretary. 


THE    DUNCIAD.  165 

*Now  turn  to  different  sports,'  the  goddess  cries, 
'And  learn,  my  sons,  the  wond'rous  power  of  noise, 
To  move,  to  raise,  to  ravish  every  heai-t. 
With  Shakspeare's  nature,  or  with  Johnson's  art. 
Let  others  aim ;  'tis  yours  to  shake  the  soul 
With  thunder  rumbling  from  the  mustard  bowl ; 
With  horns  and  trumpets  now  to  madness  swell, 
Now  sink  in  sorrows  with  a  toiling  bell  I 
Such  happy  arts  attention  can  command 
When  fancy  flags,  and  sense  is  at  a  stand. 
Improve  we  these.     Three  cat-calls  ue  the  bribe 
Of  him,  whose  chattering  shames  the  monkey  tribe  ; 
And  his  this  drum,  whose  hoarse  heroic  bass 
Drowns  the  loud  clarion  of  the  braying  ass.' 

Now  thousand  tongues  are  heard  in  one  loud  din; 
The  monkey-mimics  rush  discordant  in  ; 
'Twas  chattering,  grinning,  mouthing,  jabbering  all. 
And  noise  and  Norton,  brangling  and  Breval, 
Dennis  and  dissonance,  and  captious  art. 
And  snip-snap  short,  and  interruption  smart, 
And  demonstration  thin,  and  theses  thick. 
And  major,  miner,  and  conclusion  quick. 
*  Hold,'  cried  the  queen,  *  a  cat-call  each  shall  wiii; 
Equal  your  merits !  equal  is  your  din ! 
But  that  this  well-disputed  game  may  end, 
Sound  forth,  my  brayers,  and  the  welkin  rend.* 

As  when  the  long-ear'd  milky  mothers  wait 
At  some  sick  miser's  triple-bolted  gate, 
For  their  defrauded,  absent  foals  they  make 
A  moan  so  loud,  that  all  the  guild  awake  ; 
Sore  sighs  Sir  Gilbert,  starting  at  the  bray. 
From  dreams  of  millions,  and  three  groats  to  pay : 
So  swells  each  wind-pipe  ;  ass  intones  to  ass, 
Hai-monic  twang  !  of  leather,  horn,  and  brass ; 
Such  as  from  labouring  lungs  the  enthusiast  blows, 
High  sound,  attempered  to  the  vocal  nose; 
Or  such  as  bellow  from  the  deep  divine ; 
There  Webster!  pealedthy  voice,  and  Whitefield!  thine 
But  far  o'er  all  sonorous  Blackmore's  strain, 
Walls,  steeples,  skies,  bray  back  to  him  again, 
In  Totenh am- fields  the  brethren,  with  amaze, 
Prick  all  their  ears  up,  and  forget  to  graze ! 
Long  Chancery-lane  retentive  rolls  the  sound, 
And  courts  to  courts  return  it  round  and  round; 
Thames  wafts  it  thence  to  Rufus'  roaring  hall, 
And  Hungerford  re-echoes  bawl  for  bawl. 
All  hail  him  victor  in  both  gifts  of  song, 
Who  sings  so  loudly  and  who  sings  so  long. 


166  'The  dunciad. 

This  labor  past,  by  Bridewell  all  descend, 

(As  morning  ])rayers  and  flagelation  end) 

To  where  Fleet-ditch,  with  disemboguing  streanirt, 

Rolls  the  large  tribute  of  dead  dogs  to  Thames, 

The  king  of  dykes!  than  whom  no  sluice  of  mud 

With  deeper  sable  blots  the  silver  flood, 

*  Here  Strip,  my  children  !  h.ere  at  once  leap  in, 

liere  prove  who  best  can  dash  through  thick  and  thin; 

And  who  the  most  in  love  of  dirt  excel, 

Or  dark  dexterity  of  groping  Well : 

Who  flings  most  tilth,  and  wide  pollutes  around 

The  stream,  be  his  the  weekly  journals  bound; 

A  pig  of  lead  to  aim  who  dives  the  best ; 

A  peck  of  coals  a-piece  shall  glad  the  rest,' 

In  naked  majesty  Oidmixon  stands, 
And,  Milo-like,  surveys  his  arms  and  hands ; 
Then  sighing,  thus,  '  And  am  I  now  threescore? 
Ah,  why,  ye  gods!  should  two  and  two  make  four?* 
lie  said,  and  climbed  a  stranded  lighter's  height, 
Shot  to  the  black  abyss,  and  plunged  downright: 
The  senior's  judgment  all  the  crowd  admire, 
Who  but  to  sink  the  deeper  rose  the  higher. 

Next  Smedely  dived ;  slow  circles  dimpled  o'er 
The  quaking  mud,  that  closed  and  oped  no  more. 
All  look,  all  sigh,  and  call  on  Smedly  lost ; 
Smedly  in  vain  resounds  through  all  the  coast. 
Then  essayed;  scarce  vanish'd  out  of  sight, 
He  buoys  up  instant,  and  returns  to  light; 
He  bears  no  tokens  of  the  sabler  streams. 
And  mounts  far  offanong  the  swans  of  Thames. 

True  to  the  bottom,  see  Concanen  creep, 
A  cold,  long-winded,  native  of  the  deep  ; 
If  perseverance  gains  the  diver's  prize, 
Not  everlasting  I31ackmore  this  denies; 
No  noise,  no  stir,  no  motion  canst  thou  make, 
The  unconscious  stream  sleeps  o'er  thee  like  a  lake 

Next  plunged  a  feeble  but  a  desperate  pack, 
With  each  a  sickly  brother  at  his  back: 
Sons  of  a  day  !  just  buoyant  on  the  flood. 
Then  numbered  with  the  puppies  in  the  rnud. 
Ask  ye  their  names?  I  could  as  soon  disclose 
The  names  of  these  blind  puppies  as  of  those. 
Fast  by,  like  Niobe  (her  children  gone) 
Sits  mother  Osborne,  stupified  to  stone! 
And  monumental  brass  this  record  bears, 
'These  are,  ah  no!  these  were,  the  Gazetteers  I* 

Not  so  bold  Arnall ;  with  a  weight  of  skull 
Furious  he  dives,  percipitately  dull. 


THE    DUNCIAD.  107 

Whirlpools  and  storms  his  circling  arm  invest, 
With  all  the  might  of  gravitation  bless'd. 
No  crab  more  active  in  the  ciirty  danee, 
Downward  to  climb,  and  backward  to  advance; 
He  brings  up  half  the  bottom  on  his  head, 
And  loudly  claims  the  journals  and  the  lead. 

The  plunging  prelate,  and  his  ponderous  gracy. 
With  holy  envy  gave  one  layman  place. 
Whenlo!  a  burst  of  thunder  shook  the  flood,  , 

Slow  rose  a  form  in  majesty  of  mud  ; 
Shaking  the  horrors  of  his  sable  brows, 
And  each  ferocious  feature  grim  with  ooze. 
Greater  he  looks,  and  more  than  mortal  stares! 
Then  thus  the  wonders  of  the  deep  declares. 

First  he  relates  how,  sinking  to  the  chin, 
Smit  with  his  mien,  the  mud  nymphs  sucked  him  in; 
How  young  Lvitetia,  softer  than  the  down, 
Nigrina  black,  and  Merdamante  brown, 
Vied  for  his  love  in  jetty  bowers  below, 
As  Hylas  fair  was  ravished  long  ago. 
Then  sung,  how  shown  him  by  the  nut-brown  maids, 
A  branch  of  Styx  here  rises  from  the  shades, 
That,  tinctured  as  it  runs  with  Lethe's  streams. 
And  wafting  vapours  from  the  land  of  dreams, 
(As  under  seas  Alpheus'  secret  sluice 
Bears  Pisa's  offenngs  to  his  Arethuse,) 
Pours  into  Thames  ;  and  hence  the  mingled  wave 
Intoxicates  the  pert  and  lulls  the  grave : 
Here  brisker  vapours  o'er  the  Temple  creep : 
There  all  from  Paul's  to  Aldgate  drink  and  sleep. 

Thence  to  the  banks  where  reverend  bards  repose, 
They  led  him  soft ;  each  reverend  bard  arose  ; 
And  Milbourn  chief,  deputed  by  the  rest, 
Gave  him  cossack,  surcingle,  and  vest. 
'  Receive,' he  said,  'these  robes  which  once  were  mine; 
Dulness  is  sacred  in  a  sound  divine.' 
He  ceased,  and  spread  the  robe ;  the  crowd  confess 
The  reverend  flamen  in  his  lengthened  dress. 
Around  him  wide  a  sable  army  stand, 
A  low-born,  cell-bred,  selfish,  servile  band, 
Prompt  or  to  guard  or  stab,  to  saint  or  damn; 
Heaven's  Swiss,  who  fight  for  any  god  or  man.  [Fleet, 

Through  Lud's  famed  gates,  along  the  well-known 
Rolls  the  black  troop,  and  overshades  the  street, 
Till  showers  of  sermons,  characters,  essays. 
In  circling  fleeces  whiten  all  the  ways  : 
So  clouds,  replenish'd  from  some  bog  below, 
Mount  in  dark  volumes,  and  descend  in  snow. 


IGS  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Here  stopp'd  the  goddess;  and  in  pomp  proclaims 
A  gentler  exercise  to  close  the  games. 

'  Ye  critics !  in  whose  heads,  as  equal  scales, 
I  weigh  what  author's  heaviness  prevails ; 
Which  most  conduce  to  soothe  the  soul  in  slumhers, 
My  H — ley's  periods,  or  my  Blackmore's  numbers  : 
Attend  the  trial  we  propose  to  make  : 
If  there  be  man,  who  o'er  such  works  can  wake, 
Sleep's  all-subduing  charms  who  dares  defy, 
And  boasts  Ulysses'  ear  with  Argus'  eye  ; 
To  him  we  grant  our  amplest  powers,  to  sit 
Judge  of  all  present,  past,  and  future  wit ; 
To  cavil,  censure,  dictate,  right  or  wrong, 
Full  and  eternal  privilege  of  tongue.' 

Three  college  sophs,  and  three  pert  templars  came 
The  same  their  talents,  and  their  tastes  the  same  ; 
Kach  prompt  to  query,  answer,  and  debate, 
And  smit  with  love  of  poesy  and  prate. 
The  ponderous  books  two  gentle  readers  bring ; 
The  heroes  sit,  the  vulgar  form  a  ring. 
The  clamorous  crowd  is  hushed  with  mugs  of  mum, 
Till  all,  tuned  equal,  send  a  general  hum. 
Then  mount  the  clerks,  and  in  one  lazy  tone 
Through  the  long,  heavy,  painful  page  drawl  on  ; 
Soft  creeping,  words  on  words,  the  sense  compose. 
At  every  line  tliey  stretch,  they  yawn,  they  doze. 
As  to  soft  gales  top-heavy  pines  bow  low 
Their  heads,  and  lift  them  as  they  cease  to  blow  ; 
Thus  oft  they  rear,  and  oft  the  head  decline, 
As  breathe,  or  pause,  by  fits,  the  airs  divine. 
And  now  to  this  side,  now  to  that  they  nod. 
As  verse,  or  prose,  infuse  the  drowsy  god. 
Thrice  Budgel  aimed  to  speak,  but,  thrice  suppress'd 
By  potent  Arthur,  knocked  his  chin  and  breast. 
Toland  and  Tindal,  prompt  at  priests  to  jeer, 
Yet  silent  bowed  to  '  Christ's  no  kingdom  here.' 
Who  sat  the  nearest,  by  the  words  o'ercome, 
Slept  first;  the  distant  nodded  to  the  hum, 
Then  down  are  roll'd  the  books ;  stretched  o'er  them  lies 
Each  gentle  clerk,  and  muttering  seals  his  eyes. 
As  when  a  Dutchman  plumps  into  the  lakes, 
One  circle  first,  and  then  a  second  makes  ; 
What  Dulness  dropp'd  among  her  sons  impress'd 
Like  motion  from  one  circle  to  the  rest: 
So  from  the  midmost  the  nutation  spreads 
Round  and  more  round,  o'er  all  the  sea  of  heads. 
At  last  Centlivre  felt  her  voice  to  fail, 
Motteux  himself  unfinished  left  his  tale. 


THE   DUWCIAD.  169 

B'jyer  the  state,  and  Law  the  stage  gave  o'er, 

Morgan  and  Mandevil  could  prate  no  more; 

Norton,  from  Daniel  and  Ostroea  sprung, 

Blessed  with  his  father's  front  and  mother's  tongU9» 

Hung  silent  down  his  never-blushing  head  ; 

And  all  was  hushed,  as  folly's  self  lay  dead.  * 

Thus  the  soft  gifts  of  sleep  conclude  the  day, 
And  stretched  on  bulks,  as  usual,  poets  lay. 
Why  should  I  sing,  what  bards  the  nightly  muse 
Did  slumbering  visit,  and  convey  to  stews ; 
Who  prouder  marched,  with  magistrates  in  state, 
To  some  famed  round-house,  ever-opea  gate? 
How  Henley  lay  inspired  beside  a  sink. 
And  to  mere  mortals  seemed  a  priest  in  drink : 
While  others,  timely,  to  the  neighbouring  Fleet 
iHaunt  of  the  muses)  make  their  safe  retreatl 


iilrfT.',  —  ,  i  i^naltBiiri      m 


no 


BOOK  III. 


THE  ARGUMENl 

Afteh  the  other  persons  are  disposed  in  their  proper  places  of  rert, 
llie  goddess  transports  the  king  to  her  temple,  and  there  lays  him  ts 
si  umber  with  his  liead  on  her  lap;  a  position  of  marvellous  virtue, 
■which  causeth  all  the  visions  of  wild  entliusiasts,  projectors,  j)oliti- 
cians,  inamoratos,  castle-builders,  chemist,  and  poets.  He  is  im- 
mediately carried  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  and  led  by  a  mad  poetical 
sibyl  to  the  Elyaian  shade;  where,  on  the  banks  of  Lethe,  tlic  souls 
of,the  dull  are  dipped  by  Bavius,  before  their  entrance  into  tliis  world. 
There  he  is  met  by  the  ghost  of  Settle,  and  by  him  made  acquainted 
with  the  wonders  of  the  place,  and  with  those  wliich  he  himself  is 
destined  to  perform.  He  takes  him  to  a  Mount  of  Vision,  from 
whence  he  sJiows  him  the  past  triumphs  of  the  Empire  of  Dullness, 
then  the  present,  and  lastly  tlie  future:  how  small  a  part  of  the  wo'rld 
was  ever  conquered  by  science,  how  soon  those  conquests  were  stopped, 
and  those  very  nations  again  reduced  to  her  dominion.  Then  dis- 
linguisliing  the  island  of  Great  Britain,  he  shows  by  what  aids,  by  what 
persons,  and  by  what  degrees,  it  shall  be  brought  to  her  empire. 
Some  of  the  persons  he  causes  to  pass  in  review  before  his  eyes, 
lescribing  each  by  his  proper  figure,  character  and  qualitications. 
On  a  sudden  the  scene  shifts,  and  a  vast  number  of  miracles  and 
prodigies  appear,  utterly  surprising  and  unknown  to  the  king  him- 
Belf,  till  tJiey  are  explained  to  be  the  wonders  of  his  own  reigu  now 
commencing.  On  this  subject  Settle  breaks  into  a  congratulation, 
yet  not  unmixed  witli  concern,  that  his  own  times  were  but  the  types 
of  these.  He  ^Jrophecies  how  first  the  nation  shall  be  over-run  with 
farces,  operas,  and  shows;  how  the  throne  of  Bulness  shall  be 
advanced  over  the  theatres,  and  set  up  even  at  court;  then  how  her 
sons  shall  preside  in  the  seats  of  arts  and  sciences  ;  giving  a  glimpse 
or  Pisgah  siglit,  of  the  future  fulness  of  her  glory,  the  accomplishmenj 
whereof  is  the  subject  of  the  fourth  and  last  book. 

But  in  her  temple's  last  recess  inclosed, 
On  Dulness'  lap  the  anointed  head  reposed. 
Him  close  she  curtains  rovmd^with  vapours  blue, 
And  soft  besprinkles  with  Cimmerian  dew: 
Then  raptures  high  the  seat  of  sense  o'erflow, 
Which  only  heads  refined  from  reason  know. 
Hence  from  the  straw  where  Bedlam's  prophet  nods, 
He  hears  loud  oracles,  and  talks  with  gods: 
Hence  the  fool's  paradise,  the  statesman's  scheme. 
The  air-built  castle,  and  the  golden  dream, 
'J'he  maid's  romantic  wish,  the  chemist's  flame, 
And  poet's  vision  of  eternal  fame. 

And  now,  on  fancy's  easy  wing  conveyed, 
Tbo  king  descending,  views  the  Elysian  shadf*. 


THE    DUNCIAD. 


171 


A.  slip-shod  Sibyl  led  his  steps  along, 

In  lofty  madness  meditating  song  ; 

He.-  ti'esses  staring  from  poetic  dreams, 

And  never  washed  but  in  Castalia's  streams. 

1'aylor,  their  better  Charon,  lends  an  oar, 

(Once  swan  of  Thames,  though  now  he  sings  no  more.] 

Benlowes,  propitious  still  to  blockheads,  bows  ; 

And  Shadwell  nods,  the  poppy  on  his  brows. 

Here,  in  a  dusky  vale,  where  Lethe  rolls, 

Old  Bavius  sits,  to  dip  poetic  souls, 

And  blunt  the  sense,  and  lit  it  for  a  skull 

Of  solid  proof,  impenetrably  dull: 

Instant,  when  dipp'd,  away  they  wing  their  flight, 

Where  Brown  and  Meers  unbar  the  gates  of  light, 

Demand  new  bodies,  and  in  calf's  array, 

Rush  to  the  world,  impatient  for  the  day.  ^ 

MiiHons  and  Millions  on  these  banks  he  views, 

Thick  as  the  stars  of  night  or  morning  dews, 

As  thick  as  bees  o'er  vernal  blossoms  fly, 

As  thick  as  eggs  at  Ward  in  pillory. 

Wondering  he  gazed;  when,  lo!  a  sage  appears, 
By  his  broad  shoulders  known,  and  length  of  ears, 
Known  by  the  band  and  suit  which  Settle  wore 
(His  only  suit)  for  twice  three  years  before  : 
All  as  the  vest  appeared  the  wearer's  frame, 
Old  in  new  state,  another  yet  the  same. 
Bland  and  familiar,  as  in  life  begun 
Thus  the  great  father  to  the  greater  son : 
Oh !  born  to  see  what  none  can  see  awake ! 
Behold  the  wonders  of  the  oblivious  lake  ! 
Thou,  yet  unborn,  has  touched  this  sacred  shore: 
The  hand  of  Bavius  drenched  thee  o'er  and  o'er. 
But,  blind  to  former  as  to  future  fate, 
What  mortal  knows  his  pre-existent  state? 
Who  knows  how  long  thy  transmigrating  soul 
Might  from  Boeotian  to  Boeotian  roll  ? 
How  many  Dutchmen  she  vouchsafed  to  thrid? 
How  many  stages  through  old  monks  she  rid  ? 
And  all  who  since,  in  mild  benighted  days, 
Mix'd  the  owl's  ivy  with  the  poet's  bays. 
As  man's  meanders  to  the  vital  spring 
Roll  all  their  tides,  then  back  their  circles  bring 
Or  whirligigs,  twirled  round  by  skilful  swain. 
Suck  the  thread  in,  then  yield  it  out  again; 
All  nonsense  thus,  of  old  or  modern  date, 
Shall,  in  the  centre,  from  thee  circulate. 
For  this,  our  queen  unfolds  to  vision  true 
Thy  mental  eye,  for  thou  hast  much  to  view: 
Old  scenes  of  glory,  times  long  cast  behmd, 
Shall,  first  recalled,  rush  forward  to  thy  mmd: 


172  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Then  stretch  thy  sight  o'er  all  her  rising  reign, 
And  let  the  past  and  future  fire  thy  brain. 

Ascend  this  hill,  whose  cloudy  point  commands 
Her  boundless  empire  over  seas  and  lands. 
See,  round  the  poles  where  keener  spangles  shine, 
AVhere  spices  smoke,  beneath  the  burning  line, 
(Earth's  wide  extremes)  her  sable  flag  displayed, 
And  all  the  nations  covered  in  her  shade ! 

Far  eastward  cast  thine  eye,  from  whence  the  sun 
And  orient  science  their  bright  course  begun  : 
One  godlike  monarch  all  that  pride  confounds, 
He,  whose  long  wall  the  wandering  Tartar  bounds  ; 
Heavens  !  what  a  pile  !  whole  ages  perish  there, 
And  one  bright  blaze  turns  learning  into  air. 

Thence  to  the  south  extend  thy  gladdened  eyes; 
There  rival  flames  with  equal  glory  rise  ; 
From  shelves  to  shelves  see  greedy  Vulcan  roll, 
And  lick  up  all  their  physic  of  the  soul. 

How  little,  mark  !  that  portion  of  the  ball, 
Where,  faint  at  best,  the  beams  of  science  fall ; 
Soon  as  they  dawn,  from  hyperborean  skies 
Embodied  dark,  what  clouds  of  Vandals  rise ! 
Lo!  where  Maeotis  sleeps,  and  hardly  flows 
The  freezing  Tanais  through  a  waste  of  snows. 
The  north  by  myriads  pours  her  mighty  sons, 
Great  nurse  of  Goths,  of  Alans,  and  of  Huns  ! 
See  Alaric's  stern  port!  the  martial  frame 
Of  Genseric  !  and  Attila's  dread  name ! 
See,  the  bold  Ostrogoths  on  Latium  fall ; 
See,  the  fierce  Visigoths  on  Spain  and  Gaul ! 
See,  where  the  morning  gilds  the  palmy  shore 
(The  soil  that  arts  and  infant  letters  bore) 
His  conquering  tribes  the  Arabian  prophet  draws, 
And  saving  ignorance  enthrones  by  laws. 
See  Christans,  Jews,  one  heavy  sabbath  keep, 
And  all  the  western  world  believe  and  sleep. 

Lo !  Rome  herself,  proud  mistress  now  no  more 
Of  arts,  but  thundering  against  heathen  lore  ; 
Her  gray-haired  synods  damning  books  unread. 
And  Bacon  trembling  for  his  brazen  head, 
Padua,  with  sighs,  beholds  her  Livy  burn. 
And  e'en  th'  Antipodes  Virgilios  mourn  . 
See,  the  Cirque  falls,  the  ;inpillared  temt-le  nods, 
Streets  paved  with  heroes,  Tyber  choked  with  gods; 
Till  Peter's  keys  some  christened  Jove  adorn, 
And  Pan  to  Moses  lends  his  Pagan  horn ; 
See  Graceful  Venus  to  a  virgin  turned. 
Or  Phidias  broken,  and  Apelles  burned, 

Behold  yon  isle,  by  palmers,  pilgrims  trod, 
Men  bearded,  bald,  cowled,  uncowled,  shod,  unshod' 


THE    DUNCIAD.  173 

Peeled,  patched,  and  piebald,  linsey-wolsey,  brotliers, 
Grave  mummers!  sleeveless  some  and  shirtless  others. 
That  once  was  Britain — Happy !  had  she  seen 
No  fiercer  sons,  had  Easter  never  been. 
Jn  peace,  great  goddess  ever  be  adored ; 
How  keen  the  war,  if  Dulness  draw  the  sword  ! 
Tims  visit  not  thy  own  I  on  this  blessed  age 
O  spread  thy  influence,  but  restrain  thy  rage. 

And  see,  my  son!  the  hour  is  on  its  way 
That  lifts  our  goddess  to  imperial  sway; 
This  favorite  isle,  long  severed  from  her  reign, 
Dove-like  she  gathers  to  her  wings  again. 
Now  look  through  fate!  behold  the  scene  she  draws! 
What  aids,  what  armies,  to  assert  her  cause  I 
See  all  her  progeny,  illustrious  sight? 
Behold  ;  and  count  them  as  they  rise  to  light. 
As  Berecynthia,  while  her  offspring  vie 
In  homage  to  the  mother  of  the  sky, 
Surveys  around  her,  in  the  blessed  abode, 
An  hundred  sons,  and  every  son  a  god : 
Not  with  less  glory  mighty  Dulness  crowned. 
Shall  take  through  Grub-street  her  triumphant  round* 
And,  her  Parnassus  glancing  o'er  at  once, 
Behold  a  hundred  sons,  and  each  a  dunce. 

Mark  first  that  youth  who  takes  the  foremost  place, 
And  thrusts  his  person  full  into  your  face. 
With  all  thy  father's  virtues  blessed,  be  born  ! 
And  a  new  Gibber  shall  the  stage  adorn. 

A  second  see,  by  meeker  manners  known, 
And  modest  as  the  maid  tliat  sips  alone  ; 
From  the  strong  fate  of  drams  if  thou  get  free, 
Another  D'Urfey,  Ward  ;  shall  sing  in  thee. 
Thee  shall  each  alehouse,  the  each  gilihouse  mourn, 
And  answering  gin-shops  sourer  sighs  return. 
Jacob,  the  scourge  of  grammar,  mark  with  awe  ; 
Nor  less  revere  him,  blunderbus  of  lav/. 
Lo,  P — p — le's  brow,  tremendous  to  the  town, 
Horneck's  fierce  eye,  and  Roome's  funereal  frown. 
Lo!  sneering  Goode,  half  malice  and  half  whim, 
A  fiend  in  glee,  ridiculously  grim. 
Each  cygnet  sweet,  of  Bath  and  Tunbridge  race, 
VVhose  tuneful  whistling  makes  the  waters  pass; 
Each  songster,  riddler,  every  nameless  name, 

All  crowd,  who  foremost  shall  be  d d  to  fame. 

Some  strain  in  rhyme  ;  the  muses,  on  their  racks. 
Scream  like  the  winding  of  ten  thousand  jacks  ; 
Some,  free  from  rhyme  or  reason,  rule  or  check 
Break  Priscian's  head,  and  Pegasus's  neck  ; 
Down,  down  the  larum,  with  impetuous  whirl, 
The  Pindars  and  the  Miltons  of  a  Curll. 
15* 


174  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Silence,  ye  wolves?  wliile  Ralph  to  cyiithia  liowls 
And  makes  night  hideous — Answer  him,  ye  owls! 

Sense,  speech,  and  measure,  living  tongues  and  dead, 
Let  all  give  way — and  Morris  may  be  read. 
Flow,  Welsted,  flow !  like  thine  inspirer,  heer, 
Though  stale,  not  ripe ;  though  thin,  yet  never  clear ; 
So  sweetly  mawkish,  and  so  smoothly  dull; 
Heady,  not  strong;  o'erflowing,  though  not  full, 

Ah,  Dennis!  Gildon,  ah  !  what  ill-starred  rage 
Divides  a  friendship  long  confirmed  by  age  ? 
Blockheads  with  reason  wicked  wits  abhor. 
But  fool  with  fool  is  barbarous  civil  war. 
Embrace,  embrace,  my  sons  !  be  foes  no  more ! 
Nor  glad  vile  poets  with  true  critics'  gore. 

Behpld  yon  pair,  in  strict  embraces  joined; 
How  like  in  manners,  and  how  like  in  mind  ! 
Equal  in  wit,  and  equally  polite, 
Shall  this  a  Pasquin,  that  a  Grumbler  write ; 
Like  are  their  merits,  like  rewards  they  share, 
That  shines  a  consul,  this  commissioner, 

'  But  who  is  he,  in  closet  closely  pent. 
Of  sober  face,  with  learned  dust  besprent?' 
Right  well  mine  eyes  arede  the  myster  wight, 
On  parchment  scrapes  y-fed,  and  Wormius  hight. 
To  future  ages  may  thy  dulness  last, 
As  thou  preservest  the  dulness  of  the  past ! 

There,  dim  in  clouds,  the  poring  scholiasts  mark : 
Wits,  who,  like  owls,  see  only  in  the  dark; 
A  lumber-house  of  books  in  every  head, 
For  ever  reading,  never  to  be  read ! 

But,  where  each  science  lifts  its  modern  type 
History  her  pot,  divinity  his  pipe. 
While  proud  philospliy  repines  to  show, 
Dishonest  sight!  his  breeches  rent  below; 
Imbrowned  with  native  bronze,  lo !  Henley  stands, 
Tuning  his  voice,  and  balancing  his  hands, 
HoAV  fluent  nonsense  trickles  from  his  tongue  ! 
How  sweet  the  periods,  neither  said  nor  sung ! 
Still  break  the  benches,  Henley!  with  tliy  strain, 
While  Sherlock,  Hare,  and  Gibson,  preach  in  vaiii 
Oh  great  restorer  of  the  good  old  stage, 
Preacher  at  once,  and  zany  of  thy  age ! 
Oh  woi-thy  thou  of  Egypt's  wise  abodes, 
A  decent  priest,  where  monkeys  v/herc  the  gods' 
But  fate  with  butchers  placed  thy  priestly  stall, 
Meek  modern  faith  to  murder,  hack,  and  maul  . 
And  bade  thee  live,  to  crown  Brittannia's  praise, 
In  Toland's,  Tindal's,  and  in  Woolston's  days. 

Yet,  oh,  my  sons  !  a  father's  words  attend, 
(So  may  the  fates  pi-cserve  the  cars  you  lend  •• 


THE   liuNi.iAD.  173 

l^s  yonrs,  a  Bacon  or  a  Locke  to  blame, 

A  Newton's  genius,  or  a  Milton's  flame: 

But?  oh !  with  One,  immortal  One,  dispense, 

The  source  of  Newton's  light,  of  Bacon's  sense,_ 

Content,  each  emanation  of  his  fires 

That  beams  on  earth,  each  virtue  he  inspires. 

Each  art  he  prompts,  each  charm  he  can  create, 

Whate'er  he  gives  are  given  for  you  to  hate; 

Persist,  by  all  divine  in  man  unawed, 

But  *  Learn,  ye  Dunces!  not  to  scorn  your  God.* 

'1  hus  he,  for  then  a  ray  of  reason  stole 
Half  through  the  solid  darkness  of  his  soul; 
But  soon  the  cloud  returned — and  thus  the  sire  : 
See  now,  what  Dulness  and  her  sons  admire  ! 
See  what  the  charms  that  smite  the  simple  heart. 
Not  touched  by  Nature  and  not  reached  by  art. 

His  never-blushing  head  he  turned  aside, 
(Not  half  so  pleased  when  Goodman  prophesied;) 
And  looked,  and  saw  a  sable  scorcerer  rise, 
Swift  to  whose  hand  a  winged  volume  flies : 
All  sudden,  gorgons  hiss,  and  dragons  glare, 
And  ten-horned  fiends  and  giants  rush  to  war. 
Hell  rises,  heaven  descends,  and  dance  on  earth; 
Gods,  imps,  and  monsters,  music,  rage,  and  mirth, 
A  fire,  a  jig,  a  battle,  and  a  ball. 
Till  one  wide  conflagration  swallows  all. 

Thence  a  new  world,  to  Nature's  laws  unknown. 
Breaks  out  refulgent,  with  a  heaven  its  own : 
Another  Cynthia  her  new  journey  runs, 
And  other  planets  circle  other  suns. 
The  forests  dance,  the  rivers  upward  rise. 
Whales  sport  in  woods,  and  dolphins  in  the  skies ; 
And  last,  to  give  the  whole  creation  grace, 
Lo!  one  vast  egg  produces  human  race. 

Joy  fills  his  soul,  joy  innocent  of  thought ;  [wrought?  * 
*What  power,'  he  cries,  'what  power  these  wonders 
Son,  what  thou  seek'st  is  in  thee  !  Look  and  find 
Each  monster  meets  his  likeness  in  thy  mind. 
Yet  wouldst  thou  more?  in  yonder  cloud  behold, 
Whose  sarsenet  skirts  are  edged  with  flaming  gold. 
A  matchless  youth  !     his  nod  these  worlds  controlis, 
Wings  the  red  lightning,  and  the  thunder  rolls; 
Angel  of  Dulness,  sent  to  scatter  round 
Her  magic  charms  o'er  all  unclassic  ground: 
Yon  stars,  yon  suns,  he  rears  at  pleasure  higher, 
Illumes  their  light,  and  sets  their  flames  on  fire. 
Immortal  Rich  !  how  calm  he  sits  at  ease, 
'Midst  snows  of  paper,  and  fierce  hail  of  peas  ! 
And,  i)roud  his  mistress'  orders  to  perform, 
llides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 


176  THE   nUNCIATy. 

But,  lo!  to  dark  encounter  in  mid  air 

New  wizards  rise ;  1  see  my  CiJjber  there  ? 

Booth  in  his  cloudy  tabernacle  shrined, 

On  grinning  dragons  thou  shalt  mount  the  wind. 

Dire  is  the  conflict,  dismal  is  the  din, 

Here  shouts  all  Drury,  there  all  Lincoln's-inn ; 

Contending  theatres  our  empire  raise; 

Alike  their  labours,  and  alike  their  praise. 

And  are  these  wonders,  son,  to  thee  unknown? 
Unknown  to  thee !  these  wonders  are  thy  own. 
These  fate  reserved  to  grace  thy  reign  divine, 
Foreseen  by  me,  but  ah !  witheld  from  mine. 
in  Lud's  old  walls  though  long  I  ruled,  renowned. 
Far  as  loud  Bow's  stupendous  bells  resound  ; 
Though  my  own  alderman  conferred  the  bays, 
To  me  committing  their  eternal  praise, 
'^rheir  full-fed  heroes,  their  pacific  mayors 
Their  annual  trophies,  and  their  monthlv  wars: 
Though  long  my  party  built  on  me  their  hopes,  ' 
For  writing  pamphlets,  and  for  roasting  popes ; 
Yet  lo !  in  me  what  authors  have  to  brag  ou ! 
Reduced  at  last  to  hiss  in  my  own  dragon. 
Avert  it,  Heaven!  that  thou,  my  Gibber,  e'er 
Shouldst  wag  a  serpent-tail  in  smithfield  fair ! 
Like  the  vile  straw  that's  blown  about  the  streets. 
The  needy  poet  sticks  to  all  he  meets, 
Coached,  carted,  trod  upon,  now  loose,  now  fast. 
And  carried  oiFin  some  dog's  tail  at  last. 
Happier  thy  fortunes  !  like  a  rolling  stone, 
Thy  giddy  dulness  still  shall  lumber  on, 
Safe  in  its  heaviness,  shall  never  stray, 
But  lick  up  every  blockhead  in  the  way. 
Thee  shall  the  patriot,  thee  the  courtier  taste, 
And  every  year  be  duller  than  the  last. 
Till,  raised  from  booths,  to  theatre,  to  court. 
Her  seat  imperial  Dulness  shall  transport. 
Already  opera  prepares  the  way, 
The  sure  forerunner  of  her  gentle  sway : 
Let  her  thy  heart,  next  drabs  and  div.e,  engage, 
The  third  mad  passion  of  thy  doting  age. 
Teach  thou  the  warbling  Polypheme  to  roar, 
And  scream  thyself  as  none  e'er  screamed  before! 
To  aid  our  cause,  if  heaven  thou  canst  not  bend, 
Hell  thou  shalt  move ;  for  Faustus  is  our  friend ; 
Pluto  with  Cato  thou  for  this  shalt  join, 
And  link  the  Mourning  Bride  to  Proserpine. 
Grub-street!  thy  fall  should  men  and  gods  conspire, 
Thy  stage  shall  stand,  ensure  it  but  from  fire. 
Another  iEschylus  appears !  prepare 
For  new  abortions,  all  ye  pregnant  fair  I 


THE  DUNCIAD.  l77 

In  fiames,  like  Semele's,  be  brought  to  bed, 
^Yhile  opening  hell  spouts  wild-fire  at  your  head. 

Now,  Bavius,  take  the  poppy  from  thy  brow. 
And  place  it  here  !  here  all  ye  heroes  bow ! 

This,  this  is  he,  foretold  by  ancient  rhymes, 
The  Augustus  born  to  bring  Saturnian  times. 
Signs  following  signs  lead  on  the  mighty  year! 
See !  the  dull  stars  roll  round  and  re-appear. 
See,  see,  our  own  true  Phoebus  wears  the  bays  I 
Our  Midas  sits  lord  chancellor  of  plays  ! 
On  poets'  tombs  see  Benson's  titles  writ! 
Lo  !  Ambrose  Philips  is  preferred  for  wit ! 
See  under  Ripley  rise  a  new  Whitehall, 
While  Jones'  and  Boyle's  united  labours  fall ; 
VVhile  Wren  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  descends 
Gay  dies  unpensioned  with  a  hundred  friends. 
Hibernian  politics,  O  Swift !  thy  fate ; 
And  Pope's,  ten  years  to  comment  and  translate, 

Proceed,  great  days  !  till  learning  fly  the  shore, 
Till  birch  shall  blush  with  noble  blood  no  more ; 
Till  Thames  see  Eton's  sons  for  ever  play, 
Till  Westminster's  whole  year  be  holiday; 
'J'ill  Isis'  elders  reel,  their  pupils*  sport, 
And  alma  mater  lie  dissolved  in  port! 

'Enough!  enough!'  the  raptured  monarch  cries  I 
And  throush  the  ivory  gate  the  vision  flies. 


178 


BOOK  IV. 

THE  AUGUMENT. 

The  poet  being,  in  this  book,  to  declare  the  completion  of  the  pro- 
phecies mentioned  at  the  end  of  the  former,  makes  a  new  invocation, 
as  the  greater  poets  are  wont,  when  some  high  and  worthy  matter  is 
to  be  sung.     He  sliows  the  goddess  coming  in  her  majesty,  to  destroy 
order  and  science,  and  to  substitvite  the  kingdom  of  the  dull  upon  eartli ; 
how  she  leads  captive  the  sciences,   and   silences   the  Muses;   and 
what  they  be  who  succeed  in  their  stead.     All  her  children,   by  a 
wonderful  attraction,  are  drawn  about  her,  and  bear  along  with  them 
divers  others,  v/ho  promote  her  empire  by  connivance,   weak  re- 
sistance,  or  discouragement  of   arts;    such  as  half-wits,   tasteless 
admirers,  vain  pretenders,  the  flatterers  of  dunces,  or  the  patrons  of 
them:  all  these  crowd  around  her;  one  of  them,  ofFering  to  approach 
her,  is  driven  back  by  a  rival;   but  she  commends  and  encourages 
both.     The  first  who  speak  in  form  are  the  geniuses  of  the  scliools, 
who  assure  her  of  their  care  to  advance  her  cause  by  confining  youth 
to  words,  arid  keeping  them  out  of  the  way  of  real  knowledge:  tlieir 
address,  and  her  gracious  answer;  with  her  charge  to  tliem  and  tliu 
universities.    The  universities  appear  by  their  proper  deputies,  and 
assure  her  that  the  same  method  is  observed  ir  the  progress  of  educa- 
tion :  the  speech  of  Aristarchus  on  this  subject.     They  are  driven  ofT 
by  a  band  of  young  gentlemen  returned  from  travel  with  their  tutors; 
one  of  wliom  delivers  to  tlie  goddess,  in  a  polite  oration,  an  account 
of  the  whole  conduct  and  fruits  of  their  travels;  presenting  to  her  at 
the  same  time  a  young  nobleman  perfectly  accomplished :  she  receives 
him  graciously,  and  endues  him  with  the  happy  quality  of  want  of 
shame.     She  sees  loitering  about  her  a  number  of  indolent  persons 
abandoning  all  business  and  duty,  and  dying  with  laziness:  to  these 
a])proaches  the  antiquary  Annius,  entreating  her  to  make  them  vir- 
tuosos, ;ind  assign  them  over  to  him;  but  Mummius,  anot!ier  anti- 
quary, complaining  of  his  fradulent  proceeding,  she  finds  a  method 
to  reconcile  their  dilTerence.     Then  enter  a  troop  of  people  fantasti- 
cally adorned,  offering  her  strange  and  exotic  presents:  among  them, 
one  stands  forth  and  demands  justice  on  another,  who  had  deprived 
him  of  one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  in  nature:  but  he  justifies  him- 
self so  well,  that  the  goddess  gives  them  both  her  approbation ;  she  re- 
commends to  them  to  find  proper  employment  for  tlieindolents  before- 
mentioned,  in  the  study  of  butterflies,  shells,  birds-nests,  moss,  &rc., 
but  with  particular  caution,   not  to  proceed  beyond  trifies,   to  any 
uscfulorextensiveviewsof  nature,  or  of  the  Author  of  nature.  Against 
the  last  of  these  apprehensions,  she  is  secured  by  a  hearty  address 
from  the  minute  philosophers  and  free-thinkers,  one  of  whom  speaks 
in  the  name  of  the  rest.     The  youth,  thus  instructed  anil  principled, 
are  delivered  to  her  in  a  body  by  the  hands  of  Silenv.s;   and  then 
admitted  to  taste  the  cup  of  the  Magus  her  high  priest,  which  causes 
a  total  oblivion  of  all  obligations,  divine,  civil,  moral,  or  rational;  ta 
these,  her  adepts,  she  sends  priests,  attendants,  and  comforters  of 
various  kinds;  confers  on  them  orders  and  degrees;  and  then  dis- 
missing them  with  a  speech,  confirming  i')  each  hi.s  privileges,  tind 


THE    DUNCIAD.  1" 

telling  what  she  expects  from  each,  concludes  with  a  yawn  of  extra 
ordinary  virtue;  the  progres's  and  effects  wlvereof  on  ah  orders  o 
men,  and  the  consummation  of  all,  in  the  restoration  of  Night  and 
Chaos,  conclude  the  poem. 

Yet,  yet  a  moment,  one  dim  ray  of  light 
Indulge,  dread  Chaos  and  eternal  Night! 
Of  darkness  visible  so  much  he  lent, 
As  half  to  shew,  half  veil,  the  deep  intent. 
Ye  powers !  whose  mysteries  restored  I  sing, 
To  whom  time  bears  me  on  his  rapid  wing, 
Suspend  a  while  your  force  inertly  strong, 
Then  take  at  once  the  poet  and  the  song. 

Now  flamed  the  dog-star's  unpropitious  ray, 
Smote  every  brain,  and  withered  every  bay  ; 
bick  was  the  sun,  the  owl  forsook  his  bower, 
The  moon-struck  prophet  felt  the  madding  hour: 
Then  rose  the  seed  of  Chaos,  and  of  Night, 
To  blot  out  order,  and  extinguish  light, 
Of  dull  and  venal  a  new  world  to  mould, 
And  bring  Saturnian  days  of  lead  and  gold. 

She  mounts  the  throne :  her  head  a  cloud  cunceard, 
In  broad  effulgence  all  below  reveal'd, 
('Tis  thus  aspiring  Dulness  ever  shines,) 
Soft  on  her  lap  her  laureate  son  reclines. 
Beneath  her  footstool  science  groans  in  chains, 
And  wit  dreads  exile,  penalties  and  pains. 
There  foamed  rebellious  logic,  gagg'd  aiul  bound  ; 
There,  stripp'd,  fair  rhetoric  languished  ou  the  ground; 
His  blunted  arms  by  sophistry  are  borne 
And  shameless  Billingsgate  her  robes  adorn. 
Morality,  by  her  false  guardians  drawn. 
Chicane  in  furs,  and  casuistry  in  lawn, 
Gasps,  as  they  straighten  at  each  end  the  cord, 
And  dies  when  Dulness  gives  her  Page  the  word. 
Mad  Mathesis  alone  was  unconfined, 
Too  mad  for  mere  material  chains  to  bind: 
Now  to  pure  space  lifts  her  ecstatic  stare, 
Now  running  round  the  circle,  finds  it  square. 
But  held  in  tenfold  bonds  the  muses  lie, 
Watched  both  by  envy's  and  by  flatt'ry's  eye : 
There  to  her  heart  sad  tragedy  address'd 
The  dagger,  wont  to  pierce  the  tyrant's  breast; 
But  sober  history  restrained  her  rage. 
And  promised  vengeance  on  a  bai-barous  ago. 
There  sunk  Thalia,  nerveless,  cold,  and  dead. 
Had  not  her  sister  Satire  held  her  head: 
Nor  couldst  thou,  Chesteriield!  a  tear  refuse-, 
Thou  wep'st,  and  with  thee  wept  each  gentle  muse. 

When  lo!  a  harlot  furr.i  soft  sliding  by. 
With  rahicing  step,  small  voice,  and  lanquid  eye : 


i 


180  THE    DUNCIAD. 

Foreign  her  air,  her  robe's  discordant  pride 

In  patch-work  fluttering,  and  her  head  aside ; 

By  singing  peers  upheld  on  either  hand, 

She  tripp'd  and  laugh'd,  too  pretty  much  to  stand; 

Cast  on  the  prostrate  Nine  a  scornful  look, 

Then  thus  in  quaint  recitativo  spoke : 

*0  Cara!  Cara!  silence  all  that  train; 
Joy  to  great  Chaos!  let  division  reign* 
Chromatic  tortures  soon  shall  drive  them  hence, 
Break  all  their  nerves,  and  fritter  all  their  sense : 
One  trill  shall  harmonize  joy,  grief,  and  rage, 
Wake  the  dull  dmrch,  and  lull  the  ranting  stage; 
To  the  same  notes  thy  son  shall  hum  or  snore, 
And  all  thy  yawning  daughters  cry,  encore. 
Another  Phoebus,  thy  own  Pha3bus  reigns, 
Joys  in  my  jigs,  and  dances  in  my  chains. 
But  soon,  ah  soon,  rebellion  will  commence, 
If  music  meanly  borrows  aid  from  sense : 
Strong  in  new  arms,  lo !  giant  Handel  stands. 
Like  bold  Briareus,  with  a  hundred  hands  ; 
To  stir,  to  rouse,  to  shake  the  soul  he  comes, 
And  Jove's  own  thunders  follow  Mars's  drums. 
Arrest  him,  empress,  or  you  sleep  no  more' — 
She  heard,  and  drove  him  to  the  Hibernian  shore. 

And  now  had  Fame's  posterior  trumpet  blown, 
And  all  the  nations  summoned  to  the  throne : 
The  young,  the  old,  who  feel  her  inward  sway, 
One  instinct  seizes,  and  transports  away. 
None  need  a  guide,  by  sure  attraction  led, 
And  strong  impulsive  gravity  of  head  : 
None  want  a  place,  for  all  their  centre  found, 
Hung  to  the  goddess,  and  cohered  around, 
Not  closer,  orb  in  orb.  conglobed  are  seen 
The  buzzing  bees  about  their  dusky  queen. 

The  gathering  number,  as  it  moves  along, 
Involves  a  vast  involuntary  throng, 
Who,  gently  drawn,  and  struggling  less  and  le&i. 
Roll  in  her  vortex,  and  her  power  confess. 
Not  those  alone  who  passive  own  her  laws, 
But  who  weak  rebels,  more  advance  her  cause. 
V/hate'er  of  dunce,  in  college  or  in  town, 
Sneers  at  another  in  toupee  or  gown  ; 
Whatever  of  mongrel  no  one  class  admits, 
A  wit  with  dunces,  and  a  dunce  with  wits. 

Nor  absent  they,  no  members  of  her  state, 
Who  pay  her  homage  in  her  sons,  the  great; 
Who,  false  to  Phoebus,  bov/  the  knee  to  Baal, 
Or  impious,  preach  his  word  without  a  call. 
Piitrons,  vvho  sneak  fro^i  living  worth  to  dead, 
Withold  the  peu-no:i,  and  set  up  tlie  head; 


THE    DUNCIAD.  181 

Or  vest  dull  flattery  in  tlie  sacred  gown, 
Or  give  from  fool  to  fool  the  laurel  crown; 
And  (last  and  worst)  with  all  the  cant  of  wit, 
Without  the  soul,  the  muses'  hypocrite 

There  marched  the  bard  and  blockhead  side  by  side, 
Who  ryhmed  for  hire,  and  patronized  for  pride. 
Narcissus,  praised  with  all  a  parson's  pov/er, 
Looked  a  white  lily  sunk  beneath  a  shower. 
There  moved  Montalto  with  superior  air ; 
His  stretched  out  arm  displayea  a  volume  fair; 
Courtiers  and  nau-iots  in  two  ranks  divide, 
Throvigh  both  ne  passed,  and  bowed  from  side  to  side; 
But  as  in  graceful  act,  with  awful  eye, 
Composed  he  stood,  bold  Benson  thrust  him  by : 
On  two  unequal  crutches  propp'd  he  came, 
Milton's  on  this,  on  that  one  Johnson's  name. 
The  decent  knight  retired  with  sober  rage. 
Withdrew  his  hand,  and  closed  the  pompous  page: 
But  (happy  for  him  as  the  times  went  then) 
Appeared  x\pollo's  mayor  and  aldermen, 
On  whom  three  hundred  gold-capp'd  youths  await^ 
To  lug  the  ponderous  volume  off  in  state. 

When  Dulness,  smiling —  'Thus  revive  the  wits  I 
But  murder  first,  and  mince  them  all  to  bits ; 
As  erst  Medea  (cruel,  so  to  save!) 
A  new  edition  of  old  ^son  gave ; 
Let  standard  authors  thus,  like  tropbies  borne, 
Appear  more  glorious  as  more  hacked  and  torn. 
And  you,  my  critics!  in  the  chequered  shade, 
Admire  new  light  through  holes  yourselves  have  mada 

Leave  not  a  foot  of  verse,  a  foot  of  stone, 
A  page,  a  grave,  that  they  can  call  their  own ; 
But  spread,  my  sons,  your  glory  thin  or  thick, 
On  passive  paper,  or  on  solid  brick. 
So  by  each  bard  an  alderman  shall  sit, 
A  heavy  lord  shall  hang  at  every  wit. 
And  while  on  fame's  triumphal  car  they  ride, 
Some  slave  of  mine  be  pinioned  to  their  side.' 

Now  crowds  on  crowds  around  the  goddess  press. 
Each  eager  to  present  the  first  address. 
Dunce  scorning  dunce  beholds  the  next  advance. 
But  fop  shows  fop  superior  complaisance. 
When  lo  !  a  spectre  rose,  whose  index-hand 
Held  forth  the  virtue  of  the  dreadful  wand; 
His  beavered  brow  a  birchen  garland  wears, 
Dropping  with  infant's  blood  and  mothers'  tears. 
O'er  every  vein  a  shuddering  horror  runs, 
Eton  and  Winton  shake  through  all  their  sons. 
All  flesh  is  humbled,  Westminster's  bold  race 
Shrink,  and  confess  the  genius  of  the  place : 

IG 


182  THE    DUNCIAD. 

The  pale-boy  senator  yet  tingling  stands, 

And  holds  his  breeches  close  with  both  his  hands. 

Then  thus :  since  man  from  beast  by  words  is  kr  own. 
Words  are  man's  province,  words  we  teach  alone. 
When  reason  doubtful,  like  the  Samian  letter, 
Points  him  two  ways,  the  narrower  is  the  better. 
Placed  at  the  door  of  learning,  youth  to  guide, 
We  never  suffer  it  to  stand  too  wide. 
To  ask,  to  guess,  to  know,  as  they  commence, 
As  fancy  opens  the  quick  springs  of  sense, 
We  ply  the  memory,  we  load  the  brain, 
Bind  rebel  wit,  and  double  chain  on  chain, 
Comfine  the  thought,  to  exercise  the  breath 
And  keep  them  in  the  pale  of  words  till  death. 
Whate'er  the  talents,  or  howe'er  designed. 
We  hang  one  jingling  padlock  on  the  mind  : 
A  poet  the  first  day  he  dips  his  quill; 
And  what  the  last?  a  very  poet  still. 
Pity  !  the  charm  works  only  in  our  wall, 
Lost,  lost  too  soon  in  yonder  house  or  hall. 
There  truant  Windham  every  nmse  gave  o'er; 
Thei'e  Talbot  sunk,  and  was  a  wit  no  more! 
How  sweet  an  Ovid,  Murray  was  our  boast ! 
How  many  Martials  were  in  Puiteney  lost! 
Else  sure  some  bard,  to  our  eternal  praise, 
In  twice  ten  thousand  rhyming  nights  and  days, 
Had  reached  the  work,  the  all  that  mortal  can. 
And  South  beheld  that  masterpiece  of  man. 

'Oh,'  cried  the  Goddess,  *for  some  pedant  reign  f 
Some  gentle  James,  to  bless  the  land  again: 
To  stick  the  doctor's  chair  into  the  throne. 
Give  law  to  words,  or  war  with  words  alone, 
Senates  and  courts  with  Greek  and  Latin  rule, 
And  turn  the  council  to  a  grammar  school ! 
For  sure  if  Dulness  sees  a  grateful  day, 
'Tis  in  the  shade  of  arbitrary  sway. 
O  !  if  my  sons  may  learn  one  earthly  thing, 
Teach  but  that  one,  sufficient  for  a  king  ; 
That  which  my  priests,  and  mine  alone,  maintain, 
Which,  as  it  dies,  or  lives,  we  fall,  or  reign: 
May  you,  my  Cam  and  Lsis,  preach  it  long ! 
'The  right  divine  of  kings  to  govern  wronji:.' 

Prompt  at  the  call,  aro\md  the  gochlessroil 
Broad  hats,  and  hoods,  and  caps,  a  sable  slioal : 
Thick  and  more  thick  the  black  blockade  extends, 
A  hundred  head  of  Aristotle's  friends 
Nor  wevt  thou,  lsis!  wanting  to  the  day, 
[Thou  Christ-church  long  kept  prudishly  away.  J 
Each  staunch  polemic,  stubborn  as  a  rock. 
Each  fierce  logician,  still  expelling  Locke, 


THE    DUNCIAD.  183 

Came  whip  and  spur,  and  dashed  through  thm  and  thick 
On  German  Crouzaz,  and  Dutch  Burgersdyck. 
As  many  quit  the  streams,  that  murmuring  fall 
To  lull  the  sons  of  Margaret  and  Clare-hall, 
Where  Bently  late  tempestuous  wont  to  sport 
In  troubled  waters,  but  now  sleeps  in  port. 
Before  them  marched  that  awful  Aristarch  ; 
Plowed  was  his  front  with  many  a  deep  remark i 
His  hat,  which  never  veiled  to  human  pride, 
Walker  with  reverence  took,  and  laid  aside. 
Low  bowed  the  rest:  he,  kingly,  did  but  nod  ; 
So  upright  Quakers  please  both  man  and  God. 
Mistress!  dismiss  that  rabble  from  your  throne: 

Avaunt is  Aristarchus  yet  unknown  ? 

Thy  mighty  scholiast,  whose  unwearied  pains 

Made  Horace  dull,  and  humbled  Milton's  strains. 

Turn  what  they  will  to  verse,  their  toil  is  vain, 

Critics  like  me  shall  make  it  prose  again. 

Roman  and  Greek  grammarians  !  know  your  better' 

Author  of  something  yet  more  great  than  letter; 

While  towering  o'er  your  alphabet,  like  Saul, 

Stands  our  digamma,  and  o'ertops  them  all. 

'Tis  true,  on  words  is  still  our  whole  debate, 

Disputes  of  me  or  te,  oi  aiit  or  at. 

To  sound  or  sink  in  cano,  O  or  A, 

Or  give  up  Cicero  to  C  or  K. 

Let  Friend  affect  to  speak  as  Terence  spoke. 

And  Alsop  never  but  like  Horace  joke: 

For  me,  what  Virgil^  Pliny  may  deny, 

Manilius  or  Schnus  shall  supply: 

P'or  Attic  phrase  in  Plato  let  them  seek, 

I  poach  in  Suidas  for  unlicensed  Greek. 

In  ancient  sense  if  any  needs  will  deal, 

Be  sure  I  give  them  fragments,  not  a  meal ; 

What  Gellius  or  Stobseus  hashed  before, 

Or  chewed  by  blind  old  Scholiasts  o'er  and  o'er. 

The  critic  eye,  that  microscope  of  wit, 

Sees  hairs  and  pores,  examines  bit  by  bit. 

How  parts  relate  to  parts,  or  they  to  whole. 

The  body's  harmony,  the  beaming  soul. 

Are  things  which  Kuster,  Burman,  Wasse,  shall  see 

When  man's  whole  frame  is  obvius  to  a  flea. 

Ah,  think  not,  Mistress !  more  true  dulncss  lies 
In  Folly's  cap,  then  Wisdom's  grave  disguise. 
Like  buoys,  that  never  sink  into  the  flood, 
On  learning's  surface  we  but  lie  and  nod. 
Thine  is  the  genuine  head  of  many  a  house, 
And  much  divinity  without  a  Nous. 
Nor  could  a  Barrow  work  on  every  block, 
Ncrliaa  one  Atterbury  spoiled  the  flock. 


184  THE    DUNCIAU. 

See  !  still  thy  own,  the  heavy  cannon  roll, 
And  inetaphysic  smokes  involve  the  pole. 
For  thee  we  dim  the  eyes,  and  stuff  the  head 
With  all  su-ch  reading  as  was  never  read; 
For  thee  explain  a  thing  till  all  men  doubt  it, 
And  write  about  it,  goddess,  and  about  it; 
So  spins  the  silk-worm  small  its  slender  store, 
And  labours  till  it  clouds  itself  all  o'er. 

What  though  we  let  some  better  sort  of  fool 
Thrid  every  science,  run  through  every  school? 
Never  by  tumbler  through  the  hoops  was  shown 
Such  skill  in  passing  all,  and  touching  none. 
He  may  indeed,  if  sober  all  this  time, 
Plague  with  dispute,  or  persecute  with  rhyme. 
We  only  furnish  what  he  cannot  use, 
Or  wed  to  what  he  must  divorce,  a  muse  : 
Full  in  the  midst  of  Euclid  dip  at  once, 
And  petrify  a  genius  to  a  dunce  ; 
Or  set  on  metaphysic  ground  to  prance, 
Show  all  his  paces,  not  a  step  advance. 
With  the  same  cement,  ever  sure  to  bind, 
We  bring  to  one  dead  level  every  mind: 
Then  take  him  to  develope,  if  you  can, 
And  hew  the  block  off,  and  get  out  the  man. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  words  ?  I  see  advance 
Whore,  pupil,  and  laced  governor,  from  France. 

Walker !  our  hat nor  more  he  deigned  to  say, 

But  stern  as  Ajax'  spectre  strode  away 

In  flowed  at  once  a  gay  embroidered  race, 
And  tittering  pushed  the  pedants  off  the  place 
Some  would  have  spoken,  but  the  voice  was  drowned 
By  the  French  horn,  or  by  the  opening  hound. 
The  first  came  forwards  with  an  easy  mien. 
As  if  he  saw  St.  James's  and  the  Queen. 
When  thus  the  attendant  orator  begun ; 
*  Receive,  great  Empress!  thy  accomplished  son: 
Thine  from  the  birth,  and  sacred  from  the  rod, 
A  dauntless  infant!  never  scared  with  God. 
The  sire  saw,  one  by  one,  his  virtues  wake  ; 
The  mother  begged  the  blessing  of  a  rake. 
Thou  gavest  that  ripeness  which  so  soon  began, 
And  ceased  so  soon,  he  ne'er  was  boy  nor  rnan  ; 
Through  school  and  college,  thy  kind  cloud  o'crcast, 
Safe  and  unseen  the  young  ^neas  past : 
Thence  bursting  glorious,  all  at  once  let  down 
Stunn'd  with  his  giddy  larum  half  the  town. 
Intre])id  then,  o'er  seas  and  lands  he  flew; 
Europe  he  saw,  and  Europe  saw  him  too. 
There  all  thy  gifts  and  graces  we  display, 
Thou,  only  thou,  directing  all  our  way  ! 


THE    UUNCIAD.  185 

Co  where  the  Seine,  obsequious  as  she  runs, 
Pours  at  great  Bourbon's  feet  her  silken  sons  ; 
Or  Tyoer,  now  no  longer  Roman,  rolls, 
Vain  of  Italian  arts,  Italian  souls :_ 
To  happy  convents,  bosom 'd  deep  in  vines, 
Where  slumber  abbots,  purple  as  their  wines  ; 
To  isles  of  fragrance,  lily-silvered  vales, 
Diffusing  languor  in  the  panting  gales 
To  lands  of  singing  or  of  dancing  slaves, 
Love- whispering  woods,  and  lute-resounding  waves. 
But  chief  her  shrine  where  naked  Venus  keeps. 
And  Cupids  ride  the  lion  of  the  deeps; 
Where,  eased  of  fleets,  the  Adriatic  main 
Wafts  the  smooth  eunuch  and  enamoured  swain. 
Led  by  my  hand,  he  sauntered  Europe  round, 
And  gathered  every  vice  on  Christian  ground* 
Saw  every  court,  heard  every  king  declare 
His  royal  sense  of  operas  or  the  fair; 
The  stews  and  palace  equally  explored. 
Intrigued  with  glory,  and  with  spirit  whored  ; 
Tried  all  hors-d' (Buvres,  all  ligueurs  defined, 
Judicious  drank,  and  greatly  daring  dined ; 
Dropp'd  the  dull  lumber  of  the  Latin  store, 
Spoiled  his  own  language,  and  acquired  no  more ; 
All  classic  learning  lost  on  classic  ground ; 
And  last  turned  air,  the  echo  of  a  sound  ! 
See  now,  half-cured,  and  perfectly  well-bred, 
With  nothing  but  a  solo  in  his  head  ; 
As  much  estate,  and  principle,  and  wit. 
As  Jansen,  Fleetwood,  Cibber  shall  think  fit 
Stolen  from  a  duel,  followed  by  a  nun, 
And,  if  a  borough  choose  him,  not  undone  ; 
See,  to  my  country  happy  I  restore 
This  glorious  youth,  and  add  one  Venus  more. 
Her  too  receive,  (for  her  my  soul  adores  ;) 
So  may  the  sons  of  sons  of  sons  of  whores 
Prop  thine,  O  empress !  like  each  neighbour  throne. 
And  make  a  long  posterity  thy  own.' 
Pleased,  she  accepts  the  hero,  and  the  dame. 
Wraps  in  her  veil,  and  frees  from  sense  of  shame. 

Then  looked,  and  saw  a  lazy  lolling  sort. 
Unseen  at  church,  at  senate,  or  at  court. 
Of  ever-listless  loiterers,  that  attend 
No  cause,  no  trust,  no  duty,  and  no  friend. 
Thee  too,  my  Paridell !  she  marked  thee  there, 
Stretched  on  the  rack  of  a  too  easy  chair, 
And  heard  thy  everlasting  yawn  confess 
The  pains  and  penalties  of  idleness. 
She  pitied  !  but  her  pity  only  shed 
Benigner  influence  on  thy  v  adding  head, 

16* 


I8f>  THE    DUNCIAD, 

But  Amiius,  crafty  seer,  with  ebon  wai)d, 
And  well-dissembled  emerald  on  his  hand, 
False  us  his  gems,  and  cankered  as  his  coins, 
Came,  crammed  with  capon,  from  where  Pohio  dines. 
Soft,  as  the  wily  fox  is  seen  to  creep, 
Where  bask  on  sunny  banks  the  simple  sheep. 
Walk  round  and  round,  now  prying  here,  now  there 
So  he,  but  pious,  v/hispered  first  his  prayer. 

'Grant,  gracious  goddess !  grant  me  still  to  cheat ' 
O  may  thy  cloud  still  cover  the  deceit ! 
Thy  choicer  mists  on  this  assembly  shed, 
But  pour  them  thickest  on  the  noble  head. 
So  shall  each  youth,  assisted  by  our  eyes, 
See  other  Caesars,  other  Homers  rise ; 
Through  twilight  ages  hunt  the  Athenian  fowl, 
Which  Chalcis  gods,  and  mortals  call  an  owl. 
Now  see  an  Attys  now  a  Cecrops  clear 
Nay,  Mahomet!  the  ])igeon  at  thine  ear; 
Be  rich  in  ancient  brass,  though  not  in  gold, 
And  keep  his  Lares,  though  his  house  be  soldj 
To  headless  Phcebe  his  fair  bride  postpone, 
Honour  a  Syrian  prince  above  his  own; 
Lord  of  an  Otho,  if  I  vouch  it  true  ; 
Blessed  in  one  Niger,  till  he  knows  of  two. 

Mummius  o'erherd  him  ;  Mummius,  fool  renown'd 
Wiio,  like  his  Cheops,  stinks  above  the  ground, 
Fierce  as  a  startled  adder,  swelled,  and  said, 
Rattling  an  ancient  sistrum  at  his  head  : 

'  Speakest  thou  of  Syrian  princes?  traitor  base  ! 
Mine,  goddess!  mine,  is  all  the  horned  race. 
True,  he  had  wit  to  make  their  value  rise  ; 
From  foolish  Greeks  to  steal  them,  was  as  wise ; 
More  glorious  yet,  from  barbarous  hands  to  keep. 
When  Sallee  rovers  chased  liim  on  the  deep. 
Then,  taught  by  Hermes,  and  divinely  bold, 
Down  his  own  throat  he  risked  the  Grecian  gold. 
Received  each  demigod,  with  pious  care, 
Deep  in  his  entrails — I  revered  them  thei-e; 
I  bought  them,  shrowded  in  that  living  shrine, 
And,  at  their  second  birth,  they  issue  mine.' 

*  Witness,  great  Ammon!  by  whose  horns  I  swore,* 
Replies  soft  Annius  '  this  our  paunch  before 
Still  bears  them,  faithful !  and  that  thus  I  eat, 
Is  to  refund  the  medals  with  the  meat. 
To  prove  me,  goddess  '  clear  of  all  design, 
Bid  me  with  PoUio  sup  as  well  as  dine : 
There  all  the  learned  shall  at  the  labour  stand, 
And  Douglas  lend  liis  soft  obstetric  hand.' 

The  goddess  smiling  seemed  to  give  consent; 
So  back  t-,  PoUio  hand  in  hand  they  went. 


U 


TliE    DUNCIAD  187 

Then  thick  as  locusts  blackening  all  the  ground, 

A  tribe,  with  weeds  and  shells  fantastic  crowned, 

Each  with  some  wondrous  gift  approached  the  power, 

A  nest,  a  toad,  a  fungus,  or  a  flower. 

But  far  the  foreinost,  two,  with  earnest  zeal, 

And  aspect  ardent,  to  the  throne  appeal. 

The  first  thus  opened  ;  '  Hear  thy  suppliant's  call, 
Great  queen,  and  common  mother  of  us  all! 
Fair  from  its  humble  bed  I  reared  this  flower. 
Suckled,  and  cheered,  with  air,  and  sun,  and  shower. 
Soft  on  the  paper  rufl*its  leaves  I  spread, 
Bright  with  the  gilded  button  tipped  its  head. 
Then  throned  in  glass,  and  named  it  Caroline: 
Each  maid  cried,  charming  !  and  each  youth,  divine  ! 
Did  nature's  pencil  ever  blend  such  rays, 
Such  varied  light  in  one  promiscuous  blaze? 
Now  prostrate  !  dead  !  behold  that  Caroline: 
No  maid  cries  charming  !  and  no  youth  divine! 
And  lo  the  wretch  !  whose  vile,  whose  insect  lust 
Laid  this  gay  daughter  of  the  spring  in  dust; 
Oh  punish  him,  or  to  the  Elysian  shades 
Dismiss  my  soul,  where  no  carnation  fades.' 
He  ceased,  and  wept.     With  innocence  of  mien 
The  accus'd  stood  forth,  and  thus  address'd  thequefini 

*  Of  all  ihe  enamelled  race,  whose  silvery  wing 
Waves  to  the  tepid  zephyrs  of  the  spring, 
Or  swims  along  the  fluid  atmosphere, 
Once  brightest  shined  this  child  of  heat  and  air. 
J  saw,  and  started  from  its  vernal  bower 
The  rising  game,  and  chased  from  flower  to  flower. 
It  fled,  I  followed;  now  in  hope,  now  pain  ; 
It  stopped,  I  stopped;  it  moved,  I  moved  again. 
At  last  it  fixed,  'twas  on  what  plant  it  pleased, 
And  where  it  fixed,  the  beauteous  bird  I  seized: 
Rose  or  carnation  was  below  my  care  ; 
I  meddle,  goddess  !  only  in  my  sphere. 
I  tell  the  naked  fact  without  disguise. 
And,  to  excuse  it,  need  but  show  the  prize ; 
Whose  spoils  this  paper  offers  to  your  eye 
Fair  e'en  in  death  !  this  peerless  butterfly.' 

'My  sons !  (she  answered)  both  have  done  your  parts: 
Live  happy  both,  and  long  promote  our  arts. 
But  hear  a  mother,  when  she  recommends 
To  your  fraternal  care  our  sleeping  friends ; 
The  common  soul,  of  Heaven's  more  frugal  make, 
Serves  but  to  keep  fools  pert,  and  knaves  awake : 
A  drowsy  watchman,  that  just  gives  a  knock, 
And  breaks  our  rest,  to  tell  us  whit's  a  clock. 
Yet  by  some  object  every  hrain  is  stirred, 
The  dull  may  waken  to  a  humming-bird. 


188  THE    DUNUIAU. 

The  most  recluse,  discreetly  opened,  find 
Congenial  matter  in  the  cockle-kind ; 
The  mind,  in  metaphysics  at  a  loss, 
May  wander  in  a  wilderness  of  moss ; 
The  head  that  turns  at  superlunar  things 
Poized  with  a  tail,  may  steer  on  Wilkius'  wings 
O !  would  the  sons  of  men  once  think  their  eyes 
And  reason  given  them  but  to  study  flies! 
See  nature  in  some  partial  narrow  shape, 
And  let  the  author  of  the  whole  escape: 
Learn  but  to  trifle  ;  or,  who  most  observe, 
To  wonder  at  their  Maker,  not  to  serve.' 

*  Be  that  my  task  '  (replies  a  gloomy  clerk,   , 
Sworn  foe  to  mystery,  yet  divinely  dark ; 
Whose  pious  hope  aspires  to  see  the  day 
When  moral  evidence  shall  quite  decay. 
And  damns  implicit  faith,  and  holy  lies, 
Prompt  to  impose,  and  fond  to  dogmatize ;) 
*  Let  others  creep  by  timid  steps,  and  slow, 
On  plain  experience  lay  foundations  low, 
By  common  sense  to  common  knowledge  bred. 
And  last,  to  nature's  cause  through  nature  led. 
All  seeing  in  thy  mists,  we  want  no  guide, 
Mother  of  arrogance,  and  source  of  pride? 
We  nobly  take  the  high  priori  road, 
And  reason  downward,  till  we  doubt  of  God : 
Make  Nature  still  encroach  upon  his  plan, 
And  shove  him  off  as  far  as  e'er  we  can  ; 
Thrust  some  meclianic  cause  into  his  place, 
Or  bind  in  matter,  or  diffuse  in  space : 
Or,  at  one  bound  o'er  leaping  all  his  laws, 
Make  God  man's  image,  man  the  final  cause 
Fine  virtue  local,  all  relation  scorn, 
She  all  in  self,  and  but  for  self  be  born : 
Of  nought  so  certain  as  our  reason  still. 
Of  nought  so  doubtful  as  of  soul  and  will. 
Oh  hide  the  God  still  more !  and  make  us  see 
Such  as  Lucretius  drew,  a  god  like  thee ; 
Wrapp'd  up  in  self,  a  god  without  a  thought. 
Regardless  of  our  merit,  or  default. 
Or  that  bright  image  to  ovn*  fancy  draw, 
Which  Theocles  in  raptured  vision  saw. 
While  through  poetic  scenes  the  genius  roves, 
Or  wanders  wild  in  academic  groves; 
That  nature  our  society  adores,  • 

Where  Tindal  dictates,  and  Silenus  snores.'     j 

Roused  at  his  name,  up  rose  the  bowzy  sire. 
And  shook  from  out  his  pipe  the  seeds  of  fire  ; 
Then  snapp'd  his  box,  and  stroked  his  belly  down  ; 
Rosy  and  reverend,  though  without  a  gown. 


-«.«>-"*^ 


THE   DUNCIAD.  1 

Bland  and  familiar  to  the  throne  he  came, 

Led  up  the  youth,  and  called  the  goddess  dame, 

Then  thus :  '  From  priestcraft  happily  set  free, 

Lo !  every  finished  son  returns  to  thee  ; 

First  slave  to  words,  then  vassal  to  a  name. 

Then  dupe  to  party;  child  and  man  the  same ; 

Bounded  by  nature,  narrovred  still  by  art, 

A  trifling  head,  and  a  contracted  heart. 

Thus  bred,  thus  taught,  how  many  have  I  seen, 

Smiling  on  all,  and  smiled  on  by  a  queen? 

Marked  out  for  honours,  honoured  for  their  birth, 

To  thee  the  most  rebellious  things  on  earth: 

Now  to  thy  gentle  shadow  all  are  shrunk, 

All  melted  down  in  pension  or  in  punk ! 

So  K ,  so  B ,  sneaked  into  the  grave, 

A  monarch's  half,  and  half  a  harlot's  slave. 
Poor  W**,  nipp'd  in  folly's  broadest  bloom, 
Who  praises  now?  his  chaplain  on  his  tomb. 
Then  take  them  all,  oh  take  them  to  thy  breast! 
Thy  Magus,  goddess!  shall  perform  the  rest.' 

With  that  a  wizard  old  his  cup  extends, 
Which  whoso  tastes  forget  his  former  friends. 
Sire,  ancestors,  himself.    One  casts  his  eyes 
Up  to  a  star,  and  like  Endymion  dies 
A  feather,  shooting  from  another's  head, 
Extracts  his  brain,  and  principle  is  fled ; 
Lost  is  his  God,  his  country,  ev'ry  thing. 
And  nothing  left  but  homage  to  a  king ! 
The  vulgar  herd  turn  off  to  roll  with  hogs. 
To  run  with  horses,  or  to  hunt  with  dogs  ; 
But,  sad  example  !  never  to  escape 
Their  infamy,  still  keep  the  human  shape. 

But  she,  good  goddess,  sent  to  every  child 
Firm  impudence,  or  stupefaction  mild ; 
And  straight  succeeded,  leaving  shame  no  room, 
Cibberian  forehead,  or  Cimmerian  gloom. 

Kind  self-conceit  to  some  her  glass  applies. 
Which  no  one  looks  in  with  another's  eyes: 
But  as  the  flatterer  or  dependant  paint, 
Beholds  himself  a  patriot,  chief,  or  saint. 

On  others'  interest  her  gay  livery  flings. 
Interest,  that  waves  on  party  coloured  wings : 
Turned  to  the  sun,  she  casts  a  thousand  dyes, 
And  as  she  turns,  the  colours  fall  or  rise. 

Others  the  syren  sisters  warble  round, 
And  empty  heads  console  with  empty  sound. 
No  more,  alas!  the  voice  of  fame  they  hear, 
The  balm  of  Dulness  trickling  in  their  ear. 

Great  C ,  H ,  P ,  R ,  K ,       ^ 

Why  all  your  toils  ?  your  sons  have  learned  to  sing. 


190  THE    DUNCIAD. 

How  quick  ambition  hastes  to  ridicule  I 
The  sire  is  made  a  peer,  the  son  a  fool. 

On  some  a  priest  succinct  in  amice  white 
Attends;  all  flesh  is  nothing  in  his  sight! 
Beeves,  at  his  touch,  at  once  to  jelly  turn, 
And  the  huge  boar  is  shrunk  into  an  urn : 
The  board  with  spacious  miracles  he  loads, 
Turns  hares  to  larks,  and  pigeons  into  toads, 
Another  (for  in  all  what  one  can  shine  ?) 
Explains  the  seve  and  verdeur  of  the  vine. 
What  cannot  copious  sacrifice  atone? 
Thy  truffles,  Perigord!  thy  hams,  Bayonnel 
With  French  libation,  and  Italian  strain, 
Wash  Bladen  white,  and  expiate  Hay's  stain. 
Knight  lifts  the  head ;  for  what  are  crowds  undone, 
To  three  essential  partridges  in  one  ? 
Gone  every  blush,  and  silent  all  reproach, 
Contending  princes  mount  them  in  their  coach. 

Next  bi4<iing  all  draw  near  on  bended  knees, 
The  queen  confers  her  titles  and  degrees. 
Her  children  first  of  more  distinguished  sort, 
Who  study  Shakspeare  at  the  inns  of  court, 
Impale  a  glow-worm,  or  vertii  profess, 
Shine  in  the  dignity  of  F.R.S. 
Some,  deep  free-masons,  join  the  silent  race, 
Worthy  to  fill  Pythagoras 's  place  ; 
Some  botanists,  or  florists  at  the  least. 
Or  issue  members  of  an  annual  feast. 
Nor  past  the  meanest  unregarded,  one 
Rose  a  Gregorian,  one  a  Gormorgon. 
The  last,  no  least  in  honour  or  applause, 
Isis  and  Cam  made  doctors  of  her  laws. 

Then,  blessing  all,  Go  children  of  my  care ! 
To  practice  now  fi*om  theoi-y  repair. 
All  my  commands  are  easy,  short,  and  full ; 
My  sons!  be  proud,  be  selfish,  and  be  dull. 
Guard  my  prerogative,  assert  my  throne  : 
This  nod  confirms  each  privilege  your  own. 
The  cap  and  switch  be  sacred  to  his  grace  ; 
With  staff  and  pumps  the  marquis  leads  the  race  ; 
From  stage  to  stage  the  licensed  earl  may  run, 
Pair'd  with  his  fellow-charioteer,  the  sun 
The  learned  Baron  butterflies  design. 
Or  draw  to  silk  Arachne's  subtile  line  ;  - 
The  judge  to  dance  his  brother  serjeant  call; 
The  senator  at  cricket  urge  the  ball  ; 
The  bishop  stow  (pontific  luxury!) 
An  hundred  souls  of  turkeys  in  a  pie ; 
The  sturdy  squire  to  Gallic  masters  stoop, 

nd  drown  his  lands  and  manors  in  a  soup. 


THE    DUNCIAD.  191 

Others  import  yet  nobler  arts  from  France, 
Teach  kings  to  fiddle,  and  make  senates  dance. 
Perhaps  more  high  some  daring  son  may  soar, 
Proud  to  my  list  to  add  one  monarch  more  ; 
And,  nobly  conscious,  princes  are  but  things 
Born  for  first  ministers,  as  slaves  for  kings ; 
Tyrant  supreme  I  shall  three  estates  command, 
And  make  one  mighty  Dunciad  of  the  land ! ' 

More  she  had  spoke,  but  yavvn'd — All  nature  nods: 
What  mortal  can  resist  the  yawn  of  gods? 
Churches  and  chapels  instantly  it  reached ; 
(St.  James's  first,  for  leaden  G —  preached:) 
Then  catched  the  schools;  the  hall  scarce  kept  awake; 
The  convocation  gaped,  but  could  not  speak: 
Lost  ^yas  the  nations  sense,  nor  could  be  found, 
While  the  long  solemn  unison  went  round : 
Wide,  and  more  wide,  it  spread  o'er  all  the  realm; 
E'en  Palinurus  nodded  at  the  helm : 
The  vapour  mild  o'er  each  committee  crept; 
Unfinishd  treaties  in  each  oifice  slept; 
And  chiefless  armies  dozed  out  the  campaign; 
And  navies  yawned  for  orders  on  the  main. 

O  Muse !  relate,  (for  you  can  tell  alone, 

Wits  have  short  memories,  and  dunces  none,) 

Relate  who  first,  who  last,  resigned  to  rest ; 

Whose  heads  she  partly,  whose  completely,  blest ; 

What  charms  could  faction,  what  ambition  lull. 

The  venal  quiet,  and  intrance  the  dull; 

Till  drown'd  was  sense,  and  shame,  and  right,  and  wrong 

O  sing,  and  hush  the  nations  with  thy  song ! 
»  *  ■  » 

In  vain,  in  vain — the  all-composing  hour 
Resistless  falls;  the  muse  obeys  the  power. 
She  comes !  she  comes !  the  sable  throne  behold 
Of  Night  primeval,  and  of  Chaos  old ! 
Before  her  fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay, 
And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away. 
Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires, 
The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 
As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain, 
The  sick'ning  stars  fade  off  the  ethereal  plain ; 
As  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppress'd, 
Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest; 
Thus  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might, 
Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night. 
See  skulking  truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled. 
Mountains  of  casuistry  heap'd  o'er  her  head  ; 
Philosophy,  that  lean'd  on  heaven  before, 
Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more 


182  THE  DUNCIAJ*. 

Physic  of  metapliysic  begs  defence. 

And  metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  sense  ! 

See  mystery  to  mathematics  fly  i 

In  vain  I  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  dies, 

Religion,  blushing,  veils  her  sacred  fires, 

And  unawares  morality  expires. 

Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine; 

Nor  human  spark  is  left  nor  glimpse  divine ! 

Lo!  thy  dread  empire,  Chaos!  is  restored; 

Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word: 

Thy  hand,  great  Anarch !  lets  the  curtaia  fdJ » 

And  luiivcrsal  darkness  buries  all. 


lya 


feBSAi     OiN     CRITICISM. 

[wRlTfEN  IN  THC  YEAR  1709.] 


PART  I. 

Introduction,  That  it  is  as  great  a  fault  to  Judge  ill  as  to  write  ill, 
and  a  more  dangerous  one  to  the  public,  ver.  1.  That  a  true  taste  is 
as  rare  to  be  found  as  a  true  genius,  v.  9  18.  That  most  men  are 
born  with  some  taste,  but  spoiled  by  false  education,  v.  19-25.  The 
multitude  of  critics,  and  causes  of  them,  v.  26-45.  That  we  are  to 
study  our  own  taste,  and  know  the  limits  of  it,  v.  46-67.  Nature  the 
best  guide  of  judgment,  v.  G8-87;  improved  by  arts  and  rules,  which 
are  but  methodized  nature,  v.  88.  Rules  derived  from  the  practice 
of  the  ancient  poets,  v.  88-110;  that  therefore  the  ancients  are  neces- 
sary to  be  studied  by  a  critic,  particularly  Homer  and  Virgil,  v.  118- 
138.  Of  licenses,  and  the  use  of  them,  by  the  ancients,  v.  141-180. 
Reverence  due  to  the  ancients,  and  Tjraise  of  them,  v.  181,  &c. 

'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,  but  each  believes  his  own. 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare. 
True  tastes  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share ; 
Both  must  alike  from  heaven  derive  their  light, 
1'hese  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: 

17 


194  ESSAY   0«    CRITICISM. 

Nature  affords  at  least  a  glimmering  light ; 

The  lines,  though  touch'd  but  faintly,  are  drawn  righti 

But  as  the  slightest-sketcli,  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, 

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  prov'd  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  inour  isle, 
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  them  would  an  hundred  tongues  require, 
Or  one  vain  wit's,  that  might  an  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  known. 
How  far  your  genius,  taste,  and  learning,  go; 
Launch  not  beyond  your  depth,  but  be  discreet, 
And  mark  that  point  where  sense  and  dulness  mee^i 

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  prevail**, 
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 ; 
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  gained  before, 
By  vain  ambition  still  to  make  them  more  : 
Each  might  his  sev'ral  province  well  command, 
Would  all  but  stoop  to  what  they  understand. 

First  follow  nature,  and  your  judgment  frame 
3y  her  just  standard,  whici)  is  still  the  same; 


ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM.  Wt 

Unerring  nature!  still  divinely  bright, 
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 
Witli  spirits  feeds,  with  vigour  fills  the  whole  ; 
Kach  motion  guides,  and  ev'ry  nerve  sustains; 
Itself  unseen,  but  in  the  effects  remains. 
Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit  has  been  profuse, 
Want  as  much  more  to  turn  it  to  its  use; 
For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife, 
Tliough  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man  and  wife, 
lis  more  to  guide  than  spur  the  muse's  steed, 
Restrain  his  fury  than  provoke  his  speed: 
The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse. 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his  course. 
Those  rules  of  old,  discover'd,  not  devis'd, 
Are  nature  still,  but  nature  methodiz'd; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrain'd 
By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  ordain'd 

Hear  how  learned  Greece  her  useful  rules  indites, 
VVhen  to  repress  and  when  indulge  our  flights: 
High  on  Parnassus'  top  her  sons  she  show'd, 
4"i^,P?"^^^<^  out  those  arduous  paths  they  trod; 
Held  from  afar,  aloft  the  immortal  prize. 
And  urged  the  rest  by  equal  steps  to  rise. 
«  ust  precepts  thus  from  great  examples  given, 
bhe  drew  from  them  what  they  deriv'd  from  Heaven: 
J  he  generous  critic  fann'd  the  poet's  fire. 
And  taught  the  world  with  reason  to  admire. 
Ihen  Criticism  the  muse's  handmaid  proved, 
lo  dress  her  charms,  and  make  her  more  beloved  : 
But  lollowmg  wits  from  that  intention  stray 'd : 
Who  could  not  win  the  mistress  woo'd  the  maid- 
Against  the  poets  their  own  arms  they  tiirn'd,    ' 
Sure  to  hate  most  the  men  from  whom  they  learn'd. 
So  modern  'pothecaries,  taught  the  art 
By  doctors'  bills  to  play  the  doctors's  part. 
Bold  in  the  practice  of  mistaken  rules, 
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: 
Sonrie  drily  plain,  without  invention's  aid, 
U  nte  dull  receipts  how  poems  may  be  made  ; 
Ihese  leave  the  sense  their  learning  to  display, 
^nd  those  explain  the  meaning  quite  away. 

Youthen,  whose  judgmentthe  right  course  would  steer, 
ft^nown  well  each  ancient's  proper  character; 


^..-^. 


196  ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM. 

His  fable,  subjects,  scope  in  ev'ry  page; 

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 ; 

1'hence  form  your  judgment,  thence  yourmaNiiiis  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 
A  work  to  outlast  immortal  Rome  design 'd. 
Perhaps  he  seemed  above  the  critic's  law. 
And  but  from  nature's  fountains  scorned  to  draw; 
But  when  to  examine  ev'ry  part  he  came, 
Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  the  same. 
Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  design, 
And  rules  as  strict  his  laboured  work  confine 
As  if  the  Stagyrite  o'erldoked  each  line. 
Learn  hence  from  ancient  rules  a  just  esteem ; 
To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them. 

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,) 
Such  lucky  license  answer  to  the  full 
The  intent  proposed,  that  license  is  a  rule. 
Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take. 
May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track. 
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. 
Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend, 
And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend ; 
But  though  the  ancients  thus  their  rules  invade, 
(As  kings  dispense  with  laws  themselves  hath  made,) 
Moderns,  beware  !  or,  if  you  must  offend 
Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end; 
Let  it  be  seldom,  and  compelled  by  need  ; 
4nd  have  at  least  their  precedent  to  plead ; 
The  critic  else  proceeds  without  remorse. 
Seizes  your  fame,  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 


ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM.  193 

I  know  there  are  to  whose  presumptuous  thoughts 
Those  freer  beauties  e'en  in  them  see  faults. 
Some  figures  monstrous  and  mis-shaped  appear, 
Considered  singly,  or  beheld  too  near, 
Which,  but  proportioned  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 
These  oft  are  stratagems  which  errors  seem ; 
Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream. 

Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 
Above  the  reach  of  sncrilegious  hands. 
Secure  from  flames,  from  envy*s  fiercer  rage. 
Destructive  war,  and  all-involving  age. 
See  from  each  clime  the  learned  their  incense  bring 
Hear  in  all  tongues  consenting  pagans  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  ! 
Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow. 
As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow ; 
Nations  unborn  your  mighty  name  shall  sound, 
And  worlds  applaud  that  must  not  yet  be  found  ; 
O  may  some  spark  of  your  celestial  fire 
The  last,  the  meanest,  of  your  sons  inspire, 
(That  on  weak  wings,  from  far,  pursues  your  flight3, 
Glows  while  he  reads,  but  trembles  as  he  writes,) 
To  teach  vain  wits  a  science  little  known. 
To  admire  superior  sense,  and  doubt  their  own  I 


»• 


PART  II. 

Causes  hindering  a  tnie  judgment.  1.  Pride,  v.  209.  2,  Imperfee 
learning,  v.  215.  3.  Judging  by  parts,  and  not  by  the  whole,  v.  23S 
288.  Critics  in  wit,  language,  versification  only,  v.  289,  305,  337,  &.a, 
4.  Being  too  hard  to  please,  or  too  apt  to  admire,  v.  384.  5.  Pan 
tiality, — too  much  love  to  a  sect, — to  the  Ancients  or  Moderns,  v.  394. 
6.  Prejudice  or  prevention,  V.  408.  7.  Singularity,  v.  424.  8.  Incon- 
stancy, v.  430.  9.  Party  spirit,  V.  452,  &c.  10.  Envy,v.46fi.  Against 
envy,  and  in  praise  of  good-nature,  v.  508,  &c.  When  seventy  is 
chiefly  to  be  used  by  critics,  v.  526,  &c. 

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  needful  pride : 

For  as  in  bodies  thus  in  souls  we  tind, 

What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits  swelled  with  wind  : 

Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 

And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense : 

If  once  I'ight  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. 

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  i 

The  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 

And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last ; 

But  those  attained,  w^e  tremble  to  survey 

The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthened  way  t 

The  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering  cye^ 

liills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise  ! 


Jif.SA.^     ON    CRITICISM 


%m 


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  fiiul 
Where  Nature  raoves^  and  rapture  warms  the  miiid  . 
Nor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight, 
The  gen'rous  pleasure  to  be  charm'd  with  wit. 
But  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low, 
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  th'  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  e'en  thine,  O  Rome!) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise, 
All  comes  united  to  th'  admiring  eyes  ; 
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  erroi*s,  must  the  less  commit; 
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  pi-ize, 
And  all  to  one  lov'd  folly  sacrifice. 

Once  on  a  time  La  Mancha's  knight,  they  say 
A  certain  bard  encount'ring  on  the  way, 
Discours'd  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage, 
As  e'er  could  Dennis  of  the  Grecian  stage, 
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?'  exclauns  the  knight. 

*  Yes,  or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagirite.' 
Not  so,  by  Heaven ! '  he  ansv/er?  in  a  rage ; 
Knights,  squires,  and  steeds  must  enter  on  the  stage,' 


200  L?SAY    ON     {.r.JTlCI3>i. 

*  So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  contaia.' 
*Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  in  a  plain.* 

Thus  critics  of  less  judgment  then  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  glitt'ring  thoughts  struck  out  at  ev'ry  line ; 
Pleas'd  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  ey'ry  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  expressM ; 
Something  whose  truth  convinc'd  at  sight  we  find, 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit: 
For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  them  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  tliey  most  abound. 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  ev  'ry  place ; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay ; 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  siui 
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  expressed, 
Is  like  a  clown  in  i-egal  purple  dressed : 
Fo    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  laboured  nothings  in  so  strange  a  style 
Amaze  the  unlearned,  and  make  the  learned  smile 
Unlucky  as  Fungoso  in  the  play. 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday  ; 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  bt^st. 
As  apes  our  grandsires  in  their  doublets  dress'd. 


ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM.  201 

\n  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, 
"Kor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

^ut  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 ; 
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  to  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line : 
While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chime?, 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where'er  you  find  '  the  cooling  western  breeze,' 
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 
Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 
True  ease  in  writting  comes  from  art,  not  chance. 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 
'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  oifence ; 
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  throv»-, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow 
Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 
Flies  o'er  th'  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  Lybian  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, 
And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound  I 


202  ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM. 

The  power  of  music  all  our  liearts  allow, 
And  what  Timotheus  was  is  Dry  den  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  shews  great  pride  or  little  sense: 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the  hes^ 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothinjj;  can  digest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move ; 
¥oY  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  ap])rove. 
As  things  seem  large  which  we  through  mists  descvy; 
Dulness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 

Some  foreign  writers  some  our  own  de5i)iso , 
The  ancients  only  or  the  moderns  ])ri/.e. 
Thus  wit,  like  faith,  by  each  man  is  ai)])lied 
To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  danui'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. 
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  sees  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, 
And  old  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 
Some  judge  of  a^ythors'  names,  not  works,  and  theo 
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  tlie  great  man's  board. 
To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  lord. 
What  woeful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be 
In  some  starved  hackney  sonneteer,  or  me ! 
15ut  let  a  lord  once  own  the  happy  lines. 
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  learned  by  being  singular; 
So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the  llr.ojv^ 
By  chance  go  right,  they  purposely  go  wron^;. 
So  schismatics  the  y)lain  believers  quit. 
And  ai^elyut  damned  for  having  too  much  v/it. 
Some  praise  at  morning  what  they  blame  at  night; 
But  always  think  the  last  opinion  rigiit. 


ESSAY    ON    cniTICISM.         I  203 


A  muse  by  these  is  like  a  mistress  us'd ; 
This  horn*  she's  idolized,  the  next  ahus'd ; 
While  their  weak  lieads,  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  oiu*  fathers  fools,  so  wise  \ve  grow ; 
Our  wiser  sons,  no  doubt,  will  think  us  so. 
Once  school-divines  this  zealous  isle  o'erspi-ead  ; 
Who  knew  most  sentences  was  deepest  red: 
Faith,  gospel,  all  seemed  made  to  be  disputed, 
And  none  had  sense  enough  to  be  confuted. 
Scotists  and  Thomists  now  in  peace  remain. 
Amidst  their  kindred  comrades  in  Duck  Lane. 
If  faith  itself  has  dresses  different  worn. 
What  wonder  modes  in  wit  should  take  their  tnrn ; 
Oft  leaving  what  is  natural  and  fit, 
The  current  folly  proves  the  ready  wit ; 
And  authors  think  their  reputation  safe 
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 ; 
For  rising  merit  will  buoy  up  at  last. 
Might  he  return,  and  bless  once  more  our  eyes, 
New  Blackmores  and  new  Milbourns  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  grossncss,  not  its  own. 
When  first  that  sun  too  powerful  beams  disi)lays, 
It  draws  up  vapours  which  obscure  its  rays ; 
But  e'en  those  clouds  at  last  adorn  its  way, 
Reflect  new  glories,  and  augment  the  day, 

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  thy  golden  age  appears 
When  patriarch  v/its  survived  a  thousand  years: 
Now  length  of  fame  (our  second  life)  is  lost, 
And  bare  threescore  is  all  e'en  that  can  boast: 


204  ESSAY   C"      -RITICISM. 

Our  sons  their  fathers'  failing  language  see^ 

And  such  as  Chaucer  is  shall  Dryden  be.  L£  | 

So  when  the  faithful  pencil  has  designed  ™  * 

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  perfjclioii  give. 

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-liv'd  vanity  is  lost ; 
Like  some  fair  flower  the  early  spring  supplies. 
That  gaily  blooms,  but  e'en  in  blooming  dies. 
W^hat  is  this  wit  which  must  our  cares  employ? 
The  owner's  wife,  that  other  men  enjoy  ; 
Then  most  ovu*  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  virtuouous  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  reward  who  could  excel, 

And  such  were  praised  who  hut  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  ; 

Foi  each  ill  author  is  as  bad  a  friend. 

To  what  base  ends,  and  by  what  abject  ways, 

Are  mortals  urged  thi'ough  sacred  lust  of  praise  t 

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  dis  lain. 

Discharge  that  rage  on  more  provoking  crimes, 

Nor  fear  a  death  in  these  flagitious  times. 

No  x)ardon  vile  obscenity  should  find. 

Though  wit  ai'.d  art  conspire  to  move  your  mind: 


ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM.  205 

But  dulness  with  obscenity  must  prove 

As  sliameful  sure  as  impotence  in  love. 

In  the  fat  age  of  pleasure,  wealth  and  ease, 

Sprang  the  rank  weed,  and  thrived  with  large  increase 

When  love  was  all  an  easy  monarch's  care, 

Seldom  at  council,  never  in  a  war, 

Jilts  ruled  the  state,  and  statesmen  farces  writ ; 

Nay,  wits  had  pensions,  and  young  lords  had  wit; 

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  riglits  dispute, 

Lest  God  himself  should  seem  too  absolute: 

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  th'  infected  spy, 

A^s  all  looks  yellow  to  the  jaundiced  eye. 


♦206 


PART  III. 

Rules  for  the  conduct  of  manners  in  a  critic.  1.  Candour,  v.  563. 
Modesty,  v.  566.  Good  breeding,  v.  572.  Sincerity  and  freedom  of 
advice,  v.  578.  2.  When  one's  counsel  is  to  be  restrained,  v.  584. 
Character  of  an  incorrigible  poet,  v.  600;  and  of  an  impertinent 
critic,  V.  610,  &c.  Character  of  a  good  critic,  v.  629.  The  history  of 
criticism,  and  characters  of  the  best  critics.  Aristotle,  v.fS  15.  Horace, 
V.  653.  bionysius,  v.  665.  Petronius,  v.  667.  Quintilian,  v.  669, 
Longinus,  v.  675.  Of  the  decay  of  criticism,  and  its  revival.  Erasmus, 
V.  693.  Vida,  v.  705.  Boileau,  v:  714,  Lord  Roscommon,  &c.,  m 
725,    Conclusion. 

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  shnie  ; 

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 ; 
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  sen.=!e  beloved. 

Be  niggards  of  advice  on  no  pretence. 
For  the  worst  avarice  is  that  of  sense. 
With  mean  complacence  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  reddens  at  each  word  you  speak. 
And  stares  tremendous,  with  a  threatening  eye, 
Like  some  fierce  tyrant  in  old  tapestry. 


I 


ES?AY    ON    CRITICISM.  207 

Fear  most  to  tax  an  honourable  fool, 

Whose  right  it  is,  uncensiired,  to  be  dull: 

Such  without  wit  are  poets  when  they  please, 

A.S  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? 

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  their  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, 

E'en  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 ! 

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  learned  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  Durfey's  Tales. 
With  him  most  authors  steal  their  works  or  buy ; 
Garth  did  not  write  his  own  Dispensary. 
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  Church-yard  \ 
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, 
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! 


208  ESSAY    ON    CIlITICfSM. 

Tho'  learned,  well-bred;  and  tho'  well-bred,  sincere; 

Modesty  bold,  and  humanely  severe  ; 

Who  to  a  friend  his  faults  can  freely  show, 

And  gladly  praise  the  merit  of  a  foe ; 

Blessed  with  a  taste  exact,  yet  unconfin'd, 

A  knowledge  both  of  books  and  human-kind  ; 

Generous  converse ;  a  soul  exempt  from  pride; 

And  loves  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  discovered  far, 

Led  by  the  light  of  the  Maeonian  star. 

Poets,  a  race  long  unconfined  and  free, 

Still  fond  and  proud  of  savage  liberty. 

Received  his  laws,  and  stood  convinced  'twas  fit, 

Who  conqured  Nature  should  preside  o'er  wit. 

Horace  still  charms  with  graceful  negligence. 
And  without  method  talks  us  into  sense  j 
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. 
Our  critics  take  a  contrary  extreme, 
4  They  judge  with  fury,  but  they  write  with  phlegm  ;J 
Nor  suffers  Horace  more  in  wrong  translations 
By  wits,  than  critics  in  as  wrong  quotations. 

See  Dionysius,  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  cogious  work  we  find 
The  justest  rules  and  clearest  method  join'd. 
Thus  useful  arms  in  magizines  we  place. 
All  ranged  in  order,  and  disposed  with  grace  ; 
But  less  to  please  the  eye  than  arm  the  nand, 
Still  fit  for  use,  and  ready  at  command. 

Thee,  bold  Lon^inua!  all  the  Nine  inspire, 
And  bless  their  critic  with  u.  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, 
And  is  himself  that  great  sublime  he  draws. 

Thus  long  succeeding  critics  justly  reign'd, 
License  repressed,  and  useful  laws  ordain'd: 


r*" 


ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM. 


209 


Leaniing  and  Rome  alike  in  empire  grew, 
And  arts  still  followed  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, 
And  to  be  dull  was  construed  to  be  good, 
A  second  deluge  learning  thus  o'er-ran, 
And  the  monks  finished  what  the  Goths  began. 
At  length  Erasmus,  that  great  injured  name, 
(The  glory  of  the  priesthood,  and  the  shame  !) 
Stemmed  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  withered  baya , 
Rome's  ancient  genius  o'er  its  ruins  spread, 
Shakes  off  the  dust,  and  rears  his  rev'rend  head. 
Then  sculpture  and  her  sister  arts  revive; 
Stones  leaped  to  form,  and  rocks  began  to  live; 
With  sweeter  notes  each  rising  temple  rung  ; 
A  Raphel  painted,  and  a  Vida  sung : 
Immortal  Vida !  on  whose  honoured  brow 
The  poet's  bays  and  critic's  ivy  grow ! 
Cremona  now  shall  ever  boast  thy  name, 
As  next  in  place  to  Mantua,  next  in  fame  I 

But  soon  by  impious  arms  trom  Latium  chased, 
Their  ancient  bounds  the  banish'd  muses  passed: 
Thence  arts  o'er  all  the  northern  world  advance, 
But  critic  learning  flourished  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  unconqured  and  uncivilised; 
Fierce  for  the  liberties  of  wit,  and  bold, 
We  still  defied  the  Romans,  as  of  old. 
Yet  some  there  were,  among  tbe  sounder  few 
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  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, 
Who  justly  knew  to  blame  or  to  commend ! 
IS* 


210  ESSAY    ON    CUITICISM. 

To  failings  mild,  but  zealous  for  desert 

The  clearest  head  and  the  sincerest  heart. 

This  humble  praise,  lamented  shade  !  receive  j 

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  unlearned  their  wants  may  view, 

The  learn'd  reflect  on  what  before  they  knew: 

Careless  of  censure,  nor  too  fond  of  fame ; 

Still  pleased  to  praise,  yet  nrt  afraid  to  blame ; 

Averse  alike  to  flatter  or  offend ; 

Not  free  from  faults,  nor  yet  too  vain  to  mend. 


211 


THE    TEMPLE    OF    FAME. 

[written  in  the  vear  1711.] 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  hint  of  the  following  piece  was  taken  from  Chaucer's  House  of 
Fame.  Thedesign  is  in  amanner  entirely  altered,  thedescriptions  and 
most  of  the  particular  thoughts  my  own:  yet  I  could  not  suli'er  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  answer  to  their  title. — 
Pope. 

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. 

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  towering  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. 

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  t'le  structure  lay  ; 
Stoep  its  ascent,  and  slippery  was  the  way ; 


212  TEMPLE   OP   FAME. 

The  wondrous  rock  like  Parian  marble  shone, 
And  seem'd,  to  distant  sight,  of  solid  stone. 
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  sav/,  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. 
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  rocks  high  summit,  in  the  temple  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 ; 
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  th'  impassive  ice  the  lightnings  play; 
Eternal  snovrs  the  growing  mass  supply. 
Till  the  bright  mountains  prop  th'  incumbent  sky  ; 
As  Atlas  fix'd,  each  hoary  pile  appears. 
The  gather'd  winter  of  a  thousand  years. 
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  fame  excell'd. 
Four  faces  had  the  dome,  and  ev'ry  face 
Of  various  structure,  but  of  equal  grace. 
Four  brazen  gates,  on  columns  lifted  high, 
Salute  the  diffrent  quarters  of  the  sky. 
Here  fabled  chiefs,  in  darker  ages  born. 
Or  worthies  old,  whom  arms  or  arts  adorn. 
Who  cities  rais'd,  or  tam'd  a  monstrous  race. 
The  walls  in  venerable  order  grace; 
Heroes  in  animated  mai-ble  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. 


TfiMri.E    OF    FAME.  213 

In  shaggy  spoils  here  Theseus  was  beheld, 
And  Perseus  dreadful  with  Minerva's  shield: 
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  beholds  a  sudden  Thebes  aspire  I 
Cythseron's  echoes  answer  to  his  call, 
And  half  the  mountain  rolls  into  a  wall : 
There  might  you  see  the  length 'nihg  spires  ascend 
The  domes  swell  up,  the  wid'ning  arches  bend, 
The  growing  tow'rs  like  exhalations  rise, 
And  the  huge  colums  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  rob'd  in  white  appear'd, 
And  Brachmans,  deep  in  desert  woods  rever'd. 
These  stopp'd  the  moon,  and  call'd  th'  unbodied  shades 
To  midnight  banquets  in  the  glimm'ring  glades; 
Made  visionary  fabrics  round  them  rise. 
And  airy  spectres  skim  before  their  eyes ; 
Of  talismans  and  sigils  knew  the  pow'r, 
And  careful  watch'd  the  planetary  hour. 
Superior,  and  alone,  Confucius  stood, 
Who  taught  that  useful  science  to  be  good. 

But  on  tlie  south,  a  long  majestic  race 
Of  Egypt's  priests  the  gilded  niches  grace, 
Who  measur'd  earth,  describ'd  the  starry  spheres 
And  trac'd  the  long  records  of  lunar  years. 
High  on  his  car  Sesostris  struck  my  view, 
Whom  scepter'd  slaves  in  golden  harness  drew: 
His  hand  a  bow  and  pointed  javelin  hold  ; 
His  giant  limbs  are  arm'd  in  scales  of  gold. 
Between  the  statues  obelisks  were  plac'd, 
And  the  learn'd  walls  with  hieroglyphics  grac'd. 

Of  Gothic  structure  was  the  northern  side, 
O'erwrought  with  ornaments  of  barb'rous  pride. 
There  huge  colosses  rose,  with  trophies  crown'd, 
And  Runic  characters  were  graved  around  : 
There  sat  Zamolxis  with  erected  eyes, 
And  Odin  here  in  mimic  trances  dies. 
There  on  rude  iron  columns,  smear'd  with  blood. 
The  horrid  forms  of  Scythian  heroes  stood, 
Druids  and  bards,  their  once  loud  harps  unstrung. 
And  youths  that  died  to  be  by  poets  sung. 


214  TEMPLE    OF    FAME. 

These  and  a  thousand  more  of  doubtful  fame 
To  whom  old  fables  gave  a  lasting  name, 
In  ranks  adora'd  the  teinple,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, 
Rais'd  on  a  thousand  pillars,  wreath'd  around 
With  laurel  foliage,  and  with  eagles  crown, d 
Of  bright  transparent  beryl  were  the  walls, 
The  friezes  gold,  and  gold  the  capitals 
As  heav'n  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 ; 
Grav'd  o'er  their  seats  the  form  of  Time  was  found, 
His  scythe  revers'd,  and  both  his  pinions  bound. 
Within  stood  heroes,  who,  through  loud  alarms, 
In  bloody  fields  pursu'd  renown  in  arms. 
High  on  a  throne,  with  trophies  charg'd,  I  vicw'd 
The  youth  that  all  things  but  himself  subdu'd: 
His  feet  on  sceptres  and  tiaras  trod, 
And  his  horn'd  head  belied  the  Libyan  god. 
There  Csesar,  grac'u  with  bold  Minervas,  shone; 
Csesar,  the  world's  great  master,  and  his  ov/n; 
Unmov'd,  superor  still  in  ev'ry  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; 
High  o'er  the  rest  Epaminondas  stood ; 
Timoleon,  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 
Here  ever  shines  the  god-like  Socrates ; 
He  whom  ungrateful  Athens  could  expel,  8, 

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  shews  the  wound  he  tore, 
And  Brutus  his  ill  genius  meets  no  more. 


"     !■ 


TEMPLE    OF   FAME.  213 

But  in  the  centre  of  the  hallow'd  choir, 
Six  pompous  columns  o'er  the  rest  aspire ; 
Around  the  shrine  itself  of  Fame  they  stana, 
Hold  the  chief  honours,  and  the  fane  command. 
High  on  the  first  the  mighty  Homer  shone, 
Eternal  adamant  compos'd  his  throne; 
Father  of  verse !  in  holy  fillets  dress'd, 
His  silver  beard  wav'd  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  pillars  seen : 
Here  fierce  Tydides  wounds  the  Cyprian  queen  : 
Here  Hector  glorious  from  Patroclus'  fall ; 
Here  dragg'd'in  triumph  round  the  Trojan  wall. 
Motion  and  life  did  ev'ry  part  inspire ; 
Bold  was  the  work,  and  prov'd  the  masters  fire 
A  strong  expression  most  he  seem'd  t'  affect, 
And  here  and  there  disclos'd  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  ev'ry  part. 
With  patient  touches  of  unwearied  art: 
The  Mantuan  there  in  sober  triumph  state, 
Compos'd  his  posture,  and  his  look  sedate ; 
On  Homer  still  he  fix'd  a  rev 'rent  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  fun'ral  pyre; 
^neas  bending  with  his  aged  sire  : 
Troy  flam'd  in  burning  gold,  and  o'er  the  throne 
'  Arms  and  the  man '  in  golden  cyphers  shone. 

Four  swans  sustain  a  car  of  silver  bright. 
With  heads  advanc'd,  and  pinions  stretch'd  for  flight; 
Here,  like  some  furious  prophet,  Pindar  rode, 
And  seemed  to  labour  with  the  inspiring  god. 
Across  the  harp  a  careless  hand  he  flings. 
And  boldly  sinks  into  the  sounding  strings. 
The  figur'd  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 ; 
And  all  appear'd  irregularly  great. 

Here  happy  Horace  tuned  the  Ausonian  lyre 
To  sweeter  sounds,  and  temper'd  Pindar's  fire ; 
Pleas'd  with  Alcaeus'  manly  rage  to  infuse 
The  softer  spirit  of  the  Sapphic  muse. 
The  polish'd  pillar  diff'rent  sculpti'.res  grace, 
A  work  outlasting  monumental  brass. 


itK^II  I  "  I   Jll     ■ 


21G  TEilPLE    OF    FAME, 

Here  smiling  Loves  and  Bacchanals  appear, 
The  Julian  star,  and  great  Augustus  here : 
The  doves  that  round  the  infant  poet  spread 
Myrtles  and  bays,  hang  hov'ring  o'er  his  head. 

Here,  in  a  shrine  that  cast  a  dazzling  light, 
Sate  fix'd  in  thought  the  mighty  Stagyrite  j 
His  sacred  head  a  radiant  zodiac  crown 'd, 
And  various  animals  his  sides  surround ; 
His  piercing  eyes,  erect,  appear  to  view 
c)uperior  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 
in  act  to  speak,  and  graceful  stretch'd  his  hand. 
Behind,  Rome's  Genius  waits  with  civic  crowns, 
And  the  gi-eat  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  blaz'd,  magnificently  great; 
The  vivid  emeralds  there  revive  the  eye. 
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  j 
But  swell'd  to  larger  size,  the  more  I  gaz'd. 
Till  to  the  roof  her  towering  front  she  rais'd. 
With  her,  the  temple  ev'ry  moment  grew. 
And  ampler  vistas  open'd  to  my  view: 
Upwards  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  list'ning  cars 
Beneath,  in  order  rang'd,  the  tuneful  Nine 
(Her  virgin  handmaids)  still  attend  the  shrine: 
With  eyes  on  Fame  for  ever  fixed,  they  sing ; 
For  Fame  they  raise  the  voice,  and  tune  the  string; 
With  time's  first  birth  began  the  heav'nly  lays^ 
And  last,  eternal,  through  the  length  of  days. 

Around  these  wonders  as  I  cast  a  look. 
The  trumpet  sounded,  and  the  temple  shook 


1 


TEMPLE    OF    FAME,  2^7 

And  all  the  nations  summoned  at  the  call, 
From  different  quarters  fill  the  crowded  hall 
Of  various  toufjues  the  mingled  sounds  were  heard 
In  various  gurhs  promiscuous  throngs  appear'd; 
Thick  as  the  bees,  that  with  the  spring  renew 
Their  flow'ry  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  t!ie  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, 
And  boasting  youth,  and  narrative  old  age. 
Their  pleas  were  diff'rent,  their  request  the  same: 
For  good  and  bad  alike  are  fond  of  Fame, 
Some  she  disgrac'd,  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  learned  world  appear, 
And  to  the  goddess  thus  prefer  their  pray'r: 

*  Long  have  we  sought  t'  instruct  and  please  mankind, 
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  ail  at  once,  as  thunder  breaks  the  cloud, 
The  notes  at  first  were  rather  sweet  than  loud : 
By  just  degrees  they  ev'ry  moment  rise, 
Fill  the  wide  earth,  and  gain  upon  the  skies. 
At  ev'ry  breath  were  balmy  odours  shed, 
Which  still  grew  sweeter  as  they  wider  spread  ; 
Less  fragrant  scents  th'  unfolding  rose  exhales, 
Or  spices  breathing  in  Arabian  gales. 

Next  these  the  good  and  just,  an  awful  train, 
Thus  on  their  knees  address'd  the  sacred  fane  : 

*  Since  living  virtue  is  with  envy  curs'd. 
And  the  best  men  are  treated  like  the  worst, 
Do  thou,  just  goddess,  call  our  merits  forth. 
And  give  each  deed  th'  exact  intrinsic  worth,' 

*  Not  with  bare  justice  shall  your  act  be  crown'd;' 
Said  Fame,  'but  high  above  desert  renown 'd: 
Let  fuller  notes  th'  applauding  world  amaze. 
And  the  loud  clarion  labour  in  your  praise.' 

19 


r 


218  TEMPLE    OF    FAME. 

This  band  dismiss'd,  beheld  anotlier  crowd 
Preferr'd  the  same  requet-t,  and  lowly  bow'd; 
1'he  constant  tenor  of  whose  well-spent  days 
No  less  deserv'd  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  ev'ry  region  Hies, 
In  ev'ry  ear  incessant  rumours  rung, 
And  gath'ring  scandals  grew  on  ev'ry  tongue 
From  the  black  trumpet's  rusty  concave  broke 
Sulphureous  flames,  and  clouds  of  rolling  smoke: 
The  pois'nous  vapour  blots  the  purple  skies, 
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  dar'd,  thy  inspiration  own, 
What  virtue  seem'd,  was  done  for  thee  alone.' 
'  Ambitious  fools ! '  the  queen  replied  and  frown'd, 
'  Be  all  your  acts  in  darlc  oblivion  drown'd; 
There  sleep  forgot,  with  mighty  tyrants  gone, 
Your  statues  moulder'd,  and  your  names  unknoVcTi ! ' 
A  sudden  cloud  straight  snatch'd  them  from  ray  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  th'  applause  of  men. 
Would  die  unheard  of,  as  we  liv'd  unseen : 
'Tis  all  we  beg  thee,  to  conceal  from  sight 
Those  acts  of  goodness  which  themselves  requite. 
O  let  us  still  the  secret  joys  partake. 
To  follow  virtues  e'en  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  ])ri(le 
To  blaze  those  virtues  which  the  good  would  hide. 
Rise  !  Muses,  rise  !  add  all  your  tuneful  breath 
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, 
E'en  list'ning  angels  lean'd  from  lieaven  to  hi;ai". 
To  farthest  shores  th'  ambrosial  spirit  flies, 
Sweet  to  the  world,  and  grateful  to  the  skies. 


TEMPLE    OP    FAME.  210 

Next  these  a  youthful  train  their  ^ows  express'd, 
With  feathers  crown'd,  with  gay  embroidery  dress'd: 
*  Hither,'  they  cried,  '  direct  your  eyes  and  see 
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. 
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  same  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  e'en  fatigu'd  with  ease. 
Who  lose  a  length  of  undeserving  days. 
Would  you  usurp  the  lover's  dear-bought  praise? 
To  just  contempt,  ye  vain  pretenders  1  fall, 
Thepeople's  fablej^  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  coimtry,  or  usurp  a  throne ; 
Or  who  their  glory's  dire  foundation  laid 
On  sovereigns  ruin'd,  or  on  friends  bretray'd; 
Calm,  thinking  villains,  whom  no  faith  could  fix. 
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  pow'r  unknown 
Straight  chang'd  the  scene,  and  snatch'd  me  from  the 
Before  my  view  appear'd  a  structure  fair,  [throne. 

Its  sight  uncertain,  if  in  earth  or  air  ; 
With  rapid  motion  turn'd  the  mansion  round ; 
With  ceaseless  noise  the  ringing  v/alls  resound: 
Not  less  in  numbers  were  the  spacious  doors. 
Than  leaves  or  trees,  or  sands  upon  the  shores ; 
Which  still  unfolded  stand,  by  night,  by  da)-, 
Pervious  to  winds,  and  open  ev'ry  way. 


220  TEMPLE    OF   FAME. 

As  flames  by  nature  to  the  skies  ascend, 

As  weighty  bodies  to  the  centre  tend, 

As  to  the  sea  returning  rivers  roll, 

And  the  touch'd  needle  trembles  to  the  pole  ) 

Hither,  as  to  their  proper  place,  arise 

x\ll  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,  than  a  third; 

Wide,  and  more  wide,  the  floating  rings  advance, 

Fill  all  the  watery  plain,  and  to  the  margin  dance; 

Thus  ev'ry  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, 
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  favorites,  projects  of  the  great. 
Of  old  mismanagements,  taxations  new  ; 
All  neither  wholly  false,  nor  wholly  true 

Above,  below,  without,  within,  around, 
Confus'd,  unnumber'd  multitudes  are  found, 
Who  pass,  repass,  advance,  and  glide  away, 
Hosts  raised  by  fear,  and  phantoms  of  a  day: 
Astrologers,  that  future  fates  foreshow 
Projectors,  quacks,  and  lawyers  not  a  fev/; 
And  priests,  and  party  zealots,  nu:n'rou3  bauds; 
With  home-born  lies,  or  tales.from  foreign  lauds, 
Each  talk'd  aloud,  or  in  some  secret  place, 
And  wild  impatience  star'd  in  ev'ry  face. 
The  flying  rumours  gather'd  as  they  roU'd, 
Scarce  any  tale  was  sooner  heard  than  told ; 
And  all  who  told  it  added  something  new, 
And  all  who  heard  it  made  enlargements  too ; 
In  ev'ry  ear  it  spread,  on  ev'iy  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  gath'ring  force  the  quick  *ning  flames  advance. 


■^t^  I 


TEMPLE    OV    FAME  221 

Till  to  the  clouds  theii*  curling  heads  aspire, 
And  towers  and  lemples  sink  in  floods  of  fire. 

When  thus  ripe  lies  are  to  perfection  sprung, 
Full  grown,  and  fit  to  grace  a  mortal  tongue. 
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  winged  wonders  fly, 
Borne  by  the  trumpet's  blast,  and  scatter'd  thro*  the  sky» 

There,  at  one  passage,  oft  you  might  survey 
A  lie  and  truth  contending  for  the  way  ; 
And  long  'twas  doubtful,  though  so  closely  pent, 
Which  first  should  issue  thro'  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?' 

•  '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  .ost. 
How  vain  that  second  life  in  others'  breath, 
Th'  estate  which  wits  inherit  after  death! 
Ease,  health,  find  life,  for  this  they  must  resign, 
(Unsure  the  tenure,  but  how  vast  tho  fine  !) 
The  great  man's  curse,  without  the  gains,  endure, 
Be  envied,  wretched,  and  be  flatter'd,  poor; 
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  unlooked  fo;*,  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  ; 
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 !* 

19* 


222 


MORAL  ESSAYS, 

IN    FOUR     EPISTLES. 

TO  SEVERAL  PERSONS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Essay  on  Man  was  intended  to  have  been  com- 
prised in  Four  Books. 

The  First  of  which  the  Author  has  given  us  under 
that  title  in  Four  Epistles. 

The  Second  was  to  have  consisted  of  the  same  num- 
ber: 1.  Of  the  extent  and  limits  of  hinnan  reason.  2. 
Of  those  arts  and  sciences,  and  of  the  parts  of  thom, 
which  are  useful,  and  therefore  attainable ;  togetlier 
with  those  which  are  unuseful,  and  therefore  unattain- 
able. 3.  Of  the  nature,  end,  use,  and  application,  of 
the  different  capacities  of  men.  4.  Of  the  use  of  learn- 
ing, of  the  science  of  the  world,  and  of  wit ;  concluding 
with  a  satire  against  the  misapplication  of  them,  illus- 
trated by  pictures,  characters,  and  examples. 

The  Third  Book  regarded  civil  regimen,  or  the 
science  of  politics,  in  which  the  several  forms  of  a  re- 
public were  to  be  examined  and  explained ;  together 
with  the  several  modes  of  religious  worship,  as  far  forth 
as  they  effect  society:  between  which  the  Author 
always  supposed  there  was  the  most  interesting  relation 
and  closest  connection ;  so  that  this  part  would  have 
treated  of  civil  and  religious  society  in  their  full  extent. 

The  Fourth  and  last  Book  concerned  private  ethics, 
or  practical  morality,  considered  in  all  the  circum- 
stances, orders,  possessions,  and  stations,  of  human 
life. 

The  scheme  of  all  this  had  been  maturely  digested, 
and  communicated  to  Lord  Bollingbroke,  Dr.  Svviit, 


ADVEiiriSEMENT. 


223 


and  one  or  two  more,  and  was  intended  for  the  only- 
work  of  his  riper  years ;  but  was,  partly  through  ill 
health,  partly  through  discouragements  from  the  de- 
pravity of  the  times,  and  partly  on  prudential  and 
other  considerations,  interrupted,  postponed,  and,* 
lastly,  in  a  manner  laid  aside. 

But  as  this  was  the  Author's  favourite  work,  vauch 
more  exactly  reflected  the  image  of  his  strong  capacious 
mind,  and  as  we  can  have  but  a  very  iu-.perfect  idea  of 
it  from  the  disjecta  membra  jwetcs  that  now  remain,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  be  a  little  more  particular  concern- 
ing each  of  these  projected  Books. 

The  First,  as  it  treats  of  Man  in  the  abstract,  and 
considers  him  in  general  under  every  of  his  relations, 
becomes  the  foundation,  and  furnishes  out  the  subjects 
of  the  three  following:  so  that 

The  Second  Book  was  to  take  up  again  the  iirst  and 
second  Epistles  of  the  First  Book,  and  treats  of  Man  ia 
his  intellectual  capacity  at  large,  as  has  been  explained 
above.  Of  this  only  a  small  part  of  the  conclusion 
(which,  as  we  said,  was  to  have  contained  a  satire 
against  the  misapplication  of  wit  and  learning)  may  be 
found  in  the  Fourth  Book  of  the  Dunciad,  and  up  and 
down,  occasionally,  in  the  other  Three. 

The  Third  Book,  in  like  manner,  was  to  reassiime 
the  subject  of  the  Third  Epistle  of  the  First,  which 
treats  of  Man  in  his  social,  political,  and  religious 
capacity.  But  this  part  the  Poet  afterwards  conceived 
might  be  best  executed  in  an  epic  poem,  as  the  action 
would  make  it  more  animated,  and  the  fable  less  in- 
vidious; in  which  all  the  great  principles  of  true  and 
false  governments  and  religions  should  be  chiefly 
delivered  in  feigned  examples. 

The  Fourth  and  last  Book  was  to  pursue  the  subject 
of  the  Fourth  Epistle  of  the  First,  and  treats  of  ethics, 
or  practical  morality,  and  would  have  consisted  of 
many  members  ;  of  which  the  Four  following  Epistles 
were  detached  portions:  the  two  first,  on  the  characters 
of  Men  and  Women,  being  the  introductory  part  of 
this  concluding  Book. 


2H 


EPISTLE  I. 

TO  SIR  RICHARD  TEMPLE,  LORD  COBHAM 
OF   THE   KNOWLEDGE    AND   CHARACTERS   OF    MEN. 

ARGUMENT. 

I.  That  it  is  not  sufficient  for  this  knowledge  to  consider  Man  in  the 
abstract:  books  will  not  serve  the  purpose,  nor  yet  our  own  experience 
singly.  General  maxims,  unless  they  be  formed  upon  both  will  be 
but  notional.  Some  peculiarity  in  every  man,  characteristic  to  him- 
self, yet  varying  from  himself.  Difiiculties  arising  from  our  own 
passions,  fancies,  faculties,  &c.  The  shortness  of  life  to  observe  in, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  the  principles  of  action  in  Men  to  observe  by 
&c.  Our  own  principle  of  action  often  hid  from  ourselves.  Some 
few  characters  plain,  but  in  general  confounded,  dissembled,  or  in- 
consistent. The  same  man  utterly  different  in  different  places  and 
seasons.  Unimaginable  weaknesses  in  the  greatest,  &c.  Nothing 
constant  and  certain  but  God  and  Nature.  No  judging  of  the  motives 
from  the  actions;  the  same  actions  proceeding  from  contrary  motives, 
and  the  same  motives  influencing  contrary  actions.  II.  Sfettolorm 
characters  we  can  only  take  the  strongest  actions  of  a  man's  life,  and 
try  to  make  them  agree :  the  utter  uncertainty  of  this,  from  Nature 
itself,  and  from  policy.  Characters  given  according  to  tlie  rank  of 
men  of  the  world;  and  some  reason  for  it  Education  alters  the 
nature,  or  at  least  character,  of  many.  Actions,  passions,  opinions, 
manners,  humours,  or  principles,  all  subject  to  change.  No  judging 
by  Nature.  III.  It  only  remains  to  find  (if  we  can)  his  ruling  pas- 
sion :  that  will  certainly  influence  all  the  rest,  and  can  reconcile  the 
seeming  or  real  inconsistency  of  all  his  actions.  Instanced  in  the 
extraordinary  character  of  Clodio.  A  caution  agaijist  mistaken 
second  qualities  for  first,  which  will  destroy  all  possibility  of  the 
knowledge  of  mankind.  Examples  of  the  strength  of  the  ruling  pas- 
sion, and  its  continuation  to  the  last  breath. 

PART  1. 

Yes,  you  despise  the  man  to  books  confin'd, 

Who  from  his  study  rails  at  human  kind  ; 

Tho'  what  he  learns  he  speaks,  and  may  advance 

Some  gen'ral  maxims,  or  be  right  by  chance. 

The  coxcomb  bird,  so  talkative  and  grave, 

That  from  his  cage  cries  cuckhold,  whore,  and  knave, 

Though  many  a  passenger  he  rightly  call, 

You  hold  him  no  philospher  at  all. 

And  yet  the  fate  of  all  extremes  is  such, 
Men  may  be  read,  as  well  as  books,  too  muca< 


MORAL  EssA-ys.  225 

To  observations  which  ourselves  we  make 
We  grow  more  partial  for  th'  observer's  sake 
To  written  wisdom,  as  another's,  less : 
Maxims  are  drawn  from  notions,  these  from  guess, 
There's  some  peculiar  in  each  leaf  and  grain, 
Some  unmark'd  fibre,  or  some  varying  vein. 
Shall  only  man  be  taken  in  the  gross? 
Grant  but  as  many  sorts  of  mind  as  moss. 

That  each  from  other  differs  first  confess, 
Next,  that  he  varies  from  himself  no  less  ; 
Add  nature's,  custom's,  reason's  passion's  strife, 
And  all  opinion's  colours  cast  on  life. 

Our  depths  who  fathoms,  or  our  shallows  finds? 
Quick  whirls  and  shifting  eddies  of  our  minds. 
On  human  actions  reason  though  you  can, 
It  may  be  reason,  but  it  is  not  man : 
His  principle  of  action  once  explore, 
That  instant  'tis  his  principle  no  more. 
Like  following  life  through  creatures  you  dissect, 
You  lose  it  in  the  moment  you  detect. 

Yet  more ;  the  diff'rence  is  as  great  between 
The  optics  seeing  as  the  objects  seen. 
All  manners  take  a  tincture  from  our  own. 
Or  come  discolour'd  through  our  passions  shown ; 
Or  fancy's  beam  enlarges,  multiplies. 
Contracts,  inverts,  and  gives  ten  thousand  dyes. 
Nor  will  life's  stream  for  observation  stay, 
It  hurries  all  too  fast  to  mark  their  way : 
In  vain  sedate  reflections  we  would  make, 
When  half  our  knowledge  we  must  snatch,  not  take. 
Oft  in  the  passions'  wild  rotation  toss'd. 
Our  spring  of  action  to  ourselves  is  lost: 
Tir'd  not  determin'd,  to  the  last  we  yield, 
And  what  comes  then  is  master  of  the  field. 
As  the  last  image  of  that  troubled  heap, 
When  sense  subsides,  and  fancy  sports  in  sleep 
(Tho'  past  the  recollection  of  the  thought)  ♦ 

Becomes  the  stuff  of  which  ovn*  dream  is  wrought 
Something  as  dim  to  our  internal  view 
Is  thus,  perhaps,  the  cause  of  most  we  do. 

True,  some  are  open,  and  to  all  men  known  ; 
Others  so  very  close  they're  hid  from  none  ; 
(So  darkness  strikes  the  sense  no  less  than  light  ;^ 
Thus  gracious  Chandos  is  belov'd  at  sight. 
And  ev'ry  child  hates  Shylock,  though  his  soul 
Still  sits  at  squat,  and  peeps  not  from  its  hole. 
At  half  mankind  when  gen'rous  Manly  raves. 
All  know  'tis  virtue,  for  he  tliinks  them  knavea 
When  universal  homage  Umbra  ])ays, 
All  see  'tis  vice,  and  itch  of  vulgar  praise. 


226  MORAL   ESSAYS, 

When  flatt'ry  glares,  all  hate  it  in  a  queen, 
While  one  there  is  who  charms  us  with  his  spleen. 

But  these  plain  characters  we  rarely  find; 
Though  strong  the  bent,  yet  quick  the  turns  of  inind  : 
Or  puzzling  contraries  confound  the  whole 
Or  affectations  quite  reverse  the  soul. 
The  dull  flat  falsehood  serves  for  policy ; 
And  in  the  cunning  truth  itself's  a  lie  : 
Unthought-of  frailities  cheat  us  in  the  wise ; 
The  fool  lies  hid  in  inconsistencies. 

See  the  same  man  in  vigour,  in  the  gout, 
Alone,  in  company,  in  place  or  out. 
Early  at  bus'ness  and  at  hazard  late, 
Mad  at  a  fox-chase,  wise  at  a  debate, 
Drunk  at  a  borough,  civil  at  a  ball. 
Friendly  at  Hackney,  faithless  at  Whitehall, 

Catius  is  ever  moral,  ever  grave. 
Thinks  who  endures  a  knave  is  next  a  knave, 
Save  just  at  dinner — then  prefers,  no  doubt 
A  rogue  with  ven'son  to  a  saint  without. 

Who  would  not  praise  Patricio's  high  desert. 
His  hand  unslain'd,  his  uncorrupted  heart, 
His  comprehensive  head!  all  int'rests  weigh'd, 
All  Europe  sav'd,  yet  Britain  not  betray'd. 
He  thanks  you  not,  his  pride  is  in  picquet, 
Newmarket  fame,  and  judgment  at  a  bet. 

What  made  (say,  Montaigne,  or  more  sage  Charron!^' 
Otho  a  warrior,  Cromwell  a  buffoon  ? 
A  perjur'd  prince  a  leaden  saint  revere, 
A  godless  regent  tremble  at  a  star  ? 
The  throne  a  bigot  keep,  a  genius  quit. 
Faithless  through  piety,  and  dup'd  through  wit  ? 
Europe  a  woman,  child,  or  dotard,  rule. 
And  just  her  wisest  monarch  made  a  fool ! 

Known,  God  and  Nature  only  are  the  same. 
In  man  the  judgment  shoots  at  flying  game  ; 
A  bird  of  passage,  gone  as  soon  as  found : 
Now  in  the  moon,  perhaps  now  under  ground. 


PART  II. 


I 


In  vain  the  sage,  with  retrospective  ej'^e, 
Would  from  th'  apparent  what  conclude  the  why, 
Infer  the  motive  from  the  deed,  and  show 
That  what  we  chanc'd  was  what  we  meant  to  do. 
Behold  I  if  fortune  or  a  mistress  frowns, 
Some  plunge  in  bus'ness,  others  shave  their  crowns: 


MORAL    ESSAYS  227 

To  ease  the  soul  of  one  oppressive  ■weight 
This  quits  an  empire,  that  embroils  a  state. 
The  same  adust  complexion  has  inipell'd 
Charles  to  the  convent,  Philip  to  the  field. 

Not  always  actions  shew  the  man  !  we  find 
Who  does  a  kindness  is  not  therefore  kind  : 
Perhaps  porsperity  becalm'd  his  breast; 
Perhaps  the  wind  just  shifted  from  the  east: 
Not  therefore  humble  he  who  seeks  retreat ; 
Pride  guides  his  steps,  and  bids  him  shun  the  great. 
Who  combats  bravely  is  not  therefore  brave ; 
He  dreads  a  death-bed  like  the  meanest  slave. 
Who  reasons  wisely  is  not  therefore  wise ; 
His  pride  in  reas'ning,  not  in  acting,  lies. 

But  grant  that  actions  best  discover  man ; 
Take  the  most  strong,  and  sort  them  as  you  can; 
The  few  that  glare  each  character  must  mark ; 
You  balance  not  the  many  in  the  dark. 
What  will  j'ou  do  with  such  as  disagree  ? 
Suppress  them,  or  miscall  them  policy  ? 
Must  then  at  once  (the  character  to  save) 
The  plain  rough  hero  turn  a  crafty  knave  ? 
Alas!  in  truth,  the  man  but  chang'd  his  mind; 
Perhaps  was  sick,  in  love,  or  had  not  din'd. 
Ask  why  from  Britain  Caesar  would  retreat? 
Caesar  himself  might  whisper,  he  was  beat. 
Why  risk  the  world's  great  empire  for  a  punk? 
Cwsar  perhaps  might  answer,  he  was  drunk. 
But,  sage  historians !  'tis  your  task  to  prove 
One  action  conduct,  one  heroic  love. 

'Tis  from  high  life  high  characters  are  drawn 
A  saint  in  crape  is  twice  a  saint  in  lawn ; 
A  judge  is  just,  a  chanc'llor  juster  still; 
A  gownman  learn'd  ;  a  bishop  what  you  will : 
Wise  if  a  minister ;  but  if  a  king. 
More  wise,  more  learn'd,  more  just,  more  ev'ry  thing, 
Court-virtues  bear,  like  gems,  the  highest  rate. 
Born  where  Heaven's  influence  scarce  can  penetrate. 
In  life's  low  vale,  the  soil  the  virtues  like. 
They  please  as  beauties,  here  as  wonders  strike. 
Though  the  same  sun  with  all-diffus've  raj  s 
Blush  in  the  rose,  and  iti  tne  diamond  blaze, 
We  prize  the  stronger  efibrt  of  his  power, 
And  justly  set  the  gem  above  the  flower. 

'Tis  education  forms  the  common  mind; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined. 
Boastful  and  rough,  your  first  son  is  a  'squire ; 
The  next  a  tradesman,  meok,  and  much  a  liar: 
Tom  struts  a  soldier,  open,  bold,  and  brave; 
Will  sneaks  a  scrivener,  an  exceeding  knave; 


223  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Is  he  a  Churchman  ?  then  he's  fond  of  pov/er : 
A  Quaker?  sly:  a  Presbyterian?  sour: 
A  smart  free-thinker?  all  things  in  an  hour. 
Ask  mens'  opinions:  Scoto  now  shall  tell, 
How  trade  increases  and  the  world  goes  well: 
Strike  off  his  pension  by  the  setting  sun, 
And  Britain,  if  not  Europe,  is  undone. 

That  gay  free  thinker,  a  fine  talker  once 
What  turns  him  now  a  stupid  silent  dimce? 
Some  god  or  spirit  he  has  lately  found, 
Or  chanced  to  meet  a  minister  that  frowned 

Judge  we  by  nature  ?  habit  can  efface, 
Interest  o'ercome,  or  policy  take  place. 
By  actions?  those  uncertainty  divides. 
By  passions?  these  dissimulation  hides. 
Opinions?  they  still  take  a  wider  range. 
Find,  if  you  can,  in  what  you  cannot  change. 

Manners  with  fortunes,  humours  turn  with  climes. 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 


PART  III. 


Search  then  the  niling  passion :  there,  alone, 

The  wild  are  constant,  and  the  cunning  known 

riie  fool  consistent,  and  the  false  sincere ; 

Priests,  princes,  women,  no  dissemblers  here. 

This  clue  once  found  unravels  all  the  rest, 

The  prospect  clears,  and  Wharton  stands  confess'd, 

Wharton!  the  scorn  and  wonder  of  our  days, 

Whose  ruling  passion  was  the  lust  of  praise  : 

Born  with  whate'er  could  win  it  from  the  wise, 

Women  and  fools  must  like  him,  or  he  dies  : 

Though  wondering  senates  hung  on  all  he  spoke, 

The  club  must  hail  him  master  of  the  joke. 

Shall  parts  so  various  aim  at  nothing  new  ? 

He'll  shine  a  Tully  and  a  Wilmot  too: 

Then  tunis  repentant,  and  his  God  adores 

With  the  same  spirit  that  he  drinks  and  whores : 

Enough  if  all  around  him  but  admire, 

And  now  the  punk  applaud  and  now  the  friar. 

Thus  with  each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art. 

And  wanting  nothing  but  an  honest  heart ; 

Grown  all  to  all,  from  no  one  vice  exempt, 

And  most  contemptible  to  shun  contempt ; 

His  passion  still  to  covet  general  praise, 

His  life  to  forfeit  it  a  thoi\sand  waysj 

A  constant  bounty  which  no  friend  has  made; 

An  angel  tongue  which  no  man  can  persuade; 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  229 

A  fool  with  more  of  wit  than  half  mankind ; 
Too  rash  for  thought,  for  action  too  refined; 
A  tyrant  to  the  wife  his  heart  approves; 
A  rebel  to  the  very  king  he  loves ; 
He  dies,  sad  outcast  of  each  church  and  state, 
And,  harder  still !  flagitious,  yet  not  great! 
Ask  you  why  Wharton  broke  through  every  rule 
'Twas  all  for  fear  the  knaves  should  call  him  fool. 

Nature  well  known  no  prodigies  remain ; 
Comets  are  regular,  and  Wharton  plain. 

Yet  in  *his  search  the  wisest  may  mistake, 
If  second  qualities  for  first  they  take. 
When  Cataline  by  rapine  swelled  his  store, 
When  Caesar  made  a  noble  dame  a  whore, 
In  this  the  lust,  in  that  the  avarice, 
Were  means,  not  ends ;  ambition  was  the  vice. 
That  very  Caesar,  born  in  Scipio's  days, 
Had  aimed,  like  him,  by  chastity,  at  praise. 
Lucullus,  when  frugality  could  charm, 
Had  roasted  turnips  in  the  Sabine  farm. 
In  vain  th'  observer  eyes  the  builder's  toil, 
But  quite  mistakes  the  scaffold  for  the  pile 

In  this  one  passion  man  can  strength  enjoy, 
As  fits  give  vigour  just  when  they  destroy. 
Time,  that  on  all  things  lays  his  lenient  hand, 
Yet  tames  not  this ;  it  sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
Consistent  in  our  follies  and  our  sins, 
Here  honest  Nature  ends  as  she  begins. 

Old  politicians  chew  on  wisdom  past. 
And  totter  on  in  business  to  the  last; 
As  weak,  as  earnest,  and  as  gravely  out 
As  sober  Lanesborow  dancing  in  the  gout. 

Behold  a  reverend  sire,  whom  want  of  grace 
Has  made  the  father  of  a  nameless  race, 
Shoved  from  the  wall  perhaps,  or  rudely  pressea 
By  his  own  son,  that  passes  by  unblessed ; 
Still  to  his  wench  he  crawls  on  knocking  knees. 
And  envies  every  sparrow  that  he  sees. 

A  salmon's  belly,  Helluo,  was  thy  fate ; 
The  doctor  called,  declares  all  help  too  late. 
'  Mercy !'  cries  Helluo,  *mercy  on  my  soul ! 
Is  there  no  hope  ( — Alas!  — then  bring  the  jowl.* 

The  frugal  Crone,  whom  praying  priests  attend, 
Still  strives  to  save  the  hallowed  taper's  end. 
Collects  her  breath,  as  ebbing  life  retires, 
For  one  puff  more,  and  in  that  puff  expires. 
*  Odious  !  in  woollen  !   'twould  a  saint  provoke 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke !) 
No,  let  a  charming  chintz  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs,  and  shade  my  lifeless  face. 
20 


230  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

One  would,  not,  sure,  be  frightful  when  one's  dead— 
And — Betty — give  this  cheek  a  little  red.' 

The  courtier  smooth,  who  forty  years  had  sinned 
An  humble  servant  to  all  human-kind, 
Just  brought  out  this,  when  scarce  his  tongue  could  stir, 

*  If — where  I  am  going — 1  could  serve  you,  sir  t ' 

*I  give  and  I  devise,'  old  Euclio  said, 
And  sigh'd,  *my  lands  and  tenements  to  Ned.' 
'  Your  money,  sir,  ?' — '  My  money,  sir,  what,  all 
Why — if  I  must — 'then  wept,  'I  give  it  Piiul.' 

*  The  manor,  sir?  ' — The  manor!  hold,'  he  cried  ; 
*Not  that — I  cannot  part  with  that,' — and  died. 

And  you,  brave  Cobham  !  to  the  latest  breath, 
Shall  feel  your  ruling  passion  strong  in  death ; 
Such  in  those  moments  as  in  all  the  past; 
Oh  I  save  my  country,  Heaven!  shall  be  your  last. 


IM-»|      I  ia>— «»■ 


i« 


231 


EPISTLE  II. 
TO  A  LADY. 

OP   THE   CHARACTERS   OF   WOMEN. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

That  the  particular  characters  of  women  are  not  «o  strongly  niarke<l 
as  those  of  men,  seldom  so  fixed,  and  still  more  inconsistent  with 
themselves,  v.  1,  &c.  Instances  of  contrarieties  given,  even  from 
Buch  characters  as  are  more  strongly  marked,  and  seemingly,  tliere- 
fore,  most  consistent;  I.  In  the  afl'ected,  v.  21,  &c.  11.  In  the  soft- 
natured,  v.  29  and  37.  III.  In  the  cunning  and  artful,  v.  45.  IV. 
In  the  whimsical,  v.  53.  V.  In  the  lewd  and  vicious,  v.  69.  VI.  In 
the  witty  and  refined,  v.  87.  VII.  In  the  stupid  and  simple,  v.  101. 
The  former  part  having  shown  that  the  particular  characters  of 
women  are  more  various  than  those  of  men,  it  is  nevertheless 
obseiTed,  that  the  general  characteristic  of  the  sex,  as  to  tlie  ruling 
passion,  is  more  uniform,  v.  207.  This  is  occasioned  partly  by  tlieir 
nature,  partly  by  their  education,  and  in  some  degree  by  necessity, 
v.  21 1.  What  are  the  aims  and  the  fate  of  this  sex.  I.  As  to  power, 
v.  219.  II.  As  to  pleasure,  v.  231.  Advice  for  their  true  interest,  v. 
249.  The  picture  of  an  inestimable  woman,  with  tlie  best  kind  of 
contrarieties,  v.  269. 

Nothing  so  true  as  what  you  once  let  fall, 
Most  women  have  no  characters  at  all; 
Matter  too  soft  a  lasting  mark  to  bear, 
And  best  distinguished  by  black,  brown,  or  fair. 

How  many  pictures  of  one  nymph  we  view, 
All  how  unlike  each  other,  all  how  true ! 
Arcadia's  countess  here,  in  ermined  pride, 
Is  there  Pastora  by  a  fountain  side: 
Here  Fannia  leering  on  her  own  good  man. 
And  there  a  naked  Leda  with  a  swan. 
Let  then  the  fair  one  beautifully  cry. 
In  Magdalene's  loose  hair  and  lifted  eye. 
Or  dressed  in  smiles  of  sweet  Cecilia  shine, 
With  simpering  angels,  palms,  and  harps  divine, 
Whether  the  charmer  sinner  it  or  saint  it. 
If  folly  grow  romantic,  I  must  paint  it. 

Come  then,  the  c  ;lours  and  the  ground  prepare  I 
Dip  in  the  rainbow,  trick  her  off  in  hair; 
Choose  a  firm  cloud  before  it  fall,  and  in  it 
Catch  ere  she  change,  the  Cynthia  of  this  minuta. 


232  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Riifa,  whose  eye,  quick  glancing  o'er  the  park, 
Attracts  each  light  gay  meteor  of  a  spark, 
Agrees  as  ill  with  Rufa  studying  Locke 
As  Sappho  diamonds  with  her  dirty  smock* 
Or  Sappho  at  her  toilette's  greasy  task 
With  Sappho  fragrant  at  an  evening  mask : 
So  morning  insects,  that  in  muck  begun, 
Shine,  buzz,  and  fly-blow  in  the  setting  sun. 

How  soft  is  Silia !  fearful  to  offend  ;     . 
The  frail  one's  advocate,  the  weak  one's  friend: 
To  her  Calista  proved  her  conduct  nice, 
And  good  Simplicius  asks  of  her  advice. 
Sudden  she  storms !  she  raves !  you  tip  the  wink; 
But  spare  your  censure ;  Silia  does  not  drink. 
All  eyos  may  see  from  what  the  change  arose ; 
All  eyes  may  see — a  pimple  on  her  nose. 

Papilla,  wedded  to  her  amorous  spark, 
Sighs  for  the  shades — How  charming  is  a  park 
A  park  is  purchased  ;  but  the  fair  he  sees 
All  bathed  in  tears — Oh,  odious,  odious  trees  I 

Ladies,  like  variegated  tulips,  show, 
'Tis  to  their  changes  half  their  charms  we  owe 
Fine  by  defect,  and  delicately  weak. 
Their  happy  spots  the  nice  admirer  take. 
'Twas  thus  Calypso  once  each  heart  alarm'd, 
Av>red  without  virtue,  without  beauty  charm'd  ; 
Her  tongue  bewitched  as  oddly  as  her  eyes; 
Less  wit  than  mimic,  more  a  wit  than  wise : 
Strange  graces  still,  and  stranger  flights,  she  had : 
Was  just  not  ugly,  and  was  just  not  mad ; 
Yet  ne'er  so  sure  our  passion  to  create 
As  when  she  toucli'd  the  biink  of  all  we  hate. 

Narcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild, 
To  make  a  wash  would  hardly  stew  a  child ; 
Has  e'en  been  proved  to  grant  a  lover]s  prayer. 
And  paid  a  tradesman  once  to  make  him  stare ; 
Gave  alms  at  Easter  in  a  Christian  trim, 
And  made  a  widow  happy  for  a  whim. 
Why  then  declare  good  nature  is  her  scorn, 
When  'tis  by  that  alone  she  can  be  borne  ? 
Why  pique  all  mortals,  yet  aifect  a  name, 
A  fool  to  pleasure,  yet  a  slav<;  to  fame  ? 
Now  deep  in  Taylor  and  t)  e  Book  of  Martyrs, 
Now  drinking  citron  with  iis  Grace  and  Chartres: 
Now  conscience  chills  hei   and  no\y  passion  burnsi 
And  atheism  and  religion  t  ike  their  turns ;  1; 

A  very  heathen  in  the  cam  il  part,  '■ 

Yet  still  a  sad  good  Christii>a  at  her  heart. 

See  sin  in  state,  majesticfi  ly  drunk, 
Proud  as  a  peeress,  proude.  oS  a  punk; 


I 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  2SS 

Chaste  to  her  hushand,  frank  to  all  beside ; 

A  teeming  mistress,  but  a  barren  bride. 

What  then?  let  blood  and  body  bear  the  fault, 

Her  head's  mitouched,  that  noble  seat  of  thought 

Such  this  day's  doctrine — in  another  fit 

She  sins  with  poets  through  pure  love  of  wit. 

What  has  not  fired  her  bosom  or  her  brain? 

Caesar  and  Tallboy,  Charles  and  Charlemagne. 

As  Helluo,  late  dictator  of  the  feast, 

The  nose  of  haut-gout,  and  the  tip  of  taste, 

Critiqued  year  wine,  and  analyzed  your  meat, 

Yet  on  plain  pudding  deigned  at  home  to  eat; 

So  Philoraede,  lecturing  all  mankind 

On  the  soft  passion,  and  the  taste  refin'd. 

The  address,  the  delicacy — stoops  at  once, 

And  makes  a  hearty  meal  upon  a  dunce. 

Flavia's  a  wit,  has  too  much  sense  to  pray : 

To  toast  our  wants  and  wishes  is  her  way ; 

Nor  asks  of  God,  but  of  her  stars,  to  give 

The  mighty  blessing,  while  we  live  to  live. 

Then  all  for  death,  that  opiate  of  the  soul ! 

Lucretia's  dagger,  Rosamonda's  bowl. 

Say,  what  can  cause  such  impotence  of  mind? 

A  spark  too  fickle,  or  a  spouse  too  kind. 

Wise  wretch !  with  pleasures  too  refined  to  please 

With  too  much  spirit  to  be  e'er  at  ease ; 

With  too  much  quickness  ever  to  be  taught ; 

With  too  much  thinking  to  have  common  thought; 

You  purchase  pain  with  all  that  joy  can  give, 

And  die  of  nothing  but  a  rage  to  live. 

Turn  then  from  wits,  and  look  on  Simo's  mate; 
No  ass  so  meek,  no  ass  so  obstinate ; 
On  her  that  owns  her  faults,  but  never  mends, 
Because  she's  honest,  and  the  best  of  friends; 
Or  her  whose  life  the  church  and  scandal  share, 
For  ever  in  a  passion  or  a  prayer ; 
Or  her  who  laughs  at  hell,  but,  like  her  grace, 
Cries,  *  Ah !  how  charming  if  there's  no  such  place !  * 
Or  who  in  sweet  vicissitude  appears 
Of  mirth  and  opium,  ratafie  and  tears, 
The  daily  anodyne  and  nightly  draught. 
To  kill  those  foes  to  fair  ones,  time  and  thought, 
Woman  and  fool  are  too  hard  things  to  hit; 
For  true  no  meaning  puzzles  more  than  wit. 

But  what  are  those  to  great  Atossa's  mind? 
Scarce  once  herself,  by  turns  all  womankind? 
Who  with  herself,  or  others,  from  her  birth, 
Finds  all  her  life  one  warfare  upon  earth ; 
Shines  in  exposing  knaves  and  painting  fools, 
Yet  is  whate'er  she  hates  and  ridicules: 
20* 


r- 


234  MORAL    E8>.4"i8. 

Mo  thought  advances,  hut  1  tr  eddy  brain 
Wliisks  it  about,  and  down   t  goes  again. 
Full  sixty  years  the  world  h  is  been  her  trade; 
'j'he  wisest  fool  much  time  -las  ever  made; 
I'rom  loveless  youth  to  unrt  :^pected  age, 
No  passion  gratified,  excepi  her  rage: 
So  much  the  fury  still  out-r*  a  the  wit, 
The  pleasure  missed  her,  an  .1  the  scandal  hit. 
Who  breaks  with  her,  provrkes  revenge  from  hell. 
But  he's  a  bolder  man  who  dares  be  well. 
Her  every  turn  with  vioieuc?  pursued, 
Nor  more  a  storm  her  hate  ,han  gratitude: 
To  that  each  passion  turns  or  soon  or  late ; 
Love  if  it  makes  her  yield  must  make  her  hate. 
Superiors?  death  1  and  equals?  what  a  curse  I 
But  an  inferior  not  dependant  ?  worse. 
Offend  her,  and  she  knows  not  to  forgive ; 
Oblige  her,  and  she'll  hate  you  while  you  live; 
But  die,  and  she'U  adore  you — then  the  bust 
And  temple  rise — then  fall  again  to  dust. 
Last  night  her  lord  was  all  that's  good  and  great; 
A  knave  this  morning,  and  his  will  a  cheat. 
Strange !  by  the  means  defeated  of  the  ends, 
By  spirit  robbed  of  power,  by  warmth  of  friends. 
By  wealth  of  followers!  without  one  distress, 
Sick  of  herself  through  very  selfishness! 
Atossa,  cursed  with  every  granted  prayer, 
(Childless  with  all  her  children,  wants  an  heir: 
To  heirs  unknown  descends  the  unguarded  store. 
Or  wanders.  Heaven  directed,  to  the  poor. 

Pictures  like  these,  dear  Madam !  to  design, 
Asks  no  firm  hand  and  no  unerring  line ; 
Some  wandering  touches,  some  reflected  light, 
Some  flying  stroke,  alone  can  hit  them  right: 
For  how  should  equal  colours  do  the  knack? 
Chameleons  who  can  paint  in  white  and  black  ? 

'  Yet  Chloe  sure  was  formed  without  a  spot.' — 
Nature  in  her  then  erred  not,  but  forgot. 
*  With  every  pleasing,  every  pi'udent  part. 
Say,  what  can  Chloe  want? ' — She  wants  a  heart. 
She  spealts,  behaves,  and  acts,  just  as  she  ought, 
But  never,  never,  reached  one  generous  thought. 
Virtue  she  finds  too  painful  an  endeavour. 
Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever. 
So  very  reasonable,  so  unmoved. 
As  never  yet  to  love  or  to  be  loved. 
She  while  her  lover  pants  upon  her  breast. 
Can  mark  the  figures  on  an  Indian  chest; 
And  when  she  sees  her  friend  in  deep  despair. 
Observes  hbw  much  a  chintz  exceeds  mohaiv 


U 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  235 

Forbid  it,  Heaven!  a  favour  or  a  debt 
Slie  e'er  should  cancel  I — but  she  may  forget. 
Safe  is  your  secret  still  in  Chloe's  ear  ; 
But  none  of  Chloe's  shall  you  ever  hear 
Of  all  her  dears  she  never  slandered  one, 
But  cares  not  if  a  thousand  are  undone. 
Would  Chloe  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead? 
She  bids  her  footman  put  it  in  her  head. 
Chloe  is  prudent — Would  you  too  be  wise? 
Then  never  break  your  heart  when  Chloe  dies. 

One  certain  portrait  may  (I  grant)  be  seen, 
Which  Heaven  has  varnished  out,  and  made  a  queen, 
The  same  for  ever !  and  described  by  all 
With  truth  and  goodness  as  with  crown  and  ball. 
Poets  heap  virtues,  painters  gems,  at  will, 
And  shew  their  zeal,  and  hide  their  want  of  skill. 
'Tis  well — but,  artists!  who  can  paint  or  write 
To  draw  the  naked  is  your  true  delight. 
That  robe  of  quality  so  struts  and  swells, 
None  see  what  parts  of  nature  it  conceals  1 
The  exactest  traits  of  body  or  of  mind 
We  owe  to  models  of  an  humble  kind. 
If  Queensbury  to  strip  there's  no  compelling, 
'Tis  from  a  handmaid  we  must  take  a  Helen. 
From  peer  or  bishop  'tis  no  easy  thing 
To  draw  the  man  who  loves  his  God  or  king. 
Alas!  I  copy  (or  my  draught  would  fail) 
From  honest  Mahomet  or  plain  Parson  Hale. 

But  grant  in  public,  men  sometimes  are  shown, 
A  woman's  seen  in  private  life  alone: 
Our  bolder  talents  in  full  light  displayed, 
Your  virtues  open  fail  est  in  the  shade. 
Bred  to  disguise,  in  public  'tis  you  hide ; 
There  none  distinguish  'twixt  your  shame  or  pride, 
Weakness  or  delicacy  ;  all  so  nice, 
That  each  may  seem  a  virtue  or  a  vice. 

In  men  we  various  ruling  passions  find; 
In  women  two  almost  divide  the  kind; 
Those  only  fixed  the  first  or  last  obey, 
The  love  of  pleasure  and  the  love  of  sway. 

That  nature  gives ;  and  where  the  lesson  taught 
Is  but  to  please,  can  pleasure  seem  a  fault? 
Experience  this:  by  man's  oppression  curs'd, 
They  seek  the  second  not  to  lose  the  first. 

Men  some  to  business  some  to  pleasure  take, 
But  every  women  is  at  heart  a  rake : 
Men  s-ome  to  quiet,  some  to  public  strife, 
But  every  lady  would  be  queen  for  life. 

Yet  mark  the  fate  of  a  whole  sex  of  queens. 
Power  all  their  end,  bat  beauty  all  the  means. 


236  MORAL   ESSAYS,  '* 

In  youtli  they  conquer  with  so  wild  a  rage 
As  leaves  them  scarce  a  subject  in  their  age; 
For  foreign  glory,  foreign  joy,  they  roam  ; 
No  thought  of  peace  or  happiness  at  home. 
But  wisdom's  triumph  is  well  timed  retreat, 
As  hard  a  science  to  the  fair  as  great! 
Beauties,  like  tyrants,  old  and  friendless  growDj 
Yet  hate  repose,  and  dread  to  be  alone ; 
Worn  out  in  public,  weary  every  eye, 
Nor  leave  one  sigh  behind  them  when  they  die. 

Pleasures  the  sex  as  children  birds  pursue. 
Still  out  of  reach,  yet  never  out  of  view  ; 
Sure  if  they  catch  to  spoil  the  toy  at  most, 
To  covet  flying,  and  regret  when  lost: 
At  last  to  follies  youth  could  scarce  defend, 
It  grows  their  age's  prudence  to  pretend; 
Ashamed  to  own  they  gave  delight  before, 
Reduced  to  feign  it  when  they  give  no  more. 
As  hags  hold  sabbaths  less  for  joy  than  spite, 
So  these  there  merry  miserable  night ; 
Still  round  and  round  the  ghosts  of  beauty  glide, 
And  haunts  the  places  where  their  honour  died. 

See  how  the  world  its  veterans  rewards 
A  youth  of  frolics,  an  old  age  of  cards ; 
Fair  to  no  purpose,  artful  to  no  endj 
Young  without  lovers,  old  without  a  friend  ; 
A  fop  their  passion,  but  their  prize  a  sot, 
Alive  ridiculous,  and  dead  forgot! 

Ah!  friend  !  to  dazzle  let  the  vain  design; 
To  raise  the  thought  and  touch  the  hoart  be  thine ' 
That  charm  shall  grow,  while  what  fatigues  the  ring 
Flaunts  and  goes  down  an  unregarded  thing. 
So  when  the  sun's  broad  beam  has  tired  the  sight, 
All  mild  ascends  the  moon's  more  sober  light, 
Serene  in  virgin  modesty  she  shines. 
And  unobserved  the  glaring  orb  declines. 

Oh  !  blessed  with  temper,  whose  unclouded  ray 
Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day; 
She  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  or  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwounded  ear ; 
She  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools, 
Or  if  she  rules  him  never  shows  she  rules  ; 
Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways, 
Yet  has  her  humour  most  when  she  obeys; 
Let  fops  or  fortune  fly  which  way  they  will, 
Disdains  all  loss  of  tickets  or  codille ; 
Spleen,  vapours,  or  small-pox,  above  them  aU, 
And  mistress  of  herself  though  china  fall. 

And  yet  believe  me,  good  as  well  as  ili. 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  ptill. 


MORAL   ESSAYS,  237 

Heaven,  when  it  strives  to  polish  all  it  can, 
Its  last  best  work,  but  forms  a  softer  man ; 
Picks  from  each  sex,  to  make  the  favourite  bless'd, 
ITour  love  of  pleasure,  our  desire  of  rest; 
Blends,  in  exception  to  all  general  rules. 
Your  taste  of  follies  with  our  scorn  of  fools ; 
Reserve  with  frankness,  art  with  truth  allied, 
Courage  with  softness,  modesty  with  pride  j 
Fixed  principles,  with  fancy,  ever  new. 
Shakes  all  together,  and  produces — you. 

Be  this  a  woman's  fame ;  with  this  unbless'd, 
Toasts  live  a  scorn,  and  queens  may  die  a  jest. 
This  Phoebus  promised  (I  forget  the  year) 
When  those  blue  eyes  first  opened  on  the  sphere  ; 
Ascendant  Phoebus  watched  that  hour  with  care, 
Averted  half  your  parent's  simple  prayer. 
And  gave  you  beauty,  but  denied  the  pelf 
That  buys  your  sex  a  tyrant  o'er  itself. 
The  generous  god  who  wit  and  gold  refines, 
And  ripens  spirits  as  he  ripens  mines, 
Kept  dross  for  duchesses ;  the  world  shall  know  it^ 
To  you  gave  sense,  good  humour,  and  a  poet. 


Tasi 


EPISTLE  HI. 

TO  ALLEN  LORD  BATHURST. 
OF  THE  USE   OF  RICHES. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

That  it  is  known  to  few,  most  falling  into  one  of  the  extremes, 
avarice  or  profusion,  v.  1,  &c.  The  point  discussed,  whether  the 
invention  of  money  has  been  more  commodious  or  pernicious  to 
mankind,  v.  21  to  77.  That  riches,  either  to  the  avaricious  or  the 
prodigal,  cannot  afford  happiness,  scarcely  necessaries,  v.  89  to  ICO. 
That  avarice  is  an  absolute  frenzy,  without  an  end  or  purpose,  v. 
113  and  152.  Conjectures  about  the  motives  of  avaricious  men,  v. 
121  to  153.  That  the  conduct  of  men.  with  respect  to  riches,  can 
only  be  accounted  for  by  the  order  of  Providence,  which  works  the 
general  good  out  of  extremes,  and  brings  all  to  its  great  end  by 
perpetual  revolutions,  v.  161  to  178.  How  a  miser  acts  upon  prin- 
cipfes  which  appear  to  him  reasonable,  v,  179.  How  a  prodigal  does 
the  same,  v.  199.  The  true  medium  and  true  use  of  riches,  v.  219, 
The  Man  of  Ross,  v.  250.  The  fate  of  the  profuse  and  the  covetous, 
in  two  examples;  both  miserable  in  life  and  in  death,  v.  300,  &c. 
The  story  of  Sir  Balaam,  v.  339  to  the  end. 

P.  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree, 
And  soundest  casuists  doubt,  like  you  and  me? 
You  hold  the  world  from  Jove  to  Momus  giv'n, 
That  man  was  made  the  standing  jest  of  heaven. 
And  gold  but  sent  to  keep  the  fools  in  play, 
For  some  to  heap  and  some  to  throw  away. 

But  I,  who  think  more  highly  of  our  kind, 
(And  surely  Heaven  and  I  are  of  a  mind  ) 
Opine  that  nature,  as  in  duty  bound, 
Deep  hid  the  shining  mischief  under  ground: 
But,  when  by  man's  audacious  labour  won, 
Flamed  forth  this  rival  to  its  sire  the  Sun, 
Then  careful  Heaven  supplied  two  sorts  of  men, 
To  squander  these,  and  those  to  hide  again. 

Like  doctors  thus,  when  much  dispute  has  pass'd, 
We  find  our  tenets  just  the  same  at  last; 
Both  fairly  owning  riches,  in  effect, 
No  grace  of  Heaven,  or  token  of  the  elect; 
Given  to  the  fool,  the  ma(i,  the  vain,  the  evil, 
To  Ward,  to  Waters,  Chartres,  and  the  devil. 


MOR£L    ESSAYS.  2'5U 

B.  What  nature  wants  coramodius  gold  bestows; 
'Tis  thus  we  eat  tlie  bread  another  sows. 

P.  But  how  unequal  it  bestows  observe  ; 
Tis  thus  we  riot  while  who  sow  it  starve : 
V\  hat  nature  wants  (a  phrase  I  much  destrust) 
Ixtends  to  luxury,  extends  to  lust : 
Iseful  I  grant,  it  serves  what  life  requires, 
1  ut  dreadful  too,  the  dark  assassin  hires. 
B.  Trade  it  may  help,  society  extend : 
P.  But  lures  the  pirate,  and  corrupts  the  fnend. 
B.  It  raises  armies  in  a  nation's  aid : 
P.  But  bribes  a  senate,  and  the  land's  betray'd 
In  vain  may  heroes  fij^ht  and  patriot's  rave, 
If  secret  gold  sap  on  from  knave  to  knave. 
Once,  we  confess,  beneath  the  patriot's  cloack. 
From  the  crack'd  bag  the  dropping  guinea  spoke, 
And,  jingling  down  the  back-stairs,  told  the  crew, 

*  Old  Cato  is  as  great  a  rogue  as  you.' 
Bless'd  paper  credit !  last  and  best  supply 
That  lends  corruption  lighter  wings  to  fly!  _ 
Goldimp'd  by  thee  can  compass  hardest  thmgs, 
Can  pocket  states,  can  fetch  or  carry  kings ; 

A  single  leaf  shall  waft  an  army  o'er, 

Or  ship  off  senates  to  some  distant  shore ; 

A  leaf,  like  Sibyl's,  scatter  to  and  fro 

Our  fates  and  fortunes  as  the  wmds  shall  blow; 

Pregnant  with  thousands  flits  the  scrap  unseen. 

And  silent  sells  a  king  or  buys  a  queen. 

Oh !  that  such  bulky  bribes  as  all  might  see 
Still,  as  of  old,  encumbered  villainy ! 
Could  France  or  Rome  divert  our  brave  designs 
With  all  their  brandies  or  with  all  their  wines  ?^ 
What    could    they  more   than  knights    and   'squires 
Or  water  all  the  quorum  ten  miles  round  ?    [confound, 
A  statesman's  slumbers  how  this  speech  would  spoil ! 

*  Sir,  Spain  has  sent  a  thousand  jars  of  oil ; 
Hugh  bales  of  British  cloth  blockade  the  door; 
A  hundred  oxen  at  your  levee  roar.' 

Poor  avarice  one  torment  more  would  find, 
Nor  could  profusion  squander  all  in  kind; 
Astride  his  cheese  Sir  Morgan  might  we  meet, 
And  Worldly  crying  coals  from  street  to  street, 
Whom  with  a  wig  so  wild  and  mien  so  maz'd 
Pity  mistakes  for  some  poor  tradesman  craz'd. 
Had  Colepepper's  whole  wealth  been  hops  and  hoga. 
Could  he  himself  have  sent  it  to  the  dogs  ? 
His  grace  will  game ;  to  White's  a  bull  be  led, 
With  spurning  heels  and  with  a  butting  head; 
To  White's  be  carried,  as  to  ancient  games, 
Fair  coursers,  vases,  and  alluring  dames. 


i 


240  MORAL    E*CAY3. 

Shall  then  Uxorio,  if  the  stakes  be  sweep, 

Bear  home  six  whores,  and  make  his  lady  weep? 

Or  soft  Adonis,  so  perfumed  and  fine, 

Drive  to  St.  James's  a  whole  herd  of  swine? 

Oh !  filthy  check  on  all  industrious  skill, 

To  spoil  the  nation's  last  great  trade,  Quadrille  ! 

Since  then,  my  lord,  on  such  a  world  we  fall, 

What  say  you?     B.  Say?  Why,  take  it,  gold  and  all. 

P,  What  riches  give  us  let  us  then  inquire : 
Meat, fire,  and clothea?  B.  Whatmoro?  P.  Meat,  clothes, 
Is  this  too  little?  would  you  more  than  live?  [and  fire. 
Alas  I  'tis  more  than  Turner  finds  they  give ; 
Alas!  'tis  more  than  (all  his  visions  pass'd) 
Unhappy  Wharton,  waking,  found  at  last ! 
What  can  they  give  ?    To  dying  Hopkins  heirs? 
To  Chartres  vigour  ?    Japhet  nose  and  ears  ? 
Can  they  in  gems  bid  pallid  Hippia  glow  ? 
In  Fulvia's  buckle  ease  the  throbs  below? 
Or  heal,  old  Narses,  thy  obscener  ail 
With  all  the  embroidery  plastered  at  thy  tail? 
They  might  (were  Harpax  not  too  wise  to  spend) 
Give  Harpax'  self  the  blessing  of  a  friend; 
Or  find  some  doctor  that  would  save  the  life 
Of  wretched  Shylock  spite  of  Shylock's  wife* 
But  thousands  die  without  or  this  or  that, 
Die,  and  endow  a  college  or  a  cat. 
To  some  indeed  heaven  grants  the  happier  fate 
To  enrich  a  bastard,  or  a  son  they  hate. 

Perhaps  you  think  the  poor  might  have  their  part ; 
Bond  damns  the  poor,  and  hates  them  from  hialieart. 
The  grave  Sir  Gilbert  holds  it  for  a  rule, 
That  ev'rj'  man  in  want  is  knave  or  fool. 
'  God  cannot  love  (says  Blunt,  with  tearless  eyes) 
The  wretch  he  starves'— and  piously  denies : 
But  the  good  bishop,  with  a  meeker  air. 
Admits  and  leaves  them  Providence's  care. 

Yet  to  be  just  to  these  poor  men  of  pelf, 
Each  does  but  hate  his  neighbour  as  himself: 
Damned  to  the  mines,  an  equal  fate  betides 
The  slave  that  digs  it  and  the  slave  that  hides. 

B.  Who  suffer  thus,  mere  charity  should  own, 
Must  act  on  motives  powerful  though  unknown. 

P.  Some  war,  some  plague  or  famine,  they  forsee, 
Some  revelation  hid  from  you  and  me. 
Why  Shylock  wants  a  meal  the  cause  is  found ; 
He  thinks  a  loaf  will  rise  to  fifty  pound. 
What  made  directors  cheat  in  South-sea  year? 
To  live  on  ven'son  when  it  sold  so  dear. 
Ask  you  why  Phryne  the  whole  auction  buys? 
Phryne  forsees  a  general  excise. 


1 

MORAL    ESSAYS.  24J 

ViTiy  she  and  Sapplio  raise  that  monstrous  sura? 

Alas !  they  fear  a  man  will  cost  a  plum. 

Wise  Peter  sees  the  world's  respect  for  gold, 

And  tlierefore  hopes  tliis  nation  may  be  sold. 

Glorious  ambition!  Peter,  swell  thy  store. 

And  be  what  Rome's  great  Didius  was  before. 
The  crown  of  Poland,  venal  twice  an  age, 

To  just  three  millions  stinted  modest  Gage. 

But  nobler  scenes  Maria's  dreams  unfold, 

frlereditary  realms,  and  worlds  of  gold. 
Congenial  soul!  whose  life  one  av 'rice  joins, 
And  one  fate  buries  in  the  Asturian  mines. 

iVluch-injured  Blunt!  why  bears  he  Britain's  hatef 
A  wizard  told  him  in  these  words  our  fate: 
At  length  corruption,  like  a  general  flood, 
(So  long  by  watchful  ministers  withstood) 
bhall  deluge  all,  and  av'rice  creeping  on, 
Spread  like  a  low-bom  mist  and  blot  the  sim; 
Statesman  and  patriot  ply  alike  the  stocks. 
Peeress  and  butler  share  alike  the  box, 
And  judges  job,  and  bishops  bite  the  town, 
And  mighty  dukes  pack  cards  for  half-a-crown : 
See  Britain  sunk  in  lucre's  sorded  charms. 
And  France  revenged  of  Anne's  and  Edward's  arms! 

iwas  no  court  badge,  great  scriv'ner !  fir'd  thy  brain 
^or  lordly  luxury,  nor  city  gain: 
No,  'twas  thy  righteous  end  ashamed  to  see 
Senates  degenerate,  patriots  disagree. 
And  nobly  wishing  partj^-rage  to  cease, 

"  \^]J  u^^^^-  ^^^^^'  ^"^  ^^^^  ^^^y  country  peace. 
*  r»        f       ^^  madness,'  cries  a  sober  sage  : 

But  who,  my  Friend !  has  reason  in  his  rage? 
Ihe  ruling  passion,  be  it  what  it  will, 
The  ruling  passion  conquers  reason  still.' 
Less  mad  the  wildest  whimsy  we  can  frame, 
Than  e'en  that  passion  if  it  has  no  ain  ; 
For  though  such  motives  folly  you  may  call, 
1  he  folly's  greater  to  have  none  at  all. 

Hear  then  the  truth :  *  'Tis  Heaven  each  passion  seiida. 
And  different  men  directs  to  different  ends. 
Extremes  in  nature  equal  good  produce ; 
Extremes  in  man  concur  to  general  use.' 
■^u    ^  ^^^*  makes  one  keep  and  one  bestow? 
Ihat  Power  who  bids  the  ocean  ebb  and  flow, 
Bids  seed-time,  harvest,  equal  course  maintain 
Ihrough  reconciled  extremes  of  drought  and  rain  ; 
Builds  life  on  death,  on  change  duration  founds, 
And  gives  the  eternal  wheels  to  know  their  rounds 

Riches,  like  insects,  when  concealed  they  lie, 
Wait  but  for  wings,  and  in  their  season  fly. 
21 


242  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Who  sees  pale  Mammon  pine  amidst  bis  store, 
Sees  but  a  backward  steward  for  the  poor; 
This  year  a  reservior  to  keep  and  spare, 
The  next  a  fountain  spouting  through  his  heir 
In  lavish  streams  to  quench  a  country's  thirst, 
And  men  and  dogs  shall  drink  him  till  they  burst, 

Old  Cotta  sham'd  his  fortune  and  his  birth, 
Yet  was  not  Cotta  void  of  wit  or  worth : 
What  though  (the  use  of  barbarous  spits  forgot) 
His  kitchen  vied  in  coolness  with  his  grot? 
His  court  with  nettles,  moats  with  cresses  stored, 
With  soups  unbought,  and  sallads,  blessed  his  board? 
If  Cctta  lived  on  pulse,  it  was  no  more 
Than  Brahmins,  saints,  and  sages,  did  before : 
To  cram  the  rich  was  prodigal  expense ; 
And  who  would  take  the  poor  from  Providence  ? 
Like  some  lone  Chartreux  stands  the  good  old  hall, 
Silence  without,  and  fasts  within  the  wall ; 
No  raftered  roofs  with  dance  and  tabor  sound, 
No  noontide  bell  invites  the  country  round; 
Tenants  with  sighs  the  smokeless  towers  survey, 
And  turn  the  unwilling  steeds  anocner  way; 
Benighted  wanderers  the  forest  o'er 
Curse  the  saved  candle  and  unopening  door; 
While  the  guant  mastiff,  growling  at  the  gate, 
Affrights  the  beggar  whom  he  longs  to  eat. 

Not  so  his  son ;  he  marked  this  oversight, 
And  then  mistook  reverse  of  wrong  for  right: 
(For  what  to  shun  will  no  great  knowledge  need, 
But  what  to  follow  is  a  task  indeed  I) 
Yet  sure  of  qualities  deserving  praise, 
More  go  to  ruin  fortunes  than  to  raise, 
What  slaughtered  hecatombs,  what  floods  of  wine, 
Fill  the  capacious  'squire  and  deep  divine  ! 
Yet  no  mean  motive  this  profusion  draws ; 
His  oxen  perish  in  his  country's  cause  ; 
'Tis  George  and  liberty  that  crowns  the  cup, 
And  zeal  for  that  great  house  which  eats  him  up. 
The  woods  recede  around  the  naked  seat. 
The  Sylvans  groan — no  matter — for  the  fleet: 
Next  goes  his  wool — to  clothe  our  valiant  bands; 
Last,  for  his  country's  love,  he  sells  his  lands. 
To  town  he  comes,  completes  the  nation's  hope, 
And  heads  the  bold  trainbands,  and  burns  a  pope: 
And  shall  not  Britain  now  reward  his  toils, 
Britain !  that  pays  her  patriots  with  her  spoils? 
In  vain  at  court  the  bankrupt  pleads  his  cause; 
His  thankless  country  leaves  him  to  her  laws. 

The  sense  to  value  riches,  with  the  art 
To  enjoy  them,  and  the  virtue  to  impart, 


MORAL   ESSAYS.  243 

Not  mcaiily  or  ambitiously  pursued, 

Not  sunk  by  sloth,  nor  raised  by  servitude; 

To  balance  fortune  by  a  just  expense, 

Join  with  economy  magnificence  ; 

With  splendour  charity,  with  plenty  health  ; 

Oh!  teach  us  Bathurst  1  yet  unspoiled  by  wealth  I 

That  secret  rare,  between  the  extremes  to  move 

Of  mad  good-nature  and  of  mean  self-love. 

B.  To  worth  or  want  well-weighed  be  bounty  giv'iij 
And  ease  or  emulate  the  care  of  heaven ; 
(Whose  measure  full  o'erflows  on  human  race) 
Mend  fortune's  fault,  and  justify  her  grace. 
Wealth  in  the  gros?  is  death,  but  life  diffused. 
As  poison  heals  in  just  proportion  used : 
In  heaps,  like  ambergris,  a  stink  it  lies ; 
But  well  dispersed,  is  incense  to  the  skies. 

P.  Who  starves  by  nobles,  or  with  nobles  eats? 
The  wretch  that  trusts  them  and  the  rogue  thatclteaUt 
Is  there  a  lord  who  knows  a  cheerful  noon, 
Without  a  fiddler,  flatterer,  or  buffoon  ? 
Whose  table  wit  or  modest  merit  share, 
Unelbowed  by  a  gamester,  pimp,  or  play'r? 
Who  copies  your's  or  Oxford's  better  part, 
To  ease  the  oppress'd,  and  raise  the  sinking  heart? 
Where'er  he  shines,  oh,  fortune!  gild  the  scene, 
And  angels  guard  him  in  the  golden  mean  ! 
There  English  bounty  yet  awhile  may  stand, 
And  honour  linger  ere  it  leaves  the  land. 

But  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  engross? 
Rise,  honest  muse  !  and  sing  the  Man  of  Ross : 
Pleas'd  Vaga  echoes  through  her  winding  bounds. 
And  rapid  Severn  hoarse  applauds  resounds. 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  mountain's  sultry  brovT? 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the  waters  flow? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns  toss'd, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost, 
But  clear  and  artless,  pouring  through  the  plain 
Health  to  the  sick,  and  solace  to  the  swain. 
Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows  ? 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose? 
Who  taught  that  heaven  directed  spire  to  rise  ? 
*  The  Man  of  Ross,'  each  lisping  babe  replies. 
Behold  the  market  place  with  poor  o'erspread  I 
The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread: 
He  feeds  yon  almshouse,  neat,  but  void  of  state, 
Where  age  and  want  sat  smiling  at  the  gate: 
Him  portioned  maids,  apprenticed  orphans  bless'd, 
The  young  who  labour,  and  the  old  who  rest. 
Is  any  sick?  The  Man  ot  Ross  relieves, 
Prescribes,  attends,  the  medicine  makes  and  gives. 


*J4t  MOK  \i.  rssvYS. 

Is  ihcvc  ;i  v.'iriiinoof  ontor  but  Ins  iliHir, 
U.ilkil  ail'  l\\c  courts,  and  couust  is  no  nioroJ 
l>osp;uiin;-v  niiaoks  with  oursos  tUnl  ihc  jilaco, 
And  viU'  attovnios  now  ati  usoU>ss  vaco 

l>,    Thrico  hanpv  n\aji !  on  iMihI  to  innsuo 
^Vhat  all  si>  wisn.  but  want  tiio  |>owtr  to  ilo  ; 
0\\\  say  wl\at  snnis  tint  i^onorous  haml  sni^jily  f 
NVhat  t>\ino^  to  swoU  that  lHnn\dloss  ohavity  ' 

l\  ()t"  debts  ami  taxfs,  witV  and  chiUlron,  i"U\ir. 
This  man  possoss'd  — tivo  hmidrod  pounds  a-\car. 
l»lnsh.  ijranilonr!  blush;  proud  com-ts!  witluliaw  your 
Yo  litllo  stars!  hido  your  dinunish'd  rays.  [blaze, 

I).   Anil  what  i   no  nionvuncnt,  insorij^tion,  stono, 
His  rai'i\  his  t'orni    his  i\anu\  almost  unknmvnf 

r.   Who  builds  a  ohuroh  to  Ciod.  ai\il  not  to  fanio, 
Will  novor  niark  tho  niarblo  with  his  name. 
(.lO  !  soari'h  it  thoro,  whoro  to  bi'  born  and  die 
()f  rich  and  poor  niakos  all  tho  history  ; 
Knough  that  virtuo  till'd  tlio  spact*  botwoon, 
IVovod  by  tho  onds  ot"  boing  to  havo  boon. 
Whon  Hopkins  dios,  a  thousand  lights  attond 
Tho  wrotoli  who  livin^j  savod  a  oandlo's  ond: 
Sho\ddorin;v  Ciod's  altar  a  vilo  imago  stands, 
ludios  his  toatiitrs,  nay.  oxtonds  his  hai\ds; 
That  livo-loui?  wiu;,  whioh  tiorgon's  solt"  mii:;ht  own. 
Ktornal  buoklo  taVos  in  TariaiA  stono. 
lu'hold  what  blossings  woalth  to  litV  cai\  lend ! 
And  soo  what  oomtort  it  atlords  our  ond.  U 

In  tho  worst  inn's  worst  room,  with  mat  halt-hiing,  ;  ■ 

Tho  tloors  ot'  plastor,  and  tho  walls  ot"d\msr. 
Oil  onco  t\  tloc\-bod.  but  rcpaird  v.  ith  straw. 
With  tapo-tiod  ourtains,  uovor  moant  to  draw, 
Tlio  Cioorgo  and  (i  art  or  ilans;lin!;;  tVom  that  bod 
\\  horo  tawdry  vollow  strovo  witli  dirty  rod, 
(iroat  Villiors  hos — alas!  how  olum,:;od  tVom  him, 
That  lit'o  ot'ploasiuv  and  that  sov\l  otwhim! 
Ciallaiit  and  ijay,  in  Clivodoi\"s  proud  aloove, 
Tho  bowor  ot  wanton  Shrowsbin-y  and  Lovo; 
(h- just  as  gay  at  oounoil.  in  a  rin^r 
Ot'mimic'd  statosmon  and  thoir  morry  king:; 
No  wit  to  tlatior.  lot't  ot'  all  his  store  I 
No  tool  to  lauiih  at,  whioh  ho  valuod  more; 
Thoro,  victor  of"  his  health,  ot'tortuno,  tViends, 
And  fame,  this  lord  of  useless  thousands  onds! 

His  sfraoe's  tato  sasje  Cutler  could  toiYsoo. 
And  well  vhc  thought^  advised  him.  '  Live  like  me,' 
As  well  his  irrace  replied. '  Like  you.  Sir  John  f 
That  1  can  i\o  when  all  I  have  is  gone  I' 
Resolve  n\e.  reason,  which  ot"  those  is  worse, 
Want  with  a  full  or  with  an  empty  purse  i 


n 


J 


■^.*^•■ 


MOaAL    KSfAYI.  '2Vj 

'fli^  life  more  wretched,  Cutler !  was  confeas'd ; 

Arise  and  tell  ine,  wjxh  thy  d«rath  more  ble»M'd? 

Cutler  Haw  teuantH  break  and  lihwic.i  fall ; 

Tor  very  want  he  could  not  build  a  wall. 

Ili«  only  <\-rHiy;\ii<:r  j'jj  a  ^trarif^er'ji  power; 

J*'or  v>;ry  want  he  could  not  pay  aaower. 

A  few  grey  hairH  bih  reverend  lenijjIeH  crown'd  ; 

"i'wa'j  very  want  tbat  Hold  tbet/i  for  two  pound. 

VVIiat!  e'en  denied  a  cordial  at  bin  end, 

BariiHh'd  the  doctor,  and  expell'd  tbe  friend? 

Wbat  but  a  want  wliich  you  nerbapn  tbink  mad, 

Yet  nuniberH  feel  the  want  of  v/hat  be  bad! 

Cutler  and  iirutus  dying,  both  exclaim, 

*  Virtue  !  and  Weakb !  wbat  are  ye  but  a  name?' 
Say,  for  Hiicb  worth  are  oLiier  v/orlds  prepared? 

Or  are  they  botb,  in  tbin.  tbeirown  reward? 

A  knotty  point!  to  which  we  now  [proceed. 

Ijut  you  are  tired  — 111  tell  a  tale— IJ.  agreed. 

P.   Wliere  London'-i  column,  pointing  at  the  Hkien, 

Like  a  tall  bully,  liftH  tbe  iiead  and  liea, 

Tliere  dwelt  a  citizen  of  nober  fame, 

A  plain  good  nian,  and  lialaaro  v/an  his  name; 

iteligiou:-;,  punctual,  frugal,  and  bo  forth  ; 

If  in  word  v/ould  pans  for  more  tban  be  wa:i  worth. 

One  Kolid  dihb  bis  week-da^  meal  affords. 

An  added  pudding  wActnmzcA  tbe  Lord'n: 

Constant  at  cburcb  and  'Cbange:  hw  gains  were  Kure 

Ifis  givingH  rare,  nave  fartbing/*  to  the  poor. 

Tbe  deVil  was  piqued  such  Ruintship  to  behold, 
And  long'd  t^>  tempt  bim  like  good  Job  of  old  ; 
But  Satan  now  is  winer  than  ofyore, 
And  tempts  by  making  ricb,  not  making  poor. 

Roused  by  tbe  IVince  of  Air,  the  wbirlv/ind;i  K7/eep 
Tbe  Hurge,  and  plunge  bis  fatber  in  the  deep; 
'i"hen  full  againit  bin  Cornioh  lanrLi  they  roar. 
And  two  rich  hbipwrecks  blesu'd  the  lucky  »hore. 

Sir  lialaam  now  be  Hvch  like  otber  folkjj, 
If  e  takes  bis  cbirning  pint  and  cracks  bin  jokes. 
'  Live  like  yourself,'  wan  soon  iny  lady's  word: 
And,  lo!  tv/o  puddings  smoked  upon  the  board. 

Asleep  and  naked  as  an  Indian  lay, 
An  bon<--,t  factor  stole  a  gem  away: 
He  pledged  it  to  tbe  knight;  tbe  knight  had  wit, 
So  kept  the  diamond,  and  tbe  rograe  was  bit. 
Some  scruple  rose,  but  tbus  be  eased  bis  thought, 
'  I'll  now  give  gixi>ence  where  I  gave  a  groat : 
Wliere  once  I  went  to  cburch  I'll  now  go  twice — 
And  am  so  clear  too  of  all  otljer  vice  !' 

The  tempter  saw  hi**  time,  tbe  work  he  plied  ; 
Stocka  and  KubacriptiouK  pour  on  every  Blue, 
21* 


246  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

Till  all  the  demon  makes  his  full  descent 
In  one  abundant  shower  of  cent,  per  cent. 
Sinks  deep  within  him,  and  possesses  whole, 
Then  dubs  director,  and  secures  his  soul. 

Behold  Sir  Balaam,  now  a  man  of  spirit, 
Ascribes  his  gettings  to  his  parts  and  merit ; 
What  late  he  call'd  a  blessing  now  was  wit, 
And  God's  good  providence  a  lucky  hit. 
Things  change  their  titles  as  our  manners  turn; 
His  compting-house  employ 'd  the  Sunday  morn; 
Seldom  at  church,  ('twas  such  a  busy  life,) 
But  duly  sent  his  family  and  wife. 
There,  so  the  devil  ordain'd,  one  Christmas-tide 
My  good  old  lady  catch'd  a  cold  and  died. 

A  nymph  of  quality  admires  our  knight; 
He  marries,  bows  at  court,  and  grows  polite ; 
Leaves  the  dull  Cits,  and  joins  (to  please  the  fair' 
The  well-bred  cuckolds  in  St.  James's  air: 
First  for  his  son  a  gay  commission  buys, 
Who  drinks,  whores,  fights,  and  in  a  duel  dies : 
His  daughter  flaunts  a  viscount's  tawdry  wife; 
She  bears  a  coronet  and  p — x  for  life. 
In  Britain's  senate  he  a  seat  obtains, 
And  one  more  pensioner  St.  Stephen  gains. 
My  lady  falls  to  play  ;  so  bad  her  chance, 
He  must  repair  it;  takes  a  bribe  from  France. 
The  House  impeach  him  ;  Coningsby  harangues; 
The  Court  forsake  him,  and  Sir  Balaam  hangs. 
Wife,  son,  and  daughter,  Satan !  are  thy  own ; 
His  wealth,  j^et  dearer,  forfeit  to  the  crown: 
The  devil  and  the  king  divide  the  prize; 
Ai.d  sad  Sir  Balaam  curses  God  and  dies* 


r 


247 


EPISTLL    IV. 

TO  RICHARD  BOYLE,  EARL  OF  BURLINGTON. 
OF   THE    USE    OF    RICHES 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

The  ranity  of  expense  in  people  of  wealth  and  quality.  The  abuse 
of  the  word  taste,  v.  13.  That  the  first  principles  and  foundation  in 
this,  as  in  everything  else,  is  good  sense,  v.  40.  The  chief  proof  of 
it  is  to  follow  nature,  even  in  works  of  mere  luxury  and  elegance. 
Instanced  in  architecture  and  gardening,  where  all  mu.st  be  adapted 
to  the  genius  and  use  of  the  place,  and  the  beauties  not  forced  into  it, 
but  resulting  from  it,  v.  50.  How  men  are  disappoii.ted  in  tlicir 
most  expensive  undertakings  for  want  of  this  true  foundation,  with- 
out which  nothing  can  please  long,  if  at  all ;  and  the  best  e.xamplos 
and  rules  will  be  but  perverted  into  something  burthensorne  and 
ridiculous,  v.  65  to  92.  A  description  of  the  false  taste  of  magnifi- 
cence; the  first  grand  error  of  which  is  to  imagine  that  greatness 
consists  in  the  size  and  dimension,  instead  of  the  proportion  and 
harmony,  of  the  whole,  v.  97:  and  the  second,  either  in  joining 
together  parts  incoherent,  or  too  minutely  resembling,  or,  lu  the  re- 
petition of  the  same,  too  frequently,  v.  105,  &c.  A  word  or  two  of 
false  taste  in  books,  in  music,  in  painting,  even  in  pre.ichmg  and 
prayer:  and,  lastly,  in  entertainments;  v.  133,  &c.  Yet  Providence 
is  justified  in  giving  wealth  to  be  squandered  in  this  manner,  since  it 
is  dispersed  to  the  poor  and  laborious  part  of  mankind,  v.  169,  (re- 
earring  to  what  is  laid  down  in  the  First  Bock,  Ep:.^tle  :i.  and  in  tlie 
Kpistle  preceding  this,  v.  159,  &c.)  What  are  the  proper  cbjects  of 
magnificence,  and  a  proper  field  for  the  expense  of  great  men,  v.  177, 
&c°  And,  Jhially,  the  great  and  public  works  which  become  a  prince, 
V.  191,  to  the  end. 

'Tis  strange  the  miser  should  his  cares  employ 
To  gain  those  riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy: 
Is  it  less  strange  the  prodigal  should  waste 
His  wealth  to  purchase  what  he  ne'er  can  taste 
Not  for  himself  he  sees,  or  hears,  or  eats  ; 
Artists  must  choose  his  pictures,  music,  meats. 
He  buys  for  Topham  drawings  and  designs, 
For  Pembroke  statues,  dirty  gods,  and  coins; 
Rare  monkish  manuscripts  for  Hearne  alone, 
And  books  for  Mead,  and  butterflies  for  Sloane. 
Think  we  all  these  are  for  himself?  no  more 
Than  his  fine  v/ife,  alas!  or  finer  whore. 

For  what  has  Virro  painted,  built,  and  planted? 
Only  to  show  how  many  tastes  he  wanted. 


248  iMOKAi>    r.?3AV.?, 

What  brought  Sir  Vislo's  ili-got  wcaltli  to  v/aste? 
Some  demon  whisper'd,  '  Visto!  have  a  taste.' 
Heaven  visits  with  a  taste  the  wealthy  foolj, 
And  needs  no  rod  but  Ripley  with  a  rule. 
See!  sportive  fate,  to  punish  awkward  pride, 
Bids  Bubo  build,  and  sends  him  such  a  guide  : 
A  standing  sermon  at  each  year's  expense, 
That  never  coxcomb  reach'd  magnificence ! 
You  shew  us  Rome  was  glorious,  not  profuse, 
And  pompous  buildings  once  were  things  of  use ; 
Yet  shall,  my  lord,  your  just,  yovir  noble  rules 
Fill  half  the  land  with  imitating  fools, 
Who  random  drawings  from  your  sheets  shall  take 
And  of  one  beauty  many  blunders  make  ; 
Load  some  vain  church  with  old  theatric  state, 
Turn  arcs  of  triumph  to  a  garden  gate  ,• 
Reverse  your  ornaments,  and  hang  them  all 
On  some  patch'd  doghole  eked  with  ends  of  wall  j 
Then  clap  four  slices  of  pilaster  on't, 
That  laced  with  bits  of  rustic  makes  a  front; 
Shall  call  the  winds  through  long  arcades  to  roar 
Proud  to  catch  cold  at  a  Venetian  door. 
Conscious  they  act  a  true  Palladian  part. 
And  if  they  starve,  they  starve  by  rules  of  art. 

Oft  have  you  hinted  to  your  brother  peer 
A  certain  truth,  which  many  buy  too  dear : 
Something  there  is  more  needful  than  expense, 
And  something  previous  e'en  to  taste — 'tis  sense; 
Good  sense,  which  only  is  the  gift  of  Heaven, 
And  though  no  science,  fairly  worth  the  seven; 
A  light  which  in  yourself  you  must  perceive  ; 
Jones  and  Le  Notre  have  it  not  to  give. 

To  build,  to  plant,  whatever  you  intend, 
To  rear  the  column,  or  the  arch  to  bend, 
To  swell  the  terrace,  or  to  sink  the  grot. 
In  all  let  Nature  never  be  forgot; 
But  treat  the  goddess  like  a  modest  fair. 
Nor  overdress,  nor  leave  her  wholly  bare ; 
Let  not  each  beauty  everywhere  be  spied, 
Where  half  the  skill  is  decently  to  hide. 
He  gains  all  points  who  pleasingly  confounds^ 
Surprises,  varies,  and  conceals  the  bounds. 

Consult  the  genius  of  the  place  in  all, 
That  tells  the  waters  or  to  rise  or  fall : 
Or  helps  the  ambitious  hill  the  heavens  to  scale, 
Or  scoops  in  circling  theatres  the  vale  ; 
Calls  in  the  country,  catches  opening  glades, 
Joins  willing  woods,  and  varies  shades  from  shades 
Now  breaks,  or  now  directs,  the  intending  lines, 
Paints  as  you  plant,  and  as  you  work  designs. 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  24G 

Still  follow  sense,  of  every  art  the  soul, 
Parts  answering  parts  shall  slide  into  a  whole. 
Spontaneous  beauties  all  around  advance, 
Start  e'en  from  difficulty,  strike  from  chance: 
Nature  shall  join  you;  time  shall  make  it  grow 
A  work  to  wonder  at — perhaps  a  Stow. 

Without  it,  proud  Versailles!  thy  glory  falls, 
And  Nero's  terraces  desert  their  walls: 
The  vast  parterres  a  thousand  hands  shall  make, 
Lo !  Cobham  comes,  and  floats  them  with  a  lake : 
Or  cut  wide  views  through  mountains  to  the  plain, 
You'll  wish  your  hill  or  shelter'd  seat  again. 
E'en  in  an  ornament  its  place  remark. 
Nor  in  an  hermitage  set  Dr.  Clarke. 

Behold  Villario's  ten  years'  toil  complete. 
His  quincunx  darkens,  his  espaliers  meet. 
The  wood  supports  the  plains,  the  parts  unite, 
And  strength  of  shade  contends  with  strength  of  light; 
A  waving  glow  the  bloomy  beds  display, 
Blushing  in  bright  diversities  of  day. 
With  silver  quivering  rills  meander'd  o'er — 
Enjoy  them  you!  Villario  can  no  more: 
Tired  of  the  scene  parterres  and  foimtains  yield. 
He  finds  at  last  he  better  likes  a  field. 

Throughhisyoungwoodshowpleased  Sabinus  stray'd^ 
Or  sat  delighted  in  the  thickening  shade. 
With  annual  joy  the  reddening  shoots  to  greet, 
Or  see  the  stretching  branches  long  to  meet ! 
His  son's  fine  taste  an  opener  vista  loves. 
Foe  to  the  .Dryads  of  his  father's  groves  ; 
One  boundless  green  or  flourish'd  carpet  views, 
With  all  the  mournful  family  of  yews  ; 
The  thriving  plants,  ignoble  broomsticks  made, 
Now  sweep  those  alleys  they  were  born  to  shade. 

At  Timon's  villa  let  us  pass  a  day; 
Where  all  cry  out,  '  What  sums  are  thrown  away ! ' 
So  pi-oud^  so  grand  ;  of  that  stupendous  air 
Soft  and  agreeable  come  never  there. 
,  Greatness  with  Timon  dwells  in  such  a  draught 
As  brings  all  Brobdingnag  before  your  thought; 
To  compass  this  his  building  is  a  town, 
His  pond  an  ocean,  his  parterre  a  down: 
Who  but  must  laugh  the  master  when  he  sees 
A  puny  insect  shivering  at  a  breeze : 
IjO,  what  huge  heaps  of  littleness  around  ! 
The  whole  a  labour'd  quarry  above  ground. 
Two  Cupids  squirt  before;  a  lake  behind 
Improves  tlie  keenness  of  tie  northern  wind. 
His  gardens  next  yonr  admiration  call  ; 
On  every  side  you  look  behold  the  wail! 


J 


250  MORAL    ESSAYS. 

No  pleasing  intricacies  intervene, 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene; 
Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  alley  has  a  brother, 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other. 
The  suffering  eye  inverted  nature  sees, 
Trees  cut  to  statues,  statues  thick  as  trees ; 
"With  here  a  fountain  never  to  be  play'd, 
And  there  a  summer-house  that  knows  no  shade; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  through  myrtle  bovvers, 
There  gladiators  fight  or  die  m  flowers; 
Unwater'd  see  the  drooping  seahorse  mourn, 
And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  urn. 

My  lord  advances  with  majestic  mien, 
Smit  with  the  mighty  pleasure  to  be  seen. 
But  soft — by  regular  approach — not  yet- 
First  through  the  length  of  yon  hot  terrace  sw2at 
Andwhen  up  ten  steep  slopes  you've  dragged  your  ihiglis, 
Just  at  his  study  door  he'll  bless  your  eyes. 

His  study  !  with  what  authors  is  it  stored ! 
In  books,  not  authors,  curious  is  my  lord ; 
To  all  their  dated  backs  he  turns  you  round; 
These  Aldus  printed,  those  Du  Sueil  has  bound! 
Lo,  some  are  vellum,  and  the  rest  as  good, 
For  all  his  lordship  knows,  but  they  are  wood  I 
For  Locke  or  Milton  'tis  in  vain-to  look  ; 
These  shelves  admit  not  any  modern  book. 

And  now  the  chapel's  silver  bell  you  hear, 
That  summons  you  to  all  the  pride  of  prayer: 
Light  quirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven. 
On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare, 
Where  sprawl  the  saints  of  Verrio  or  Laguerre, 
Or  gilded  clouds  in  fair  expansion  lie, 
And  bring  all  Paradise  before  your  eye. 
To  rest,  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite, 
Who  never  mentions  hell  to  ears  polite. 

But,  hark!  the  chiming  clocks  to  dinner  call; 
A  hundred  footsteps  scrape  the  marble  hall: 
The  rich  buffet  well-colour'd  serpents  grace, 
And  gaping  Tritons  spew  to  wash  your  face. 
Is  this  a  dinner?  this  a  genial  room? 
No,  it's  a  temple  and  a  hecatomb ; 
A  solemn  sacrifice  perform'd  in  state ; 
You  drink  by  measure,  and  to  minutes  eat. 
So  quick  retires  each  flying  course,  you'd  swear 
Sancho's  dread  doctor  and  his  wand  were  tlicre. 
Betv/een  each  act  the  trembling  salvers  ring, 
From  sovip  to  sweet  wine,  and  God  bless  the  king. 
In  plenty  starving,  tantalized  in  state, 
And  complaisantly  help'd  to  all  I  hate, 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  251 

Treated,  caress'd,  and  tired,  I  take  my  leave, 
Sick  of  his  civil  pride  from  morn  to  eve  ; 
I  curse  such  lavish  cost  and  little  skill, 
And  swear  no  day  was  ever  pass'd  so  ill. 

Yet  hence  the  poor  are  clothed,  the  hungry  fed; 
Health  to  himself  and  to  his  infants  bread 
The  labourer  bears;  what  his  hard  heart  denies 
His  charitable  vanity  supplies. 

Another  age  shall  see  the  golden  ear 
Imbrown  the  slope,  and  nod  on  the  parterre  ; 
Deep  harvests  bury  all  his  pride  has  plann'd, 
And  laughing  Ceres  reassume  the  land. 

Who  then  shall  grace  or  who  improve  the  soil? 
Who  plants  like  Bathurst,  or  who  builds  like  Boyle  f 
'Tis  use  alone  that  sanctifies  expense, 
And  Splendour  borrows  all  her  rays  from  Sense. 

His  father's  acres  who  enjoys  in  peace, 
Or  makes  his  neighbours  glad  if  he  increase ; 
Whose  cheerful  tenants  bless  their  yearly  toil, 
Yet  to  their  lord  owe  more  than  to  the  soil ; 
Whose  ample  lawns  are  not  ashamed  to  feed 
The  milky  heifer  and  deserving  steed; 
Whose  rising  forests  not  for  pride  or  show, 
But  future  buildings,  future  navies,  grow  ; 
Let  his  plantations  stretch  from  down  to  down, 
First  shade  a  country,  and  then  raise  a  town. 

You,  too,  proceed !  make  falling  arts  your  care, 
Erect  new  wonders,  and  the  old  repair; 
Jones  and  Palladio  to  themselves  restore, 
And  be  whate'er  Vitruvius  was  before  : 
Till  kings  call  forth  the  ideas  of  your  mind, 
(Proud  to  accomplish  what  such  hands  design'd,) 
Bid  harbours  open,  public  ways  extend. 
Bid  temples  worthier  of  the  God  ascend  ; 
Bid  the  broad  arch  the  dangerous  flood  contain, 
The  mole  projected  break  the  roaring  main  ; 
Back  to  his  bounds  their  subject  sea  command, 
And  roll  obedient  rivers  through  the  land  : 
These  honours  peace  to  happy  Britain  brings; 
These  are  imperial  works,  and  worthy  kings. 


2^ 


EPISTLE     V. 

TO  MR.  ADDISON. 
[occasioned  by  his  dialogues  on  medals,  j 

See  the  wild  waste  of  all -devouring  years ! 

How  Rome  her  own  sad  sei^ulchre  appears, 

With  nodding  arches,  broken  temples,  spread  ! 

The  very  tombs  now  vanis'i'dlike  their  dead; 

Imperial  wonders  raised  on  nations  spoii'd, 

Where  mix'd  with  slaves  the  groaning  martyr  toil'ds 

Huge  theatres,  that  now  unpeopled  woods, 

Now  drain 'd  a  distant  country  of  her  floods  ; 

Fanes,  which  admiring  gods  with  pride  survey, 

Statues  of  men  scarce  less  alive  than  they ! 

Some  felt  the  silent  stroke  of  mouldering  age, 

Some  hostile  fury,  some  religious  rage : 

Barbarian  blindness,  Chi'istian  zeal  conspire, 

And  papal  piety  and  gothic  fire. 

Perhaps,  by  its  own  ruins  saved  from  flame, 

Some  buried  marble  half  preserves  a  name; 

That  name  the  learn' d  with  fierce  disputes  pursue, 

And  gives  to  Titus  old  Vespasian's  due. 

Ambition  sigh'd ;  she  found  it  vain  to  trust 
The  faithless  column  and  the  crumbling  bust ; 
Huge  moles,  whose  shadov/s  stretch'd  fvom  shore  to 
Their  ruins  perish'd,  and  their  place  no  more  :    [•'^'lore, 
Convinced  she  now  contracts  her  vast  design, 
And  all  her  triumphs  shrinks  into  a  coin, 
A  narrow  orb  each  crowded  conquest  keeps, 
Beneath  her  palm  here  sad  Judea  weeps. 
Now  scantier  limits  the  proud  arch  confine, 
And  scarce  are  seen  the  prostrate  Nile  or  Rhine ; 
A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  voil'd. 
And  little  eagles  wave  their  wings  in  gold. 

The  medal,  faithful  to  its  charge  of  faine, 
Through  climes  and  ages  bears  each  form  and  name: 
In  on!'  short  view  subjected  to  our  eye, 
Gods,  emperors,  heroes,  sages,  beauties,  lie. 


MORAL    ESSAYS.  253 

With  sharpened  sight  pale  antiquaries  pore, 
The  inscription  vahie,  but  the  rust  adore. 
This  the  blue  varnish,  that  the  green  endears, 
The  sacred  rust  of  twice  ten  hundred  years! 
To  gain  Pescennius  one  employs  his  schemes, 
One  grasps  a  Cecrops  in  ecstatic  dreams. 
Poor  Vadius,  long  with  learned  spleen  devoured, 
Can  taste  no  pleasure  since  his  shield  was  scoured ; 
And  Curio,  restless  by  the  fair-one's  side, 
Sighs  for  an  Otho,  and  neglects  his  bride. 

Theirs  is  the  vanity,  the  learning  thine: 
Touched  by  thy  hand  again  Rome's  glories  shine; 
Her  gods  and  godlike  heroes  rise  to  view, 
And  all  her  faded  garlands  bloom  anew. 
Nor  blush  these  studies  thy  regard  engage ; 
These  pleased  the  fathers  of  poetic  rage; 
The  verse  and  sculpture  bore  an  equal  part, 
And  art  reflected  images  to  art. 

Oh !  when  shall  Britain,  conscious  of  her  claim, 
Stand  emulous  of  Greek  and  Roman  fame  ? 
In  living  medals  see  her  walls  enrolled. 
And  vanquished  realms  supply  recording  gold? 
Here,  rising  bold,  the  patriot's  honest  face, 
There  warriors  frowning  in  historic  brass; 
Then  future  ages  with  delight  shall  see 
How  Plato's,  Bacon's,  Newton's,  looks  agree; 
Or  in  fair  series  laurelled  bards  be  shown, 
A  Virgil  there,  and  here  an  Addison  : 
Then  shall  thy  Craggs  (and  let  me  call  him  mine) 
On  the  cast  ore  another  Pollio  shine ; 
With  aspect  open  shall  erect  his  head. 
And  round  the  orb  in  lasting  notes  be  read, 
'  Statesmen,  yet  friend  to  truth  !  of  soul  sincere 
In  action  faithful,  and  in  honour  clear ; 
Who  broke  no  promise,  served  no  private  en^ 
Who  gained  no  title,  and  who  lost  no  friend 
Ennobled  by  himself,  by  all  approved. 
And  praised  unen\ied  by  the  muse  he  loved> 


SATIRES,  EPISTLES,  AND  ODES, 
HORACE     IMITATED. 


[published  in  1737.] 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  occasion  of  publishing  these  Imitations  waa  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  sver  so 
high  a  station.  Both  these  authors  were  acceptable  to  the  ])rinces 
and  ministers  under  whom  they  lived.  The  satires  of  Dr.  Donne  I 
versified  at  the  desire  of  the  E;ul  of  Oxford,  while  he  was  Lord 
Treasurer,  and  of  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  who  had  boon  Secretary 
of  State,  neither  of  whom  looked  iii)on  a  satire  on  vicious  courts  as 
any  reflection  on  those  they  served  in.  And  indeed  there  is  not  in 
the  world  a  great-^r  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. — Pope. 


BOOK   II.      SATIRE    I. 

TO  MR.  FORTESCUE, 

P.  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  pleas,d  to  say ; 
Lord  Fanny  spins  a  thousand  such  a  day. 
Tim'rous  by  nature,  of  the  rich  in  awe, 
I  come  to  council  learned  in  the  law : 


IMITATIONS    OF    HOAACE.  255 

you'll  give  me,  like  a  friend  both  sage  and  free. 
Advice  ;  and  (as  you  used)  without  a  fee. 
F.   I'd  write  no  more. 

P.  Not  write  ?  But  then  I  think, 
And  for  my  soul  I  cannot  sleep  a  wink. 
1  nod  in  company,  I  v/ake  at  night, 
Fools  rush  into  my  head,  and  so  I  write. 

F.  You  could  not  do  a  worse  thing  for  your  life. 
Why,  if  the  night  seems  tedious— take  a  wife : 
Or  rather,  truly,  if  your  point  be  rest, 
Lettuce  and  cowslip  wine:  probatum  est. 
But  talk  with  Celsus,  Celsus  will  advise 
Hartshorn,  or  something  that  shall  close  your  eyes 
Or  if  you  needs  must  write,  write  Caesar's  praise  • 
You  11  gain  at  least  a  knighthood  or  the  bays.       ' 

P.  What?  like  Sir  Richard,  rumbling,  rough  and  fierce, 
With  arms,  andGeorge,  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? 

F.  Then  all  your  muse's  softer  art  display, 
Let  Carolina  smooth  the  tuneful  lay ; 
Lull  with  Amelia's  liquid  name  the  nine, 
And  sweetly  flow  through  all  the  royal  line. 
P.  Alas !  few  verses  touch  their  nicer  ear  ; 

They  scarce  can  bear  their  laureat  twice  a-year  ; 

And  justly  Caesar  scorns  the  poets'  lays; 

It  is  to  history  he  trusts  for  praise. 

F.  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. 

E'en  those  you  touch  not  hate  you. 

P.  What  should  ail  'em  ? 
F.  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. 

P.  Each  mortal  has  his  pleasure  :  none  deny 

Scarsdale  his  bottle,  Darty  his  ham-pie  : 

Ridotto   ips  and  dances  till  she  see 

She  dou  ling  lustres  dance  as  fast  as  she: 

F— loves  the  senate,  Hockleyhoie  his  brother, 

Like  in  all  else  as  one  egg  to  another. 

I  love  to  pour  out  all  myself  as  plain 

As  downright  Shippeu  or  as  old  Montaigne : 

In  them,  as  certain  lo  be  loved  as  seen. 

The  soi  1  stood  forth,  nor  kept  a  thought  within; 

In  me  w  hat  spots,  for  spots  I  have,  appear, 

Will  pr  ve  at  least  the  medium  must  be  dear. 


256  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

In  this  impartial  glass  my  nuise  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; 

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, 

Verseman  or  Proseman,  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 ; 
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. 

Slander  or  poison  dread  from  Delia's  rage ; 
Hard  words  or  hanging,  if  your  judge  be  Page: 
From  furious  Sappho  scarce  a  milder  fate, 
P-x'd  by  her  love,  or  libelled  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  Chatres  eat, 
They'll  never  poison  you,  they'll  only  cheat.  y| 

Then,  learned  Sir!  to  cut  the  matter  short,  J 

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  displayed, 
To  wrap  me  in  the  universal  shade ; 
Whether  the  darkened  room  to  muse  in  tits, 
Or  whitened  wall  provoke  the  skewer  to  write ; 
In  durance,  exile,  Bedlam,  or  the  Mint, 
Like  Lee  or  Budgell,  I  will  rhyme  and  print. 

F.  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. 

P.  What?  armed  for  virtue  when  I  point  the  pen 
Brand  the  bold  front  of  sliameless  guilty  men, 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  257 

Dash  tne  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? 
Could  pensioned  Boileau  lash  in  honest  strain 
Flatt'rers  and  bigots  e'en  in  Louis'  reign? 
Could  Laureat  Dryden  pimp  and  friar  engage. 
Yet  neither  Charles  nor  James  be  in  a  rage? 
And  I  not  strip  the  gilding  off  a  knave, 
Unplaced,  unpensioned,  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  1  live,  no  rich  or  noble  knave 
Shall  walk  the  world  in  credit  to  his  grave : 
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  sooths  my  sleep  : 

There  my  retreat  the  best  compaiiions  gi-ace, 
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  pierced  the  Iberian  lines, 
Now  forms  my  quincunx,  and  now  ranks  my  vines; 
Or  tames  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  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, 
This  is  my  plea,  on  this  I  rest  my  cause — 
What  saith  my  counsel  learned  in  the  laws? 

F.  Your  plea  is  good ;  but  still  I  say  beware  ' 
Laws  are  explained  by  men — so  have  a  care. 
It  stands  on  record,  that  in  Richard's  times, 
A  man  was  hanged  for  very  honest  rhymes. 
Consult  the  Statue  ;  quart.  I  think  it  is, 
Edward  sext.  or  prim,  et  quint.  Eliz. 
See  libels,  satires — here  you  have  it — read. 

P.  Libels  and  satires!  lawless  things  indeed! 
But  grave  epistles,  bringing  vice  to  light, 
Such  as  a  king  might  read,  a  bishop  write. 
Such  as  Sir  Robert  would  approve— F.  Indeed! 
The  case  is  altered — you  may  then  proceed: 
In  such  a  case  the  plaintiff  will  be  hissed, 
My  lords  the  judgts  laugh,  and  you're  dismissed 

22* 


258 


BOOK   II.      SATIRE   II. 


TO  MR.  BETHEL. 

>»'hat,  and  how  great,  the  virtue  and  the  art 
To  live  on  little  with  a  cheerful  heart ! 
(A  doctrine  sage,  but  ti-uly  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  school% 
l)ut  strong  in  sense,  and  wise  without  the  rules. 

*  Go  work,  hunt,  exercise,'  he  thus  began; 
*  Then  scorn  a  homely  dinner  if  you  can. 
Your  wine  locked  up,  your  butler  strolled  abroad, 
Or  fish  denied,  (the  river  yet  unthawed,) 
If  then  plain  bread  and  milk  will  do  the  feat, 
The  yjleasure  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, 
I'^xcept  you  eat  the  feathers  green  and  gold. 
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,  with  more  than  Harpy  throat  endued, 
Cries,    Send  me,  gods     a  whole  hog  barbecued  I* 
Oh  blast  it,  south-winds !  till  a  stench  exhale 
Hank  as  the  ripeness  of  a  rabbit's  tail. 
By  what  criterion  do  you  eat,  d'ye  think. 
If  this  be  prized  for  sweetness,  tbat  for  stink? 
When  the  tired  glutton  labours  through  a  treat, 
He  finds  no  relish  in  the  sweetest  meat;  lg 

He  calls  for  something  bitter,  something  sour,  !  I 

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. 


IMITATIONS    o;-    HORACE.  259 

Till  beccaficos  sold  so  devilisli  dear 

To  one  that  was,  or  would  have  been,  a  peer. 

Let  me  extol  a  cat  on  oysters  fed, 

I'll  have  a  party  at  the  Bedford-head  ; 

Or  e'en  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,) 
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  drowned,) 
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, 
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  Nsevius,  every  error  pass, 
The  musty  wine,  foul  cloth,  or  greasy  glass. 

Now  hear  what  blessings  temi)erance  can  bring: 
(Thus  said  our  friend,  and  what  he  said  I  sing.) 
First  health :  the  stomacli  (crammed  from  every  dish 
A  tomb  of  boiled  and  roast,  and  flesh  and  fish. 
Where  bile,  and  wind,  and  phlegm,  and  acid,  jar, 
A.nd  all  the  man  is  one  intestine  war) 
Remembers  oft  the  schoolboy's  simple  fare. 
The  temperate  sleeps,  and  spirits  light  as  air. 

How  pale  each  worship*"ul  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 
To  seem  but  mortal  e'en  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  mere  the  sickness  of  long  life*  old  age  - 


280  IMITATIONS   OF   HORACB. 

For  fainting  age  what  cordial  drop  remains, 
If  our  intemperate  youth  the  vessel  drains? 

Our  fathers  praised  rank  vension.     You  suppose, 
Perliaps,  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  be  the  voice  of  fame  to  hear, 
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  learned  fresh  sturgeon  and  ham-pie 
Are  no  rewards  for  want  and  infamy ! 
When  luxury  has  lick'd  up  all  thy  pelf, 
Cuvs'd  be  thy  neighbours,  thy  trustees,  thyself; 
To  friends,  to  fortune,  to  mankind,  a  shame. 
Think  how  posterity  will  treat  thy  name  ; 
And  by  a  rope,  that  future  times  may  tell 
Thou  hast  at  least  bestowed  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  unwieldly,  and  my  heap  too  great, 
Then,  like  the  sun,  let  bounty  spread  her  ray, 
And  shine  that  superfluity  away.  - 

Oh  impudence  of  wealtli !  with  all  thy  store, 
How  dar'st  thou  let  one  worthy  man  be  poor? 
Shall  half  the  new-built  churches  round  thee  fall? 
Make  quays,  build  bridges,  or  repair  Whitehall; 
Or  to  the  country  let  that  heap  be  lent. 
As  M**o'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  puii'd  prosperity ; 
Or,  bless'd  with  little,  whose  preventhig  care 
fn  peace  provides  fit  arms  against  a  war?' 

Thus  Bethel  spoke,  who  always  speaks  his  thought, 
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  surmis'd 
The  lord  of  thousands,  than  if  now  excis'd; 
In  forest  planted  by  a  father's  hand, 
Than  in  five  acres  now  of  rented  land. 
Content  with  little,  I  can  piddle  here 
On  brocoli  and  mutton  round  the  year; 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  261 

But  ancient  friends,  (though  poor,  or  out  of  play), 

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  Banstcd  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  vou,  if  you  cannot  dine : 

Then  cheerful  healths  (your  mistress  shall  have  place) 
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  eame, 
My  lands  are  sold,  my  father's  house  is  gone; 
I'll  hire  another's ;  is  not  that  my  own, 
Andyours,  myfriends?  through  whose  free-opening  gate 
None  comes  too  early,  none  departs  too  late ; 
(For  I,  who  hold  sage  Homer's  rule  the  best, 
Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  going,  guest.) 
'  Pray  Heaven  it  last!'  cries  Swift,  'as  you  go  on ; 
1  wish  to  God  this  house  had  been  your  own  I 
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, 
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  fathers,s  damned,  and  all's  my  own,* 
Shades  thai  to  Bacon  could  retreat  afford. 
Becomes  the  portion  of  a  booby  lord ; 
And  Hemsley,  once  proud  Buckingliam's  delight 
Slides  to  a  scrivener  or  a  city  kniglit. 
Let  lands  and  houses  have  what  lords  they  will. 
Let  us  be  fixed,  and  our  own  masters  still.' 


262 


BOOK  11.    SATIRE  VI. 
[the  first  part  imitated  in  the  year  1714,  ȣ 

DR.  swift;  the  latter  part,  by  MR.  POPE, 
ADDED  afterwards.] 

I've  often  wished  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  ; 
I  can't  but  think  't  would  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,  oh,  gracious  Maker  I 
To  grant  me  this  and  t'  other  acre ; 
Or,  if  it  be  thy  will  and  pleasure. 
Direct  my  plough  to  find  a  treasure; 
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  pufted  by  pride,  nor  sunk  by  spleen.* 

In  short,  I'm  perfectly  content, 
Let  me  but  live  on  this  side  Trent, 
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  hi)n  up,  take  no  excuse. 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  263 

The  toil,  the  danger,  of  the  seas, 
(ireat  ministers  ne'er  think  of  these ; 
Or,  let  it  cost  five  hundred  pound, 
No  matter  where  the  money  's  found, 
It  is  but  3o  much  more  in  debt, 
And  that  they  ne'er  considered  yet. 

*  Good  Mr.  Dean,  go  change  your  gowa ' 
Let  my  lord  know  you  're  come  to  town.' 
I  hurry  m.e  in  haste  away, 
Not  thinking  it  is  levec-day, 
And  find  his  honour  in  a  pound, 
Hemm'd  by  a  triple  circle  round, 
Chequered  with  ribbons  blue  and  green. 
How  should  I  thrust  myself  between? 
Some  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  ^t. 
Tells  me  I  have  moie  zeal  than  wit; 
'So  eager  to  express  your  love. 
You  ne'er  consider  who  you  shove, 
But  rudely  press  before  a  duke.' 
I  own  I  am  pleas'd  with  this  rebuke, 
And  take  it  kindly  meant,  to  show 
What  I  desire  the  world  should  knew. 

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  hund-ed  other  men's  affairs. 
Like  bees,  are  humming  in  my  ears. 
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  Bolinbroke  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; 
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,) 


2C4  IMITATtOfCS    OF    HORACE. 

Since  Harley  bid  me  first  attend, 

And  chose  nie  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? 

*  Whose  chariot's  that  we  left  behind  V 
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  inter  nos, 
Might  be  proclaim'd  at  Charing-cross. 

Yet  some  1  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  tete  a  tete. 
What!  they  admire  him  for  his  jokes- 
See  but  the  fortune  of  some  folks!' 
There  flies  about  a  strange  report 
Of  some  express  ari'ived  at  court ; 
I'm  stopped  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?* 
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. 
And  there  in  sweet  oblivion  drown 
Those  cares  that  haunt  the  court  and  town. 


1 

IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  265 

Oh  charming  noons!  and  nights  divine  I 

Or  when  I  sup,  or  when  1  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, 

A.ncl  e'en  the  very  dogs  at  ease: 

Here  no  man  prates  of  idle  things, 
.  How  this  or  that  Italian  sings, 

A  neighbour's  madness,  or  his  spouse's, 

Or  v/hat'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? 

What  good,  or  better,  we  may  call, 

And  what  the  very  best  of  all  ? 
Our  friend,  Dan  Prior,  told  (you  know) 

A  tale  extremely  a-propos : 

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 ; 

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,  coute  qui  coute. 

He  brought  him  bacon,  (nothing  lean  !) 

Pudding  that  might  have  pleased  a  dean; 

Cheese  such  as  men  in  Suffolk  make. 

But  wished  it  Stilton  for  his  sake  ; 

Yet  to  his  guest,  though  no  way  sparing, 

He  ate  himself  the  rind  and  paring. 

Our  courtier  scarce  could  touch  a  bit, 

But  showed  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!  1 

For  God's  sake  come  and  live  with  mem 

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  learned  at  court.') 

The  veriest  hermit  in  the  nation 
May  yield,  God  knows,  to  strong  temptation. 


266  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

Away  they  came,  through  thick  and  thin, 
To  a  tall  hojse  near  Lincoln's-iim: 
('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  moon-beam  trembling  falls, 
And  tips  with  silver  all  the  walls ; 
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  ; 
1  he  napkins  white,  the  carpet  red : 
The  guests  withdrawn  had  left  the  treat, 
And  down  the  mice  sat  tete  a  tete. 

Our  courtier  walks  from  dish  to  dish, 
Tastes  for  his  friend  of  fowl  and  fish  ; 
Tells  all  their  names,  lays  down  the  law, 

*  Que  ea  est  bon !  Ah  gouter  ^al 
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! 
J  have  a  thousand  thanks  to  give— 
My  lord  alone  knows  how  to  live.* 
No  sooner  said,  but  from  the  hall 
Rush  chaplain,  butler,  dogs,  and  all. 
'  A  rat,  a  rat !  chip  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  damned  stucco  has  no  chink.) 

*  An't  please  your  honour,'  quoth  the  peasant, 
'This  same  dessert  is  not  so  pleasant s 

Give  me  again  my  hollow  tree, 
A  crust  of  bread  and  liberty !' 


26r 


BOOK   I.      EPISTLE    I. 


TO  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 

St.  John,  whose  love  indulged  my  labours  past, 
Mature  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  Gibber  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  e'en  in  Brunswick's  cause. 

A  voice  there  is,  that  whispers  in  mj'  ear, 
('Tis  reason's  voice,  which  sometimes  one  can  hear,) 
Friend  Pope  I  be  prudent;  let  your  muse  take  breathy 
And  never  gallop  Pegasus  to  death ; 
Let  stiff  and  stately,  void  of  fire  or  force. 
You  limp,  like  Blackmore,  on  a  lord  mayor's  horse. 

Farewell  then  verse,  and  love,  and  ev'ry  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: 
To  lay  this  harvest  up,  and  hoard  with  haste 
What  ev'ry  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  Lyttleton,  her  cause  pursue, 
Still  true  to  virtue,  and  as  warm  as  true: 
Sometimes  with  Aristippus  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. 


263  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE, 

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  j 
So  slow  the  unprofitable  moments  roll, 
1'hat  lock  up  all  the  functions  of  my  soul ; 
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, 
ril  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  a  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. 
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, 
Scar'd  at  the  spectre  of  pale  poverty ! 
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.' 
This,  this  the  saving  doctrine  preach 'd  to  all, 
From  low  St.  James's  up  to  high  St.  Paul  I 


I 


■^  -^a** 


IMITATIONa   OP    IIOUACE.  2G9 

From  him  whose  quills  stand  quivered  at  his  ear, 
From  him  who  notches  sticks  at  Westminister. 

Barnard,  in  spirit,  sense,  and  truth,  abounds; 
*  Pray  then  what  wants  he  ?'  fourscore  thousand  pounds : 
A  pension,  or  such  harness  for  a  slave 
A.S  Bug  now  has,  and  Dorimont  would  have, 
Barnard,  thou  art  a  cit,  with  all  thy  worth, 
But  Bug  and  D — 1,  their  honours,  and  so  forth. 

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  armed  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  or  Poitiers? 
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  the  example  too  ? 
If  such  a  doctrine,  in  St.  James's  air, 
Should  chance  to  make  the  well-dressed  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  sire  !  your  royal  cave ; 
Because  I  see,  by  all  the  tracts  about, 
Full  many  a  beast  goes  in,  but  none  come  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 
The  people  are  a  many-headed  beast: 
Can  they  direct  what  measures  to  pursue, 
Who  kno'.v  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  mighter  misers  drain. 
Or  cross,  to  plunder  provinc-es,  the  main : 
The  rest,  some  farm  the  poor-box,  some  the  pews: 
Some  keep  assemblies,  and  would  keep  the  stews; 


n 


270  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

Some  with  fat  bucks  on  childless  dotards  fa.wn  , 
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  gone,  and  let  the  v/retch  alone i 
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  I* 
Up  starts  a  palace ;  lo,  the  obedient  base 

Slopes  at  its  foot,  the  woods  its  sides  embrace, 

The  silver  Thames  reflects  its  marble  face. 

Now  let  some  whimsey,  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  scaflblds  down. 

For  Snug's  the  word  :  my  dear!  we'll  live  in  town. 

At  amorous  Fiavio  is  the  stocking  thrown  ? 
That  very  night  he  longs  to  live  alone. 
The  fool  whose  wife  elopes  some  thrice  a  quarter, 
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  bai'ber,  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  abroad 
Grow  sick,  and  damn  the  climate  like  a  lord. 
You  laugh  half-beax,  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  ! 
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  folliea  all  my  life) 
I  plant,  root  up ;  I  build,  and  then  confound ; 
Turn  round  to  square,  and  square  again  to  round; 
You  never  change  one  nmscle  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. 


I 


1MUAT10\«    OF    nOKACE.  271 

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, 
Great  without  title,  without  fortune  bless'd  ; 
Rich  e'en  when  plmidered,  honoured  while  oppress'd; 
Loved  without  youth,  and  followed  without  power: 
At  home  though  exiled;  free  though  in  tlie  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  demigod  I 


272 


BOOK    1.      EPISTLE    VI, 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

*  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. 

This  vault  of  air,  this  congregated  ball, 
Self-centered  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. 
Admire  we  then  what  earth's  low  entrails  hold, 
Arabian  shores,  or  Indian  seas  infold ; 
All  the  made  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, 
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  beti'ay 
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, 
And  gaze  on  Parian  charms  with  learned  eyes; 
Be  struck  with  bright  brocade  or  Tyrian  dye, 
Our  birth-day  nobles'  splendid  livery. 
If  not  so  ])leased,  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. 


IMITATIONS   OF    HORACE.  273 

But  wherefore  all  this  lahour,  all  this  strife  ? 

For  fame,  for  riches,  for  a  noble  wife  ? 

Shall  one  whom  natm-e,  learning,  birth,  conspired 

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  brightened  Craggs's,  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  honoured,  at  the  house  of  lords  : 

Conspicuous  scene  !  another  yet  is  nigh, 

(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 ! 

Racked  with  sciatics,  martyred  with  the  stone, 

Will  any  mortal  let  himself  alone  ? 

See  Ward,  by  battered  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  bless'd?  despise  low  joys,  low  gains : 

Disdain  whatever  Cornbury  disdains; 

Be  virtuous,  and  be  happy  for  your  pains. 

But  art  thou  one  whom  new  opinions  sway, 

One  who  believes  as  Tindal  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 ; 

For  Indian  spices,  for  Peruvian  gold, 

Prevent  the  greedy,  or  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. 

A  man  of  wealtli  is  dubbed  a  man  of  worth  ; 

Venus  shall  give  him  form,  and  Anstis  birth. 

Believe  me  many  a  German  prince  is  worse, 

Who  proud  of  pedigree  is  poor  of  purse. 

His  wealth  brave  Timon  gloriously  confounds; 

Ask  for  a  groat,  he  gives  a  hundred  pounds .' 


274  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

Or,  if  three  ladies  like  a  luckless  play, 

Takes  the  wliole  house  upon  the  poet's  day. 

Now,  in  such  exigences  not  to  need, 

Upon  my  word  you  must  be  rich  indeed: 

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. 
To  do  the  honours,  and  to  give  the  word  ; 
Tell  at  your  levee,  as  the  crowds  approach, 
To  whom  to  nod,  whom  take  into  your  coach, 
Whom  honour  with  your  hand;  to  make  remark-^, 
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  may'r 
Instructed  thus,  you  bow,  embrace,  protest, 
Adopt  him  son,  or  cousin  at  the  least, 
Then  turn  about,  and  laugh  at  your  own  jest. 

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; 
Called  happy  dog  the  beggar  at  his  door, 
And  envied  thirst  and  hunger  to  the  poor. 
Or  shall  we  ev'ry  decency  confound, 
Through  taverns,  stews,  and  bagnois,  take  our  round  i 
Go  dine  with  Chartres,  in  each  vice  outdo 
K — I's  lewd  cargo,  or  Ty — y's  crew, 
From  Latian  sirens,  French  Circaean  feasts, 
Returned  w^ell  travelled,  and  transformed  to  lK\ist?. ; 
Or  for  a  title  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  Vive  la  bagatelle  ! 
The  man  that  loves  and  laughs  must  sure  do  wtll. 
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. 


275 


BOOK  I.    EPISTLE  VII. 

(^IMITAfED  IN  THE  MANNER  OF  DOCTOR  SWIFT.] 

'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: 
And  what  a  dust  in  ev  ry  place! 
And  a  thin  court  that  wants  your  facei 
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  the  first  warm  weather 
Me  and  the  butterflies  together. 

My  lord,  your  favours  well  I  know; 
'Tis  with  distinction  you  bestow, 
And  not  to  ev'ry  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  I 
'  No,  Sir,  you'll  leave  them  to  the  hogs.' 
Thus  fools  with  compliments  besiege  ye, 
Contriving  never  to  oblidge  ye. 
Scatter  your  favours  on  a  fop, 
Ingratitude's  the  certain  crop ; 
And  'tis  but  just,  I'll  tell  you  wherefore, 
You  give  the  things  you  never  care  for. 
A  wise  man  always  is  or  should 
Be  mighty  ready  to  do  good; 


276  IMITATIONS   OF    HORACSI. 

But  makes  a  diiTerence  in  his  tliought 
Betwixt  a  guinea  and  a  groat 

Now  this  I'll  say,  you'll  find  in  me 
A  safe  companion,  and  a  free ; 
But  if  you'd  have  me  always  near — 
A  word,  pray,  in  your  honour's  ear : 
I  hope  it  is  your  resolution 
To  give  ine  back  my  constitution! 
The  sprightly  wit,  the  lively  eye, 
The  engaging  smile,  the  gaiety 
That  laughed  down  many  a  summer  sua« 
And  kept  you  up  so  oft  till  one ; 
And  all  that  voluntary  vein, 
As  when  Belinda  raised  my  strain. 

A  weasel  once  made  shift  to  slink 
In  at  a  corn  loft  through  a  chink ; 
But  having  ample  stutt'ed  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, 
Nor  one  that  temperance  advance, 
Cramm'd  to  the  tbroat  with  ortolons ; 
Extremely  ready  to  resign 
All  that  may  make  me  none  of  mine. 
South-sea  subscriptions  take  v/ho  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  independancy  ! ' 
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  ho;ise  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. 

To  set  this  matter  full  before  ye, 
Our  old  friend  Swift  wdll  tell  his  story. 

*  Harley,  the  nation's  great  support'— 
But  you  may  read  it,  I  stop  short. 


277 


BOOK  II.    EPISTLE  I. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  rsflections  of  Horace,  and  the  judgments  passed  in  his  Enistls 
to  Augustus,  seemed  so  seasonable  to  the  present  times,  that  I  could 
not  help  applying  them  to  the  use  of  my  own  country.  Tlie  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 
cnipire:  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  her  iieighbo'_rs. — 
Fop£. 


TO  AUGUSTUS. 

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, 
Ambition  humbled,  mighty  cities  stormed, 
Or  laws  established,  and  the  world  reformed, 
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  conquered  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! 
Oppressed  we  feel  the  beam  directly  beat; 
Those  suns  of  glory  please  not  till  they  set. 

To  thee  the  world  its  present  homage  pays, 
'J'he  harvest  early,  but  mature  the  praise: 
Great  friend  of  liberty  !  in  kings  a  name 
Above  all  Greek,  above  all  Roman,  fame; 
23  «• 


278  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

Whose  word  is  trutl    as  sacred  and  revered 
As  heaven's  own  oracles  from  altars  heard. 
Wonder  of  kings!  lite  whom,  to  mortal  eyes, 
None  e'er  has  risen,  and  none  e'er  shall  rise. 

Just  in  one  instance  ;  be  it  yet  confessed, 
Your  people,  Sir,  are  partial  in  the  rest ; 
Foes  to  all  livina:  worthy  except  your  own, 
And  advocates  for  folfy  dead  and  gone. 
Authors,  like  coins,  grow  dear  as  they  grow  oldj 
It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  gold. 
Chaucer's  worst  ribaldry  is  learned  by  rote, 
And  beastly  Skelton  heads  of  houses  quote. 
One  likes  no  language  but  tlie  Faery  Queen  ; 
A  Scot  will  fight  for  Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green ; 
And  each  true  Briton  is  to  Ben  so  civil, 
He  swears  the  muses  met  him  at  the  devil. 

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  learned  Athens  to  our  art  must  stoop, 
Could  she  behold  us  tumbling  through  a  hoop. 

If  time  improve  our  wits  as  well  as  wine. 
Say  at  what  age  a  poet  grows  divine? 
Siiall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  account  him  so 
Who  died,  perhaps,  an  hundred  years  ago  ? 
End  all  dispute ;  and  fix  the  year  precise 
W^hen  British  bards  began  to  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? 

'  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, 
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  matciiless,  what  you  will) 
For  gain,  iiut  glory,  winged  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite. 
Ben  old  and  poor,  as  little  seemed  to  heed 
The  life  to  come  in  every  ]>oet's  creed. 
Who  now  reads  Cowley?  if  he  pleases  jetf 
His  moral  pleases,  not  his  pointed  n'it; 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  279 

Forgot  his  epic,  nay,  Pindaric  art ; 

But  still  I  love  the  language  of  his  heart. 

'  Yet  surely,  surely,  these  were  famous  men  ! 
What  hoy  but  hears  tne  sayings  of  old  Ben? 
In  all  debates,  where  critics  bear  a  part, 
Not  one  but  nods,  and  talks  of  Jonson's  art, 
Of  Shakspeare's  nature,  and  of  Cowle/'s  wit; 
HowBeaumont'sjudginentcheck'dwhat  Fletcher  writ; 
How  Shadwell  hasty,  Wycherly  was  slow; 
But  for  the  passion,  Southern,  sure,  and  Kowe. 
These,  only  these^  support  the  crowded  stage, 
From  eldest  Heywood  down  to  Gibber's  age.' 

All  this  may  be ;  the  people's  voice  is  odd ; 
It  is,  and  it  is  not,  the  voice  of  God. 
To  Gammer  Gurton  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; 
In  quibbles  angel  and  archangel  join, 
And  God  the  Father  turns  a  school  divine. 
Not  that  I'd  lop  the  beaties  from  his  book, 
Like  slashing  Bentley  with  his  desperate  hook ; 
Or  damn  all  Shakspeare,  like  the  affected  fool 
At  court,  who  hates  whate'ev  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,) 
One  simile,  that  solitary  shines 
In  the  dry  desert  of  a  thousand  lines, 

Orlengthen'd  thought,  thatgleamsthroughnianj^apagc, 

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. 
One  tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride. 
Which  Betterton's  grave  action  dignified. 
Or  well-mouthed  Booth  vv'ith  enipluisis  proclaims, 
(Though  but  perhaps  a  nuistci--roll  of  names,) 
How  wiil  our  fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage. 
And  swear  all  shame  is  lost  in  George's  age ! 


280  IMITATIONS    OF    HOKACE. 

You'd  think  no  fools  disgraced  tlie  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. 
He  who,  to  seem  more  deep  than  you  or  I, 
Extols  old  bards,  or  Merlin's  prophecy, 
JVIistake  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  remained  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, 
In  every  taste  of  foreign  courts  improved, 
*  All  by  the  king's  example  lived  and  loved ;' 
Then  peers  grew  proud  in  horsemanship  to  excel, 
Newmarket's  glory  rose  as  Britain's  fell ; 
The  soldier  breathed  the  gallantries  of  France, 
And  every  flowery  courtier  writ  romance. 
Then  marble,  softened  into  life,  grew  warm, 
And  yielding  metal  flowed  to  human  form ; 
Lely  on  animated  canvass  stole 
The  sleepy  eye,  that  spoke  the  melting  soul. 
No  wonder  then,  when  all  was  love  and  sport, 
The  willing  muses  were  debauched  at  court; 
On  each  enervate  string  they  taught  the  note 
To  pant  or  tremble  thiough  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  v/e  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. 

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 . 
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  muse's  lie. 
Not  ***'s  self  e'er  tells  more  fibs  than  I. 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  281 

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. 

He  served  a  'prenticeship  who  sets  up  shop ; 
Ward  tried  on  puppies  and  the  poor  his  drop ; 
E'en  Radcliff's  doctors  travel  first  to  France, 
Nor  dare  to  practise  till  they've  learned  to  dance. 
Who  builds  a  bridge  that  never  drove  a  pile? 
(Should  Ripley  venture,  all  the  world  would  smile  :) 
But  those  who  cannot  write,  and  those  v/ho  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: 
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. 

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 ; 
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. 
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  attacked— a  poet  saved.' 
Behold  the  hand  that  wrought  a  nation's  cure. 
Stretched  to  relieve  the  idiot  and  the  poor, 
24* 


282  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE. 

Proud  vice  to  brand,  or  injured  worth  adorn, 

And  stretch  the  ray  to  ages  yet  unborn. 

Not  but  there  are  who  merit  other  pahns  ; 

Hopkins  and  Sternhold  glad  the  heart  with  psahns ; 

The  boys  and  girls  whom  charity  maintains 

Implore  your  help  in  these  pathetic  strains: 

How  could  devotion  touch  the  country  pews 

Unless  the  gods  bestowed  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  v/on  by  violence  of  song. 

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. 
Smoothed  every  brow,  and  opened  evei-y  soul: 
With  growing  years  the  pleasing  licence  grew, 
And  taunts  alternate  innocently  flew. 
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  fell  the  wrong,  or  feared  it,  took  the  alarm, 
Appealed  to  law,  and  justice  lent  her  arm. 
At  length  by  wholesome  dread  of  statutes  bound, 
The  poets  learned  to  please,  and  not  to  wound ; 
Most  warped  to  flattery's  side  ;  but  some,  more  nice, 
Preserved  the  freedom,  and  forbore  the  vice. 
Hence  satire  rose,  that  just  the  medium  hit. 
And  lieals  with  morals  what  it  hurts  with  wit. 

We  conquered  France,  but  felt  our  captive's  charms, 
Her  arts  victorious  triumphed  o'er  our  arms  ; 
Britain  to  soft  refinements  less  a  foe, 
Wit  grew  polite,  and  numbers  learned  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 
And  splayfoot  verse  remained,  and  will  remain. 
Late,  ^^ery  late,  correctness  grew  our  care, 
When  the  tired  nation  breathed  from  civil  war. 
Exact  Racine  and  Corneille's  noble  fire 
Showed  us  that  France  had  something  to  admire. 


IMITATIONS    DF    HORACE.  283 

Not  but  the  tragic  spirit  \v:i--  cur.-  own, 
And  full  in  Shakspeare,  fair  in  Otway,  shone; 
But  Otway  faued  to  polish  or  refine, 
And  fluent  Shakspeare  scarce  effaced  a  line. 
E'en  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot, 
The  last  and  greatest  art,  the  art  to  blot. 
Some  doubt  if  equal  pains  or  equal  fire 
The  humbler  muse  of  comedy  requlie. 
But  in  known  images  of  life  1  guess 
The  labour  greater  as  the  indulgence  less. 
Observe  how  seldom  e'en  the  best  succeed; 
Tell  me  if  Congreve's  fools  are  fools  indeed? 
What  pert,  low  dialogue  has  Farquhar  writ! 
How  Van  wants  grace,  who  never  wanted  wit! 
The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astrea  tread,' 
Who  fairly  puts  all  characters  to  bed  ! 
And  idle  Gibber,  how  he  breaks  the  laws, 
To  make  poor  Pinkey  eat  with  vast  applause ! 
But  fill  their  purse,  our  poet's  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 ; 
A  breath  revives  him,  or  a  breath  o'erthrows. 
Farewell  the  stage  I  if  just  as  thrives  the  play » 
Tlie  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  unhonoured  crowd, 
Who,  to  disturb  their  betters  mighty  proud. 
Clattering  their  sticks  before  ten  Imes  are  spoke, 
Call  for  the  farce,  the  bear,  or  the  black-joke. 
What  dear  delight  to  Britons  farce  affords  ! 
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, 
With  laughter  sure  Democritus  had  died 
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  ; 


284  IMITATIONS   OF   HORACE. 

While  all  its  throats  the  gallery  extends, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  pit  ascends ! 
Loud  as  the  wolves  on  Oreas's  stormy  steep 
Howl  to  the  roarings  of  the  northern  deep ; 
Such  is  the  shout,  the  long-applauuing  note, 
At  Quin's  high  plume,  or  Oldfield's  petticoat; 
Or  when  from  court  a  birth-day  suit  bestowed 
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,  flowered  gown,  and  lackered  chair 

Yet,  lest  you  think  I  rally  more  than  teach, 
Or  praise  malignly  arts  I  cannot  reach, 
Let  me  once  presume  to  instruct  the  times, 
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 
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  f 
How  shall  we  fill  a  library  with  wit. 
When  Merlin's  cave  is  half-unfurnished  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, 
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  unasked;  lament  the  wit's  too  fine 
For  vulgar  eyes,  and  point  out  every  line : 
But  most  when  straining  with  too  weak  a  v/ing, 
We  needs  will  write  epistles  to  the  king ; 
And  from  the  moment  we  oblige  the  town. 
Expect  a  place  or  pension  from  the  ci'own ; 
Or,  dubb'd  historians,  by  express  command, 
To  enrol  your  triumphs  o'er  the  seas  and  land 
Be  called  to  court  to  plan  some  work  divine, 
At  once  for  Louis,  Boileau,  and  Racine. 


IMITATIONS   OF    HORACE.  285 

Yet  think,  great  Sir!  (so  many  virtues  shown,) 
Alb !  think  what  poet  best  may  make  them  known ; 
Or  choose  at  least  some  minister  of  jj^race, 
Fit  to  bestow  the  lam-eat's  weighty  place. 

Charles,  to  late  times  to  be  transmitted  fair, 
Assigned  his  figure  to  Bernini's  care; 
And  great  Nassau  to  Kneller's  hand  decreed 
To  fix  him  graceful  on  the  bounding  steed : 
So  well  ill  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  pensioned  Quarles, 
Which  made  old  Ben  and  surly  Dennis  swear, 

*  No  lord  'a  anointed,  but  a  Russian  bear.' 

Not  with  such  majesty,  such  bold  relief, 
The  forms  august  of  king,  or  conquering  chief, 
E'er  swelled  on  marble,  as  in  verse  have  shined 
(In  polished  verse)  the  manners  and  the  mind. 
Oh !  could  I  mount  on  the  Mseonian  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  wondered  while  they  dropped  the  sword  1 
How  when  you  nodded,  o'er  the  land  and  deep 
Peace  stole  her  wing,  and  wrapped  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; 
There's  nothing  blackens  like  the  ink  of  fools. 
If  true,  a  woeful  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. 


286 


BOOK  II.     EPISTLE  II. 

Ludentis  speciem  dabit,  et  torquebitur.    HoB< 

Dear  colonel,  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 — 'This  lad,  sir,  is  of  Blois: 

Observe  his  shape,  how  clean !  his  locks  how  curl'd  1 

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  pounds  a  year. 

Mere  wax  as  yet,  you  fashion  him  with  ease ; 

Your  barber,  cook,  upholsterer ;  what  you  pleases 

A  perfect  genius  at  an  opera  song — 

To  say  too  much  might  do  your  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.* 

If,  after  this,  you  took  the  graceful  lad. 
Could  you  complain,  my  friend,  he  proved  so  bad?     i 
Faith,  in  such  case,  if  you  should  prosecute, 
1  think  Sir  Godfrey  should  decide  the  suit, 
Who  sent  the  thief  that  stole  the  cash  away, 
And  punished  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? 
"Nay,  worse,  to  ask  for  verse  at  such  a  time  ! 
D'ye  think  we  good  for  nothing  but  to  rhyme  ? 

Iti  Anna's  wars,  a  soldier,  poor  and  old. 
Had  dearly  earned  a  little  purse  of  gold : 
Tired  with  a  tedious  march,  one  luckless  night 
He  slept,  poor  dog !  and  lost  it  to  a  doit. 


IMITATIONS   OP    HORACE. 


^7 


This  put  the  man  in  sucli  a  desperate  mind, 
Between  revenge,  and  grief,  and  hunger  joined, 
Against  the  foe,  himself,  and  all  mankind, 
He  leaped  the  trenches,  scaled  a  castle  wall, 
Tore  down  a  standard,  took  the  port  and  all. 
'  Prodigious  well ! '  his  great  commander  cried ; 
Gave  him  much  praise,  and  some  reward  besidt 
Next  pleased  his  excellence  a  town  to  batter , 
(Its  name  I  know  not,  and  'tis  no  great  matter.) 
'  Go  on,  my  friend,'  he  cried ;  *  see  yonder  wallsl 
Advance  and  conquer!  go  where  glory  calls! 
More  honom-s,  more  rewards,  attend  the  brave. 
*  Don't  you  remember  what  reply  he  gave? 
'D'ye  think  me,  noble  general !  such  a  sot? 
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  Pelus'  son: 
Besides,  my  father  taught  me  from  a  lad 
'Jhe  better  art,  to  know  the  good  from  bad ; 
(And  little  sure  imported  to  remove. 
To  hunt  for  truth  in  Maudlin's  learned  grove). 
But  knottier  points,  we  know  not  half  so  well, 
Deprived  us  soon  of  our  paternal  cell ; 
And  certain  laws,  by  sufferers  thought  unjust, 
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  fin'd. 
He  stuck  to  poverty  with  peace  of  mind ; 
And  me,  the  muses  help  to  undergo  it; 
Convict  a  papist  he,  and  I  a  poet. 
But,  thanks  to  Homer,  since  1  live  and  thrive. 
Indebted  to  no  prince  or  peer  alive. 
Sure  I  should  want  the  care  often  Monroes, 
If  I  should  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  tiurned  ten  thousand  verses  now  stands  still  f 

But,  after  all,  what  would  you  have  me  do, 
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  learned  roast,  an  eg 


263  IMlTATICNtJ    OV    HORACE, 

Hard  task  to  hit  the  palates  of  such  guests, 
When  Oldfield  loves  what  Dartineuf  detests! 

But  grant  I  may  relapse,  for  want  of  grace, 
Again  to  rhyme,  can  London  he  the  place? 
Who  there  his  muse,  or  self,  or  soul,  attends, 
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  one — 
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 ; 
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, 
E'en  to  their  own  s-r-v — nee  in  a  car? 

Go,  lofty  poet !  and  in  such  a  crowd ' 
Sing  thy  sonorous  verse — but  not  aloud. 
Alas !  to  grottoes  and  to  groves  we  run, 
To  ease  and  silence  every  muse's  son  : 
Blackmore  himself,  for  any  grand  effort. 
Would  drink  and  dose  at  Tooting  or  Earl's-court. 
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  : 
So  stift',  so  mute  !  some  statue  you  would  swear 
mcpt  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  for  fools  to  get  by  heart? 

The  Temple  late  two  brother  Serjeants  saw. 
Who  deero'd  each  other  oracles  of  law; 
With  equal  talents  these  congenial  souls, 
One  lull'd  the  Exchequer,  and  one  stunn'd  the  Rolls; 
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  ;' 
'  YoiirsCowper's  manner' — 'and  yours  Talbot's  sense.' 


IMITATIOXS    OF    HOKACE. 


r 


_  Thus  we  dispose  of  cill  poetic  merit ; 
Tour  Milton's  genius,  and  niine  liomer's 
Call  Tibbald  Sluikspcaro,  ;;ud  he'll  swear 
Dear  Gibber,  never  match'd  one  ode  of  th 
Lord!  how  we  strut  through  Merlin's  cave, 
No  poets  there  but  Stephen,  you,  and  me  ! 
Walk  with  respect  behind,  M'hile  we  at  ease 
Weave  kurel  crowns,  and  take  what  names  we 
*  My  dear  Tibullus !  if  that  will  noc  do, 
Let  me  be  Horace,  and  be  Ovid  to : 
Or,  I'm  content,  allow  me  Dryden's  strains, 
An  1  you  shall  rise  up  Otway  for  your  pains. 
MucN  do  I  suffer,  much,  to  keep  in  peace 
Tnis  jealous,  waspish,  wrong-head,  rhyming  race; 
And  much  must  flatter,  if  the  whim  should  bite, 
'i  o  court  applause  by  printing  what  I  write  : 
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  no  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  offeree,  or  light,  or  weight,  or  care: 
Howe'er  unwillingly  it  quits  its  place, 
Naj',  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  j 
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 ; 
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  v/riting  flows  from  ai  t,  not  chance  ; 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn 'd  to  dance. 

If  such  the  plaugue  and  pains  to  write  by  rule 
Better,  say  I,  be  pleased,  and  play  the  fool: 
CaU,  if  you  will,  bad  rhyming  a  disease. 
It  gives  men  happiness,  or  leaves  them  ease. 
26 


290  IMITATIONS    OF    HORACS. 

There  lived  m  prlmo  Ceorgii,  they  record, 

A  worthy  member,  no  small  ibol,  a  lord ; 

Who,  though  the  house  was  up,  delighted  sate, 

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 ; 

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,   tiiey 

Whereat  the  gentleman  began  to  stare  :  [cured : 

'  My  friends ! '  he  cried,  '  pox  take  you  for  your  care  ! 

That  from  a  patriot  of  distmguish'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 : 
I'll  ev'n  leave  verses  to  the  boys  at  school: 
To  rules  of  poetry  no  more  confined, 
I'll  learn  to  smoothe  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  dropp'd  before  ; 
Thoughts,  which  at  Hyde-park-corner  I  forgot, 
Meet  and  rejoin  me  in  the  pensive  grot: 
There  all  alone,  and  compliments  apart, 
1  ask  these  sober  questions  of  my  heart: —  ji 

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  cry,  that  birth  and  ])lace 
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  teacii, 
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 
A  property,  that's  yours  on  which  you  live : 
Delightful  Abscourt,  if  its  fields  afford 
Their  fruits  to  you,  confesses  you  its  lord: 


IMITATIONS    OF    HORACE.  291 

All  Worldly  s  liens,  nay,  partridge,  sold  to  town; 
His  vensio)!  too,  a  guinea  makes  your  own  ; 
He  bought  at  thousands,  what  Avith  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. 
Lords  of  fat  E'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, 
By  sale,  at  least  by  death,  to  change  their  lord. 
'Man?'  and  'for  ever?'  wretch!  what  wouldst  thou 
Heir  urges  heir,  like  wave  impelling  wave.         [have? 
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, 
Enclose  whole  downs  in  walls ;  'tis  all  a  joke 
Inexorable  death  shall  level  all, 
And  trees,  and  stones,  and  fanns,  and  farmer  fall. 

Gold,  silver,  ivory,  vases  sculptured  high, 
Paint,  marble,  gems,  and  robes  of  Persian  die, 
There  are  who  have  not,— and,  thank  Heaven,  there  are, 
Who,  if  they  have  not,  think  not  worth  their  care. 

Talk  what  jou  will  of  taste,  niy  friend,  you'll  find 
Two  of  a  face,  as  soon  as  of  a  mind. 
Why,  of  two  brothers,  rich  and  restless,  one 
Ploughs,  burns,  manures,  and  toils  from  sun  to  sun ; 
The  other  slights,  for  women,  sports,  and  wines. 
All  Townsend's  turnips,  and  all  Grosvenor's  mines; 
Why  one  like  Bu— ,  with  pay  and  scorn  content. 
Bows  and  votes  on,  in  court  and  parliament; 
One,  driAen  by  strong  benevolence  of  soul. 
Shall  fly,  like  Oglethorpe,  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. 
Inclines  our  action,  not  constrains  our  will; 
Various  of  temper,  as  of  face  or  frame, 
Each  individual :  his  great  end  the  same. 


f 


IMITATIONS    or    HORACE. 

Yes,  sir,  how  small  soever  be  my  heap, 
A  part  1  will  enjoy  as  well  as  keep. 
My  heir  may  sigh,  and  think  it  want  of  grace 
A  man  so  poor  should  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, 
l)ivided  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 ; 
B  neither  less  nor  bigger. 

I  neither  strut  with  every  favouring  breath, 
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, 
Despise  the  known,  nor  tremble  at  the  unknown? 
Survey  both  worlds,  intrepid  and  intire. 
In  spite  of  witches,  devils,  dreams,  and  fire? 
Pleased  to  look  forward,  pleased  to  look  behind, 
And  count  each  birth  day  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, 
When,  of  a  hundred  throns,  you  pull  out  one? 

Learn  to  live  well,  or  fairly  make  your  will ; 
You've  play'd,  and  loved,  and  eat,  and  drunk  your  fif 
Walk  sober  oft',  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. 


I 


293 


BOOK  IV.    ODE  I. 


TO  VENUS. 

Again  ?  new  tumults  in  n^y  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  Aniie. 
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; 
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  v/it. 
Then  shall  thy  form  the  marble  grace, 

(Thy  Grecian  form)  and  Chloe  lend  the  face: 
His  house,  embosom 'd  in  the  grove, 

Sacred  to  social  life  and  social  love, 
Shall  glitter  o'er  the  pendent  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. 
With  me,  alas  !  those  joys  are  o'er ; 

For  me,  the  vernal  garlands  bloom  no  more. 
Adieu,  fond  hope  of  mutual  fire, 

The  still-beheving,  still-renew'd  desire ! 

25* 


294  IMITATIONS    OF    IIOUACB. 

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  the  involuntary  tear? 
Why  words  so  flowing,  thoughts  so  free, 

Stop,  or  turn  nonsense,  at  one  glance  of  thee? 
Thee,  dress'd  in  fancy's  airy  beam, 

Absent  I  follow  through  the  extended  dream ; 
Now,  now  I  seize,  I  clasp  thy  charms, 

And  now  you  burst,  ah,  cruel !  from  my  arma ; 
And  swiftly  shoot  along  the  Mall, 

Or  softly  glide  by  the  canal ; 
Now  shown  by  Cynthia's  silver  ray,  ^ 

And  Qow  on  rolling  waters  snatch'd  awfty« 


203 


PART  OF  BOOK  IV.    ODE  IX. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Lest  you  should  think  that  verse  shall  dJe, 
Which  sounds  the  silver  Thames  along, 

Taught  on  the  wings  of  truth  to  fly 
Above  the  reach  of  vulgar  song; 

Though  daring  Milton  sits  sublime, 

In  Spenser  native  Muses  play; 
Nor  5'et  shall  Waller  yield  to  time, 

Nor  pensive  Cowley's  moral  lay — 

Sages  and  chiefs  long  since  had  birth, 
Ere  Caesar  was,  or  Newton  named; 

Those  raised  new  empires  o'er  the  earth, 
And  these  new  heavens  and  systems  framed 

Vain  was  the  chief's,  the  sage's  pride : 
They  had  no  poet,  and  they  died. 
In  vain  they  schemed,  in  vain  they  bleds 
They  had  no  poet,  and  are  dead. 


STATIUS    HIS    THEBAIS. 

BOOK   I. 

I  TRANSLATED  IN  THE  YEAR  1703. J 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

CEii'rrs,  king  of  Thebes,  having  by  mistake  slain  his  fatner  Lartis, 
and  married  his  mother  Jocasta,  put  out  his  own  eyes,  and  resigned 
the  '^ealm  to  his  sons,  Eteocles  and  Polynices:  being  neglected  by 
the-n,  he  makes  his  prayer  to  the  fury  Tisiphone,  to  sow  debate 
betwixt  the  brothers:  they  agree  at  last  to  reign  singly,  each  a  year 
by  turns,  and  the  first  lot  is  obtained  by  Eteocles.  Jupiter,  in  a 
council  of  the  gods,  declares  his  resolution  of  punishing  the  Thebans. 
and  Argives  also,  by  means  of  a  marriage  betwixt  Polynices  and  one 
of  the  daughters  of  Adrastus,  -ing  of  Argos.  Juno  opposes,  but  to 
no  effect:  and  Mercury  is  sent  on  a  message  to  the  Shades,  to  the 
ghost  of  Laius,  who  is  to  appear  to  Eteocles,  and  provoke  him  to 
break  the  agreement.  Polynices  in  the  mean  time  departs  from 
Thebes  by  night,  is  overtaken  by  a  storm,  and  arrives  at  Argos; 
where  he  meets  with  Tydeus,  who  had  fled  from  Calydon,  having 
killed  his  brother.  Adrastus  entertains  them,  having  received  an 
oracle  from  Apollo  that  his  daughters  should  be  married  to  a  boar 
and  a  lion,  vhich  he  understands  to  be  meant  of  these  strangers,  by 
whom  the  hides  of  these  beasts  were  worn,  and  who  arrived  at  the 
time  when  he  kept  an  annual  feast  in  honour  of  that  god :  the  rise  of 
this  solemnity  he  relates  to  his  guests,  the  loves  of  Phoebus  and 
Psamathe,  and  the  story  of  Chorcebus.  He  inquires,  and  is  made 
acquainted  with  their  descent  and  quality :  the  sacrifice  is  renevi  edi 
and  the  book  conoludes  with  a  hymn  to  Apollo. 

Fraternal  rage,  the  guilty  Thebes'  alarms, 

The  alternate  reign  destroyed  by  impious  arms, 

Demand  our  song ;  a  sacred  fury  fires 

My  ravished  breast,  and  all  the  Muse  inspires. 

O  goddess,  say,  shall  I  deduce  my  rhymes 

From  the  dire  nation  in  its  early  times, 

Europa's  rape,  Agenor's  stem  decree,  _ 

And  Cadmus  searching  round  the  spacious  sea? 

How  with  the  serpent's  teeth  he  sowed  the  soil. 

And  reaped  an  iron  harvest  of  his  toil? 

Or  how  from  joinint>-  stones  the  city  sprung, 

While  to  his  harp  divine  Amphion  sung? 


THEBAIS   OF   STATIUS.  £97 

Or  shall  I  Juno's  hate  to  Thebes  resound, 
Whose  fatal  rage  the  unhappy  monarch  found  ? 
The  sire  against  the  son  his  arrows  drew; 
O 'er  the  wide  fields  the  furious  mother  flew  ; 
And  while  her  arms  a  second  hope  contain, 
Sprung  from  the  rocks  and  plunged  into  the  main. 

But  wave  whate'er  to  Cadmus  may  belong, 
And  fix,  O  Muse  !  the  barrier  of  thy  song 
At  (Edipus — from  his  disasters  trace 
The  long  confusions  of  his  guilty  race : 
Nor  yet  attempt  to  stretch  thy  bolder  wing, 
And  mighty  Cesar's  conquering  eagles  sing; 
How  twice  he  tamed  proud  Ister's  rapid  flood, 

WhileDacian  mountains  streamedwith  barbarous  blood; 

Twice  taught  the  Rhine  beneath  his  laws  to  roll. 

And  stretched  his  empire  to  the  frozen  pole; 

Or,  long  before,  with  early  valour  strove 

In  youthful  arms  to  assert  the  cause  of  Jove. 

And  thou,  great  heir  of  all  thy  father's  fame, 

Inciease  of  glory  to  the  Latian  name! 

Oh  I  bless  thy  Rome  with  an  eternal  reign, 

Nor  let  desiring  worlds  in  treat  in  vain. 

What  though  the  stars  contract  their  heavenly  space. 

And  crowd  their  shining  ranks  to  yield  thee  place ; 

Though  all  the  skies,  ambitious  of  thy  sway, 

Conspire  to  court  thee  from  our  world  away ; 

Though  Phoebus  longs  to  mix  his  rays  with  thine, 

And  in  thy  glories  more  serenely  shine  ; 

Though  Jove  himself  no  less  content  would  be 

To  part  his  throne  and  share  his  heaven  with  thee; 

Yet  stay,  great  Caesar!  and  vouchsafe  to  reign 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  and  o'er  the  watery  main; 

Resign  to  Jove  his  empire  of  the  skies, 

And  people  heaven  with  Roman  deities. 

The  time  will  come  when  a  diviner  flame 
Shall  warm  my  breast  to  sing  of  Caesar's  fame ! 
Meanwhile  permit  that  my  preluding  muse 
In  Theban  wars  a  humbler  theme  may  choose  : 
Of  furious  hate  surviving  death  she  sings, 
A  fatal  throne  to  two  contending  kings. 
And  funeral  flames  that,  parting  wide  in  air. 
Express  the  discord  of  the  souls  they  bear: ' 
Of  towns  dispeopled,  and  the  wandering  ghosts 
Of  kings  unburied  in  the  wasted  coasts ; 
When  Dirce's  fountain  blushed  witb  Grecian  blood, 
And  Thetis,  near  Ismenos'  swelling  flood. 
With  dread  belield  the  rolling  surges  sweep 
In  heaps  his  slaughtered  sons  into  the  deep. 

What  hero,  Clio  !  wilt  thou  first  relate? 
The  rage  of  Tydeus,  or  the  prophet's  late  'i 


298  THEBAIS    OF    STATIUS. 

Or  how,  wi'fli  bills  of  slain  on  every  side, 
Hippomedon  repelled  the  hostile  tide? 
Or  how  the  youth,  with  every  grace  adorned, 
Untimely  fell,  to  be  for  ever  moiu-ned? 
Then  to  fierce  Capaneus  thy  verse  extend, 
And  sing  with  horror  his  prodigious  end. 

Now  wretched  (Edipus,  deprived  of  sight, 
Led  a  long  death  in  everlasting  night; 
But  while  he  dwells  where  not  a  cheerful  ray 
Can  pierce  the  darkness,  and  abhors  the  day, 
The  clear  reflecting  mind  presents  his  sin 
In  frightful  views,  and  makes  it  day  within; 
Retui-ning  thoughts  in  endless  circles  roll, 
And  thousand  furies  haunt  his  guilty  soul: 
The  v/retch  then  lifted  to  the  unpitying  skies 
Those  empty  orbs  from  whence  he  tore  his  eyes, 
Whose  wounds,  yet  fresh,  with  bloody  hands  he  struck, 
While  from  his  breast  these  dreadful  accents  broke: 

*  Ye  Gods !  that  o'er  the  gloomy  regions  reign, 
Where  guilty  spirits  feel  eternal  pain ; 
Thou,  sable  Styx!  whose  livid  streams  are  rolled 
Through  dreary  coasts,  which  I,  though  blind,  behold ; 
Tisiphone !  that  oft  hast  heard  my  prayer, 
Assist,  if  CEdipus  deserve  thy  care, 
if  you  received  me  from  Jocasta's  womb. 
And  nursed  the  hope  of  mischiefs  yet  to  come; 
If,  leaving  Polybus,  I  took  my  way 
To  Cyrrha's  temple,  on  that  fatal  day 
When  by  the  son  the  trembling  father  died, 
Where  the  three  roads  the  Phocion  fields  divide  ; 
If  I  the  Sphinx's  riddle  durst  explain, 
Taught  by  thyself  to  win  the  promised  reign ; 
If  wretched  I,  by  baleful  furies  led. 
With  monstrous  mixture  stained  my  mother's  bed, 
For  hell  and  thee  begot  an  impious  brood. 
And  with  full  lust  those  horrid  joys  renewed  ; 
Then,  self-condemned,  to  shades  of  endless  r.ight, 
Forced  from  these  orbs  the  bleeding  balls  of  siujlu  ; 
Oh,  hear!  and  aid  the  vengeance  I  require, 
If  worthy  thee,  and  what  thou  mightst  inspire. 
My  sons  their  old  unhappy  sire  despise. 
Spoiled  of  his  kingdom,  and  deprived  of  eyes ; 
Guileless  I  wander,  unregarded  mourn. 
While  these  exalt  their  sceptres  o'er  my  urn  ; 
These  sons,  ye  gods!  who,  with  flagitious  pricK^, 
Insult  my  darkness  and  my  groans  deride, 
Alt  thou  a  father,  unregarding  Jove  I 
And  sleeps  thy  thunder  in  the  realms  above  ? 
Thou  fviry !  then  some  lasting  curse  entail, 
Which  o'er  their  children's  children  shall  prevail 


THEBAIS    OF   STATIUS.  299 

Place  on  their  neads  that  crown,  distained  with  gore 

Which  these  dire  hands  from  my  slain  father  tore; 

Go,  and  a  parent's  heavy  curses  bear, 

Break  all  the  bonds  of  nature,  and  prepare 

Their  kindred  souls  to  mutual  hate  and  war. 

Give  them  to  dare,  what  I  might  wish  to  see, 

Blind  as  1  am,  some  glorious  villany  ! 

Soon  shalt  thou  find,  if  thou  but  arm  their  hands, 

Their  ready  guilt  preventing  thy  commands : 

Couldst  thou  some  great  proportioned  mischief  frame. 

They'd  prove  the  father  from  whose  loins  they  came.' 

The  fury  heard,  while  on  Cocytus'  brink 
Her  snakes  untied  sulphureous  waters  drink ; 
But  at  the  summons  rolled  her  eyes  around, 
And  snatched  the  starting  serpents  from  the  ground ; 
Not  half  so  swiftly  shoots  along  in  air, 
The  gliding  lightning  or  descending  star. 
Through  crowds  of  airy  shades  she  winged  her  flight, 
And  dark  dominions  of  the  silent  night; 
Swift  as  she  passed  the  flitting  ghosts  withdrew, 
And  the  pale  spectres  trembled  at  her  view  ; 
To  the  iron  gates  of  Tenarus  she  flies, 
There  spreads  her  dusky  pinions  to  the  skies, 
The  day  beheld,  and,  sickening  at  the  sight. 
Veiled  her  fair  glories  in  the  shades  of  night. 
Affrighted  Atlas,  on  the  distant  shore. 
Trembled,  and  shook  the  heavens  and  gods  he  bore. 
Now  from  beneath  Malea's  airy  height. 
Aloft  she  sprung,  and  steered  to  Thebes  her  flight; 
With  eager  speed  the  well-known  journey  tooK, 
Nor  here  regrets  the  hell  she  late  forsook. 
A  hundred  snakes  her  gloomy  visage  shade, 
A  hundred  serpents  guard  her  horrid  head  ; 
Tn  her  sunk  eyeballs  dreadful  meteors  glow ; 
Such  rays  from  Phoebe's  bloody  circles  flow, 
When  lab'ring  with  strong  charms  she  shoots  from  high 
A  fiery  gleam,  and  reddens  all  the  sky. 
Blood  stained  her  cheeks,  and  from  her  moutli  there 
Blue  streaming  poisons,  and  a  length  of  flame,    [canio 
From  ev'ry  blast  of  her  contagious  breath, 
Famine  and  drought  proceed,  and  plagues  and  death. 
A  robe  obscene  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown, 
A  dress  by  fates  and  furies  worn  alone. 
She  tossed  her  meagre  arms ;  her  better  hand 
In  waving  circles  whirled  a  funeral  brand : 
A  serpent  from  her  left  was  seen  to  rear 
His  flaming  crest,  and  lash  the  yielding  air. 
But  when  the  fury  took  her  stand  on  high, 
Where  vast  Cithaeron's  top  salutes  the  sky, 


300  THEBAIS    OF    STAT1U9. 

A  hiss  from  all  the  snaky  th'e  went  round, 
The  dreadful  signal  all  the  rocks  rebound  ; 
And  through  the  Achaian  cities  send  the  sound. 
O'ite,  with  high  Parnassus,  heard  the  voice, 
Eurotus'  banks  remurmur'd  to  the  noise ; 
Again  Leucothoe  shook  at  these  alarms, 
And  pressed  Palsemon  closer  in  her  arms. 
Headlong  from  thence  the  glowing  fury  springs, 
And  o'er  the  '1  heban  palace  spreads  her  wings. 
Once  more  invades  the  guilty  dome,  and  shrouds 
Its  bright  pavilions  in  a  veil  of  clouds. 
Straight  with  the  rage  of  all  their  race  possessed, 
Stung  to  the  soul,  the  brothers  start  from  rest, 
And  all  their  furies  wake  within  their  breast. 
Tlieir  tortured  minds  repining  envy  tears, 
And  hate  engendered  by  suspicious  fears; 
And  sacred  thirst  of  sway,  and  all  the  ties 
Of  nature  broke,  and  royal  purjuries; 
And  impotent  desire  to  reign  alone, 
That  scorns  the  dull  reversion  of  a  t'nrone. 
Each  would  the  sweets  of  sov'reign  rule  devour, 
"While  discord  waits  upon  divided  power. 

As  stubborn  steers,  by  brawny  ploughmen  broke, 
And  join  reluctant  to  the  galling  yoke, 
Alike  disdain  with  servile  necks  to  bear 
The  unwonted  weight,  or  drag  the  crooked  share, 
But  rend  the  reins,  and  bound  a  dilferent  way, 
And  all  the  furrows  in  confusion  lay ; 
Such  was  the  discord  of  the  royal  pair 
Whom  fury  drove  precipitate  to  war. 
In  vain  the  chiefs  contrived  a  specious  way 
To  govern  Thebes  by  their  alternate  sway : 
Unjust  decree  !  while  this  enjoys  the  state, 
That  mourns  in  exile  his  unequal  fate, 
And  the  short  monarch  of  a  hasty  year 
Foresees  with  anguish  his  returning  heir. 
Thus  did  the  league  their  impious  arms  restrain. 
But  scarce  subsisted  to  the  second  reign. 

Yet  then  no  proud  aspiring  ^jiles  were  raised, 
No  fretted  roofs  with  polished  metals  blazed: 
No  laboured  columns  in  long  order  placed, 
"No  Grecian  stone  the  pompous  arches  graced; 
No  nightly  bands  in  glittering  armour  wait 
Before  the  sleepless  tyrant's  guarded  gate ; 
No  chargers  then  were  wrought  in  hurnislied  gold, 
Nor  silver  vases  took  the  forming  mould  ; 
Nor  gems  on  bowls  embossed  were  seen  to  sliine, 
Blaze  on  the  brims,  and  sparkle  in  the  wine. 
Say,  wretched  rivals!  what  provokes  your  rage? 
Say  to  what  end  your  impious  arms  engage  I 


i 


THEBAIS    OF    STATIUS.  30J 

Not  all  bright  Phoebus'  views  in  early  morn, 
Or  when  his  evening  beams  the  west  adorn, 
When  the  south  glows  with  his  meridian  ray, 
And.  the  cold  north  receives  a  fainter  day  ; 
For  crimes  like  these  not  all  those  realms  suffice, 
Were  all  those  realms  the  guilty  victor's  prize ! 

But  fortune  now  (the  lots  of  empire  thrown) 
Decrees  to  proud  Eteocles  the  crown. 
What  joys,  oh,  tyrant!  swell'd  thy  soul  that  day, 
When  all  were  slaves  thou  couldst  around  survey, 
Pleased  to  behold  unbounded  power  thy  own. 
And  singly  fill  a  feared  and  envied  throne  ! 

But  the  vile  vulgar,  ever  discontent. 
Their  growing  fear  in  secret  murmurs  vent; 
Still  prone  to  change,  though  still  the  slaves  of  state, 
And  sure  the  monarch  whom  they  have  to  hate ; 
New  lords  they  madly  make,  then  tamely  bear. 
And  softly  curse  the  tyrants  whom  they  fear: 
And  one  of  those  who  groan  beneath  the  sway 
Of  kings  imposed,  and  grudgingly  obey, 
(Whom  envy  to  the  great,  and  vulgar  spite,  ^ 
With  scandal  armed,  the  ignoble  mind's  delight,) 
Exclaimed — '  O  Thebes !  for  thee  what  fates  remain, 
What  woes  attend  this  inauspicious  reign ! 
Must  we,  alas !  our  doubtful  necks  prepare 
Each  haughty  master's  yoke  by  turns  to  bear. 
And  still  to  change  whom  changed  we  still  must  fear  f 
These  now  control  a  wretched  people's  fate, 
These  can  divide  and  these  reverse  the  state: 
E'en  fortune  rules  no  more — O  servile  land, 
Wliere  exiled  tyrants  still  by  turns  command! 
Thou  sire  of  gods  and  men,  imperial  Jove ! 
Is  this  the  eternal  doom  decreed  above  ? 
On  thy  own  offspring  hast  thou  fixed  this  fate 
From  the  first  birth  of  our  unhappy  state, 
When  banished  Cadmus,  wand'ring  o'er  the  main. 
For  lost  Europa  searched  the  world  in  vain, 
And  fated  in  Boeotian  fields  to  found 
A  rising  empire  on  a  foreign  ground, 
First  raised  our  walls  on  that  ill-omened  plain 
Where  earth-born  brothers  were  by  brothers  shiin? 
What  lofty  looks  the  unrivalled  monarch  bears! 
How  all  tlie  tyrant  in  his  face  appears! 
What  sullen  fury  clouds  his  scornful  brow  ! 
Gods!  how  his  eyes  with  threatening  ardour  glow 
Can  this  imperious  lord  forget  to  reign, 
Quit  all  his  state,  descend,  and  serve  again? 
Yet  who  before  more  popularly  bow'd? 
Who  more  propitious  to  the  suppliant  crowd  ? 

26 


302  TIJEBAIS    OF   STATIUS. 

Patient  of  right,  familiar  in  the  throne, 
What  wonder  then?  he  was  not  then  aione. 
O  wretched  we!  a  vile  submissive  train, 
Fortnne's  tame  fools,  and  slaves  in  every  reign! 

As  when  two  winds  with  rival  force  contend, 
This  way  and  that  the  wavering  sails  they  bend, 
While  freezing  Boreas  and  black  L^urus  blow, 
Now  here,  now  there,  the  reeling  vessel  throw; 
Thus  on  each  side,  alas !  our  tottering  state 
Feels  all  the  fury  of  resistless  fate, 
And  doubtful  still,  and  still  distracted  stands. 
While  that  prince  threatens,  and  wliile  this  commands. 

And  now  the  almighty  father  of  the  gods 
Convenes  a  counsel  in  the  blessed  abodes. 
Far  in  the  bright  recesses  of  the  skies, 
High  o'er  the  rolling  heavens  a  mansion  lies, 
Whence,  far  below,  the  gods  at  once  survey 
The  realms  of  rising  and  declining  day, 
And  all  the  extended  space  of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 
Full  in  the  midst,  and  on  a  starry  throne. 
The  majesty  of  heaven  superior  shone: 
Serene  he  looked,  and  gave  an  awful  nod, 
And  all  the  trembling  spheres  confessed  the  god. 
At  Jove's  assent  the  deities  around 
In  solemn  state  the  consistory  crowned. 
Next  a  long  order  of  inferior  powers 
Ascend  from  hills,  and  plains,  and  shady  bowers; 
Those  from  whose  urns  the  rolling  rivers  flow, 
And  those  that  give  the  wandering  winds  to  blow: 
Here  all  their  rage  and  e'en  their  murmurs  cease, 
And  sacred  silence  reigns,  and  universal  peace. 
A  shining  synod  of  majestic  gods 
(iilds  with  new  lustre  the  divine  abodes; 
Heaven  seems  improved  with  a  superior  ray, 
And  the  bright  arch  reflects  a  double  day. 

The  monarch  then  his  solemn  silence  broke,  a 

The  still  creation  listened  while  he  spoke ;  m 

Each  sacred  accent  bears  eternal  weight. 
And  each  irrevocable  word  is  fate. 

'  How  long  shall  man  the  wrath  of  heaven  defy. 
And  force  unwilling  vengeance  from  the  sky! 
Oh  !  race  confederate  into  crimes,  that  prove 
Triumphant  o'er  th'  eluded  rage  of  Jove ! 
Tills  wearied  arm  can  scarce  the  bolt  sustain. 
Ana  unregarded  thunder  rolls  in  vain : 
The  o'erlaboured  Cyclop  from  his  task  retires, 
The  iEolian  forge  exhausted  of  its  fires. 
For  this  I  suffered  Phcebus'  steeds  to  stray, 
And  the  mad  ruler  to  misguide  tlie  day, 


TIIEBAIS    OF    STATIUS.  303 

When  the  wide  earth  to  heaps  of  ashes  turned, 

And  lieaven  itself  the  wandering  chariot  burned 

For  this  my  brother  of  the  watery  reign 

Released  th'  impetuous  sluices  of  the  main  ; 

But  flames  consumed,  and  billows  raged  in  vain. 

Two  races  now,  allied  to  Jove,  offend  ; 

To  punish  these  see  Jove  himself  descend. 

The  Theban  kings  their  line  from  Cadmus  trace, 

From  godlike  Perseus  those  of  Argive  race. 

Unhappy  Cadmus'  fate,  who  does  not  know, 

And  the  long  series  of  succeeding  woe? 

How  oft  the  furies  from  the  deeps  of  night 

Arose,  and  mixed  with  men  in  mortal  fight ; 

The  exulting  mother  stained  with  filial  blood, 

The  savage  hunter  and  the  haunted  wood? 

The  direful  banquet  why  should  I  proclaim, 

And  crimes  that  grieve  the  trembling  gods  to  name? 

Ere  I  recount  the  sins  of  these  proi'ane, 

The  sun  would  sink  into  the  western  main, 

And,  rising,  gild  the  radiant  east  again. 

Have  we  not  seen  (the  blood  of  Laius  shed) 

The  murdering  son  ascend  his  parent's  bed. 

Through  violated  nature  force  his  way, 

And  stahi  the  sacred  womb  where  once  he  lay  ? 

Yet  now  in  darkness  and  despair  he  greans, 

And  for  the  crimes  of  guilty  fate  atones; 

His  sons  with  scorn  their  eyeless  father  view. 

Insult  his  wounds,  and  make  them  bleed  anew. 

Thy  curse,  oh,  GEdipus !  just  Heaven  alarms. 

And  sets  th'  avenging  Thunderer  in  arms. 

I  from  the  root  thy  guilty  race  will  tear. 

And  give  the  nations  to  the  waste  of  war. 

Adrastus  soon,  with  gods  averse,  shall  joni 

In  dire  alliance  with  the  Theban  line ; 

Hence  strife  shall  rise,  and  mortal  war  succeed; 

The  guilty  realms  of  Tantalus  shall  bleed  : 

Fixed  is  their  doom.     This  all-remembering  breast 

Yet  harbours  vengeance  for  the  tyrant's  feast.' 

He  said  ;  and  thus  the  queen  of  Heaven  returned; 
(With  sudden  grief  her  lab 'ring  bosom  burned :) 
'  Must  I,  whose  cares  Phoroneus'  towers  defend, 
Must  I,  oh  Jove  I  in  bloody  wars  contend? 
Thou  knowest  those  regions  my  protection  clami, 
(Glorious  in  arms,  in  riches,  and  in  fame: 
Though  there  the  fair  Egyptian  heifer  fed, 
And  there  deluded  Argus  slept  and  bled; 
Though  there  the  brazen  tower  was  stormed  of  old, 
When  Jove  descended  in  almighty  gold; 
Yet  1  can  pardon  those  obscurer  rapes, 
Those  bashful  crimes  disguised  in  borrowed  shapes ; 


50^  THEBAIS    OF    STAriUS. 

But  Thebes,  where,  shiiniijj  in  celestial  cliarras, 

Thou  cam'st  triumphant  to  a  mortal's  arms, 

When  all  my  glories  o'er  her  limbs  were  spread. 

And  blazing  lightnings  danced  around  her  bed; 

Cursed  Thebes  the  vengeance  it  deserves  may  prove— 

Ah  !  why  should  Argos  feel  the  rage  of  Jove  ? 

Yet  since  thou  Avilt  thy  sister-queen  controul, 

Since  still  the  lust  of  discord  fires  thy  soul, 

Go,  raise  my  Samos,  let  Mycene  fall, 

And  level  with  the  dust  the  Spartan  wall ; 

Nor  more  let  mortals  Juno's  power  invoke. 

Her  fanes  no  more  with  eastern  incense  smoke 

Nor  victims  sink  beneath  the  sacred  stroke ; 

But  to  your  Isis  all  my  rights  transfer, 

Let  altars  blaze  and  temples  smoke  for  her; 

For  her,  through  Egypt's  fruitful  clime  renowned, 

Let  weeping  Nilus  hear  the  timbrel  sound. 

But  if  thou  must  reform  the  stubborn  times, 

Avenging  on  the  sons  the  fathers'  crimes, 

And  from  the  long  records  of  distant  age 

Derive  incitements  to  renew  thy  rage ; 

Say,  from  what  period  then  has  Jove  designed 

To  date  his  vengeance?  to  what  bounds  confined? 

Begin  from  thence,  where  first  Alpheus  hides 

His  wandering  stream,  and  through  the  briny  tides 

Unmixed  to  his  Sicilian  river  glides. 

Thy  own  Arcadians  there  the  thunder  claim. 

Whose  impious  rites  disgrace  thy  mighty  name; 

Who  raise  thy  temples  where  the  chariot  stood 

Of  fierce  CEnomaus,  defiled  with  blood; 

Where  once  his  steeds  their  savage  banquet  found. 

And  human  bones  yet  whiten  all  the  ground. 

Say,  can  those  honours  please?  and  canst  thou  love 

Presumptuous  Crete,  that  boasts  the  tomb  of  Jove  ? 

And  shall  not  Tantalus's  kingdom  share 

Thy  wife  and  sister's  tutelary  care? 

Reverse,  O  Jove !  thy  too  severe  decree, 

Nor  doom  to  war  a  race  derived  from  thee  ; 

On  impious  realms  and  barbarous  kings  impose 

Thy  plagues,  and  curse  them  with  such  sons  as  tho^e,' 

Thus  in  reproach  and  prayer  the  queen  express'd 
The  rage  and  grief  contending  in  her  breast. 
Unmoved  remained  the  ruler  of  the  sky, 
And  from  his  throne  returned  this  stern  reply: 
•  *Twas  thus  I  deemed  thy  haughty  soul  would  bear 
The  dire  though  just  revenge  which  I  prepare 
Against  a  nation  thy  peculiar  care : 
No  less  Dione  might  for  Thebes  contend. 
Nor  Bacchus  less  his  native  town  defenU; 


THEBAIS    Of    STATIUS.  30d 

yet  these  in  silence  see  the  fates  fulfil 
Their  work,  and  reverence  our  superior  will : 
For  by  the  black  infernal  Styx  1  swear 
(That  dreadful  oath  that  binds  the  Thunderer) 
*Tis  fixed ;  the  irrevocable  doom  of  Jove ; 
No  force  can  bend  me,  no  persuasion  move. 
Haste  then,  Cyllenius,  through  the  liquid  air, 
Go  mount  the  winds,  and  to  the  shades  repair; 
Bid  hell's  black  monarch  my  commands  obey, 
And  give  up  Laius  to  the  realms  of  day, 
Whose  ghost  yet  shivering  on  Cocytus'  sand, 
Lxpects  its  passage  to  the  farther  strand : 
Let  the  pale  sire  revisit  Thebes,  and  bear 
These  pleasing  orders  to  the  tyrant's  ear ; 
That  from  his  exiled  brother,  swelled  with  pride 
Of  foreign  forces  and  his  Argive  bride. 
Almighty  Jove  commands  him  to  detain 
The  promised  empire,  and  alternate  reign. 
Be  this  the  cause  of  more  than  mortal  hate ; 
The  rest  succeeding  times  shall  ripen  into  fate.' 

The  god  obeys,  and  to  his  feet  applies 
Those  golden  wings  that  cut  the  yielding  skies : 
His  ample  hat  his  beamy  locks  o'erspread. 
And  veiled  the  starry  glories  of  his  head. 
He  seized  the  wand  that  causes  sleep  to  fly, 
Or  in  soft  slumbers  seals  the  wakeful  eye ; 
That  drives  the  dead  to  dark  Tartarean  coasts, 
Or  back  to  life  compels  the  wandering  ghosts. 
Thu5  through  the  parting  clouds  the  son  of  May 
Wings  on  the  whistling  winds  his  rapid  way ; 
Now  smoothly  steers  through  air  his  equal  flight, 
Now  springs  aloft,  and  towers  the  ethereal  height*, 
Then  wheeling  down  the  steep  of  heaven  he  flies, 
And  draws  a  radiant  circle  o'er  the  skies. 

Meantime  the  banished  Polynices  roves, 
His  Thebes  abandoned,  through  the  Aonian  groves, 
While  future  realms  his  wandering  thoughts  delight, 
His  daily  vision,  and  his  dream  by  night ; 
Forbidden  Thebes  appears  before  his  eye. 
From  whence  he  sees  his  absent  brotlier  fly, 
With  transport  views  the  airy  rule  his  own, 
And  swells  on  an  imaginary  throne : 
Fain  would  he  cast  a  tedious  age  away, 
And  hve  out  all  in  one  triumphant  day: 
He  chides  the  lazy  progress  of  the  sun. 
And  bids  tlie  year  with  swifter  motion  run: 
With  anxious  hopes  his  ciaving  mind  is  tosa'd^ 
And  all  his  joys  m  length  of  wishes  lost. 


26* 


ZOG  TIIEBAIS    OF    STATIUS. 

The  hero  then  resolves  his  course  to  bend 
Where  ancient  Danaus'  fruitful  fields  extend, 
And  famed  Mycene's  lofty  towers  ascend, 
(Where  late  the  sun  did  Atreus'  crimes  detest, 
And  disappeared  in  horror  of  the  feast.) 
And  now  by  chance,  Ly  fate,  or  furies,  led, 
From  Bacchus'  consecrated  caves  he  fled, 
Where  the  shrill  cries  of  frantic  matrons  sound, 
And  Pentheus'  blood  enriched  the  rising  ground. 
Then  sees  Cithseron  towering  o'er  the  plain. 
And  thence  declining  gently  to  the  main. 
Next  to  the  bounds  of  Nisus'  realm  repairs. 
Where  treacherous  Sylla  cut  the  purple  hairs; 
The  hanging  cliffs  of  Scyron's  rock  explores, 
And  hears  the  murmur  of  the  different  shores; 
Passes  the  strait  that  parts  the  foaming  seas, 
And  stately  Corinth's  pleasing  site  surveys. 

'Twas  now  the  time  when  Phoebus  yields  to  night, 
And  rising  Cynthia  sheds  her  silver  light ; 
Wide  o'er  the  world  in  solemn  pomp  she  drew 
Her  airy  chariot,  hung  with  pearly  dew: 
All  birds  and  beasts  lie  hushed :  Sleep  steals  away 
The  wild  desires  of  men,  and  toils  of  day. 
And  l)rings,  descending  through  the  silent  air, 
A  sweet  forge tfulness  of  human  care. 
Yet  no  red  clouds,  with  golden  borders  gay. 
Promise  the  skies  the  bright  return  of  day  ; 
No  faint  reflections  of  the  distant  light 
Streak  with  long  gleams  the  scattering  shades  of  night: 
From  the  damp  earth  impervious  vapours  rise, 
Increase  the  darkness,  and  involve  the  skies. 

At  once  the  rushing  winds  with  roaring  sound  "  1 

Burst  from  the  iEolian  caves,  and  rend  the  ground,  f 

With  equal  rage  their  airy  quarrel  try. 
And  win  by  turns  the  kingdom  of  the  sky: 
But  with  a  thicker  night  black  Auster  shrouds 
The  heavens,  and  drives  on  heaps  the  rolling  clouds. 
From  whose  dark  womb  a  rattling  tempest  pours. 
Which  the  cold  north  congeals  to  haily  showers. 
From  pole  to  pole  the  thunder  roars  aloud, 
And  broken  lightnings  flash  from  every  cloud. 
Now  smokes  with  showers  the  misty  mountain  ground, 
And  floated  fields  lie  undistinguished  i-ound  : 
The  Inachian  streams  with  headlong  fury  run. 
And  Erasinus  rolls  a  deluge  on ; 
The  foaming  Lerna  swells  above  its  bounds, 
And  spreads  its  ancient  poisons  o'er  the  grounds  : 
Where  late  v/as  dust,  now  rapid  torrents  p5ay, 
Rush  through  the  mounds,  and  bear  the  dams  away 


TIIERAIS    OF    5TAT1US.  307 

Old  limbs  of  trees,  from  crackliiig  forests  torn, 
Are  whirl'd  in  air,  and  on  the  winds  are  borne; 
The  storm  the  dark  L3'ca}an  groves  displayed, 
And  first  to  light  exposed  the  sacred  shade. 
The  intrepid  Theban  hears  the  bursting  sky, 
Sees  yawning  rocks  in  massy  fragments  fly, 
And  views  astonished,  from  the  hills  afar, 
The  floods  descending,  and  the  watery  war 
That,  driven  by  storms,  and  pouring  o'er  the  plain, 
Swept  herds,  and  hinds,  and  houses,  to  the  main. 
Through  the  brown  horrors  of  the  night  he  fled, 
Nor  knows,  amazed,  what  doubtful  path  to  tread  ; 
His  brother's  image  to  his  mind  appears,  [feais. 

Inflames  his  heart  with  rage,  and  wings  his  feet  with 

So  fares  the  sailor  on  the  stormy  main. 
When  clouds  conceal  Bootes'  golden  wain. 
When  not  a  star  its  friendly  lustre  keeps. 
Nor  trembling  Cynthia  glimmers  on  the  deeps  : 
He  dreads  the  rocks,  and  shoals,  and  seas,  and  skies, 
While  thunder  roars,  and  lightning  round  him  flies. 

Thus  strove  the  chief,  on  every  side  distress'd, 
Thus  still  his  courage  with  his  toils  increas'd  ; 
With  his  broad  shield  opposed,  he  forced  his  way 
Through  thickest  woods,  and  rous'd  the  beasts  of  prey; 
Till  he  beheld  where  from  Larissa's  height 
The  shelving  walls  reflect  a  glancing  light: 
Thither  with  haste  the  Theban  hero  flies ; 
On  this  side  Lerna's  poisonous  water  lies ; 
On  that  Prosymna's  grove  and  temple  rise. 
He  passed  the  gates,  which  then  unguarded  lay, 
And  to  the  regal  palace  bent  his  way; 
On  the  cold  marble,  spent  with  toil,  he  lies. 
And  waits  till  pleasing  slumber  seals  his  eyes. 

Adrastus  here  his  happy  people  sways, 
Bless'd  with  calm  peace  in  his  declining  days. 
By  both  his  parents  of  descent  divine. 
Great  Jove  and  Phoebus  graced  his  noble  line : 
Heaven  had  not  crown'd  his  wishes  with  a  son, 
But  two  fair  daughters  heir'd  his  state  and  throne. 
To  him  Apollo  (wondrous  to  relate! 
But  who  can  pierce  into  the  depths  of  Fate  ?) 
Had  sung — *  Expect  thy  sons  on  Argos'  shore, 
A  yellow  lion  and  a  bristly  boar.' 
This  long  revolved  in  his  paternal  breast, 
Sat  heavy  on  his  heart,  and  broke  his  rest; 
This,  great  Amphiarus,  lay  hid  from  thee, 
Though  skill 'd  in  fate  and  dark  futurity. 
Tlie  father's  care  and  prophet's  art  were  vain. 
For  thus  did  the  predicting  god  ordain. 


308  THEBAIS  OF   STATIUS. 

Lo,  hapless  Tydeus,  whose  ill-fated  hand 
Had  slain  his  brother,  leaves  his  native  land, 
And,  seized  with  horror  in  the  shades  of  night, 
Through  the  thick  deserts  headlong  nrg^d  his  flight  i 
Now  by  the  fury  of  the  tempest  driren. 
He  seeks  a  shelter  from  the  inclement  heaven, 
Till,  led  by  fate,  the  Theban's  steps  he  treads, 
And  to  fair  Argos'  open  court  succeeds. 

When  thus  the  chiefs  from  different  lands  resort 
To  Adrastus'  realms  and  hospitable  court, 
The  king  surveys  his  guests  with  curious  eyes, 
And  views  their  arms  and  habit  with  svu-prise. 
A  lion's  yellow  skin  the  Theban  wears, 
Horrid  his  mane,  and  rough  with  curling  hairs ; 
Such  once  employed  Alcides'  youthful  toils. 
Ere  yet  adorned  with  Nemeo/s  dreadful  spoils. 
A  boar's  stiff  hide,  of  Calydonian  breed, 
CEnides'  manly  shoulders  overspread  ; 
Oblique  his  tusks,  erect  his  bristles  stood. 
Alive,  the  pride  and  terror  of  the  wood. 

Struck  with  the  sight,  and  fixed  in  deep  amaze, 
The  king  the  accomplished  oracle  surveys, 
Reveres  Apollo's  vocal  caves,  and  owns 
The  guiding  godhead  and  his  future  sons. 
O'er  all  his  bosom  secret  transports  reign. 
And  a  glad  horror  shoots  through  every  vein. 
To  heaven  he  lifts  his  hands,  erects  Ir's  sight, 
And  thus  invokes  the  silent  queen  of  night! 

*  Goddess  of  shades !  beneath  whose  gloomy  reign 
Yon  spangled  arch  glows  with  the  starry  train , 
You  who  the  cares  of  heaven  and  earth  allay. 
Till  nature,  quickened  by  the  inspiring  ray, 
Wakes  to  new  vigour  with  the  rising  day : 
Oh !  thou  who  freest  me  from  my  doubtful  state, 
Long  lost  and  wildered  in  the  maze  of  fate ! 
Be  present  still,  oh  goddess!  in  our  aid  ; 
Proceed,  and  'firm  those  omens  thou  hast  made. 
We  to  thy  name  our  annual  rites  will  pay. 
And  on  thy  altar  sacrifices  lay  ; 
The  sable  flock  shall  fall  beneath  the  stroke. 
And  fill  thy  temples  with  a  grateful  smoke. 
Hail !  faithful  Tripos !  hail !  ye  dark  abodes 
(Jf  awful  Phoebus!  I  confess  the  gods!' 

Thus,  seized  with  sacred  fear,  the  monarch  prayed 
Then  to  his  inner  court  the  guests  conveyed. 
Where  yet  thin  fumes  from  dying  sparks  arise 
And  dust  yet  white  upon  each  altar  lies. 
The  relics  of  a  former  sacrifice. 
The  king  once  more  the  solemn  rites  requires, 
And  hids  renew  the  feasts  and  wake  the  fires. 


THEBAIS    OF    3TATIU3.  SOB 

His  train  obey,  while  all  the  courts  around 
With  norsy  care  and  various  tumult  sound. 
Ernbroidered  purple  clothes  the  golden  beds ; 
This  slave  the  floor  and  that  the  table  spreads  ; 
A  third  dispels  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  fills  depending  lamps  with  beams  of  light; 
Here  loaves  in  canisters  are  piled  on  high, 
And  there  in  flames  the  slaughtered  victims  fly. 
Sublime  in  regal  state  Adrastus  shone, 
Stretched  on  rich  carpets  on  his  ivory  throne  ; 
A  lofty  couch  receives  each  princely  guest; 
Around,  at  awful  distance,  wait  the  rest. 

And  now  the  king,  his  royal  feast  to  grace, 
Acestis  calls,  the  guardian  of  his  race. 
Who  first  their  youth  in  arts  of  virtue  trained, 
And  their  ripe  years  in  modest  grace  maintained; 
Then  softly  whispered  in  her  faithful  ear. 
And  bade  his  daughters  at  the  rites  appear. 
When  from  the  close  apartments  of  the  night 
The  royal  nymphs  approach  divinely  bright, 
Such  was  Diana's,  such  Minerva's,  face  ; 
Nor  shine  their  beauties  with  superior  grace ! 
But  that  in  these  a  milder  charm  endears, 
And  less  of  terror  in  their  looks  appears. 
As  on  the  heroes  first  they  cast  their  eyes. 
O'er  their  fair  cheeks  the  glowing  blusl.es  rise; 
Their  downcast  looks  a  decent  shame  confess 'd, 
Then  on  their  father's  reverend  features  rest. 

The  banquet  done,  the  monarch  gives  the  sign 
To  fill  the  goblet  high  with  sparkling  wine. 
Which  Danaus  used  in  sacred  rites  of  old, 
With  sculpture  graced,  and  rough  with  rising  gold. 
Here  to  the  clouds  victorious  Perseus  flies. 
Medusa  seems  to  move  her  languid  eyes. 
And,  e'en  in  gold,  turns  paler  as  she  dies. 
There  from  the  chase  Jove's  towering  eagle  bears, 
On  golden  wings,  the  Phrygian  to  the  stars ; 
Still  as  he  rises  in  the  ethereal  height, 
His  native  mountains  lessen  to  his  sight; 
While  all  his  sad  companions  upward  gaze. 
Fixed  on  the  glorious  scene  in  wild  amaze ; 
And  the  swift  hounds,  afli-ighted  as  he  flies. 
Run  to  the  shade,  and  bark  against  the  skies. 

This  golden  bowl  with  generous  juice  was  crown'd, 
The  first  libation  sprinkled  on  the  ground ; 
By  turns  on  each  celestial  power  they  call, 
With  Phoebus  name  resounds  the  vaulted  hall. 
The  courtly  train,  the  strangers,  and  the  rest, 
Crowned  with  chaste  laurel,  and  with  garlands  dress 'd, 


310  THCBAIS    VF    STATIUa,  * 

While  with  rich  gums  the  fuming  altavs  blaze, 
Salute  the  god  in  numerous  hymns  of  praise. 

Then  thus  the  king  ;  '  Perhaps,  my  noble  guests i 
These  honoured  altars,  and  these  annual  feasts, 
To  bright  Apollo's  awful  name  design'd, 
Unknown,  with  wonder  may  perplex  your  mind. 
Great  was  the  cause:  our  old  solemnities 
From  no  blind  zeal  or  fond  tradition  rise ; 
But  saved  from  death,  our  /\rgives  yearly  pay 
These  grateful  honours  to  the  god  of  day. 

When  by  a  thousand  darts  the  Python  slain 
With  orbs  unrolled  lay  covering  all  the  plain, 
(Transfixed  as  o'er  Castalia's  streams  he  hung, 
And  sucked  new  poisons  with  his  triple  tongue,) 
To  Argos'  realms  the  victor  god  resorts, 
And  enters  old  Crotopos'  humble  courts. 
This  rural  prince  one  only  daughter  blessed. 
That  all  the  charms  of  blooming  youth  possessed; 
Fair  was  her  face,  and  spotless  was  her  mind, 
Where  filial  love  with  virgin  sweetness  joined: 
Happy !  and  happy  still  she  might  have  proved 
Were  she  less  beautiful,  or  less  beloved ! 
But  Phoebus  loved,  and  on  the  flowery  side 
Of  Nemea's  stream  the  yielding  fair  enjoyed! 
Now,  ere  ten  moons  that  orb  with  light  adorn, 
The  illustrious  offspring  of  the  god  was  born; 
The  nymph,  her  father's  anger  to  evade, 
Itetires  from  Argos  to  the  sylvan  shade; 
To  woods  and  wilds  the  pleasing  burden  bears 
And  trusts  her  infant  to  a  shepherd's  cares. 

How  mean  a  fate,  unhappy  child  !  is  thine  ! 
Ah  !  how  \uiworthy  those  of  race  divine  ! 
On  flowery  herbs  in  some  green  covert  laid, 
His  bed  the  ground,  his  canopy  the  shade, 
He  mixes  with  the  bleeting  lambs  his  cries, 
While  the  rude  swain  his  rural  music  tries, 
To  call  soft  slumber  on  his  infant  eyes. 
Yet  «'en  in  those  obscure  abodes  to  live 
Was  more,  alas !  than  cruel  fate  would  give ; 
For  on  the  grassy  verdure  as  he  lay, 
And  breathed  the  freshness  of  the  early  day, 
Devouring  dogs  the  helpless  infant  tore, 
Fed  on  his  trembling  limbs,  and  lap])'d  the  gore. 
The  astonished  mother,  when  the  rumour  came, 
Forgets  her  father,  and  neglects  her  fame  ; 
With  loud  complaints  she  fills  the  yielding  air, 
And  beats  her  breast,  and  rends  her  flowing  hair 
Then  wild  with  anguish  to  her  sire  she  flies, 
Demands  the  sentence,  and  contented  dies. 


*  THEB.^IS    OF    STATIU3.  311 

But,  touched  with  sorrow  for  the  dead  too  late, 
The  raging  god  prepares  to  avenge  her  fate. 
He  sends  a  monster,  horrible  and  fell, 
Begot  by  furies  in  tlie  deptiis  of  Ireli. 
The  pest  a  virgin's  face  and  bosom  bears; 
High  on  her  crown  a  rising  snake  appears, 
Guards  her  black  front,  and  hisses  in  her  hairs. 
About  the  realm  she  walks  her  dreadful  round, 
When  night  with  sajjle  wing  o'erspreads  the  ground, 
Devours  young  babes  before  their  parents'  eyes. 
And  feeds  and  thrives  on  public  miseries. 

But  generous  rage  the  bold  Choroebus  warms, 
Choroebus !  famed  for  virtue  as  for  arms ; 
Some  fev/  like  him,  inspired  with  martial  flame, 
Thought  a  short  life  well  lost  for  endless  fame. 
These,  where  two  ways  in  equal  parts  divide, 
The  direful  monster  from  afar  descried, 
Two  bleeding  babes  depending  at  her  side ; 
Whose  panting  vitals,  warm  with  life,  she  draws, 
And  in  their  hearts  imbrues  her  cruel  claws. 
The  youths  surround  her  with  extended  speara, 
But  brave  Chorcebus  in  the  front  api)ears; 
Deep  in  Ler  breast  he  plung'd  his  shining  sword. 
And  hell's  dire  monster  back  to  hell  restored., 
The  Inachians  view  the  slain  with  vast  surprise^ 
Her  twisting  volumes,  and  her  rolling  eyes, 
Her  spotted  breast  and  gaping  womb  imbrued 
With  livid  poison  and  our  children's  blood. 
The  crowd  in  stupid  wonder  fix'd  appear, 
Pale  e'en  in  joy,  nor  yet  forget  to  fear. 
Some  with  vast  laeams  the  squalid  corpse  engage. 
And  weary  all  the  wild  efforts  of  rage. 
The  birds  obscene,  that  nightly  flocked  to  taste. 
With  hollow  screeches  fled  the  dire  repast; 
And  rav'nous  dogs,  allured  by  scented  blood. 
And  starving  wolves,  ran  howling  to  the  wood. 

But,  fired  with  rage,  from  cleft  Parnassus'  brow 
Avenging  Phoebus  bent  his  deadly  bow, 
And  hissing  slew  the  feathered  fates  below : 
A  liight  of  sultry  clouds  involved  around 
The  towers,  the  fields,  and  the  devoted  ground  - 
And  now  a  thousand  lives  together  fled. 
Death  with  his  scythe  cut  oft' the  fatal  thread. 
And  a  whole  province  in  his  triumph  led. 

But  Phoebus,  ask'd  why  noxious  fives  appear. 
And  raging  Sirius  blasts  the  sickly  year? 
Dtaiands  their  lives  by  whom  his  monster  fell, 
And  dooms  a  dreadful  sacrifice  to  hell. 

*  Bless'd  be  thy  dust,  and  let  eternal  fame 
Attend  thy  manes,  and  preserve  thy  name, 


312  THEI5AIS    OF    STA 

Undaunted  hero !  who  divinely  brave. 

In  such  a  cause  disdained  thy  life  to  save, 

But  view'd  the  shrhie  with  a  superior  look, 

And  its  upbraided  godhead  thus  bespoke:  ^1 

'  With  piety,  the  soul's  securest  guard,  ¥ 

And  conscious  virtue,  still  its  own  reward, 
Willing  I  come,  unknowing  how  to  fear; 
Nor  shalt  thou,  Phcebus,  find  a  suppliant  here : 
Thy  monster's  death  to  me  was  ow'd  alone, 
And  'tis  a  deed  too  glorious  to  disown. 
Behold  him  here  for  whom  so  many  days 
Impervious  clouds  concealed  thy  sullen  rays; 
For  whom,  as  man  no  longer  claimed  thy  care. 
Such  numbers  fell  by  pestilential  air ! 
But  if  the  abandoned  race  of  human  kind 
From  gods  above  no  more  compassion  find, 
If  such  inclemency  in  heaven  can  dwell, 
Yet  why  must  unoffending  Argos  feel 
The  vengeance  due  to  this  unlucky  steel? 
On  me,  on  me,  let  all  thy  fury  fall, 
Nor  err  from  me,  since  I  deserve  it  alls 
Unless  our  desert  cities  please  thy  sight 
Or  funeral  flames  reflect  a  grateful  light. 
Discharge  thy  shafts,  this  ready  bosom  rend, 
And  to  the  shades  a  ghost  triumphant  send: 
But  for  my  coimtry  let  my  fate  atone  ; 
Be  mine  the  vengeance  as  the  crime  my  own.' 

Merit  distressed  impartial  heaven  relieves: 
Unwelcome  life  relenting  Phcebus  gives ; 
For  not  the  vengeful  power,  that  glowed  with  rage, 
With  such  amazing  virtue  durst  engage. 
The  clouds  dispersed,  Apollo's  wrath  expired, 
And  from  the  wond'ring  god  the  unwilling  youth  retir'd. 
Tiu.nce  we  these  altars  in  his  temple  raise. 
And  offer  annual  honours,  feasts  and  praise: 
Tliose  solemn  feasts  propitious  Phrebus  please  ; 
'i'licse  honours  still  renewed  his  ancient  v/rath  aiij)oase. 

'  But  say,  illustrious  guest?'  adjoined  the  kiii;v, 
'  Vi  hat  name  you  bear,  from  what  high  race  you  spring  ? 
The  noble  'J'ydevis  stands  confessed,  and  known 
Our  neighbour  prince^  and  heir  of  Calydon. 
Relate  your  fortunes,  while  the  friendly  night 
And  silent  hours  to  various  talk  invite.' 

The  Theban  bends  on  earth  his  glooiny  eyes, 
Confused,  and  sadly  thus  at  length  replies : 
'  Before  these  akars  how  shall  I  proclaim 
(O  generous  Prince!)  my  nation  or  my  name, 
Or  through  what  veins  our  ancient  blood  has  i'oli'4. 
Let  the  sad  tale  for  ever  rest  untold ! 


xnE^iis  OF  STAT  I  us,  313 

Yet  if,  propitious  to  a  wretch  unknown, 
You  seek  to  share  in  sorrows  not  your  own, 
Know  then,  from  Cadmus  I  derive  my  race, 
Jocasta's  son,  and  Thebes  my  native  place.' 
To  whom  the  king  (who  felt  his  generous  breast 
Touched  with  concern  for  his  unhappy  guest) 
Re})lies: — *  Ah!  why  forbears  the  son  to  name 
His  wretched  father,  known  too  well  by  fame? 
Fame,  that  delights  around  the  world  to  stray, 
Scorns  not  to  take  our  Argos  in  her  way. 
E'en  those  who  dwell  where  suns  at  distance  roll, 
In  northern  wilds  and  freeze  beneath  the  pole, 
And  those  who  tread  the  burning  Lybian  lands, 
The  faithless  Syrtes,  and  the  moving  sands; 
Who  view  the  western  sea's  extremest  bounds, 
Or  drink  of  Ganges  in  their  eastern  grounds  ; 
All  these  the  woes  of  CEdipus  have  known, 
Your  fates,  your  furies,  and  your  haunted  town. 
If  on  the  sons  the  parents'  crimes  descend. 
What  prince  from  those  his  lineage  can  defend? 
Be  this  thy  comfort,  that  'tis  thine  to  efface. 
With  virtuous  acts,  thy  ancestor's  disgrace, 
And  be  thyself  the  honour  of  thy  race. 
But  see  !  the  stars  begin  to  steal  away, 
And  shine  more  faintly  at  approaching  day: 
Now  pour  the  wine ;  and  in  your  tuneful  lays 
Once  more  resound  the  great  Apollo's  praise.' 
*  Oh,  father  Phcebus !  whether  Lycia's  coast 
And  snowy  mountains  thy  bright  presence  boast: 
Whether  to  sweet  Castalia  thou  repair, 
And  bathe  in  silver  dews  thy  yellow  hair; 
Or  pleased  to  find  fair  Delos  float  no  more, 
Delight  in  Cynthus  and  the  shady  shore  ; 
Or  choose  thy  seat  in  Ilion's  proud  abodes, 
The  shining  structures  raised  by  labouring  gods: 
By  thee  the  bow  and  mortal  shafts  are  borne ; 
Eternal  charms  thy  blooming  youth  adorn : 
Skill'd  in  the  laws  of  secret  fate  above. 
And  the  dark  counsels  of  almighty  Jove, 
'Tis  thine  the  seeds  of  future  war  to  know, 
The  change  of  sceptres  and  impending  woe  ; 
When  direful  meteors  spread  through  glowing  air 
Long  trails  of  light,  and  shake  their  blazing  hair. 
Thy  rage  the  Phrygian  felt,  who  durst  aspire 
To  excel  the  music  of  thy  heavenly  lyre ; 
Thy  shafts  avenged  lewd  Tityus'  guilty  flame, 
The  immortal  victim  of  thy  mother's  fame ; 
Thy  hand  slew  Python,  and  the  dame  who  lost 
Her  n  imerous  offspring  for  a  fatal  boast. 
27 


314  THEBAIS    O?    srATtUS. 

In  Phlegyas'  doom  tliy  jast  revenge  appears, 
Condemned  to  i'nries  and  eternal  fears; 
He  views  his  food,  but  dreads,  with  lifted  eye^ 
The  mouldering  rock  that  trembles  from  on  hig3 

Propitious  hear  our  prayer,  O  power  divine  ' 
And  on  thy  hospitable  Argos  shine ; 
Whether  the  style  of  Titan  please  thee  mor 
Whose  purple  raya  the  Achaemenes  adore  f 
Or  great  Osiris,  who  first  taught  the  swain 
In  Pharian  fields  to  sow  the  golden  grain  ; 
Or  Mithra,  to  whose  beams  the  Persian  bows, 
And  pays,  in  hollow  rocks,  his  awful  vows; 
Mithra!  whose  head  the  blaze  of  light  adorns 
Who  grasps  the  struggling  heifer's  lunar  hor 


815 


VERTUMNUS    AND    POMONA. 


VROM  Yns 


FOURTEENTH  BOOK 


OVID'S  METAMORPHOSES. 


The  fair  Pomona  flourished  in  his  reign : 

Of  all  the  virgins  of  the  sylvan  train 

None  taught  the  trees  a  nobler  race  to  bear, 

Or  more  improved  the  vegetable  care. 

To  her  the  shady  grove,  the  flowery  field, 

The  streams  and  fountains,  no  delights  could  yield; 

'Twas  ail  bet  joy  the  ripening  fruits  to  tend, 

And  see  the  boughs  with  happy  burthens  bend. 

The  hook  she  bore  instead  of  Cynthia's  spear. 

To  lop  the  growth  of  the  luxuriant  year, 

To  decent  forms  the  lawless  shoots  to  bring, 

And  teach  the  obedient  branches  where  to  spring. 

Now  the  cleft  rind  inserted  grafFs  receives, 

And  yields  an  oftspring  more  than  nature  gives; 

Now  sliding  streams  the  thirsty  plants  renew, 

And  feed  their  fibres  with  reviving  dew. 

These  cares  alone  her  virgin  breast  employ, 
Averse  from  Venus  and  the  nuptial  joy. 
Her  private  orchards  walled  on  every  side, 
To  lawless  sylvans  all  access  denied. 
How  oft  the  satyrs  and  the  wanton  fawns. 
Who  haunt  the  forests,  or  frequent  the  lawns. 
The  god  whose  ensign  scares  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  old  Silenus,  youthful  in  decay, 
Employed  their  wiles  and  unavailmg  care 
To  pass  the  fences,  and  surprise  the  fair  J 
Like  these  Vertumnus  owned  his  faithful  flame 
Like  these  rejected  by  the  scornful  dame. 


316  VERTUMNUS   AND   POMONA. 

To  gain  her  sight  a  thousand  forms  he  wears, 
And  first  a  reaper  from  the  field  appears : 
Sweating  he  walks,  while  loads  of  golden  grain 
O'ercharge  the  shoulders  of  the  seeming  swain. 
Oft  o'er  his  back  a  crooked  scythe  is  laid, 
And  wreaths  of  hay  his  sunburnt  temples  shade 
Oft  li*  nis  hardened  hand  a  goad  he  bears, 
Like  one  who  late  unyoked  the  sweating  steers. 
Sometimes  his  praning-hook  corrects  the  vines, 
And  the  loose  stragglers  to  their  ranks  confines 
Now  gathering  what  the  bounteous  year  allow? 
He  pulls  ripe  apples  from  the  bending  boughs. 
A  soldier  now,  he  with  his  sword  appears ; 
A  fisaef  next,  his  trembling  angle  bears  ;^ 
Each  shape  he  varies,  and  each  art  he  tries. 
On  l.er  bright  charms  to  feast  his  longing  eyes, 
A  female  form  at  last  Vertumnus  wears, 
With  all  the  marks  of  reverend  age  appears, 
His  temples  thinly  spread  with  silver  hairs : 
Propped  on  his  staff,  and  stooping  as  he  goes, 
A  painted  mitre  shades  his  furrowed  brows. 
The  god,  iu  this  decrepit  form  arrayed, 
The  gardens  entered,  and  the  fruit  surveyed ;  ^ 
And,  *  Happy  you,'  he  thus  addressed  the  maid, 
'  Whose  charms  as  far  all  other  nymphs  outshint 
As  other  gardens  are  excelled  by  thine !' 
Then  kissed  the  fair ;  (his  kisses  warmer  grow 
Than  such  as  women  on  their  sex  bestow;) 
Then,  placed  beside  her  on  the  flowery  ground, 
Beheld  the  trees  with  autumn's  bounty  crowned, 
An  elm  was  near,  to  whose  embraces  led, 
The  curling  vine  her  swelling  clusters  spread; 
He  viewed  her  twining  branches  with  delight. 
And  prais'd  the  beauty  of  the  pleasing  sight. 
*  Yet  this  tall  elm,  but  for  this  vine,'  he  said, 
'  Had  stood  neglected,  and  a  barren  shade; 
Aud  this  fair  vine,  but  that  her  arms  surround 
Her  married  elm,  had  crept  along  the  ground. 
Ah !  beauteous  maid !  let  this  example  move 
Your  mind,  averse  from  all  the  joys  of  love. 
Deign  to  be  loved,  and  every  heart  subdue ! 
What  nymph  could  e'er  attract  such  crowds  as  you 
Not  she  whose  beauty  urged  the  Centaur's  arms, 
Ulysses'  queen,  nor  Helen's  fatal  charms. 
E'en  now,  when  silent  scorn  is  all  they  gain, 
A  thousand  court  you,  though  they  court  in  vain, 
A  thousand  sylvans,  demi-gods,  and  gods. 
That  haunt  our  mountains  and  our  Alban  woods. 
But  if  you'll  prosper,  mark  what  I  advise, 
Whom  age  and  long  experience  render  wise, 


VERTUMNUS    AND    POMONA.  317 

And  one  whose  tender  care  is  far  above 

All  that  these  lovers  ever  felt  of  love, 

(Far  more  than  e'er  can  by  yourself  be  guess 'd ;) 

Fixed  on  Vertumnus,  and  reject  the  rest: 

For  his  fjnc  faith  I  dare  engage  my  own  ; 

Scarce  to  iiiaiselr,  himself  is  better  known. 

To  distant  lands  Vertumnus  never  roves; 

Like  you,  contented  with  his  native  groves ; 

For  at  first  sight,  like  most,  admires  the  fair ; 

For  you  he  lives  ;  and  you  alone  shall  share 

His  last  affection  as  his  early  care. 

Besides,  he's  lovely  far  above  the  rest, 

With  youth  immortal,  and  with  beauty  bless'd. 

Add,  that  he  varies  every  shape  with  ease, 

And  tries  all  forms  that  may  Pomona  please. 

But  what  should  most  excite  a  mutual  flame, 

Your  rural  cares  and  pleasures  are  the  same. 

To  him  your  orchard's  early  fruit  are  due  ; 

(A  pleasing  offering  when  'tis  made  by  you :) 

He  values  these;  but  yet,  alas!  complains 

That  still  the  best  and  dearest  gift  remains. 

Not  the  fair  fruit  that  on  yon  branches  glows 

With  that  ripe  red  the  autumnal  sun  bestows  ; 

Nor  tasteful  herbs,  that  in  these  gardens  rise, 

Which  the  kind  soil  with  milky  sap  supplies ; 

You,  only  you,  can  move  the  god's  desire  ; 

Oh !  crown  so  constant  and  so  pure  a  fire  ! 

Let  soft  compassion  touch  your  gentle  mind ; 

Think  'tis  Vertumnus  begs  you  to  be  kind  : 

So  may  no  frost,  when  early  buds  appear. 

Destroy  the  promise  of  the  youthful  year; 

Nor  winds,  when  first  your  florid  orchard  blows, 

Shake  the  light  blossoms  from  their  blasted  boughs! 

This  when  the  various  god  had  urged  in  vain, 
He  straight  assumed  his  native  form  again: 
Such,  and  so  bright  an  aspect  now  he  bears, 
As  when  through  clouds  the  emerging  sun  appears, 
And  thence  exerting  his  refulgent  ray, 
Dispels  the  darkness,  and  reveals  the  day. 
Force  he  prepared,  but  checked  the  rash  design  ; 
For  when,  appearing  in  a  form  divine, 
The  nymph  surveys  him,  and  beholds  the  grace 
Of  charming  features  and  a  youthful  face, 
Li  her  soft  breast  consenting  passions  move. 
And  the  warm  maid  confessed  a  mutual  love. 
27f 


338 


JANUARY    AND    MAY: 


THE  MERCHANT'S  TALE. 


FROM    CHAUCER. 


There  liv'd  in  LomLardy,  as  authors  write, 
In  days  of  old,  a  wise  and  worthy  knight; 
Of  gentle  manners,  as  of  gen'rous  race, 
Bless'd  with  much  sense,  more  riches,  and  some  grace 
Yet,  led  astray  by  Venus'  soft  delights, 
He  scarce  could  rule  some  idle  appetites : 
For  long  ago,  let  priests  say  what  they  could. 
Weak  sinful  laymen  were  but  flesh  and  blood. 
But  in  due  time,  when  sixty  years  were  o'e^* 
He  vow'd  to  lead  this  vicious  life  no  more: 
Whether  pure  holiness  inspir'd  his  mind, 
Or  dotage  turn'd  his  brain,  is  hard  to  find  ; 
But  his  high  courage  prick'd  him  forth  to  wea, 
And  try  the  pleasures  of  a  lawful  bed. 
This  was  his  nightly  dream,  his  daily  care, 
And  to  the  heav'nly  pow'rs  his  constant  prayer, 
Once,  ere  he  died,  to  taste  the  blissful  life 
Of  a  kind  husband  and  a  loving  wife. 

These  thoughts  he  fortified  with  reasons  still, 
(For  none  want  reasons  to  confirm  their  will.) 
Grave  authors  say,  and  witty  poets  sing. 
That  honest  wedlock  is  a  glorious  thing : 
]5ut  depth  of  judgment  most  in  him  appears. 
Who  wisely  weds  in  his  maturer  years. 
Then  let  him  choose  a  damsel  young  and  fair, 
To  bless  his  age,  and  bring  a  worthy  heir; 
To  soothe  his  cares,  and,  free  from  noise  and  strife, 
Conduct  him  gently  to  the  verge  of  life. 
Let  sinful  bachelors  their  woes  deplore, 
Full  well  they  merit  all  they  feel  and  more; 


•  JANUARY    A.5I)    MAY.  319 

(Jnaw'd  by  precepts,  human  or  divine, 

Like  birds  and  beasts,  promiscuously  they  join ; 

Nor  know  to  make  the  present  blessing  last, 

To  hope  the  future,  or  esteem  the  past: 

But  vainly  boast  the  joys  they  never  tried, 

And  find  divi^g'd  the  secrets  they  would  hide. 

The  married  man  may  bear  his  yoke  with  ease, 

Secure  at  once  himself  and  Heav'n  to  please; 

And  pass  H^  iKO^ensive  hours  away, 

In  blis3  J.,  r.r^il,  and  innocence  all  day : 

Though  fortune  change,  his  constant  spouse  remains, 

Augments  his  joys,  or  mitigates  his  pains. 

But  what  so  pure,,  which  envious  tongues  will  spare! 
Some  wicked  wits  have  libell'd  all  the  fair; 
With  matchless  impudence  they  style  a  wife, 
The  dear-bought  curse,  and  lawful  plague  of  life ; 
A  bosom  serpent,  a  domestic  evil, 
A  night  invasion,  and  a  mid-day  devil. 
Let  not  the  wise  these  sland'rous  words  regard 
But  curse  the  bones  of  ev'ry  lying  bard. 
All  other  goods  by  fortune's  hand  are  given, 
A  wife  is  the  recuhar  gift  of  Heaven. 
Vain  fortune 'i  favours,  never  at  a  stay, 
Like  empty  shadows,  pass  and  glide  away; 
One  solid  comfort,  our  eternal  wife 
Abundantly  supplies  us  all  our  life : 
This  blessing  lasts  (if  those  who  try  say  true) 
As  long  as  heart  can  wish— and  longer  too.  ^ 

Our  grandsire  Adam,  ere  of  Eve  possess'd, 
Alone,  and  e'cD  in  Paradise  imbless'd, 
With  mournful  looks  the  blissful  scene  survey'd. 
And  wander'd  in  the  solitary  shade. 
The  Maker  saw,  took  pity,  and  bestow'd 
Woman,  the  last,  and  best  reserv'd  of  God. 

A  wife!  ah,  gentle  deities!  can  he 
That  has  a  wife  e'er  feel  adversity  ? 
Would  men  but  follow  what  the  sex  advise. 
All  things  would  prosper,  all  the  world  grow  wise. 
'Twas  by  Rebecca's  aid  that  Jacob  won 
His  father's  blessing  from  an  elder  son  ; 
Abusive  Nabal  ow'd  his  forfeit  life  ^ 
To  the  wise  conduct  of  a  prudent  wife : 
Heroic  Judith,  as  old  Hebrews  show, 
Preserved  the  Jews,  and  slew  th'  AssjTian  foe: 
At  Esther's  suit  the  persecuting  sword 
Was  sheath'd,  and  Israel  \\v'd  to  bless  the  Lord. 

These  weighty  motives,  January  the  sage 
Maturely  ponder'd  in  liis  riper  iige  ; 
And,  charm'd  with  virtuous  joys,  and  sober  life, 
Would  try  that  Christian  comfort,  call'd  a  wife. 


320  S  A  N  'J  A  R  Y     .'.  N  5J    M  A  y .  ^ 

His  friends  were  sunin}on'd  on  a  point  so  nice 
To  pass  their  judgment,  and  to  give  advice; 
But  lix'd  before,  and  well  resolv'd  was  he, 
^As  men  that  ask  advice  are  wont  to  be.) 

'  My  friends,'  he  cries,  (and  cast  a  mournful  look 
Around  the  room,  and  sigh'd  before  he  spoke  ;) 
'  Beneath  the  weight  of  threescore  yeare  I  bend, 
And,  worn  with  cares,  and  hast'ning  to  my  end  •. 
How  J  liave  liv'd,  alas  !  you  know  too  well, 
in  worldly  follies,  which  I  blush  to  tell; 
But  gracious  Heav'n  has  oped  my  eyes  at  last. 
With  due  regret  I  view  my  vices  past, 
And,  as  the  precept  of  the  Church  decrees, 
Will  take  a  wife,  and  live  in  holy  ease : 
But  since  by  counsel  all  things  should  be  doney 
And  many  heads  are  wiser  still  than  one, 
Choose  you  for  me,  who  best  shall  be  content 
When  my  desire  's  approv'd  by  your  consent. 

*  One  caution  yet  is  needful  to  be  told 
To  guide  your  choice:  this  wife  must  not  be  old. 
There  goes  a  saying,  and  'twas  shrewdly  said. 
Old  fish  at  table,  but  young  flesh  in  bed. 
My  soul  abhors  the  tasteless,  dry  embrace 
Of  a  stale  virgin  with  a  winter  face  : 
In  that  cold  season  love  but  treats  his  guest 
With  bean  straw,  and  tough  forage  at  the  best. 
No  crafty  widows  shall  approach  my  bed; 
Those  are  too  wise  for  bachelors  to  wed. 
As  su'ocle  clerks  by  many  schools  are  made. 
Twice-married  dames  are  mistresses  of  the  trade:    • 
But  young  and  tender  virgins,  ruled  with  ease, 
We  form  like  wax,  and  movdd  them  as  we  please, 

'  Conceive  me,  Sirs,  nor  take  my  sense  amiss; 
'Tis  what  concerns  my  soul's  eternal  bliss; 
Since  if  I  found  no  ]^leasure  in  my  spouse. 
As  flesh  is  frail,  and  who  (God  help  mc)  knov/s? 
Then  should  I  live  in  lewd  adultery, 
And  sink  downright  to  Satan  when  I  die: 
Or  were  I  curs'd  with  an  unfruitful  bed. 
The  righteous  end  were  lost  for  which  I  wed  ; 
To  raise  up  seed  to  bless  the  powers  above, 
And  not  for  pleasure  only,  or  for  love. 
Think  not  I  dote;    'tis  time  to  take  a  wife, 
When  vigorous  blood  forbids  a  chaster  life  . 
Those  that  are  blest  with  store  of  grace  divine. 
May  live  like  saints  by  Heaven's  consent  and  mir.e. 

'  And  since  T  speak  of  wedlock,  let  mc  say, 
(As,  thank  my  stars,  in  modest  truth  I  may,) 
My  limbs  are  active,  still  I'm  sound  at  heart, 
And  a  new  vigour  springs  in  ev'ry  part. 


I 


JANUARY    AND    MAY.  321 

Think  not  my  virtue  lost,  though  time  has  shed 

These  rev 'rend  honours  on  my  hoary  head : 

Thus  trees  are  crown'd  with  blossoms  white  as  snow, 

The  vital  sap  then  rising  from  below. 

Old  as  I  am,  my  lusty  limbs  appear 

Like  winter  greens,  that  flourish  all  the  year. 

Now,  Sirs,  ye  know  to  what  I  stand  inclin'd, 

Let  ev'ry  friend  with  freedom  speak  his  mind.' 

He  said;  the  rest  in  diff'rent  parts  divide  ; 
The  knotty  point  was  urg'd  on  either  side  : 
Marriage,  the  theme  on  which  they  all  declaimed, 
Some  praised  with  wit,  and  some  with  reason  blam'd, 
Till,  what  with  proofs,  objections,  and  replies, 
Each  wondrous  positive,  and  wondrous  wise, 
There  fell  between  his  brothers  a  debate ; 
Placebo  this  was  called,  and  Justin  that. 

First  to  the  knight,  Placebo  thus  begun: 
(Mild  were  his  looks,  and  pleasing  was  his  tone.) 
'  Such  prudence.  Sir,  in  all  your  words  appears, 
As  plainly  proves  experience  dwells  with  years ! 
Yet  you  pursue  sage  Solomon's  advice, 
To  work  by  counsel  when  affairs  are  nice : 
But,  with  the  wise  man's  leave,  I  must  protest, 
So  may  my  soul  arrive  at  ease  and  rest. 
As  still  I  hold  your  own  advice  the  best. 

Sir,  I  have  lived  a  courtier  all  my  days, 
And  studied  men,  their  manners,  and  their  ways; 
And  have  observ'd  this  useful  maxim  still, 
To  let  my  betters  always  have  their  will. 
Nay,  if  my  lord  affirm'd  that  black  was  white. 
My  word  was  this,  '  Your  Honour 's  in  the  right. 
Th'  assuming  wit,  who  deems  himself  so  wise. 
As  his  mistaken  patron  to  advise, 
Let  him  not  dare  to  vent  his  dangerous  thought; 
A  noble  fool  was  never  in  a  fault. 
This,  Sir,  affects  not  you,  whose  ev'ry  word 
Is  weighed  with  judgment,  and  befits  a  lord : 
Your  will  is  mine  ;  and  is  (I  will  maintain) 
Pleasing  to  God,  and  should  be  so  to  man  ; 
At  least,  your  courage  all  the  world  must  praise, 
Who  dare  to  wed  in  your  declining  days. 
Indulge  the  vigour  of  your  mounting  blood. 
And  let  gray  fools  be  indolently  good, 
Who,  past  all  pleasure,  damn  the  joys  of  sense 
With  rev'rend  dulness  and  grave  impotence.* 

Justin,  who  silent  sate,  and  heard  the  man, 
Thus,  with  a  philosophic  frown,  began  : 

'  A  heathen  author,  of  the  first  degree, 
(Who,  though  not  faith,  had  sense  as  well  as  wc,) 


r~ 


222  januauyIiand  may. 

Bids  us  be  certain  our  concerns  to  trust 
To  those  of  generous  principles  and  just. 
The  venture  's  greater,  I'll  persume  to  say 
To  give  your  person  than  your  goods  away  ' 
And  therefore,  Sir,  as  you  regard  your  rest. 
First  learn  your  lady's  qualities  at  least: 
Whether  she's  chaste  or  rampant,  proud  or  ci'^'f- 
Meek  as  a  sainl,  or  haughty  as  the  devil; 
Whether  an  easy,  fond,  familiar  fool, 
Or  such  a  wit  as  no  man  e'er  can  rule. 
'Tis  true,  perfection  none  must  hope  to  find 
In  all  this  world,  much  less  in  womankind  ; 
But  if  her  virtues  prove  the  larger  share, 
Bless  tlie  kind  fates,  and  think  your  fortune  ra^^ 
Ah,  gentle  Sir,  take  v/arning  of  a  friend, 
Who  knows  too  well  the  state  you  thus  comnie'<»<> 
And,  spite  of  all  his  praises,  must  declare, 
All  he  can  find  is  bondage,  cost,  and  care. 
Heaven  knows  I  shed  full  many  a  private  tear 
And  sigh  in  silence,  lest  the  world  should  her.- 
While  all  my  friends  applaud  my  blissful  lif? 
And  swear  no  mortal 's  happier  in  a  wdfe ; 
Demure  and  chaste  as  any  vestal  nun, 
The  meekest  creature  that  beholds  the  sunt 
But,  bv  th'  immortal  Powers,  I  feel  the  pair:^ 
And  ne  that  smarts  has  reason  to  complain . 
Do  what  you  list  for  me :  you  must  be  sag'? 
And  cautions  sure ;  for  wisdom  is  in  age  : 
But  at  these  years  to  venture  on  the  fair! 
By  hh^  who  made  the  ocean,  earth  and  air, 
To  pWdse  a  wife^  when  her  occasions  call. 
Would  busy  the  most  vig'rous  of  us  all. 
And  trust  nie.  Sir,  the  chastest  you  can  choo?'^ 
Will  ask  observance,  and  exact  her  dues. 
If  what  I  speak  my  noble  lord  ofTend, 
My  tedious  sermon  here  is  at  an  end.' 

'  'Tis  well,  'tis  wondrous  well,'  the  knight  rer  ^  •' 

*  Most  worthy  kinsman,  faith  you're  mighty  wi'<" 
We,  Sirs,  are  fools ;  and  must  resign  the  cause 
To  heathenish  authors,  proverbs,  and  old  saws.' 
He  spoke  with  scorn,  and  turn'd  another  way : — 

*  What  does  my  friend,  my  dear  Placebo,  say  ?" 

*  I  say,'  quoth  he,  *by  Heaven  the  man  's  "to  'u'a>j 
To  slander  wives,  and  wedlock's  holy  name.'    ' 
At  this  the  council  rose,  without  delay ; 
Eack,  in  his  own  opinion,  went  his  way ; 
With  full  consent,  that,  all  disputes  appeas'd, 
The  knight  should  marry,  when  and  where  he  plea/*. 

Who  now  but  January  exults  with  joy  ? 
The  charms  of  wedlock  ail  his  soul  employ  : 


JANUARY   AND   MAT.  323 

Each  nymph  by  turns  his  wav  ring  mind  possess'd. 

And  reign'd  the  short-lived  tyrant  of  his  breast ; 

While  fancy  pictured  ev'ry  lively  part, 

And  each  bright  image  wandered  o'er  his  heart. 

Thus,  in  some  public  forum  fix'd  on  high, 

A  mirror  shows  the  figures  moving  by ; 

Still  one  by  one,  in  swift  succession,  pass 

The  gliding  shadows  o'er  the  polish'd  glass. 

This  lady's  charms  the  nicest  could  not  blame, 

But  vile  suspicions  had  aspersed  her  fame ; 

That  was  with  sense,  but  not  with  virtue,  blest ; 

And  one  had  grace,  that  wanted  all  the  rest. 

Thus  doubting  long  what  nymph  he  should  obey, 

He  fix'd  at  last  upon  the  youthful  May. 

Her  faults  he  knew  not,  love  is  always  blind, 

But  ev'ry  charm  revolv'd  within  his  mind : 

Her  tender  age,  her  form  divinely  fair, 

Her  easy  motion,  her  attractive  air, 

Her  sweet  behaviour,  her  enchanting  face 

Her  moving  softness,  and.majestic  grace. 

Much  in  his  prudence  did  our  knight  rejoice, 
And  thought  no  mortal  could  dispute  his  choice. 
Once  more  in  haste  he  summon  d  every  fneim, 
And  told  them  all  their  pahis  were  at  an  end 
*  Heaven,  that  (said  he)  inspir'd  me  first  to  we  J., 
Provides  a  consort  worthy  of  my  bed : 
Let  none  oppose  th'  election,  since  on  this 
Depends  my  quiet,  and  my  future  bliss. 

A  dame  tbere  is,  the  darling  of  my  eyes. 
Young,  beauteous,  artless,  innocent,  and  wise: 
Chaste,  though  not  rich ;  and,  though  not  nobly  born 
Of  honest  parents,  and  may  serve  my  turn. 
Her  will  I  wed,  if  gracious  Heaven  so  please. 
To  pass  my  age  in  sanctitj'^  and  ease ; 
And.  thank  the  powers,  I  may  possess  alone 
The  lovely  prize,  and  sj^iire  my  bliss  with  none  ! 
If  you,  my  friends,  this  vh-gin  can  procure, 
My  joys  are  full,  my  happiness  is  sure. 

One  only  doubt  remains:  full  oft,  I've  heard, 
By  casuists  grave,  and  deep  divines,  averr'd. 
That  'tis  too  much  for  human  race  to  know 
The  bliss  of  heaven  above,  and  earth  below : 
Now  should  the  nuptial  pleasures  prove  so  great, 
To  match  the  blessings  of  the  future  state. 
Those  endless  joys  were  ill  exchang'd  for  these  ; 
Then  clear  this  doubt,  and  set  my  mind  at  case.' 

This  Justin  heard,  nor  could  his  spleen  contr  >1, 
Touch'd  to  the  quick,  and  tickled  at  the  soul. 
'  bir  knight,'  he  tried,  '  if  this  be  all  your  drea  1. 
1  eaven  put  it  v  .st  your  doubt  whene'er  you  wjd 


324  JANUARY   AND   MAY. 

And  to  my  fervent  prayers  so  far  consent, 

That  ere  the  rites  are  o'er,  yoii  may  repent! 

Good  Heaven,  no  doitbt,  the  nuptial  state  approve*, 

Since  it  chastises  still  what  best  it  loves. 

Then  be  not,  sir,  abandon'd  to  despair; 

Seek,  and  perhaps  you'll  find  among  the  fair 

One  that  may  do  your  business  to  a  hair ; 

Not  e'en  in  wish  your  happiness  delay, 

But  prove  the  scourge  to  lash  you  on  your  w&j 

Then  to  the  skies  your  mounting  soul  shall  gt 

Swift  as  an  arrow  soaring  from  the  bow ! 

Provided  still  you  moderate  your  joy, 

Nor  in  your  pleasures  all  your  might  emploj, 

Let  reason's  rule  your  strong  desires  abate, 

Nor  please  too  lavishly  your  gentle  mate. 

Old  wives  there  are,  of  judgment  most  acute. 

Who  solve  these  questions  beyond  all  dispute ; 

Consult  with  those,  and  be  of  better  cheer ; 

Marry,  do  penance,  and  dismiss  your  fear.' 

So  said,  they  rose,  nor  more  the  work  delaj'  d ; 
The  match  was  offered,  the  proposals  made. 
The  parents,  you  may  think,  would  soon  comply , 
The  old  have  int'rest  ever  in  their  eye. 
Nor  was  it  hard  to  move  the  lady's  mind ; 
When  fortune  favours,  still  the  fair  are  kind. 

]  pass  each  previous  settlement  and  deed, 
Too  long  for  me  to  write,  or  you  to  read ; 
Nor  will  with  quaint  impertinence  display 
The  pomp,  the  pageantry,  the  proud  array. 
The  time  approach'd,  to  church  the  parties  wont^ 
At  once  with  carnal  and  devout  intent: 
Forth  came  the  priest,  and  bade  th'  obedient  wife 
Like  Sarah  or  Rebecca  lead  her  life : 
Then  prayed  the  powers  the  fruitful  bed  to  bless, 
Arid  made  all  svn-e  enough  with  holiness. 

And  now  the  palace-gates  are  open  d  wide. 
The  guests  appear  in  order,  side  by  side, 
And,  plac'd  in  state,  the  bridegroom  and  the  hriJ.e, 
The  breathing  flute's  soft  notes  are  heard  around, 
And  the  shrill  trumpets  mix  their  silver  sound  ; 
'i'Le  vaulted  roofs  with  echoing  music  ring; 
These  touch  the  vocal  stops,  and  those  the  tver.ibi' 
Not  thus  Amphion  turn'd  the  warbling  lyre,      [atvir 
Nor  Joab  the  sounding  clarion  could  inspire, 
Nor  fierce  Theodamas,  whose  sprightly  strain 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  and  fire  the  rnarrial  tra. 

Bacchus  himself,  the  nuptial  feast  to  gr5*.ce, 
(So  poets  sing)  was  present  on  the  place : 


JANUARY    AND    MAY.  325 

And  lovely  Venus,  goddess  of  delight, 
Sboik  high  her  flaming  torch  in  open  sight, 
And  danc'd  around,  and  sniil'd  on  ev'vy  knight: 
Pleas'd  her  best  servant  would  his  courage  try, 
No  less  in  wedlock  than  in  liberty. 
Full  many  an  age  old  Hymen  had  not  spied 
So  kind  a  bridegroom,  or  so  bright  a  bride. 
Ye  bards!  renown'd  among  the  tuneful  throng 
For  gentle  lays,  and  joyous  nuptial  song, 
Think  not  your  softest  numbers  can  display 
The  matchless  glories  of  the  blissful  day; 
The  joys  are  such  as  far  transcend  your  rage, 
When  tender  youth  has  wedded  stooping  age. 

The  beauteous  dame  sate  smiling  at  the  board. 
And  darted  am'rous  glances  at  her  lord. 
Not  Hester's  self,  whose  charms  the  Hebrews  sing, 
E'er  looked  so  lovely  on  her  Persian  king; 
Bright  as  the  rising  sun  in  summer's  day, 
And  fresh  and  blooming  as  the  month  of  May ; 
The  joyful  knight  surveyed  her  by  his  side, 
Nor  envied  Paris  with  the  Spartan  bride. 
Still  as  his  mind  revolved,  with  vast  delight, 
Th'  entrancing  raptures  of  th'  approaching  night, 
Restless  he  sate,  invoking  every  pow'r 
To  speed  his  bliss,  and  haste  the  happy  hour. 
Meantime  the  vigorous  dancers  beat  the  ground, 
And  songs  were  sung,  and  flowing  bowls  went  round. 
With  odorous  spices  they  perfum'd  the  place, 
And  mirth  and  pleasure  shone  in  every  face. 

Damian  alone,  of  all  the  menial  train. 
Sad  in  the  midst  of  triumphs,  sighed  for  pain ; 
Damian  alone,  th'  knight's  obsequious  'squire, 
Consum'd  at  heart,  and  fed  a  secret  fire. 
His  lovely  mistress  all  his  soul  possess'd  ; 
He  look'd,  he  languish'd,  and  could  take  no  rest: 
His  task  perform'd,  he  sadly  went  his  way, 
Fell  on  his  bed,  and  loathed  the  light  of  day. 
There  let  him  lie  till  his  relenting  dame 
Weep  in  her  turn,  and  waste  in  equal  flame. 

The  wearied  sun,  as  learned  poets  write. 
Forsook  th'  horizon,  and  rolled  down  the  light; 
While  glitt'ring  stars  his  absent  beams  supply, 
And  night's  dark  mantle  overspread  the  sky. 
Then  rose  the  guests,  and,  as  the  time  required, 
Each  paid  his  thanks,  and  decently  retired. 

The  foe  once  gone,  our  knight  prepar'd  t'  undress, 
So  keen  he  was,  and  eai^er  to  prssess; 
But  first  thought  fit  th'  assistance  to  receive 
Which  grave  pliysicians  scruple  not  to  give 
28 


326  JANUARY    AND    MAY. 

Satyrion  near,  with  hot  eringoes  stood, 
Cantharides,  to  fire  the  lazy  blood, 
Whose  use  old  bards  describe  in  luscious  rhymes, 
And  critics  learn'd  explain  to  modern  times. 

By  this  the  sheets  were  spread,  the  bride  undress* d. 
The  room  was  sprinkled,  and  the  bed  was  bless'd. 
What  next  ensued  beseems  not  me  to  say; 
'Tis  sung,  he  laboured  till  the  dawning  day, 
Then  briskly  sprung  from  bed,  with  heart  so  light, 
As  all  were  nothing  he  had  done  by  night, 
And  sipped  his  cordial  as  he  sat  upright. 
He  kisse'd  his  balmy  spouse  with  wanton  play, 
And  feebly  sung  a  lusty  roundelay; 
Then  on  the  couch  his  weary  limbs  he  cast; 
For  every  labour  must  have  rest  at  last. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  'squire  oppress'd, 
Sleep  fled  his  eyes,  and  peace  forsook  his  breast; 
The  raging  flames  that  in  his  bosom  dwell, 
He  wanted  art  to  hide,  and  means  to  tell : 
Yet  hoping  time  th'  occasion  might  betray, 
Composed  a  sonnet  to  the  lovely  May ; 
Which,  writ  and  folded  with  the  nicest  art, 
He  wrapp'd  in  silk,  and  laid  upon  his  heart. 

When  now  the  fourth  revolving  day  was  run, 
('Twas  June,  and  Cancer  had  received  the  sun,) 
Forth  from  her  chamber  came  the  beauteous  bride. 
The  good  old  knight  moved  slowly  by  her  side. 
High  mass  was  sung  ;  they  feasted  in  the  hall; 
The  servants  round  stood  ready  at  their  call. 
The  'squire  alone  was  absent  from  the  board. 
And  much  his  sickness  grieved  his  worthy  lord. 
Who  prayed  his  spouse,  attended  with  her  train, 
To  visit  Uamian,  and  divert  his  paiu. 
The  obliging  dames  obey'd  with  one  consent; 
They  left  the  hall,  and  to  his  lodging  went. 
The  femal    tribe  surrovmd  him  as  he  lay, 
And  close  beside  him  sat  the  gentle  May : 
Where,  as  she  tried  his  pulse,  he  softly  drew 
A  heaving  sigh,  and  cast  a  mournful  view  ! 
Then  gave  his  bill,  and  brib'd  the  powers  divine, 
With  secret  vows,  to  favour  his  design. 

Who  studies  now  hut  discontented  May? 
On  her  soft  couch  vmeasily  she  lay: 
The  lumpish  husband  snor'd  away  the  night, 
'Till  coughs  awak'd  him  near  the  morning  light. 
"What  then  he  did,  I'll  not  presume  to  tell, 
Mor  if  she  thought  herself  in  heav'n  or  hellj 
Honest  and  dull  in  nuptial  bed  they  lay, 
Till  ths  bell  toU'd,  and  all  arose  to  pray. 


JANUARY    AND   MAV.  S27 

"Were  it  by  forceful  dcstin)'  decreed, 
Or  did  from  chance  or  nature's  power  proceed; 
Or  that  some  star,  with  aspect  kind  to  love, 
Shed  its  selectest  influence  from  above; 
Whatever  was  the  cause,  the  tender  dame 
Felt  the  first  motions  of  an  infant  flame ; 
Receiv'd  the  impressions  of  the  love-sick  'squire, 
And  wasted  in  the  soft  infectious  fire. 

Ye  Fair,  draw  near,  let  May's  example  move 
Your  gentle  minds  to  pity  those  who  love ! 
Had  some  ft  ?rc3  tyrant  in  her  stead  been  found, 
The  poor  adorer  sure  had  hang'd  or  drown'd ; 
But  she,  your  sex's  mirror,  free  from  pride. 
Was  much  too  meek  to  prove  a  homicide. 

But  to  my  tale  :  Some  sages  have  defin'd 
Pleasure  the  sov'reign  bliss  of  humankind : 
Our  knight  (who  studied  much,  we  may  suppose 
Deriv'd  his  high  philosophy  from  those  ; 
For,  like  a  prince,  he  bore  the  vast  expense 
Of  lavish  pomp,  and  proud  magnificence; 
His  house  was  stately,  his  retinue  gay, 
Large  was  his  train,  and  gorgeous  his  array. 
His  spacious  garden,  made  to  yield  to  none, 
Was  compass'd  round  with  walls  of  solid  stone; 
Priapus  could  not  half  describe  the  grace 
(Though  god  of  gardens)  of  this  charming  place 
A  ])lace  to  tire  the  rambling  wits  of  France 
In  long  descriptions,  and  exceed  romance : 
Enough  to  shame  the  gentlest  bard  that  sings 
Of  painted  meadows,  and  of  purling  springs. 

Full  in  the  centre  of  the  flowery  ground 
A  crystal  fountain  spread  its  streams  around, 
The  fruitful  banks  with  verdant  laurels  crown'd 
About  this  spring  (if  ancient  Fame  say  true) 
The  dapper  elves  their  moonlight  sports  pursue. 
Their  pigmy  king,  and  little  fairy  queen, 
In  circling  dances  gambol'd  on  the  green, 
While  tuneful  sprites  a  merry  concert  made, 
And  airy  music  w'arbled  through  the  shade. 

Hither  the  noble  knight  would  oft  repair, 
(His  scene  of  pleasure,  and  peculiar  care;) 
For  this  he  held  it  dear,  and  always  bore 
The  silver  key  that  lock'd  the  garden-door. 
To  this  sweet  place,  in  summer's  sultry  heat. 
He  us'd  from  noise  and  business  to  retreat. 
And  here  in  dalliance  spend  the  live-long  day, 
Solus  cum  sola,  with  his  sprightly  May : 
For  whate'er  work  was  undischarg'd  a-bed 
The  duteous  knight  in  this  fair  garden  sped. 


328 


JANUAUY    AND    MAY. 


But,  ah  J  what  mortal  lives  of  bliss  secure? 
How  short  a  spaco  our  worldly  jo_ys  endure! 
O  Fortu  ne,  fair,  like  all  thy  treach'rous  kind. 
But  faithless  still,  and  wav'ring  as  the  wind! 
O  painted  monster,  form'd  mankind  to  cheat 
With  pleasing  poison,  and  with  soft  deceit ! 
This  rich,  this  am'rous,  venerable  knight, 
Amidst  his  ease,  his  solace,  and  delight, 
Struck  blind  by  thee,  resigns  his  days  to  grief. 
And  calls  on  death,  the  wretch's  last  relief. 

The  rage  of  jealousy  then  seized  his  mind, 
For  much  he  feared  the  faith  of  womankind. 
His  wife  not  suffered  from  his  side  to  stray, 
Was  captive  kept;  he  watched  her  night  and  day, 
Abridged  her  pleasures,  and  confined  her  sway. 
Full  oft  in  tears  did  hapless  May  complain. 
And  sighed  full  oft ;  but  sighed  and  wept  in  vain: 
She  looked  on  Damian  with  a  lover's  eye ; 
For,  oh,  'twas  fix'd  ;  she  must  possess  or  die ! 
Nor  less  impatience  vexed  her  amorous  'squire. 
Wild  with  delay,  and  burning  with  desire. 
Watched  as  she  was,  yet  could  he  not  refrain 
By  secret  writing  to  disclose  his  pain ; 
The  dame  by  signs  revealed  her  kind  intent. 
Till  both  were  conscious  what  each  other  meant. 

Ah  !  gentle  knight,  what  would  thy  eyes  avail 
Though  they  could  see  as  far  as  ships  can  sail? 
'Tis  better,  sure,  when  blind,  deceived  to  be, 
Than  be  deluded  when  a  man  can  see  ! 

Argus  himself,  so  cautious  and  so  wise, 
Was  over-watched,  for  all  his  hundred  eyes : 
So  many  an  honest  husband  may,  'tis  known, 
Who,  wisely,  never  thinks  the  case  his  own. 

The  dame  at  last,  bj'  diligence  and  care, 
Procured  the  key  her  knight  was  wont  to  bear ; 
She  took  the  wards  in  wax  before  the  fire, 
And  gave  the  impression  to  the  trusty  'squire. 
By  means  of  this  some  wonder  shall  appear. 
Which,  in  due  place  and  season,  you  may  hear. 

Well  sung  sweet  Ovid,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
What  slight  is  that  which  love  will  not  explore? 
And  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  plainly  show 
The  feats  true  lovers,  when  they  list,  can  do : 
Though  watched  and  captive,  yet,  in  spite  of  all. 
They  found  the  art  of  kissing  thi-ough  a  wall. 

But  now  no  longer  from  our  tale  to  stray, 
It  happened,  that  once,  upon  a  summer's  day. 
Our  reverend  knight  was  urged  to  amoi-ous  t)Iay : 
He  raised  his  spouse  ere  matin-bell  was  rung, 
And  thus  his  morning  canticle  he  sung  : 


4 


JANUARY    AND    HAY.  ♦ 

*  Awake,  my  love,  disclose  tliy  ratlinnt  oyi  s: 
Arise,  my  wife,  my  beauteous  lady,  rise  ! 
Hear  how  the  doves  with  j)ens.ivc  iiotes  coiii|>i.iijs. 
And  in  soft  murmurs  tell  the  trees  iluir  pain  . 
The  winter's  past;  the  clouds  and  tempests  iiy  ; 
The  sun  adorns  the  fields,  and  brightens  ail  the  sky. 
Fair  without  spot,  whose  every  charmin.?  P'"'^ 
My  bosom  wounds,  and  captivates  my  lieail; 
Come,  and  in  mutual  pleasures  let's  engage, 
Joy  of  my  life,  and  comfort  of  my  age.' 
This  heard,  to  Damian  straight  a  sign  she  made, 
To  haste  before;  the  gentle  'squire  obeyed: 
Secret  and  undescried  he  took  his  way, 
And  ambushed  close  behind  an  arbour  lay. 

It  was  not  long  ere  January  came, 
And  hand  in  hand  with  him  his  lovely  dame; 
Blind  as  he  was,  not  doubting  all  was  sure. 
He  turned  the  key,  and  made  the  gate  secure. 

'  Here  let  us  walk,'  he  said,  'observed  by  none 
Conscious  of  pleasures  to  the  world  unknown : 
So  may  my  soul  have  joy,  as  thou,  my  wife, 
\rt  far  the  dearest  solace  of  my  life: 
^.nd  rather  would  I  choose,  by  Heaven  above 
To  die  this  instant,  than  to  lose  thy  love, 
■leflect  what  truth  was  in  my  passion  shown, 
H'hen,  unendowed,  I  took  thee  for  my  own, 
A.nd  sought  no  treasure  but  thy  heart  alone. 
Old  as  I  am,  and  now  deprived  of  sight, 
\Vhilst  thou  art  faithful  to  thy  own  true  knight, 
Nor  age,  nor  blindness,  rob  me  of  delight. 
Each  other  loss  v;ith  patience  I  can  bear; 
The  loss  of  thee  is  what  I  only  fear. 

Consider  then,  my  lady  and  my  wife, 
The  solid  comforts  of  a  virtuous  life. 
At  first  the  love  of  Christ  himself  you  gain ; 
Next,  your  own  honour  undefil'd  maintain  ; 
And,  lastly,  that  which  sure  your  mind  must  move 
My  whole  estate  shall  gratify  your  love : 
Make  your  own  terms,  and  ere  to-morrow's  sun 
Displays  his  light,  by  Heaven  it  shall  be  done. 
I  seal  the  contract  with  a  holy  kiss, 
And  v/ill  perform,  by  this — my  dear,  and  this— 
Have  comfort,  spouse,  nor  think  thy  lord  unkind ; 
'Tis  love,  not  jealousy,  that  fires  my  mind: 
For  when  thy  charms  my  sober  thoughts  engage. 
And  join'd  to  them  my  own  unequal  age, 
'From  thy  dear  side  I  have  no  power  to  part. 
Such  secret  transports  warm  my  melting  heart. 
For  who  that  once  possess'd  those  heav'nly  channs. 
Could  live  one  moment  absent  from  thy  arms? 

28* 


230  JANUARY    AND    WAY. 

He  ceas'd,  and  May  with  modest  grace  replied; 

(Weak  was  her  voice,  as  while  she  spoke  she  cried,) 

*  Heav'n  knows,  (with  that  a  tender  sigh  she  drew) 

I  have  a  soul  to  save  as  well  as  you ; 

And,  what  no  less  you  to  my  ciiarge  commend, 

My  dearest  honour  will  to  death  defend. 

To  you  in  holy  church  1  gave  my  hand, 

And  join'd  my  heart  in  wedlock's  sacred  band  '• 

Yet  after  this,  if  you  distrust  my  care, 

Then  hear,  my  lord,  and  witness  what  I  swear: 

First  may  the  yawning  earth  her  bosom  rend, 

And  let  me  hence  to  hell  alive  descend ; 

Or  die  the  death  I  dread  no  less  than  hell, 

Sewed  in  a  sack,  and  plunged  into  a  well; 

Ere  I  my  fame  by  one  lewd  act  disgrace, 

Or  once  renounce  the  honour  of  my  race. 

For  know.  Sir  Knight,  of  gentle  blood  I  came ; 

I  loathe  a  whore,  and  startle  at  the  name. 
But  jealous  men  on  their  own  crimes  reflect, 
And  learn  from  thence  their  ladies  to  suspect : 
Else  why  these  needless  cautions,  Sir,  to  me? 
'I'hese  doubts  and  fears  of  female  constancy? 
I'his  chime  still  rings  in  every  lady's  ear, 
The  only  strain  a  wife  must  hope  to  hear.' 

Thus  while  she  epoke,  a  sideiong  glance  she  cast. 
Where  Damian,  kneeling,  worship'd  as  she  past. 
She  savr  him  watch  the  motions  of  her  eye. 
And  smgied  out  a  pear-tree  planted  nigh  : 
'Twas  charg'd  with  fruit  that  made  a  goodly  show, 
And  hung  with  dangling  pears  was  every  bough. 
Thither  th'  obsequious  'squire  address'd  liis  pace, 
And  climbing,  in  the  suiiuui^  took  his  place: 
'I'he  knight  and  lady  walk'd  beneath  in  view. 
Where  let  us  leave  them  and  our  tale  pursue. 
'Twas  now  the  season  when  the  glorious  sun 
His  heav'nly  progress  through  the  Twins  had  run; 
And  Jove,  exalted,  his  mild  influence  yields, 
To  glad  the  glebe,  and  paint  the  flowery  fields: 
Clear  was  the  day,  and  Phoebus,  rising  bright, 
Had  streaked  the  azure  firmament  with  light; 
He  pierced  the  glittering  clouds  with  golden  streams. 
And  warm'd  the  womb  of  earth  with  genial  beams. 

It  so  befel,  in  that  fair  morning-tide. 
The  fairies  sported  on  the  garden-side. 
And  in  the  midst  their  monarch  and  his  bride. 
So  featly  tripp'd  the  light-foot  ladies  round,     '  , 

The  knights  so  nimbly  o'er  the  greensward  bound. 
That  scarce  they  bent  the  flow'rs,  or  touch'd  the  grounds 
The  dances  ended,  all  the  fairy  train 
For  pinks  and  daisies  soai'ched  the  flowery  plaJn 


I 


U 


jANUvnv  /vyn  may.  »^ 

While  on  a  bank  reclined  of  rising  green, 
Thus,  with  a  frown,  the  king  bespoke  his  queen. 

*  'Tis  too  apparent,  argue  what  you  can, 
The  treachery  you  women  use  to  man  : 
A  thousand  authors  have  this  truth  made  out. 
And  sad  experience  leaves  no  room  for  doubt. 

Heaven  rest  thy  spirit,  noble  Solomon, 
A  wiser  monarch  never  saw  the  sun : 
All  wealth,  all  honours,  the  supreme  degree 
Of  earthly  bliss  was  well  bestowed  on  thee  I 
For  sagely  hast  thou  said,  Of  all  mankind. 
One  onlv  just,  and  righteous,  hoj  e  to  find : 
But  shouldst  thou  search  the  spacious  world  arounci. 
Yet  one  good  woman  is  not  to  be  found. 

Thus  says  the  king,  who  knew  your  wickedness ; 
The  Son  of  Sirach  testifies  no  less._ 
So  may  some  wildfire  on  your  bodies  fall, 
Or  some  devouring  plague  consume  you  ail ; 
As  well  you  view  the  lecher  in  the  tree, 
And  well  this  honourable  knight  you  see :      ^ 
But  since  he's  blind  and  old,  (a  helpless  case; 
His  'squire  shall  cuckold  hhn  before  your  face. 

Now  by  my  own  dread  majesty  I  swear, 
And  by  this  awful  sceptre  which  I  bear,     ^  _ 
No  impious  wretch  shall  'scape  unpunishea  long 
That  m  my  presence  offers  such  a  wrong. 
I  will  this  instant  undeceive  the  knight, 
And,  in  the  very  act,  restore  his  sight: 
And  set  the  strumpet  here  in  open  view, 
A  warning  to  these  ladies,  and  to  you,  ^ 

And  all  the  faithless  sex,  for  ever  to  be  true. 

*  And  will  you  so,'  replied  the  queen,  *  indeed  Y 
Now,  by  my  mother's  soul,  it  is  decreed. 
She  shall  not  want  an  answer  at  her  need. 
For  her,  and  for  her  daughters,  I'll  engage, 
And  all  the  sex  in  each  succeeding  age  ; 
Art  shall  be  theirs  to  varnish  an  oifence, 
And  fortify  their  crimes  with  confidence. 
Nay,  were  they  taken  in  a  strict  embrace, 
Seen  with  both  eyes,  and  pinion' d  on  the  place  ; 
All  they  shall  need  is  to  protest  and  swear, 
Breathe  a  soft  sigh,  and  drop  a  tender  tear; 
Till  their  wise  husbands,  guU'd  by  arts  like  these 
Grow  gentle,  tractable,  and  tame  as  geese. 

Wha};  though  this  slanderous  Jew,  this  Scloinon, 
Caird  women  fools,  and  knew  full  many  a  one? 
The  wiser  %vits  of  later  times  declare 
How  constant,  chaste,  and  virtuous,  women  are. 
Witness  the  nuirtyrs,  who  resigned  their  breath, 
Serene  in  tormen's,  unconcerned  in  death; 


332  JANUARY   AND   MAY. 

And  witness  next  what  Roman  authors  tell, 
How  Arria,  Portia,  and  Lucretia  fell. 

But  since  the  sacred  leaves  to  all  are  free, 
And  men  interpret  texts,  why  should  not  we? 
By  this  no  more  was  meant,  than  to  have  shown, 
That  sovereign  goodness  dwells  in  him  alone,  ;   M 

Who  only  is,  and  is  but  only  One.  _  \   ^ 

But  grant  the  worst;  shall  women  then  be  weigli'd 
By  ev'ry  word  that  Solomon  hath  said? 
What  though  this  king  (as  ancient  story  hoasts) 
Built  a  fair  temple  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts? 
He  ceased  at  last  his  Maker  to  adore. 
And  did  as  much  for  idol  gods,  or  more. 
Beware  what  lavish  praises  you  confer 
On  a  rank  lecher  and  idolater; 
Whose  reign  indulgent  God,  says  holy  writ, 
Did  but  for  David's  righteous  sake  permit; 
David,  the  Monarch  after  Heaven's  own  mind. 
Who  lov'd  our  sex  and  honour'd  all  our  kind. 

Well,  I'm  a  woman,  and  as  such  must  speak ; 
Silence  would  swell  me,  and  my  heart  would  break. 
Know  then,  I  scorn  your  dull  authorities, 
Your  idle  wits,  and  all  their  learned  lies. 
By  Heaven,  those  authors  are  our  sex's  foes. 
Whom  in  our  right,  I  must  and  will  oppose.' 

*  Nay,'  quoth  the  king,  '  dear  madam,  be  not  wroth; 
T  yield  it  up ;  but  since  I  gave  my  oath, 
That  this  much-injured  knight  again  should  see, 
It  must  be  done — I  am  a  king,'  said  he, 
'  And  one  whose  faith  has  ever  sacred  been — ' 

*  And  so  has  mine,'  she  said — *  I  am  a  queen: 
Her  answer  she  shall  have,  I  undertake; 
And  thus  an  end  of  all  dispute  I  make. 
Try  when  you  list ;  and  you  shall  fmd,  my  lord 
It  is  not  in  our  sex  to  break  our  word.' 

We  leave  them  here  in  this  heroic  strain, 
And  to  the  knight  our  story  turns  again  ; 
Who  in  the  garden,  with  his  lovely  May, 
Sung  merrier  than  the  cuckow  or  tlie  jay: 
This  was  his  song — '  Oh,  kind  and  constant  be, 
Constant  and  kind  I'll  ever  prove  to  thee,' 

Thus  singing  as  he  went,  at  last  he  drew. 
By  easy  steps,  to  where  the  pear-tree  grew  : 
The  longing  dame  looked  up,  and  spied  her  love 
Full  fairly  perch'd  among  the  boughs  above. 
She  stoop' d,  and  sighing,  '  Oh,  good  gods!'  she  cried, 

*  What  pangs,  what  sudden  shoots  distend  my  side  ! 
O  for  that  tempting  fruit,  so  fresh,  so  green ; 
Help,  for  the  love  of  Heaven's  immortal  quegn ; 


L 


JyVNUARY    A'SV    MAY.  «j33 

Help,  dearest  lord,  and  save  at  once  the  life 
Of  toy  poor  infant,  and  thy  longing  wife  !' 

Sore  sighed  the  knight  to  hear  his  lady's  cry, 
But  could  not  climb,  and  had  no  servant  nigh; 
Old  as  he  was,  and  void  of  eyesight  too, 
Whi»t  could,  alas!  a  helpless  husband  do? 
'  And  must  I  languish  then,'  she  said,  '  and  die, 
Yet  view  the  lovely  fruit  before  ray  eye  ? 
A.t  least,  kind  sir,  for  Charity's  sweet  sake, 
Vouchsafe  the  trunk  between  your  arms  to  takej 
Then  from  your  back  I  might  ascend  the  tree: 
Do  you  but  stoop,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.* 

*  With  all  my  soul,'  he  thus  replied,  again ; 

*  I'd  spend  my  dearest  blood  to  ease  thy  pain.' 
With  that  his  back  against  the  trunk  he  becVj 
She  seized  a  twig,  and  up  the  tree  she  w^ent. 

Now  prove  your  patience,  gentle  ladies  all. 
Nor  let  on  me  your  heavy  anger  fall : 
'Tis  truth  I  tell,  though  not  in  phrase  refin'd; 
Though  blunt  my  tale,  yet  honest  is  my  mind- 
What  feats  the  lady  in  the  tree  might  do 
I  pass,  as  gambols  never  known  to  you; 
But  sure  it  was  a  merrier  fit,  she  swore 
Than  in  her  life  she  ever  felt  before. 

In  that  nice  moment,  lo !  the  won  d 'ring  knight 
Looked  out,  and  stood  restored  to  sudden  sight. 
Straight  on  the  tree  his  eager  eyes  he  bent. 
As  one  whose  thoughts  were  on  his  spouse  latest; 
But  when  he  saw  his  bosom-wife  so  dress'd, 
His  rage  was  such  as  cannot  be  express'd: 
Not  frantic  mothers,  when  their  infants  die, 
With  louder  clamours  rend  the  vaulted  sky : 
He  cried,  he  roared,  he  stormed,  he  tore  his  ha\r ; 

*  Death!  hell!  and  furies!  what  dost  thou  do  there?* 

*  What  ails  my  lord? '  the  trembling  dame  replied; 

*  I  thought  your  patience  had  been  better  tried: 
Is  this  your  love,  ungrateful  and  unkind, 

This  my  reward  for  having  cured  the  blind? 
Why  was  I  taught  to  make  my  husband  see 
By  struggling  with  a  man  upon  a  tree? 
Did  1  for  this  the  power  of  magic  prove  ? 
Unhappy  wife,  whose  crime  was  too  much  love  1 ' 

*  If  this  be  struggling,  by  this  holy  light, 

'Tis  struggling  with  a  vengeance,'  quoth  the  knight 

*  So  Heaven  preserve  the  sight  it  has  restored, 
As  with  these  eyes  I  plainly  saw  thee  whored; 
Whored  by  my  slave — perfidious  wretch !  may  hell 
As  surely  seize  thee,  as  I  saw  too  well.' 

*  Guard  me,  good  angels,'  cried  the  gentle  May ; 

*  Pray  Heaven  this  magic  work  tl'e  proper  way  I 


334  JANUARY    AND    MAY. 

Alas,  my  love !  'tis  certain,  could  you  see, 
You  ne'er  had  used  these  killing  words  to  me  : 
So  help  me,  Fates  !  as  'tis  no  perfect  sight. 
But  some  faint  glimmering  of  a  doubtful  light.* 

*  What  I  have  said,'  quoth  he,  '  I  must  maintain, 
For  by  the  immortal  powers  it  seemed  too  plaui — * 

*  By  all  those  powers,  some  frenzy  seized  your  miu(5,' 
Replied  the  dame:  *are  these  the  thanks  I  find? 
Wretch  that  I  am,  that  e'er  I  was  so  kind  ! ' 

She  said,  a  rising  sigh  expressed  her  woe ; 
The  ready  tears  apace  began  to  flow. 
And  as  they  fell  she  wip'd  from  either  eye 
'J'he  drops;  (for  women,  when  they  list,  can  cry.) 

The  knight  was  touch'd ;  and  in  his  looks  appear'd 
Signs  of  remorse,  while  thus  his  spouse  he  cheer 'd : 

*  Madam,  'tis  past,  and  my  short  anger  o'er  1 
Come  down,  and  vex  your  tender  heart  no  more: 
Excuse  me,  dear,  if  aught  amiss  was  said, 

For,  on  my  soul,  amends  shall  soon  be  made : 
Let  my  repentance  your  forgiveness  draw; 
By  Heaven,  I  swore  but  what  I  thought  I  saw.* 

*  Ah,  my  lov'd  lord !  'twas  much  unkind/  she  cried, 

*  On  bare  suspicion  thus  to  treat  your  bride. 
But  till  your  sight 's  established,  for  a  while, 
Imperfect  objects  may  your  sense  beguile. 
Thus,  when  from  sleep  we  first  our  eyes  display. 
The  balls  are  wounded  with  the  piercing  ray, 
And  dusky  vapours  rise,  and  intercept  the  day: 
So  just  recovering  from  the  shades  of  night. 
Your  swimming  eyes  are  drunk  with  sudden  light. 
Strange  phantoms  dance  around,  and  skim  before  your 
Then,  sir,  be  cautious,  nor  too  rashly  deem ;       [sight. 
Heaven  knows  how  seldom  things  are  what  thej'  seem  I 
Consult  your  reason,  and  you  soon  shall  find 

'Twas  you  were  jealous,  not  your  wife  unkind: 
Jove  ne'er  spoke  oracle  more  true  than  this; 
None  judge  so  wrong  as  those  who  think  amiss.* 

With  that  she  leap'd  into  her  lord's  embrace, 
With  well-dissembled  virtue  in  her  face. 
He  hugged  her  close,  and  kissed  her  o'er  and  o'er. 
Disturbed  with  doubts  and  jealousies  no  more : 
Both,  pleased  and  blessed,  renewed  their  mutual  vows : 
A  fruitful  wife,  and  a  believing  spouse. 

Thus  ends  our  tale,  whose  moral  next  to  make. 
Let  all  wise  husbands  hence  example  take ; 
And  pray,  to  crown  the  pleasure  of  their  lives, 
To  be  so  well  deluded  by  therr  wiv«s. 


325 


THE  WIFE  OF  BATH, 

HER  VROLOGUE.      FROM  CHAUCEIi. 


Behold  the  woes  of  matrimonial  life, 

And  hear  with  reverence  an  experienced  wife  ', 

To  dear-bought  wisdom  give  the  credit  due. 

And  think  for  once  a  woman  tells  you  true. 

In  all  these  trials  I  have  borne  a  part ; 

1  was  myself  the  scourge  that  caused  the  smart ; 

For  since  fifteen  in  triumph  have  I  led 

Five  captive  husbands  frcni  the  church  to  bed. 

Christ  saw  a  wedding  onc.e,  the  Scripture  says, 
And  faw  but  one,  'tis  thought,  in  all  his  days  ; 
Whence  some  infer,  whose  conscience  is  too  nice, 
No  pious  Christian  ought  to  marry  twice. 

But  let  them  read,  and  solve  me,  if  they  can. 
The  words  address'd  to  the  Samaritan : 
Five  times  in  lawful  wedlock  she  was  joined ; 
And  sure  the  certain  stint  was  ne'er  defined. 

*  Increase  and  multiply'  was  Heaven's  commard, 
And  that 's  a  text  I  clearly  understand. 
This  too,  *  Let  men  their  sires  and  mothers  leave. 
And  to  their  dearer  wives  for  ever  cleave.' 
More  wives  than  one  by  Solomon  were  tried, 
Or  else  the  wisest  of  mankind  's  belied. 
I've  had  myself  full  many  a  merry  fit. 
And  trust  in  heaven  I  may  have  many  yet; 
For  when  my  transitory  spouse,  unkind, 
Shall  -^ie,  and  leave  his  woeful  wife  behind, 
I'll  take  the  next  good  Christian  I  can  find. 

Paul,  knowing  one  could  never  serve  our  turn, 
Declared  'twas  better  far  to  wed  than  burn. 
There's  danger  in  assembling  fire  and  tow  ; 
I  grant  them  that;  and  what  it  means  you  kno*ar« 
The  same  apostle,  too,  has  elsewhere  own'd. 
No  precept  lor  virginity  he  found : 


336  THE    WIFS:    OF    nATH, 

*Tis  but  a  counsel — and  vre  women  still 
Take  which  we  like,  the  counsel  or  our  will, 

I  envy  not  their  bliss,  if  he  or  she 
Think  fit  to  live  in  perfect  chastity  ; 
Pure  let  them  be,  and  free  from  taint  of  vice; 
J  for  a  few  slight  spots  am  not  so  nice. 
Heaven  calls  us  different  ways;  on  these  besto^'S 
One  proper  gift,  another  grants  to  those ;  « 

Not  every  man  's  obliged  to  sell  his  store,  ;    ■ 

And  give  up  all  his  substance  to  the  poort  ■ 

Such  as  are  perfect  may,  I  can't  du-jy , 
But,  by  your  leaves,  Divines !  so  am  not  I. 

Full  many  a  saint,  since  first  the  world  began, 
Liv'd  an  unspotted  maid  in  spite  of  man. 
Let  such  (a-God's  name)  with  fine  wheat  oe  tea, 
And  let  us  honest  w^ives  eat  barley  bread. 
For  me,  I'll  keep  the  post  assigned  by  Heaven. 
And  use  the  copious  talent  it  has  given : 
Let  my  good  spouse  pay  tribute,  do  me  rigbtj 
And  keep  an  equal  reckoning  every  night: 
His  proper  bod>  is  not  his,  but  mine  ; 
For  so  said  Paul,  and  Paul 's  a  sound  divine. 

Know  then,  of  those  five  husbands  I  have  h?,(], 
Three  were  just  tolerable,  two  were  bad. 
The  three  were  old,  but  rich,  and  fond  beside, 
And  toiled  most  piteously  to  please  their  bride , 
But  since  their  wealth   the  best  they  had,  was  rr.;i,« , 
The  rest  without  much  loss  I  could  resign : 
Sure  to  be  loved,  I  took  no  pains  to  please, 
Yet  had  more  pleasure  far  than  they  had  ease. 

Presents  flowed  in  apace :  with  showers  of  geld 
They  made  their  court,  like  Jupiter  of  old : 
If  I  but  smiled,  a  sudden  youth  they  found. 
And  a  uew  palsy  seiz'd  them  when  I  frown'd. 

Ye  sovereign  wives  1  give  ear,  and  understani, 
Thus  shall  ye  speak,  and  exercise  command; 
For  never  was  it  given  to  mortal  man 
To  lie  so  boldly  as  we  women  can ; 
Forswear  the  fact,  though  seen  with  both  his  eyt^ 
And  call  your  maids  to  witness  how  he  lies. 

'  Hark,'  old  Sir  Paul;  'twas  thus  I  used  to  say, 
*  Whence  is  our  neighbour's  wife  so  rich  and  ga}  . 
Treated,  caress'd,  where'er  she's  pleas'd  to  roa::.> 
I  sit  in  tatters,  and  immured  at  home. 
Why  to  her  house  dost  thou  so  oft  repair? 
Art  thou  so  amorous?  and  is  she  so  fair? 
If  I  but  see  a  cousin  or  a  friend, 
Lord  !  hdw  you  swell  and  rage  like  any.  fiend 
But  you  reel  home,  a  drunken  beastly  bear, 
Then  preach  till  niidniglit  in  your  easy  chair? 


THE   WlVB  OP   BATH.  83^ 

Cry  wives  are  false,  and  ev'ry  woman  evil, 
And  give  up  all  that 's  female  to  the  devil. 

If  poor  (you  say)  she  drains  her  husband's  putsej 
If  rich,  she  keeps  her  priest,  or  something  worse; 
If  highly  born,  intolerably  vain, 
Vapours  and  pride  by  turns  possess  her  brain ; 
Now  gaily  mad,  now  sourly  splenetic, 
Freakish  when  well,  and  fretful  when  she's  sick  -, 
If  fair,  then  chaste  she  cannot  long  abide, 
By  pressing  youth  attack' d  on  ev'ry  side ; 
If  foul,  her  wealth  the  lusty  lover  lures, 
Or  else  her  wit  some  fool-gallant  procures, 
Or  e'se  she  dances  with  becoming  grace, 
Or  shape  excuses  the  defects  of  face. 
There  swims  no  goose  so  grey,  but  soon  or  late, 
She  finds  some  honest  gander  for  her  mate. 

Horses  (thou  say'st)  and  asses  men  may  try. 
And  ring  suspected  vessels  ere  they  buy  ; 
But  wives,  a  random  choice,  untried  they  take ; 
They  dream  in  courtship,  but  in  wedlock  wake ; 
Then,  nor  till  then,  the  veil  *s  removed  away, 
And  all  the  woman  glares  in  open  day. 

You  tell  me,  to  preserve  your  wife's  good  grace, 
Your  eyes  must  always  languish  on  my  face, 
Your  tongue  with  constant  flatteries  feed  my  ear. 
And  tag  each  sentence  with,  My  life !  My  dear  I 
If  by  strange  chance  a  modest  blush  be  raised. 
Be  sure  my  fine  complexion  must  be  praised. 
My  garments  always  must  be  new  and  gay, 
And  feasts  still  kept  upon  my  wedding-day  ; 
Then  must  my  nurse  be  pleased,  and  favourite  maid  S 
And  endless  treats  and  endless  visits  paid 
To  a  long  train  of  kindred  friends,  allies : 
All  this  thou  say'st,  and  all  thou  say'st  are  lies. 

On  Jenkin,  too,  you  cast  a  squinting  eye  : 
What  ?  can  your  'prentice  raise  your  jealousy  I 
Fresh  are  his  ruddy  cheeks,  his  forehead  fair, 
And  like  the  burnished  gold  his  curling  hair: 
But  clear  thy  rinkled  brow,  and  quit  thy  sorrow, 
I'd  scorn  thy  'prentice,  should  you  die  to-morrow. 

Why  are  thy  chests  all  lock'd  ?  on  what  design? 
Are  not  thy  worldly  goods  and  treasure  mine  2 
Sir,  I'm  no  fool ;  nor  shall  you  by  St.  John, 
Have  goods  and  body  to  yourself  alone. 
One  you  shall  quit  in  spite  of  both  your  eyes— 
I  heed  not,  I,  the  bolts,  the  locks,  the  spies. 
If  you  had  wit,  you'd  say,  '  Go  where  you  will, 
Pear  spouse  I  1  credit  not  the  tales  they  tell : 
29 


BBS  TirS    WIFE    OF    EATH» 

Take  all  the  freedom  of  a  married  life ; 
1  know  thee  for  a  virtuous,  faithful  wife. 

Lord !  when  you  have  enough,  what  need  you  ess® 
How  merrily  soever  others  fare  ? 
Though  all  the  day  I  give  and  take  delight, 
Doubt  not  sufficient  will  be  left  for  night. 
*Tis  but  a  just  and  rational  desire 
To  light  a  taper  at  a  neighbour's  fire.  ^ 

There's  danger  too,  you  think,  in  rich  array,         ^ 
And  none  can  long  be  modest  that  are  gay. 
The  cat,  if  you  but  singe  her  tabby  skin, 
The  chimney  keeps,  and  sits  content  within  ; 
But  once  grown  sleek,  will  from  her  corner  run, ' 
Sport  with  her  tail,  and  wanton  in  the  sun: 
She  licks  her  fair  round  face,  and  frisks  abroad 
To  show  her  fur,  and  to  be  caterwaw'd.' 

Lo  thus,  my  friends,  I  wrought  to  my  desires 
These  three  right  ancient  venerable  sires. 
I  told  them,  thus  you  say,  and  thus  you  do ; 
I  told  them  false,  but  Jenkin  swore  't  was  true. 
I,  like  the  dog,  could  bite  as  well  as  whine, 
And  first  complain'd  whene'er  the  guilt  was  mine. 
J  tax'd  them  oft  with  wenching  and  amours, 
When  their  weak  legs  scarce  dragg'd  them  out  of  doOTOg 
And  swore  the  rambles  that  I  took  by  night 
Were  all  to  spy  what  damsels  they  bedight : 
That  colour  brought  me  many  hours  of  mirth; 
For  all  this  wit  is  giv'n  us  from  our  birth. 
Heaven  gave  to  woman  the  peculiar  grace 
To  spin,  to  weep,  and  cully  human  race. 
By  this  nice  conduct,  and  this  prudent  course, 
By  murm'ring,  wheedling,  stratagem,  and  force, 
I  still  prevail'd,  and  would  be  in  the  right, 
Or  curtain  lectures  made  a  restless  night. 
If  once  my  husband's  arm  was  o'er  my  side, 
What!  so  familiar  with  your  spouse  1   I  cried; 
I  levied  first  a  tax  upon  his  need; 
Then  let  him — 't  was  a  nicety  indeed  I 
Let  all  mankind  this  certain  maxim  hold, 
Marry  who  will,  our  sex  is  to  be  sold. 
With  empty  hands  no  tassels  you  can  lure. 
But  fulsome  love  for  gain  we  can  endure ; 
For  gold  we  love  the  impotent  and  old, 
And  heave,  and  pant,  and  kiss,  and  cling  for  gold. 
Yet  with  embraces  curses  oft  I  mix'd  ; 
Then  kissed  again,  and  chid,  and  rail'd  betwixt. 
Well,  I  may  make  my  will  in  peace,  and  die, 
For  not  one  word  in  man's  arrears  am  1 


THE    WIFE   OP   BATH. 

To  drop  a  dear  dispute  I  was  unable, 

E'en  though  the  pope  himself  had  sat  at  table  | 

But  when  my  point  was  gain'd,  then  thus  I  spoke  t 

•  Billy,  my  dear!  how  sheepishly  you  look! 

Approach,  ray  spouse!  and  let  me  kiss  thy  cheek; 

Tliou  shouldst  be  always  thus,  resigned  and  meek. 

Of  Job's  great  patience  since  so  oft  you  preach, 

Well  should  you  practise  who  so  well  can  teach. 

'T  is  difficult  to  do,  I  must  allow ; 

But  I,  my  dearest !  will  instruct  you  how. 

Great  is  the  blessing  of  a  prudent  wife, 

Who  puts  a  period  to  domestic  strife. 

One  of  us  two  must  rule,  and  one  obey ! 

And  since  in  man  right  reason  bears  the  sway, 

Let  that  frail  thing,  weak  woman,  have  her  way. 

The  wives  of  all  my  family  have  ruled 

Their  tender  husbands  and  their  passions  cooled. 

Fie!  'tis  unmanly  thus  to  sigh  and  groan; 

What !  would  you  have  me  to  yourself  alone  ? 

Why,  take  me,  love !  take  all  and  every  part ! 

Here's  your  revenge  !  you  love  it  at  your  heart. 

Would  I  vouchsafe  to  sell  what  nature  gave. 
You  little  think  what  custom  I  could  have. 
But  see !  I'm  all  your  own — nay,  hold — for  shame  I 
What  means  my  dear  ? — indeed — you  are  to  blame. 

Thus  with  my  first  three  lords  I  passed  my  life, 
A  very  woman  and  a  very  wife. 
What  sums  from  these  old  spouses  I  could  raise. 
Procured  young  husbands  in  my  riper  days. 
Though  past  my  bloom,  not  yet  decay'd  was  I, 
Wanton  and  wild,  and  chattered  like  a  pie. 
In  country  dances  still  I  bore  the  bell, 
And  sang  as  sweet  as  evening  Philomel. 
To  clear  my  quail-pipe,  and  refresh  my  soul. 
Full  oft  I  drained  the  spicy  nut-brown  bowl ; 
Rich  luscious  wines,  that  youthful  blood  improve, 
And  warm  the  swelling  veins  to  feats  of  love: 
For  'tis  as  sure  as  cold  engenders  hail, 
A  liquorish  mouth  must  have  a  lecherous  tail: 
Wine  lets  no  lover  unrewarded  go. 
As  all  true  gamesters  by  experience  know. 

But  oh,  good  gods!  whene'er  a  thought  I  cast 
On  all  the  joys  of  youth  and  beauty  past, 
To  find  in  pleasures  1  have  had  my  part. 
Still  warms  me  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
This  wicked  world  was  once  my  dear  delight; 
Now  all  my  conquests,  all  my  charms,  good  night  I 
The  flour  consumed,  the  best  that  now  I  can. 
Is  e'en  to  make  my  market  of  the  bran. 


339 


840  THE   WIFE   OF   BATH. 

My  fourth  dear  spouse  was  not  exceeding  true  j 
He  kept,  *t  was  thought,  a  private  miss  or  tw  o : 
But  all  that  score  I  paid. — As  how  ?  you'll  say  j 
Not  with  my  body,  in  a  filthy  way ; 
But  I  so  dress'd,  and  danced,  and  drank,  and  din'd. 
And  view'd  a  friend  with  eyes  so  very  kind 
As  stung  his  heart,  and  made  his  marrow  fry 
With  burning  rage  and  frantic  jealousy. 
His  soul,  1  hope,  enjoys  eternal  glory, 
For  here  on  earth  I  was  his  purgatory. 
Oft  when  his  shoe  the  most  severely  wrung, 
He  put  on  carele',s  airs,  and  sit  and  sung. 
How  sore  1  galled  him  only  Heaven  could  know, 
And  he  that  felt,  and  I  that  caused  the  woe. 
He  died  when  'ast  f  om  pilgrimage  I  came, 
With  other  gossips,  f  om  Jerusalem  ; 
And  now  lies  buried   mderneath  a  rood, 
Fair  to  be  seen,  and  rear'd  of  honest  wood  : 
A  tomb,  indeed,  with  fewer  sculptures  graced 
Than  that  Mausolus'  pious  widow  placed, 
Or  where  enshrined  the  great  Darius  lay  ; 
But  cost  on  graves  is  merely  thrown  away. 
The  pit  filled  up,  with  turf  we  covered  o'er  j 
So  bless  the  good  man's  soul !  I  say 'no  more. 

Now  for  my  fifth  loved  lord,  the  last  and  best  | 
(Kind  Heaven  afford  him  everlasting  rest !) 
Full  hearty  was  his  love,  and  1  can  show 
The  tokens  on  my  ribs  in  black  and  blue  ; 
Yet  with  a  knack  my  heart  he  could  have  won, 
While  yet  the  smart  was  shooting  in  the  bone. 
How  quaint  an  appetite  in  woman  reigns  ! 
Free  gifts  we  scorn,  and  love  what  costs  us  pains* 
Let  men  avoid  us,  and  on  them  we  leap ; 
A  glutted  market  makes  provisions  cheap. 

In  pure  good-will  1  took  this  jovial  spark  | 
Of  Oxford  he,  a  most  egregious  clerk. 
He  boarded  with  a  widow  in  the  town, 
A  trusty  gossip,  one  Dame  Alison ; 
Full  well  the  secrets  of  my  soul  she  knew, 
Better  than  e'er  our  parish  priest  could  do. 
To  her  I  told  whatever  could  befall  | 
Had  but  my  husband  piss'd  against  a  wall. 
Or  done  a  thing  that  might  have  cost  his  life, 
She — and  my  niece — and  one  more  worthy  wife, 
Had  known  it  all :  what  most  he  could  conceal. 
To  these  I  made  no  scruple  to  reveal. 
Oft  has  he  blushed  from  ear  to  ear  for  shame. 
That  e'er  he  told  a  secret  to  his  dame 


*f*K  I 


} 


THE    WIFE    OF    BATH, 

It  SO  befel,  in  holy  time  of  Lent, 

Tliat  oft  a  day  I  to  this  gossip  went ; 

(My  husband,  thank  my  stars,  was  out  of  town  ;) 

Fi  om  house  to  house  we  rambled  up  and  down  ; 

This  clerk,  myself,  and  my  good  neighbour  Alse, 

To  see,  be  seen,  to  tell  and  gather  tales. 

Visits  to  every  church  we  daily  paid, 

And  marched  in  every  holy  masquerade  j 

The  stations  duly  and  the  vigils  kept ; 

Not  much  we  fasted,  but  scarce  ever  slept. 

At  sermons,  too,  I  shone  in  scarlet  gay  : 

The  wasting  moth  ne'er  spoiled  my  best  array; 

The  cause  was  this,  f  wore  it  every  day. 

*T  was  when  fresh  May  her  early  blossoms  yields, 

This  clerk  and  I  were  walking  in  "the  fields. 

We  grew  so  intimate,  I  can't  tell  how, 

I  pawn'd  my  honour,  and  engaged  my  vow, 

If  e'er  T  laid  my  husband  in  his  urn, 

That  he,  and  only  he,  should  serve  my  turn. 

We  straight  struck  hands,  the  bargain  was  agreed } 

I  still  have  shifts  against  a  time  of  need. 

The  mouse  that  always  trusts  to  one  poor  hole 

Can  never  be  a  mouse  of  any  soul. 

I  vow'd  I  scarce  could  sleep  since  first  I  knew  him» 

And  durst  be  sworn  he  had  bewitch'd  me  to  him  ; 

If  e'er  I  slept, — I  dreamed  of  him  alone, 

And  dreams  foretell,  as  learned  men  have  shown. 
All  this  I  said  ;  but  dreams,  sirs,  1  had  none : 

I  followed  but  my  crafty  cronies  lore, 
Who  bid  me  tell  this  lie — and  twenty  more. 

Thus  day  by  day,  and  month  by  month  we  pass'd ; 
It  pleased  the  Lord  to  take  my  spouse  at  last. 
I  tore  my  gown,  I  soiled  my  locks  with  dust, 
And  beat  my  breasts,  as  wretched  widows — must. 
Before  my  face  my  handkerchief  I  spread, 
To  hide  the  flood  of  tears  I  did — not  shed. 
The  good  man's  coffin  to  the  church  was  borne  : 
Around,  the  neighbours,  and  my  clerk  too,  mourn  I 
But  as  he  marched,  good  gods,  he  show'd  a  pair 
Of  legs  and  feet  so  clean,  so  strong,  so  fair  I 
Of  twenty  winters'  age  be  seem'd  to  be  ; 
I  'to  say  truth)  was  twenty  more  than  he': 
But  vigorous  still,  a  lively  buxom  dame, 
And  had  a  wondrous  gift  to  quench  a  flame. 
A  conjurer  once,  that  deeply  could  divine. 
Assured  me  Mars  in  Taurus  was  my  sign. 
As  the  stars  ordered,  such  my  life  has  beenf 
Alas,  alas !  that  ever  love  was  sin ! 
29* 


m 


342  THE  WIFE  or  BATH. 

Fair  Venus  gave  me  fire  and  sprightly  grace. 
And  mars  assurance  and  a  dauntless  face. 
By  virtue  of  this  powerful  constellation  . 
I  followed  always  my  own  inclination. 

But  to  my  tale.     A  month  scarce  passed  away, 
With  dance  and  song  we  kept  the  nuptial  day  j 
All  I  possess'd  I  gave  to  his  command, 
My  goods  and  chattels,  money,  house,  and  land  I 
But  oft  repented  and  repent  it  still ; 
He  proved  a  rebel  to  my  sovereign  will: 
Nay  once,  by  Heaven  !  he  struck  me  on  the  face, 
Hear  but  the  fact,  and  judge  yourselves  the  case. 

Stubborn  as  any  lioness  was  I, 
And  knew  full  well  to  raise  my  voice  on  high ; 
As  true  a  rambler  as  I  was  before. 
And  would  be  so  in  spite  of  all  he  swore. 
He  against  this  right  sagely  would  advise, 
And  old  examples  set  before  my  eyes ; 
Tell  how  the  Roman  matrons  led  their  life. 
Of  Gracchus'  mother,  and  Duilius'  wife ; 
And  close  the  sermon,  as  beseemed  his  wit, 
With  some  grave  sentence  out  of  Holy  Writ. 
Oft  would  he  say.  Who  builds  his  house  on  saud^ 
Pricks  his  blind  horse  across  the  fallow  lands, 
Or  lets  his  wife  abroad  with  pilgrims  roam, 
Deserves  a  fool's-cap  and  long  ears  at  home. 
AU  this  availed  not;  for  whoe'er  he  be 
That  tells  my  faults,  1  hate  him  mortally ; 
And  so  do  numbers  more  I'll  boldly  say. 
Men,  women,  clergy,  regular  and  lay. 

My  spouse,  who  was,  you  know,  to  learning  bred, 
A  certain  treatise  oft  at  ev'ning  read, 
Where  divers  authors  (whom  tbe  devil  confound 
For  all  their  lies !)  were  in  one  volume  bound : 
Valerius,  whole;  and  of  St.  Jerome,  part; 
Chrycippus  and  Tertullian,  Ovid's  Art, 
Solomon's  Proverbs,  Eloisa's  loves. 
And  many  more  than  sure  the  Church  approves. 
More  legends  were  there  here  of  wicked  wives 
Than  good  in  all  the  Bible  and  Saints'  Lives. 
Who  drew  the  lion  vanquish 'd  ?     'T  was  a  man } 
But  could  we  women  write  as  scholars  can. 
Men  should  stand  marked  with  far  more  wickednea» 
Than  all  the  sons  of  Adam  could  redress. 
Love  seldom  haunts  the  breast  where  learning  lies, 
And  Venus  sets  ere  Mercury  can  rise. 
Those  play  the  scholars  who  can't  play  the  men, 
And  use  that  weapon  which  they  have,  their  pen : 


TI!E    WIFE    OF    BATK.  343 

When  old,  and  past  the  relish  of  delight, 
Then  down  they  sit,  and  in  their  dotage  write, 
That  not  one  woman  keeps  her  marriage-vow. 
(This  by  the  way,  but  to  my  purpose  now.) 

It  chanced  my  husband,  on  a  winter's  night, 
Read  in  this  book  aloud  with  strange  delight, 
How  the  first  female,  as  the  Scriptures  show, 
Brought  her  own  spouse  and  all  his  race  to  woe; 
How  Samson  fell ;  and  he  whom  Dejanire 
Wrapped  in  th'  envenom 'd  shirt,  and  set  on  fire  ; 
How  curs'd  Eriphyle  her  lord  betrayed. 
And  the  dire  ambush  Clytemnestra  laid  ; 
But  what  most  pleased  him  was  the  Cretan  dame 
And  husband-bull — Oh,  monstrous!  fie  for  shame! 

He  had  by  heart  the  whole  detail  of  woe 
Xantippe  made  her  good  man  undergo  ; 
How  oft  she  scolded  in  a  day  he  knew, 
How  many  pisspots  on  the  sage  she  threw. 
Who  took  it  patiently,  and  wiped  his  head : 
*Rain  follows  thunder  ;'  that  was  all  he  said. 

He  read  how  Arius  to  his  friend  complained 
A  fatal  tree  was  growing  on  his  land. 
On  which  three  wives  successively  had  twined 
A  sliding  noose,  and  wavered  in  the  wind. 
Where  grows  this  plant,  replied  the  friend,  oh!  where? 
For  better  fruit  did  never  orchard  bear : 
Give  me  some  slip  of  this  most  blissful  tree, 
And  in  my  garden  planted  shall  it  be. 

Then  how  two  wives  their  lord's  destruction  prove; 
Through  hatred  one,  and  one  through  too  much  love ; 
That  for  her  husband  mixed  a  poisonous  draught. 
And  this  for  lust  an  amorous  philtre  bought : 
The  nimble  juice  soon  seized  his  giddy  head. 
Frantic  at  night,  and  in  the  morning  dead. 

How  some  with  swords  their  sleeping  lords  have  slain, 
And  some  have  hammered  nails  into  their  brain, 
And  some  have  drenched  them  with  a  deadly  potion : 
All  this  he  read,  and  read  with  great  devotion. 

Long  time  I  heard,  and  swelled,  and  blushed,  and  frown'dr 
But  when  no  end  to  these  vile  tales  1  found. 
When  still  he  read,  and  laughed,  and  read  again, 
And  half  the  night  was  thus  consumed  in  vain. 
Provoked  to  vengeance,  three  large  leaves  I  tore, 
And  with  one  buflfet  felled  him  on  the  floor. 
With  that  my  husband  in  a  fury  rose. 
And  down  he  settled  me  with  hearty  blows. 
I  groaned,  and  lay  exter.ded  on  my  side ; 
•  Oh !  thou  hast  siaiu  me  ior  my  wealth,'  I  cried  : 


844  THE  wrrr;  op  7?tvw. 

'Yet  1  forgive  thee — take  my  lasi  eiubrace— -' 
He  wept,  kind  soul !  and  stooped  to  kiss  my  fae«8 
I  took  him  such  a  box  as  turned  him  blue, 
Then  sighed  and  cried,  'Adieu,  my  dear,  adieu  I* 

But  after  many  a  hearty  struggle  past, 
I  condescended  to  be  pleased  at  last. 
Soon  as  he  said,  My  mistress  and  my  wife  ! 
Do  what  you  list  the  term  of  all  your  life, 
I  took  to  heart  the  merits  of  the  cause. 
And  stood  content  to  rule  by  wholesome  laws  j 
Received  the  reins  of  absolute  command,  \ 

With  all  the  government  of  house  and  land,  > 

And  empire  o'er  his  tongue  and  o'er  bis  hand.  } 

As  for  the  volume  that  reviled  the  dames, 
*Twas  torn  to  fragments,  and  condemned  to  flames. 

Now  Heaven  on  all  my  husbands  gone  bestow 
Pleasures  above  for  tortures  felt  below ; 
That  rest  they  wished  for  grant  them  in  the  grav^ 
And  bless  those  souls  my  conduct  helped  to  sa¥e» 


815 


THE  FABLE  OF  DRYOPE. 


VBOM  THE  NXKTTI  BOOK  OV 


OVID'S  METAMORPHOSES. 


She  said,  and  for  her  lost  Galanthias  sighs. 

When  the  fair  consort  of  her  son  replies : 

**  Since  you  a  servant's  ravished  form  bemoaQi 

And  kindly  sigh  for  sorrows  not  your  own, 

Let  me  (if  tears  and  griefs  permit)  relate 

A  nearer  woe,  a  sister's  stranger  fate. 

No  nymph  of  all  Oechalia  could  compare 

For  beauteous  form  witli  Dryope  the  fair. 

Her  tender  mother's  only  hope  and  pride, 

(Myself  the  ofi'spring  of  a  second  bride.) 

This  nymph,  compressed  by  him  who  rules  the  day 

Whom  Delphi  and  the  Delian  aisle  obey, 

Andrsemon  loved ;  and  blessed  in  all  those  charms 

That  pleased  a  god,  succeeded  to  her  arms. 

"  A  lake  there  was  with  shelving  banks  around, 
Whose  verdant  summit  fragrant  myrtles  crown'ds 
These  shades,  unknowing  of  the  Fates,  she  sought 
And  to  the  Naiads  flowery  garlands  brought ; 
Her  smiling  babe,  a  pleasing  charge,  she  press'd 
Within  her  arms,  and  nourished  at  her  breast. 
Not  distant  far  a  watery  lotos  grows  ; 
The  spring  was  new,  and  all  the  verdant  boughs 
Adorned  with  blossoms,  promised  fruits  that  vie 
In  glowing  colours  with  the  Tyrian  dye  : 
Of  these  she  cropp'd  to  please  her  infant  son, 
And  I  myself  the  same  rash  act  had  done  t 
But,  lo !  I  saw,  as  near  her  side  I  stood, 
The  violated  blossoms  drop  with  blood. ' 
Upon  the  tree  I  cast  a  frightful  look; 
The  trembling  tree  with  sudden  horror  shoo'^) 
Lotis,  the  nymph,  if  rural  tales  be  true, 
As  from  Priapus'  lawless  lust  she  flew. 


346  THE    FABLE   OF   DRYOPE. 

Forsook  her  form,  and,  fixing  here,  became 

A  flowery  plant,  which  still  preserves  her  name. 

This  change  unknown,  astonished  at  the  sight, 
My  trembling  sister  strove  to  urge  her  flight ; 
And  first  the  pardon  of  the  nymphs  implor'd, 
And  those  offended  sylvan  powers  ador'd : 
But  when  siie  backward  would  have  fled,  she  found 
Her  stiflTening  feet  were  rooted  in  the  ground ; 
In  vain  to  free  her  fastened  feet  she  strove, 
And  as  she  struggles  only  moves  above; 
She  feels  the  encroaching  bark  around  her  grow 
By  quick  degrees,  and  cover  all  below. 
Surprised  at  this,  her  trembling  hand  she  heaves 
To  rend  her  hair;  her  hand  is  filled  with  leaves: 
Where  late  was  hair,  the  shooting  leaves  are  seen 
To  rise,  and  shade  her  with  a  sudden  green. 
The  child  Amphissus,  to  her  bosom  press'd, 
Perceived  a  colder  and  a  harder  breast, 
And  found  the  springs,  that  ne'er  till  then  denied 
Their  milky  moisture,  on  a  sudden  dried. 
I  saw,  unhappy,  what  I  now  relate, 
And  stood  the  helpless  witness  of  thy  fate, 
Embraced  thy  boughs,  thy  rising  bark  delay'd. 
There  wished  to  grow,  and  mingle  shade  with  shade. 

Behold  Andraemon  and  the  unhappy  sire 
Appear,  and  for  their  Dryope  inquire! 
A  springing  tree  for  Dryope  they  find. 
And  print  warm  kisses  on  the  panting  rind, 
Prostrate,  with  tears  their  kindred  plant  bedew, 
And  close  embrace  as  to  the  roots  they  grew. 
The  face  was  all  that  now  remained  of  thee ; 
No  more  a  woman,  nor  yet  quite  a  tree  ; 
Thy  branches  hung  with  humid  pearls  appear. 
From  every  leaf  distils  a  trickling  tear ; 
And  straight  a  voice,  while  yet  a  voice  remains, 
Thus  through  the  trembling  boughs  in  sighs  compl.nnsj 

"  If  to  the  wretched  any  faith  be  given, 
I  swear  by  all  the  unpitying  powers  of  heaven. 
No  wilful  crime  this  heavy  vengeance  bred  ; 
In  mutual  innocence  our  lives  we  led  : 
If  this  be  false,  let  these  new  greens  decay. 
Let  sounding  axes  lop  my  limbs  away. 
And  crackling  flames  on  all  my  honours  prey. 
But  from  my  branching  arms  this  infant  bear, 
Let  some  kind  nurse  supply  a  mother's  care; 
And  to  his  mother  let  him  oft  be  led. 
Sport  in  her  shades,  and  in  her  shades  be  fed  ; 
Teach  him,  when  first  his  infant  voice  shall  frame 
Imperfect  words,  and  lisp  a  mother's  name, 


THE    FABLE    OF    DRYOPE.  347 

To  hail  this  tree;  and  say,  with  weeping  eyes, 
Within  this  plant  my  hapless  parent  lies  : 
And  when  in  youth  he  seeks  the  shady  woods, 
Oh !  let  him  fly  the  crystal  lakes  and  floods, 
Nor  touch  the  fatal  flowers  ;  but,  warned  by  me. 
Believe  a  goddess  shrined  in  every  tree. 
My  sire,  my  sister,  and  my  spouse,  farewell  1 
If  in  your  breasts  or  love  or  pity  dwell. 
Protect  your  plant,  nor  let  my  branches  feel    • 
The  browsing  cattle  or  the  piercing  steel. 
Farewell !  and  since  T  cannot  bend  to  join 
My  lips  to  yours,  advance  at  least  to  mine. 
My  son,  thy  mother's  parting  kiss  receive, 
While  yet  thy  mother  has  a  kiss  to  give. 
I  can  no  more  ;  the  creeping  rind  invades 
My  closing  lips,  and  hides  my  head  in  shades ; 
Remove  your  hands ;  the  bark  shall  soon  suffice. 
Without  their  aid,  to  seal  those  dying  eyes." 
She  ceased  at  once  to  speak  and  ceased  to  be. 
And  all  the  nymph  was  lost  within  the  tree; 
Yet  latent  life  through  her  new  branches  reign'd^ 
And  long  the  plant  a  human  heat  retain'd. 


848 


IMITATIONS  OF  ENGLISH  POETS. 

[done  by  the  author  in  his  youth.] 


CHAUCER 

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  liath  him  betakoj 
To  filche  the  gray  ducke  fro  the  lake. 
Right  then,  there  passen  by  the  way, 
His  aunt,  and  eke  her  tlaughters  tway: 
Ducke  in  his  trowses  hath  be  bent, 
Not  to  be  spied  of  ladies  gent. 

*  But  ho !  our  nephew  I '  crieth  one: 

*  Ho  I  *  quoth  another,  'cozen  John  I ' 
And  stoppen,  and  lough,  and  callen  ou^ 
This  sely  clerk  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 : 
Forepiece  and  buttons  all-to-brest, 
Forth  thrust  a  white  neck,  and  red  crest. 

*  Te-he !  *  cry'd  ladies :  clerke  not  spake : 
Miss  stared ;  and  gray  ducke  cried  quaake. 
*0  moder,  moder,*  quoth  the  daughter, 
*Be  thilke  same  thing  maids  long  a'ter  ? 
Bette  is  to  pyne  on  coals  and  chalke. 
Than  trust  on  mon,  whose  yerde  can  talke. 


IMITATIONS    OF   ENGLIRII    POETS.  849 

SFENSER. 
THE  ALLEY. 


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  gliding  to  and  fro. 

There  oft  are  heard  the  notes  of  infant  woe, 

The  short  thick  sob,  loud  scream,  and  shriller  squall  i 

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  buttet  call : 

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  sun-burnt  matrons  seen^ 
Mending  old  nets  to  catch  the  scaly  fry ; 
Now  singing  shrill,  and  scolding  eft  between  t 
Scolds  answer  foul-mouth'd  scolds ;   bad  neighbourhood 
I  ween ! 

The  snappish  cur,  the  passengers  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  bass  are 
drown'd. 

Hard  by  a  stye,  beneath  a  roof  of  thatch, 
Dwelt  Obloquy,  who  in  her  early  days 
baskets  of  fish  at  Billingsgate  did  watch. 
Cod,  whiting,  oyster,  mackerel,  sprat,  or  plaice : 
There  learn'd  she  speech  from  tongues  that  never  ceascv 
Slander  beside  her,  like  a  magpie,  ohatters. 
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  tatterSt 
30 


goO  IMITATIONS    0^    RNGLISII   POETS, 

Her  dugs  were  mark'd  by  every  collier's  hand; 
Her  mouth  was  black  as  bull-dog's  at  the  stall: 
She  scratched,  bit,  and  spared  ne  lace  ne  band  ; 
And  bitch  and  rogue  her  answer  was  to  all ; 
Nay,  ev'n  the  parts  of  shame  by  name  would  call; 
Yea,  when  she  passes  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. 

Such  place  hath  Deptford,  navy-building  town  ; 
Woolwich  and  Wapping,  smelling  strong  of  pitch: 
Such  Lambeth,  envy  of  each  band  and  gown  ; 
And  Twickenham  such,  which  fairer  scenes  enrich. 
Grots,  statues,  urns,  and  Jo — n's  dog  arid  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. 


WALLER. 


ON  A  LADY  SINGING  TO  HER  LUTK 

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  bless'd  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  Irft*, 
Taught  by  your  hand,  can  charm  no  less  than  he 
A  poet  made  the  silent  wood  pursue ; 
This  vocal  wood  had  drawn  the  poet  toob 


IMITATIOKS    OF    ENGLISH    POETS.  851 


ON  A  FAN 

Of  the  Author's  design,  on  which  was  printed  the  story  of  Cephalus  and 
,  Procris,  with  the  motto — Aura,  Veni. 

*  Come,  gentle  air  1'  the  iSolian  shepherd  said, 
While  Procris  panted  in  the  secret  shade  ; 

♦  ('onie,  gentle  air!'  the  fairer  Delia  cries, 
Vv  hile  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  I 
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. 


COWLEY. 

THE    GARDEN. 

Fain  would  my  Muse  the  flowery  treasure  sing, 
And  humble  glories  of  the  youthful  spring ; 
Where  opening  roses  breathing  sweets  difiuse, 
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; 
And  pale  Narcissus,  on  the  bank  in  vain 
Transformed,  gazes  on  himself  again. 
Here  aged  trees  cathedral  walks  compose, 
And  mount  the  hill  in  venerable  rows ; 
Tliere  the  green  infants  in  their  beds  are  laid. 
The  garden's  hope,  and  its  expected  shade. 


S52  IMITATIONS    OF    ENCLTSH    POETS 

Her  orange  trees  with  blooms  and  pendant  shin% 
And  vernal  honours  to  their  autumn  join ; 
Exceed  their  promise  in  their  ripen'd  store, 
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* 


WEEPING. 

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  thiough  mists  we  see  the  sun. 

Which  else  we  durst  not  gaze  upon. 

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  is  drawing  nigh. 

The  baby  in  that  sunny  sphere 
So  like  a  Phaeton  appears^ 

That  Heaven,  the  threatened  world  to  spaT6^ 
Thought  fit  to  drown  him  in  her  tears ; 

Else  might  the  ambitious  nyrnph  aspire 

To  set,  like  him,  heaven  too  on  fire. 


naiTATlONS   OF   ENGLISH   POETS,  353 


EARL  OF  ROCHESTER. 


ON  SILENCE. 

Silence!  coeval  with  eternity, 

Thou  wert  ere  Nature's  self  began  to  be ; 

'Tvvj*3  one  vast  nothing  all,  and  all  slept  fast  in  thee» 

Thine  was  the  sway  ere  heaven  was  formed,  or  earth— 

Ere  fruitful  thought  conceived  Creation's  birth. 

Or  midwife  word  gave  aid,  and  spoke  the  infant  forth. 

Then  various  elements  against  thee  join'd, 

In  one  more  various  animal  combin'd, 

And  framed  the  clamorous  race  of  busy  human-kind. 

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. 

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  reigo. 

Afflicted  sense  thou  kindly  dost  set  free, 

Oppressed  with  argumental  tyranny. 

And  routed  reason  finds  a  safe  retreat  in  thee* 

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! 

Yet  thy  indulgence  is  by  both  confess'd } 
Folly  by  thee  lies  sleeping  in  the  broast. 
And  'tis  in  thee  at  last  that  wisdom  seeks  for  rest. 

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. 

But  couldst  thou  seize  some  tongues  that  now  art  free^ 
How  church  and  state  should  be  obliged  to  thee  ! 
At  senate  and  at  bar  how  welcome  wouldst  thou  be  I 

30* 


^ 


854  IMITATIONS    OF   ENGIISH    POETS. 

Yet  speech  e'en  there  submissively  withdraws 
From  rights  of  subjects,  and  the  poor  man's  cause: 
Then  pompous  silence  reigns,  and  stills  the  noisy  laws. 

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. 

The  country  wit,  religion  of  the  town. 

The  courtier's  learning,  policy  of  the  gown, 

Are  best  by  thee  expressed,  and  shine  in  thee  alonai 

The  parson's  cant,  the  lawyer's  sophystry, 
Lord's  quibble,  critic's  jest,  all  end  in  thee; 
All  rest  in  peace  at  last,  and  sleep  eternally. 


EARL  OF  DORSET. 

ARTEMISSIA. 

Though  Artemissia  talks  by  fits 
Of  counsels,  classics,  fathers,  wits , 

Reads  Malbranche,  Boyle,  and  Locke  J 
Yet  in  some  things  methinks  she  fails: 
'Twere  well  if  she  would  pare  her  nails, 

And  wear  a  cleaner  smock. 

Haugl3ty  and  huge  as  high  Dutch  bride^ 
Such  nastiness  and  so  much  pride 

Are  oddly  joined  by  fate  : 
On  her  large  squab  you  find  her  spread. 
Like  a  fat  corpse  upon  a  bed, 

That  lies  and  stinks  in  state. 

Bhe  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  scride. 


L 


IMITATIONS    OF    FNGLISH    POETS,  355 

So  have  I  seen,  in  bl.ick  a;ul  white, 
A  prating  thing,  a  magpie  liighi, 

Majestically  stalk ; 
A  stately  worthless  animal. 
That  plies  the  tongue,  and  wags  the  tail, 

All  flutter,  pride,  and  talk. 


PHRYNE. 

pHRYNE  had  talents  for  mankind  J 
Open  she  was  and  unconfin'd, 

Like  some  free  port  of  trade : 
Merchants  unloaded  here  their  freight, 
And  agents  from  each  foreign  state 

Here  first  their  entry  made. 

Her  learning  and  good  breeding  sucb, 
Whether  the  Italian  or  the  Dutch, 

Spaniards  or  French  came  to  her; 
To  all  obliging  she'd  appear  : 
'Twas  "Si,  Signior;"  twas  "Yaw,  Mynheer;* 

'Twas  **  S'il  vous  plait,  Monsieur." 

Obscure  by  birth,  renown'd  by  crimes, 
Still  changing  names,  religion,  cliiii«;t>, 

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. 

So  have  I  known  those  insects  fair 
(Which  curious  Germans  hold  so  rare) 

Still  vary  shapes  and  dyes; 
Still  gain  new  titles  with  ncAy  forms  j 
First  grubs  obscene,  then  wriggling  worms 

Then  painted  butterflies 


356  IMITATIONS  OF   ENGLISH   FOETt. 

DR.  SWIFT. 
THE  HAPPY  LIFE  OF  A  COUNTRY  PARSON, 


Parson  !  these  things  m  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  weeklv  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  Polyglott — 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  w^ife ; 
On  Sundays  preach,  and  eat  his  fill, 
And  fast  on  Fridays — if  he  will ; 
Toast  church  and  queen,  explain  the  nevna, 
Talk  with  churchwardens  about  pews. 
Pray  heartiljj  for  some  new  gift, 
And  shake  his  head  at  Doctor  S***t. 


m 


SATIRES  OF  DR.  JOHN  DONNE, 

DEAN  OF  ST.  PAUL'S, 

VERSIFIED. 


Quid  vetat  et  nosmet  Lucili  scripta  legentes 
Quaerere,  num  illius,  nura  rerum  dura  negarit 
Versiculos  natura  magis  factos,  et  euntes 
Mollius  1  Hoiu 

SATIRE  II. 

Yes!  thank  my  stars,  as  early  as  I  knew 

This  town,  I  had  the  sense  to  hate  it  too ; 

Yet  here,  as  e'en  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: 
Catched  like  the  plague,  or  love,  tlie  Lord  knows  hois', 
But  that  the  cure  is  starving  all  allow. 
Yet  like  the  papist's  is  the  poet's  state. 
Poor  and  disarmed,  and  hardly  worth  your  hate. 


SATIRE  II. 

Sir,  though  (I  thank  God  for  it)  I  do  hate 

Perfectly  all  this  town,  yet  there 's  one  state 

In  all  ill  things  so  excellently  best, 

That  hate  towards  them  breeds  pity  towards  the  resit 

Though  poetry,  indeed,  be  such  a  sin 

As  I  think  that  brings  dearth  and  Spaniards  in  ; 

Though,  like  the  pestilence  and  old-fashioned  love, 

Ridlingly  it  catch  men,  and  doth  remove 

Never  till  it  be  starved  out ;  yet  their  state 

Is  poor,  disarmed,  lik  2  papists,  not  worth  hate. 


858  SATIRES    OF    DIU   UONNE    VERSiFIED. 

Here  a  lean  bard,  whose  wit  could  never  give 
Himself  a  dinner,  makes  an  actor  live: 
The  thief  condemned,  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. 

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  sisge  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 
I&  he  who  makes  his  meal  on  others'  wit: 
'Tis  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  it  was  before ; 
His  rank  digestion  makes  it  wit  no  more : 
Sense  passed  through  him  no  longer  is  the  same ; 
For  food  digested  takes  another  name. 

I  pass  over  all  those  confessors  and  martyrs 
Who  live  like  S — tt — n,  or  who  die  like  Chartres — 


One  (like  a  wretch,  which  at  bar  judged  as  dead, 
Yet  prompts  him  which  stands  next,  and  cannot  read, 
And  saves  his  life)  pives  idiot  actors  means, 
(Starving  himself)  to  live  by 's  laboured  scenes. 
As  in  some  organs  puppets  dance  above. 
And  bellows  pant  below  which  them  do  move, 
One  would  move  love  by  rhymes;   but  witchcraft's 

charms 
Bring  not  now  their  old  fears  nor  their  old  harms; 
Rams  and  slings  now  are  silly  battery, 
Pistolets  are  the  best  artillery : 
And  they  who  write  to  lords  rewards  to  get, 
Are  they  not  like  singers  at  doors  for  meat? 
And  they  who  write,  because  all  write,  have  still 
That  'sense  for  writing,  and  for  writing  ill. 

But  he  is  worst  who,  beggarly,  doth  chaw 
Others'  wits-fruits,  and  in  his  ravenous  maw 
Rankly  digested,  doth  those  things  opt-spue 
As  his  own  things:  and  they're  his  own,  'tis  true; 
For  if  one  eat  my  meat,  though  it  be  known 
The  meat  was  mine,  the  excrement  's  his  own. 

But  these  do  me  no  harm,  nor  they  which  use, 
to  out-usure  Jews, 


SATIRES    OF    DR.    DONNE    VERSIFIED.  369 

Out-cant  old  Esdras,  or  out-drink  his  heir, 

Out-usure  Jews,  or  Irishmen  out-swear ; 

Wicked  as  pages,  who  in  eai-ly  years 

Act  sins  which  Prisca's  confessor  scarce  hears. 

E'en  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  dwo!!. 

One,  one  man  only  breeds  my  just  offence. 
Whom  crimes  gave  wealth,   and  wealth  gave  impu- 
dence: 
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. 
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  net,  or  lime-twigs,  for  rich  widows'  hearts ; 
Call  himself  barrister  to  every  wench. 
And  woo  in  language  of  the  Pleas  and  Bench  ? 
Language  which  Boreas  might  to  Auster  hold. 
More  rough  than  forty  Germans  when  they  scold. 


To  out-drink  the  sea,  to  out-swear  the  letanie. 
Who  with  sins  all  kinds  as  familiar  be 
As  confessors,  and  for  whose  sinful  sake 
Schoolmen  new  tenements  in  hell  must  make ; 
Whose  strange  sins  canonists  could  hardly  tell 
In  which  commandment's  large  receit  they  dwell. 

But  these  punish  themselves.    The  insolence 
Of  Coscus,  only,  breeds  my  just  offence. 
Whom  time,  (which  rots  all,  and  makes  botches  pox» 
And  plodding  on,  must  make  a  calf  an  ox,) 
Hath  made  a  lawyer,  which,  alas!  of  late, 
But  scarce  a  poet!  jollier  of  this  state 
Than  are  new-beneficed  ministers :  he  throws, 
Like  nets  or  lime-twigs,  whereso'er  he  goes, 
His  title  of  barrister  on  every  wench, 
And  wooes  in  language  of  the  Pleas  and  Bench  *  • 

Words,  words  which  would  tear 

The  tender  labyrinth  of  a  maid's  soft  ear, 
More,  more  than  ten  Sclavonians  scolding,  more 
Than  when  winds  in  cur  ruined  abbeys  roar. 


360  SATlllES    OF    DR.    DONNE    VERSIFIED. 

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  hel])  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  suretyship  that  brought  them  there. 
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  e'en  to  godly  *  * 
Not  more  of  simony  beneath  black  gowns, 
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  Scotts  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. 


Then  sick  with  poetry,  and  possessed  with  muse 
Thou  wast  and  mad,  I  hoped ;  but  men  which  chuse 
Law  practice  for  mere  gain,  bold  soul  repute 
Worse  than  imbrothelled  strumpets  prostitute. 
Now  like  an  owl-like  watchman  he  must  walk, 
His  hand  still  at  a  bill ;  now  he  must  talk 
Idly,  like  pris'ners,  which  whole  months  will  swear 
That  only  suretyship  hath  brought  them  there, 
And  to  every  suitor  lie  in  every  thing, 
Like  a  king's  favourite,  or  like  a  king: 
Like  a  wedge  in  a  block  wring  to  the  barre, 
Bearing  like  aeses,  and  muie  shameless  farre 
Than  carted  whores,  lie  to  the  grave  judge ;  for 
Bastardy  abounds  not  in  kings'  titles,  nor 
Simony  and  sodomy  in  churchmen's  lives, 
As  these  things  do  in  him ;  by  these  he  thrives. 
Shortly  (as  the  sea)  he'll  compass  all  the  land, 
From  Scots  to  Wight,  from  Mount  to  Dover  strand ; 
And  spying  heirs  melting  with  luxury, 
Satan  will  not  joy  at  theu-  sina  as  he : 


BATIRES   OF    DR.    DONNE   VERSIFIED.  861 

Piecemeal  they  win  this  acre  first,  then  that, 

Glean  on,  and  gathev  up  the  whole  estate; 

Then  strongly  fencin;^-  ill-got  wealth  by  law, 

Indentures,  covenants,  articles,  they  draw. 

Large  as  the  fields  themselves,  and  larger  far 

Than  civil  codes,  witli  all  their  glosses,  are: 

So  vast,  our  new  divines,  v.c  must  confess, 

Are  fathers  of  the  church  for  WTiting  less. 

But  let  them  write,  for  you  each  rogue  impairs 

The  deeds,  and  dexterously  omits  ses  heires: 

No  commentator  can  more  slily  pass 

O'er  a  learned  unintelligible  place ; 

Or  in  quotation  shrewd  divines  leave  out 

7'hose  words  that  would  against  them  clear  the  doubt. 

So  Luther  thought  the  Pater-noster  long, 
When  doomed  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, 
No  kitchens  emulate  the  vestal  fire. 


For  (as  a  thrifty  wench  scrapes  kitchen-stuflfe, 

And  barrelling  the  droppings  and  the  snuffe 

Of  wasting  candles,  which  in  thirty  year, 

(Reliquely  kept)  perchance  buys  wedding  cliear) 

Piece-meal  he  gets  lands,  and  spends  as  much  time 

Wringing  each  acre  as  maids  pulling  prime. 

In  parchment  then,  large  as  the  fields,  he  draw« 

Assurances  big  as  gloss'd  civil  laws ; 

So  huge,  that  men  (in  our  time's  forwardness) 

Are  fathers  of  the  church  for  writing  less. 

These  he  writes  not,  nor  for  these  written  payes, 

Therefore  spares  no  length ;  (as  in  those  first  dayes 

When  Luther  was  profess'd,  he  did  desire 

Short  Pater-nosters,  saying  as  a  fryer 

Each  day  his  beads:  but  having  left  those  laws, 

Adds  to  Christ's  prayer  the  power  and  glory  clause;) 

Kut  when  he  sells  or  changes  land,  he  impairs 

The  writings,  and  (unwatch'd)  leaves  out  ses  lieires. 

And  slily,  as  any  commentator,  goes  by 

Hard  words  or  sense ;  or  in  divinity, 

As  controverters  in  vouched  texts  leave  out 

Shrewd  words,  which  might  against  them  clear  the 

doubt. 
Where  are  these  spread  woods  which  clothed  here  tofcie 
Those  bought  lands?  nor  built,  nor  burnt  within  door* 

81 


362  SATIRES    OF    DR.    DONNE    VERSIFIED. 

Where  are  those  troops  of  poor  that  thronged  of  yore 

The  good  old  landlord's  hospitable  door? 

Well,  I  could  wish  that  still,  in  lordly  domes, 

Some  beasts  were  killed,  though  not  whole  hecatombs 

That  both  extremes  were  banished  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, 

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  i 
Let  no  court  sycophant  pervert  my  sense. 
Nor  sly  informer  watch,  these  words  to  draw 
Within  the  reach  of  treason  or  the  law. 


Where  the  old  landlord's  troopes  and  almes?  In  halls 

Carthusian  fasts  and  fulsome  bacchanals 

Equally  I  hate.     Means  blest.     In  rich  men's  homes 

I  bid  kill  some  beasts,  but  no  hecatomb 

None  starve,  none  surfeit  so.     But  (oh !)  we  afiow 

Good  works  as  good,  but  out  of  fashion  now, 

Like  old  rich  wardrobes.     But  words  none  draw* 

Within  the  vast  reach  of  the  huge  statutes-jaws. 


SATIRES   OF    DR.    DONNE   VERSIFIED.  868 


SATIRE  l\ 

Well  ;  if  it  be  my  time  to  quit  the  stage. 
Adieu  to  all  the  follies  of  the  age! 
1  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  fooUsh  pride  my  heart  was  never  fired. 
Nor  the  vain  itch  to  admire  or  be  admired: 
I  hoped  for  no  commission  from  his  grace  ; 
I  bought  no  benefice,  I  begged  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  punished,  as  if  full  as  proud. 
As  prone  to  ill,  as  negligent  of  good. 
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 ! 


SATIRE  IV, 

Well  ;  I  may  now  leoeive  and  die.  ^  My  sin 
Indeed  is  great,  but  yet  I  have  been  in 
A  purgatory,  such  as  feared  hell  is 
A  recreation,  and  scant  map  of  this. 

My  mind  neither  with  pride's  itch,  nor  hath  been 
Poisoned  with  love  to  see  or  to  be  seen. 
I  had  no  suit  there,  nor  new  suit  to  show,  ^ 
Yet  went  to  court:  but  as  Glare,  which  did  go 
To  mass  in  jest,  catched,  was  fain  to  disburse 
Two  hundred  marks,  which  is  the  statute's  curse, 
Before  he  'scaped;  so  it  pleased  my  destmy 
(Guilty  of  my  sin  of  going)  to  think  me 
As  prone  to  all  ill,  and  of  good  as  forget- 
ful, as  proud,  lustful,  and  as  much  in  debt, 
As  vain,  as  witless,  and  as  false  as  they 
Which  dwell  in  court,  for  once  going  that  way. 


r 


804  SATIRES   OF    DR.    DO^?NE   VERSIFIED. 

Scarce  was  I  entered,  when,  behold  !  there  came 
A.  thing  which  Adam  had  been  posed  to  i>ame ; 
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  v/ondrous  shelves  cor.taiii: 
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, 
Tho'  coarse,  was  reverend,  and  tho'  bare,  was  black: 
The  suit,  if  by  the  fashion  one  might  guess, 
"Was  velvet  in  the  youth  of  good  Queen  Bess, 
But  mere  tufFtafFety  what  now  remained ; 
So  time,  that  changes  all  things,  had  ordained! 
Our  sons  shall  see  it  leisurely  decay. 
First  turn  plain  rash,  then  vanish  quite  away. 
This  thing  has  travelled,  speaks  each  language  too, 
And  knows  what's  fit  for  every  state  to  do; 
Of  whose  best  phrase  and  courtly  accent  joined 
He  forms  one  tongue,  exotic  and  refined. 

Therefore  I  suffered  this.     Towards  me  did  run 
A  thing  more  strange  than  on  Nile's  slime  the  sun 
E'er  bred,  or  all  which  into  Noah's  ark  came ; 
A  thing  which  would  have  posed  Adam  to  name : 
Stranger  than  seven  antiquaries'  studies, 
Than  Africk  monsters,  Guianaes  rarities ; 
Stranger  than  strangers ;  one  who,  for  a  Dane, 
In  the  Danes'  massacre  had  sure  been  slain. 
If  he  had  lived  then,  and  without  help  dies 
When  next  the  'prentices  'gainst  strangers  rise  : 
One  whom  the  watch  at  noon  lets  scarce  go  by; 
One  to  whom  the  examining  justice  sure  would  cry. 
Sir,  by  your  priesthood,  tell  me  what  you  are  ? 
His  cloaths  were  strange,  though  coarse,  and  black, 

though  bare ; 
Sleeveless  hi?  jerkin  was,  and  it  had  been 
Velvet,  but  'twas  now  (so  much  ground  was  seen) 
Become  tuflftaffety;  and  our  children  shall 
See  it  plain  rash  a  while,  then  nought  at  all. 
The  thing  hath  travail'd,  and,  faith,  speaks  all  tongues, 
And  only  knoweth  what  to  all  states  belongs; 
Made  of  the  accent  and  best  phrase  of  all  these, 
He  speaks  one  language.     If  strange  meats  displease, 


SATIRES    OF    DR      S'../*NE    VERSIFIED  363 

Talkers  I've  learned  to  bear;  Morteux  I  knew, 
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  whore j, 
With  royal  favourites  in  flattery  vie, 
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? '—'  O,  Sir,  the  dictionary.' 

'  You  miss  my  aim  ;  I  mean  the  most  acute,     ^ 
And  perfect  speaker.'—*  Onslow,  past  dispute. 
'  But,  Sir,  of  writers?'— *  Swift  for  closer  style, 
But  Hoadly  for  a  period  of  a  mile.' 

*  Why,  yes,  'tis  granted,  these  indeed  may  pass; 
Good  common  linguists,  and  so  Panurge  was ; 


Art  can  deceive  or  hunger  force  my  taste  ; 
But  pedants'  motley  tongue,  soldiers'  bombast. 
Mountebanks'  drug-tongue,  nor  the  terms  of  law. 
Are  strong  enough  preparatives  to  draw 
Me  to  hear  this  ;  yet  I  must  be  content 
With  his  tongue,  in  his  tongue  called  complement; 
In  which  he  can  win  widows,  and  pay  scores. 
Make  men  speak  treason,  cozen  subtlest  whores. 
Out-flatter  favourites,  or  outlie  either 
Jovius  or  Surius,  or  both  together.  </-.!• 

He  names  me,  and  comes  to  me  :  I  whisper,    God  I 
How  have  I  sinned,  that  thy  wrath's  furious  rod. 
This  fellow  chooseth  me  ? '  He  saith,  '  Sir, 
I  love  your  judgment;  whom  do  you  prefer 
For  the  best  linguist?'  and  I  seehly 
Said,  that  I  thought  Calepine's  Dictionary. 
'  Nay,  but  of  men?  most  sweet  Sir  ! '  Beza,  then. 
Some  Jesuits,  and  two  reverend  men 
Of  our  two  academies,  I  named.     Here 
He  stopp'd  me,  and  said  :  '  Nay,  your  apostles  were 
Good  pretty  Unguists ;  so  Panurgus  was. 
Yet  a  poor  gentleman  ;  all  these  may  pass 
31* 


366       SATIRES  OF  on.  DONNE  VERSIFIED. 

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, 
He  came  hy  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  ? 
Sph-its  like  you  should  see  and  should  be  seen ; 
The  king  would  smile  on  you — at  least  the  queen,* 

*  Ah,  gentle  Sir!  your  courtiers  so  cajole  us — 
But  TuUy  has  it,  Nunquam  minus  solus  : 
And  as  for  courts,  forgive  me  if  I  say. 

No  lessons  now  are  taught  the  Spartan  way. 
Though  in  his  pictures  lust  be  full  displayed, 
Few  are  the  converts  Aretine  has  made  ; 
And  though  the  court  show  vice  exceeding  clear, 
None  should,  by  my  advice,  leaini  virtue  there.' 
At  this  entranced,  he  lifts  his  hands  and  eyes. 
Squeaks  like  a  high-stretched  lutestring,  and  replies  : 

*  Oh,  'tis  the  sweetest  of  all  earthly  things 
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. 


By  travail.'     Then,  as  if  he  would  have  sold 

His  tongue  he  praised  it,  and  such  wonders  told. 

That  I  was  fain  to  say,  *  If  you  had  lived.  Sir, 

Time  enough  to  have  been  interpreter 

To  Babel's  bricklayers,  sure  the  tower  had  stood.' 

He  adds,  '  If  of  court-life  you  knew  the  good, 

You  would  leave  loneness.'     I  said,  '  Not  alone 

My  loneness  is  ;  but  Spartanes  fashion ; 

To  teach  by  painting  drunkards,  doth  not  last 

Now  ;  Aretine's  pictures  have  made  few  chaste ; 

No  more  can  princes'  courts,  though  there  be  ft-w 

Better  pictures  of  vice,  teach  me  virtue.' 

He,  like  to  a  high-stretched  lutestring  squeaks,  *  0,  Sis 

'Tis  sweet  to  talk  of  kings.'     '  At  Westminster,' 

Said  I,  'the  man  that  keeps  the  abbey  tombs, 

And  for  his  price  doth,  with  whoever  comes. 

Of  all  our  Harrys  and  our  Edwards  talk, 

From  king  to  king  and  all  their  kin,  can  walk : 


s.^Tu.cs  OF  r>:w   noN>r,  veusifjed.  J^G? 

And  yet,  by  speaking  truth  of  nionarchs  cleaiH, 
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 
I  have  but  one,  I  hope  the  fellow's  clean.' 
*  Oh  !  Sir,  politely  so  I  nay,  let  me  die, 
Yom'  only  wearing  is  your  paduasoy.' 
'  Not,  Sir,  my  only;  I  have  better  still, 
And  this  you  see  is  but  my  deshabille — ' 
Wild  to  get  loose,  his  patience  I  provoke, 
Mistake,  confound,  object  at  all  he  spoke : 
But  as  coarse  iron,  sharpened,  mangles  more, 
And  itch  most  hurts  when  angered  to  a  sore ; 
So  when  you  plague  a  fool,  'tis  still  the  curse. 
You  only  make  the  matter  worse  and  worse. 

He  passed  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  has  a  still,  with  simples  in  it, 
Between  each  drop  it  gives,  stays  half  a  minute ; 
Loath  to  enrich  me  with  too  quick  replies, 
By  little  and  by  little  drops  his  lies. 
Mere  household  trash !  of  birthnights,  balls,  and  shows 
More  than  ten  Holinsheds,  or  Halls,  or  Stows. 


Tour  ears  shall  hear  nought  but  kings;  your  eyes  meet 

Kings  only,  the  way  to  it  is  King-street.' 

He  smacked  and  cried, '  He's  base,  mechanique  coarse, 

So  are  all  your  Englishmen  in  their  discourse. 

Are  not  your  Frenchmen  neat?  '  *  Mine,  as  you  sec, 

I  have  but  one.  Sir;  look,  he  follows  me.' 

*  Certes,  they  're  neatly  cloathed,     I  of  this  mind  am, 

Your  only  wearing  is  your  grogaram.' 

'Not  so,  Sir;  I  have  more.'     Under  this  pitch 

He  would  not  fly.     I  chaffed  him ;  but  as  itch 

Scratched  into  smart,  and  as  blunt  iron  ground 

Into  an  edge  hurts  worse  ;  so  I  (fool!)  found 

Crossing  hurt  me.     To  fit  my  sullenness. 

He  to  another  key  his  style  doth  dress, 

And  asks,  *  What  news? '  I  tell  him  of  new  playes.' 

He  takes  my  hand,  and  as  a  still,  v.liich  stayes 

A  sembrief  'twixt  each  drop,  he  niggardly, 

As  loatli  to  enric'r.  me,  so  tells  many  a  \y. 

More  than  ten  Holinsheds,  or  Halls,  or  Stows, 

Of  trivial  household  trash  he  knows.     He  knows 


868  satihes  of  dji.  dotjxc  vcnsiriEu. 

When  the  queen  frowned  or  smiled  he  knows,  and  what 

A  subtle  minister  may  make  of  that: 

Who  sins,  with  whom ;  who  got  his  pension  rug, 

Or  quickened  a  reversion  by  a  drug ; 

Whose  place  is  quartered  out  three  parts  in  four. 

And  whether  to  a  bishop  or  a  whore : 

Who  having  lost  his  credit,  pawned  his  rent, 

Is  therefoi-e  fit  to  have  a  government: 

Who  in  the  secret  deals  in  stocks  secure. 

And  clieats  the  unknowing  widow  and  the  poort 

Who  makes  a  trust  of  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 : 

At  last  (which  proves  him  wiser  still  than  all) 

What  lady's  face  is  not  a  whited  wall. 

As  one  of  Woodward's  patients,  sick  and  t^ore, 
I  puke,  I  nauseate — yet  he  thrusts  in  more  ; 
Trims  Europe's  balance,  tops  the  statesman's  ]x'\n. 
And  talks  gazettes  and  postboys  o'er  by  iu<irL. 
Like  a  big  wife,  at  sight  of  loathsome  meat, 
Ready  to  cast,  I  yawn,  I  sigh,  1  rfY»'eat; 


When  the  queen  frowned  or  smiled ;  and  he  knows  what 

A  subtle  stateman  may  gather  of  that; 

He  knows  who  loves  whom,  and  who  by  poison 

Hastes  to  an  officer's  reversion : 

Who  wastes  in  meat,  in  cloaths,  in  horse  he  n-.tes; 

Who  loves  whores 

He  knows  who  hath  sold  his  land,  and  now  doth  beg 

A  licence,  old  iron,  boots,  shoes,  and  egge- 

Shells  to  transport.     Shortly  boys  shall  not  play 

At  span-counter,  or  blow  point,  but  shall  pay 

Toll  to  some  courtier;  and,  wiser  than  all  us. 

He  knows  what  lady  is  not  painted.     Thus 

He  with  home  meats  cloyes  me.     1  belch,  spue,  spit. 

Look  pale  and  sickly  like  a  patient,  yet 

He  thrusts  on  more  ;  and  as  he  had  undertook 

To  say  Gallo-Belgicus  v/ithout  book, 

Speaks  of  all  states  and  deeds  that  have  been  since 

The  Spaniards  came  to  the  loss  of  Amyens. 

Like  a  big  wife,  at  sight  of  loathed  meat, 

tleady  to  travail,  so  1  sigh  and  sweat 


L 


SATIRES    OF    DK.    DONNE    VERSIFIED,  3G9 

Then  as  a  licensed  spy,  whom  nothing  can 
Silence  or  hurt,  he  libels  every  man ; 
Swears  every  place  entailed  for  years  to  come 
In  sm-e  succession  to  the  day  of  doom : 
He  names  the  pi'ice  for  every  office  paid, 
And  says  our  wars  thrive  ill  because  delayed: 
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  headlong  into  beasts, 
Than  mine,  to  find  a  subject,  stayed  and  wise, 
Already  half-turned  traitor  by  surprise. 
I  felt  the  infection  slide  from  him  to  me, 
As  in  the  pox  some  give  it  to  get  free ; 
And  quick  to  swallow  me  methought  I  saw 
One  of  our  giant  statutes  ope  its  jaw. 


To  hear  this  makaron  talk  in  vain  ;  for  yet. 

Either  my  humour  or  his  own  to  fit, 

he,  like  a  privileged  spy,  whom  nothing  can 

Discredit,  libels  now  'gainst  each  great  man. 

He  names  a  price  of  every  office  paid: 

He  saith,  our  wars  thrive  ill,  because  delaid ; 

That  offices  are  entail'd,  and  that  there  are 

Perpetuities  of  them  lasting  as  far 

As  the  last  day,  and  that  great  officers 

Do  with  the  Spaniards  share  and  Dunkirkers. 

I,  more  amazed  than  Circe's  prisoners,  when 
They  felt  themselves  turn  beasts,  felt  myself  then 
Becoming  traytor,  and  methought  I  saw 
One  of  our  giant  statutes  ope  its  jaw 
To  suck  me  in  for  hearing  him :  I  found, 
That  as  burnt  venomous  leachers  do  grow  sound 
By  giving  others  their  sores,  I  might  grow 
Guilty,  and  he  free  :  therefore  I  did  show 
All  signs  of  loathing ;  but  since  I  am  in, 
I  must  pay  mine  and  my  forefathers'  sin 
To  the  last  farthing  :  therefore  to  my  power 
Toughly  and  stubbornly  I  bear  this  cross :  but  the  liower 
Of  mercy  now  was  come:  he  tries  to  bring 
Me  to  pay  a  fine  to  'scape  a  torturing. 
And  says,  'Sir,  canyon  spare  me?' — 1  said,  *  Willingly.' 
*Nay,  Sir,  can  you  spare  me  a  crown?'     Thankfuiiy  I 
Gave  it  as  ransom.     But  as  fiddlers  still, 
Though  they  be  paid  to  be  gone,  yet  needs  will 
Thrust  one  more  jigg  upon  you  ;  so  did  he 
With  his  long  compliincntal  thanks  vex  me 


370  SATIRES   OF    DR.    DONNE   VErtSIFIKt»* 

In  that  nice  moment  as  another  lie 
Stood  just  a-tilt,  the  minister  came  by. 
To  him  he  liies,  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. 
T  quaked  at  heart;  and,  still  afraid  to  see 
All  the  court  filled  with  stranger  things  than  he, 
Ran  out  as  fast  as  one  that  pays  his  bail, 
And  dreads  more  actions,  hurries  from  a  gaol. 

Bear  me,  some  gc  I !  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  coloured  it,  and  formed  a  dream. 
A  vision  hermits  can  to  hell  transport, 
And  forced  e'en  me  to  see  the  damned  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, 
For  huffing,  braggart,  puft  nobility  ? 
Thou  who,  since  yesterday,  hast  rolled  o'er  aU 
The  busy  idle  blockheads  of  the  ball, 


But  he  is  gone,  thanks  to  his  needy  want, 

And  the  prerogative  of  my  crown.     Scant 

His  thanks  were  ended,  when  I  (which  did  see 

All  the  court  filled  with  more  strange  things  tha^i  he) 

Ran  from  thence  with  such  or  more  haste  than  o>ie 

Who  fears  more  actions  doth  haste  from  prison. 

At  home  in  wholesale  solitariness 
My  piteous  soul  began  the  wretchedness 
Of  suitors  at  court  to  mourn,  and  a  trance 
Like  his,  who  dreamt  he  saw  hell,  did  advance 
Itself  o'er  me  :  such  men  as  he  saw  there 
I  saw  at  court,  and  worse,  and  more.     Low  f^M.r 
Becomes  the  guilty,  not  the  accuser;  then 
Shall  I,  nono's  slave,  of  high-born  or  rais'vl  nr.'U 
Fear  frowns,  and,  my  mistress,  Truth  !  betray  thee 
For  the  huffing,  bragart,  puft  nobility? 
No,  no  ;  thou  which  since  yesterday  hast  been 
Almost  about  the  whole  world,  hast  thou  seen. 


SATIRES    OF    DR.    DONNE    VERSIFIED.  371 

Hast  thou,  oh  sim !  beheld  an  emptier  sort 
Than  such  as  swell  this  bladder  of  a  court? 
Now  pox  on  those  that  show  a  court  in  wax ! 
It  ou<5ht  to  bring  all  courtiers  on  their  backs; 
Such  painted  puppets !  such  a  varnished  race 
Of  hollow  gewgaws,  only  dress  and  face ! 
Such  waxen  noses,  stately  staring  things- 
No  wonder  some  folks  bow,  and  think  them  kings. 

See !  where  the  British  youth,  engaged  no  more 
At  Fig's,  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  khig !'  the  flatterer  swears ;  ^ 
'Tis  true,  for  ten  days  hence  'twill  be  King  Lear's. 
Our  court  may  justly  to  our  stage  give  rules, 
Th?*t  helps  it  both  to  fools'-coats  and  to  fools. 
And  why  not  players  strut  in  courtiers'  cloihes? 
For  these  are  actors  too  as  well  as  those. 
Wants  reach  all  states;  they  beg  but  better  drcss'd, 
And  all  is  splendid  poverty  at  best. 

I'ainted  for  sight,  and  essenced  for  the  sincil. 
Like  frigates  fraught  with  spice  and  cochineal, 
Sail  in  the  ladies :  how  each  pirate  eyes 
So  weak  a  vessel  and  so  rich  a  prize ! 

O  Sun!  in  all  thy  journey,  vanity. 

Such  as  swells  the  bladder  of  our  court?     I 

Tnink  he  which  made  your  waxen  garden,  and 

Transported  it  from  Italy,  to  stand  ^ 

V/ith  us  at  London,  flouts  our  courtiers ;  for 

Just  such  gay  painted  things,  which  no  sap  nor 

Taste  have  in  them,  ours  are  ;  and  natural 

Some  of  the  stocks  are,  their  fruits  bastard  all. 

''Tis  ten  a  clock,  and  past:  all  whom  the  umcs, 

Baloun,  or  tennis,  diet,  or  the  stews 

Had  all  the  morning  held,  now  the  second 

Time  made  ready,  that  day  in  stocks  are  found 

In  the  presence,  and  I  (God  pardon  me !) 

As  fresh  and  sweet  their  apparels  be,  as  be 

Their  fields  they  sold  to  buy  them.     For  a  king 

Those  hoes  are,  cries  the  flatterer;  and  bring 

Them  next  week  to  the  tlieatre  to  sell, 

Wants  reach  all  states.     Me  seems  they  do  as  weJl 

At  stage,  as  courts:  all  are  players.     Whoe'er  looks 

(For  t"hemselves  dare  not  go)  o'er  Cheapside  books, 

Shall    Jid  their  wardrobes  inventory.     Now 

The  ladies  come.     As  pirates,  (which  do  know 


J 


372 


SATIRES    OF    DR 


"••NE   VERSIFIED, 


Top-gallant  he  and  she  in  all  her  trim, 

He  boarding  her,  she  striking  sail  to  him. 

*  Dear  countess !  you  have  charms  all  hearts  to  hit  1 

And,  '  Sweet  Sir  FopKng!  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  e'en  Heraclitus  with  the  spleen 

To  see  those  antics,  Foplin  and  Courtin : 

The  presence  seeris,  ^vitli  things  so  riciily  odd, 

The  mosque  of  Mahound,  or  some  queer  pagod. 

See  them  survey  their  limbs  by  Durer's  rules, 

Of  all  beau  kind  the  best-proportioned  fools  J 

Adjust  their  clothes,  and  to  confession  draw 

These  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  liead  ; 

Thus  finished,  and  corrected  to  a  hair, 

They  march,  to  prate  their  hour  before  the  fair. 

So  first  to  preach  a  white-gloved  chaplain  goes, 

With  band  of  lily,  and  with  cheek  of  rose, 

Sweeter  than  Sharon,  in  immaculate  trim, 

Neatness  itself  impertinent  in  him. 


That  there  came  weak  ships  fraught  with  cutchanel) 

The  men  board  them,  and  praise  (as  they  tliink)  well, 

Their  beauties ;  they  the  mens  wits  :  both  are  bought. 

Why  good  wits  ne'er  wear  scarlet  gowns  I  thought 

This  cause,  these  men,  mens  wits  for  speeches  buy, 

And  women  buy  all  red  which  scarlets  dye. 

He  call'd  her  beauty  lime-twigs,  her  hair  net: 

She  fears  her  drugs  ill  laid,  her  hair  loose  set. 

Wouldn't  Heraclitus  laugh  to  see  Macrine 

From  hat  to  shoe,  himself  at  door  refine, 

As  if  the  presence  were  a  mosque;  and  lift 

His  skirts  and  hose,  and  call  his  clothes  to  shrift, 

Making  them  confess  not  only  mortal 

Great  stains  and  holes  in  tnem,  but  venial 

Feathers  and  dust,  wherewith  they  fornicate? 

And  then  by  Durer's  rules  survey  the  state 

O*  his  eacn  iimb,  and  with  strings  the  odds  tries 

Of  his  neck  to  his  leg,  and  waist  to  thighs. 

So  in  immaculate  clothes  and  symmetry 

Perfect  as  circles,  with  such  nicety 

As  a  young  preacher  at  his  first  time  goes 

To  preach,  he  enters,  and  a  lady,  which 


SATIUF.S    OF    rni.    DONNE    VERSIFIED.  373 

Let  but  the  ladies  smile,  and  they  are  bless'd: 
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, 
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  j 
And  with  a  face  as  red,  and  as  awry, 
As  Herod's  hang-dogs  in  old  tapestry, 
Scarecrows  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. 

Frighted,  I  quit  the  room,  but  leave  it  so 
As  men  from  gaols  to  execution  go ; 
For  hung  with  deadly  sins  I  see  the  wall, 
And  lined  with  giants  deadlier  than  them  alls 
Each  man  an  Askapart,  of  strength  to  toss 
For  quoits,  both  Temple-bar  and  Charing-cross. 


Him  not  so  much  as  good-will,  he  arrests. 

And  unto  her,  protests,  protests,  protests; 

So  much  as  at  Rome  would  serve  to  have  thrown 

Ten  cardinals  into  the  Inquisition, 

And  whispers  by  Jesu  so  oft,  that  a 

Persuevant  would  have  ravished  him  away 

For  saying  of  Our  Lady's  Psalter.     But  'tis  fit 

That  they  each  other  plague ;  they  merit  it. 

But  here  comes  glorious,  that  will  plague  'em  both| 

Who  in  the  other  extreme  only  doth 

Call  a  rough  carelessness  good  fashion ; 

Whose  cloak  his  spurs  tear,  or  whom  he  spits  on. 

He  cares  not,  he.     His  ill  words  do  not  harm 

To  him ;  he  rushes  in,  as  if  Arm,  arm  I 

He  meant  to  cry  ;  and  though  his  face  be  as  ill 

As  theirs  which  in  old  hangings  whip  Christ,  still 

He  strives  to  look  Avorse  :  he  keeps  all  in  awe ; 

Jests  like  a  licensed  fool,  commands  like  law. 

Tired,  now,  I  leave  this  place,  and  but  pleased  80 
As  men  from  gaols  to  execution  go ; 
Go,  through  the  great  chamber,  (why  is  it  hung 
With  the  seven  deadly  sins?)  being  among 
Those  Askaparts,  men  big  enough  to  throw 
Charing-cross  for  a  bar,  men  that  do  know 
33 


374  sATinf:s  or  tr.  donne  versified. 

Scared  at  the  grish'^  forms,  I  sweat,  I  fly, 
And  shake  all  o'er,  like  a  discovered  spy. 

Courts  are  too  much  for  wits  so  weak  as  mine : 
Charge  them  with  Heaven's  artillery,  bold  divine  \ 
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  drop  a  court  in  tears. 
Howe'er,  what's  now  Apocrypha,  my  wit, 
In  time  to  come,  may  pass  for  holy  writ. 


No  token  of  worth  but  queen's  man  and  fine 
Living ;  barrels  of  beef  and  flagons  of  wine. 
I  shook  like  a  spied  spie.     Preachers !  which  are 
Seas  of  wit  and  art,  you  can,  then  dare 
Drown  the  sins  of  this  place ;  but  as  for  me, 
Which  am  but  a  scant  brook,  enough  shall  be 
To  wash  the  stains  away.     Although  I  yet 
(With  Maccabees'  modesty)  the  known  merit 
Of  my  work  lessen,  yet  some  wise  man  shali, 
I  hope,  esteem  my  writs  Canonical. 


375 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  SATIRES. 

IN  TWO  DIALOGUES. 
fWRlTTEN   IN   THE   YEAR   1738. 


DIALOGUE  I. 

Fr.  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  called  him  Whig,  and  Whigs  a  Tory;' 
And  taught  his  Romans,  in  much  better  metre, 
'To  laugh  at  fools  who  put  their  trust  in  Peter.' 

But  Horace,  Sir,  was  delicate,  was  nice  ; 
Bubo  observes  he  lashed  no  sort  of  vice: 
Horace  would  say.  Sir  Billy  served  the  crown. 
Blunt  could  do  business,  Higgins  knew  the  town ; 
In  Sappho  touch  the  failing*  of  the  sex, 
In  reverend  bishops  note  some  small  neglects, 
And  own  the  Spaniard  did  a  waggish  tl.ing, 
Who  cropped  our  ears,  and  sent  them  to  the  king 
His  sly,  polite,  insinuating  style 
Could  please  at  court,  and  make  Augustus  smile : 
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 ; 
Patiiots  there  are  who  wish  you'd  jest  no  more— 
And  Where's  the  glory?  'twill  be  only  thought 
The  great  man  never  offered  you  a  groat. 
Go,  see  Sir  Robert — 


876  EPILOGUE    TO    THE    SATIRES:* 

P.  See  Sir  Robert!  huin— 
And  never  laugh — for  all  my  life  to  come? 
See  him  I  have  ;  but  in  his  happier  hour 
Of  social  pleasure,  ill-exchanged  for  power ; 
Seen  him,  uncumbered  with  a  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 — 1  dare  laugh  out. 

F.  Why,  yes :  with  scripture  still  you  may  be  free , 
A  horse-laugh,  if  you  please,  at  honesty, 
A  joke  on  Jekyll,  or  some  odd  old  Whig, 
Who  never  changed  his  principle  or  wig. 
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  !  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. 
Sejanus,  Wolsey,  hurt  not  honest  Fleury, 
But  well  may  put  some  statesman  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. 
Judicious  wits  spread  wide  the  ridicule, 
And  charitably  comfort  knave  and  fool. 

P.  Dear  Sir,  forgive  the  prejudice  of  youth : 
Adieu  distinction,  satire,  warmth,  and  truth ! 
Come,  harmless  characters  that  no  one  hit; 
Come,  Henley's  oratory,  Osborne's  wit! 
The  honey  dropping  from  Favonia's  tongue. 
The  flowers  of  Bubo,  and  the  flow  of  Young ! 
The  gracious  dew  of  pulpit  eloquence. 
And  all  the  well-whipped  cream  of  courtly  sense; 
The  first  was  H — vy's,  F — 's  next,  and  then 
The  S — te's,  and  then  H — vy's  once  again. 
O  come  !  that  easy  Ciceronian  style, 
So  Latin,  yet  so  English  all  tlie  while. 
As,  though  the  pride  of  Middleton  and  Bland, 
All  boys  may  road  aiid  girls  may  understand  I 


EPILOGUE    TO    THE    SATIRES.  C77 

Tlien  might  I  sing  without  the  least  offence, 
And  all  I  sung  should  be  the  nation's  sense ; 
Or  teach  the  melancholy  muse  to  mourn, 
Hang  the  sad  verse  on  Carolina's  urn, 
And  hail  her  passage  to  the  realms  of  rest. 
All  parts  performed,  and  all  her  children  bless'd, 
So — satire  is  no  more — I  feel  it  die- 
No  gazetteer  more  innocent  than  I, 
And  let,  a  God's  name !  ev'ry  fool  and  knave 
Be  graced  through  life,  and  flattered  in  his  grave. 

F.  Why  so?  if  satire  knows  its  time  and  place, 
You  still  may  lash  the  greatest — in  disgrace  j 
For  merit  will  by  turns  forsake  them  all ; 
Would  you  know  when  ?  exactly  when  they  fall. 
But  let  all  satire  in  all  changes  spare 
Immortal  S — k,  and  grave  De — re. 
Silent  and  soft,  as  saints  remove  to  heaven, 
All  ties  dissolved,  and  ev'ry  sin  forgiven, 
These  may  some  gentle  ministerial  wing 
Receive,  and  place  for  ever  near  a  king ! 
There,  where  no  passion,  pride  or  shame,  transport, 
Lulled  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 ; 
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. 

P.  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? 
And  at  a  peer  or  peeress  shall  I  fret, 
Who  starves  a  sister,  or  forswears  a  debt ! 
Virtue,  I  grant  you,  is  an  empty  boast  j 
But  shall  the  dignity  of  vice  be  lost? 
Ye  Gods !  shall  Cibber's  son,  withoxit  rebuke, 
Swear  like  a  lord,  or  Rich  outwhore  a  duke  ? 
A  favourite  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? 
Is  it  for  Bond  or  Peter  (paltry  things) 
To  pay  their  debts,  or  keep  their  faith  like  kii'.gs? 
If  Blount  dispatched  hhnself,  he  played  the  man, 
And  so  mayst  thou,  illustrious  Passeran  ! 
But  shall  a  printer,  weary  of  his  life, 
Learn,  from  their  books,  to  hang  himself  and  wife  ? 
32* 


378  EPiLC  GUE    TO    THE    SATIRES. 

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. 

Let  modest  Foster,  if  he  will,  excel 
Ten  metropolitans  in  preaching  well ; 
A  simple  Quaker,  or  a  Quaker's  wife. 
Outdo  Landaffe  in  doctrine — yea,  in  life: 
Let  humble  Allen,  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. 
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, 
Lo  !  at  the  wheels  of  her  triumphal  car 
Old  England's  Genius,  rough  with  many  a  scar, 
Dragged  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  hei  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. 
In  soldier,  churchman,  patriot,  man  in  power, 
'Tis  av'rice  all,  ambition  is  no  more. 
See  all  our  nobles  begging  to  be  slaves  I 
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  : 
AVhile  truth,  worth,  wisdom,  daily  they  decry— 
*  Nothing  is  sacred  now  but  viliany.' 

\  et  may  this  verse  (if  such  a  verse  remain, 
Show  there  was  one  wbo  held  it  m  disdain 


EFir-OGUE    TO    THE    SATIUES.  919 


DIALOGUE  II. 


Fr.  'Tis  all  a  libel-Paxton,  sir,  will  say 

P.  Not  yet,  my  friend !  to-morrow,  laith  it  may, 
And  for  that  very  cause  I  print  to-day. 
How  should  I  fret  to  mangle  every  hne 
In  reverence  to  the  sins  of  thirty-nme  I 
Vice  with  such  giant  strides  comes  on  amain, 
Invention  strives  to  be  before  m  vam  ; 
Feign  what  I  will,  and  paint  it  e  er  so  strong, 
Some  rising  genius  sins  up  to  my  song. 

F    Yet  none  but  you  by  name  the  guilty  lash, 
E'en  Guthry  saves  half  Newgate  by  a  dash. 
Spare  then  the  person,  and  expose  the  vice. 

P    How,  sir !  not  damn  the  sharpei%  but  the  dice 
Come  on  then,  satire  !  general,  unconhned 
Spread  thy  broad  wmg,  and  souse  on  a    the  Una. 
Ye  statesmen,  priests,  of  one  rehgion  all! 
Yp  tradesmen,  vile  in  army,  court,  or  hall. 
Ye  reverend  atheists.     F.  Scandal !  name  them ;  who? 

P    Why  that's  the  thing  you  bid  me  not  to  do. 
Who  starved  a  sister,  who  forswore  a  debt, 
1  never  named;  the  town 'sinquirmg  yet.  „ 

The  poisoning  dame-F.  You  mean-P.   I  dont-fc. 


You  do. 


1  ou  uo.  ,       ,       ,  , 

P.  See  now  I  keep  the  secret,  and  not  you ! 
The  bribino-  statesman-F.  Hold,  too  high  you  go  ! 

P    The  bribed  elector-F.  There  you  stoop  too  low. 

P    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  kmght  requnes. 
As  beasts  of  nature  may  we  hunt  the  squires  { 
Suppose  I  censure— you  know  what  1  mean- 
To  save  a  bishop  may  I  name  a  dean  ( 

F.  A  dean,  siV?  no:  his  fortune  is  not  made; 
You  hurt  a  man  that's  rising  in  the  trade. 

P    If  not  the  tradesman,  who  set  up  to-day , 
Much  less  the  'prentice,  who  to-morrow  niay. 
Dow  ,  down,  proud  satire!  though  a  realm  be  spoil  d, 
Arrlign  no  mightier  thief  than  wretched  Wild; 
Or,  if  a  court  or  country  's  made  a  joo, 
Go  drench  a  pickpocket,  and  join  the  mob. 


S8G  EriLOGUE    TO   THE    SATIRES. 

But,  sir,  I  beg  you  (for  the  love  of  vice!) 
The  matter  's  vi^eighty,  pray  consider  twice: 
Have  yon  less  pity  for  the  ueed}^  cheat, 
The  poor  and  friendless  villain,  than  the  great? 
Alas !  the  small  descredit  of  a  bribe 
Scarce  hurts  the  lavi'yer,  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 
May  pinch  e'en  there — Why  lay  it  on  a  knig. 

F.  Stop!  stop! 

P.  Must  satire  then  nor  rise  nor  fall  ? 
Speak  out,  and  bid  me  blame  no  rogues  at  all. 

F.  Yes,  strike  that  Wild,  I'll  justify  the  blow. 

P.  Strike?  why,  the  man  was  hanged  ten  years  ago; 
Who  now  that  obsolete  example  fears? 
E'en  Peter  trembles  only  for  his  ears. 

F.  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 — 

P.  As  S — k,  if  he  lives,  will  love  the  prince. 

F.  Strange  spleen  to  S — k  ! 

P.  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,  need  I  Scarb'row  name? 
Pleased  let  me  own,  in  Esher's  peaceful  grove, 
(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 ! 

E'en  in  a  bishop  I  can  spy  desert ; 
Seeker  is  decent,  Rundel  has  a  heart ; 
Manners  with  candour  are  to  Benson  given. 
To  Berkley  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  calm  sense  and  Stanhope's  noble  flame 
Compared,  and  knew  their  generous  end  the  aameJ 
How  pleasing  Atterbury's  softer  hour! 
How  shined  the  soul,  unconquered,  in  the  tower! 
How  can  I  Pulteney,  Chesterfield,  forget. 
While  Roman  spirit  charms,  and  Attic  wit? 
Argyle,  the  state's  whole  thunder  born  to  wield, 
And  shake  alike  the  senate  and  the  field? 
Or  Wyndham,  just  to  freedom  and  the  throne, 
The  master  of  our  passions  and  his  own? 


m^^ammeff 


EPILOGUE    TO    THE    SATIHfiS.  3Sl 

Names  which  I  long  have  loved,  nor  loved  in  vain, 
Ranked  with  tiaeir  ftiends,  nor  numbered  with  their 

train ; 
And  if  yet  higher  the  proud  list  should  end, 
Still  let  me  say,  no  follower,  but  a  friend. 

Yet  think  nor  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  1  declare. 
Dined  with  the  Man  of  Ross  or  my  lord  mayor. 
Some  in  their  choice  of  friends — nay,  look  not  grave, 
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. 

F.  Then  why  so  few  commended? 

P.  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,  for  him  she  weds  again. 
Praise  cannot  stoop,  like  satire,  to  the  ground ; 
The  number  may  be  hanged,  but  not  be  crowned. 
Enough  for  half  the  greatest  of  these  days 
To  escape  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  wished,  but  wished  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 ; 

0  let  my  country's  friends  illumine  mine ! 

—What  are  you  thinking?    F.  Faith,  the  thought 's  no 

1  think  your  friends  are  out,  and  would  be  in.        [sin ; 
P.  If  merely  to  come  in,  sir,  they  go  out. 

The  way  they  take  is  strangely  round  about. 

F.  They  too  may  be  corrupted,  you'll  allow? 

P.  I  only  call  those  knaves  who  are  so  now. 
Is  that  too  little?  come,  then,  I'll  comply — 
Spirit  of  Arnall !  aid  me  while  I  lie. 
Cobham  's  a  coward,  Pohvarth  is  a  slave, 
And  Lyttleton  a  dark  designing  knave ; 
St.  John  has  ever  been  a  wealthy  fool — 
But  let  me  add.  Sir  Robert's  mighty  dul\ 
Has  never  made  a  friend  in  private  life. 
And  was,  besides,  a  tyrant  to  his  wife. 

But  pray,  when  others  praise  him  do  I  blamot 
Call  Verres,  Wolsey,  any  odious  name  ? 


382  EPILOG  LE    TO    THE    SATIRES. 

Why  rail  they  then  if  but  a  -wreath  of  mine, 
Oh,  all-accomplished  St.  John  !  deck  thy  shrine  I 

What !  shall  each  spur-galled  hackney  of  the  dayj 
When  Paxton  gives  him  double  pots  and  pay, 
Or  each  new-pensioned  sycophant  pretend 
To  break  my  windows  if  I  treat  a  friend, 
'J'hen  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  hatchets  lead. 

It  ang'red  Turenne,  once  upon  a  day, 
To  see  a  footman  kicked  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  turned  it  to  a  jest, 
And  begged  he'd  take  the  pains  to  kick  the  rest; 
Wiiich  not  at  present  having  time  to  do — 

F.  Hold,  sir  !  for  God's  sake ;  where 's  the  aiFront  to 
you? 
Against  your  worship  when  had  S — k  writ? 
Or  P — ge  poured  forth  the  torrent  of  his  wit? 
Or  grant  the  bard  whose  distich  all  commend 
[In  power  a  servant,  out  of  power  a  friend] 
To  W — le  guilty  of  some  venial  sin, 
What's  that  to  you,  who  ne'er  was  out  nor  in 

The  priest  whose  flattery  bedropped  the  crown, 
How  hurt  he  you?  he  only  stained  the  gown. 
And  how  did,  pray,  the  florid  youth  offend, 
Whose  speech  you  took,  and  gave  it  to  a  friend? 

P.  Faith,  it  imports  not  much  from  whom  it  carae  ; 
Whoever  borrowed  could  not  be  to  blame. 
Since  the  whole  house  did  afterwards  the  same 
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. 

F.  This  filthy  similie,  this  beastly  line. 
Quite  turns  my  stonuach — P.  So  does  flattery  mine; 
And  all  your  covu-tly  civet-cats  can  vent. 
Perfume  to  you,  to  me  is  excrement. 
But  hear  me  further — Japhet,  'tis  agreed, 
Writ  not,  and  Chartres  scarce  could  write  or  read ; 


EPILOGUE   TO    THE   3ATIRE8. 


3S3 


Ii:  all  the  courts  of  Pindus  guiltless  quite ; 

iJwt  pens  can  forge,  my  friend,  that  cannot  write ; 

A  nd  must  no  egg  in  Japhet's  face  be  thrown, 

B  cause  the  deed  he  forged  was  not  my  own ' 

Must  never  patriot  then  declaim  at  gm, 

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  fiiend,  and  should  be  yoiira 

Mine,  as  a  foe  professed  to  false  pretence, 

Who  think  a  coxcomb's  honour  like  his  sense 

Mine ,  as  a  friend  to  every  worthy  mmd ; 

And  mine  as  man,  who  feel  for  all  mankind. 
F.  You're  strangely  proud. 
P.  So  proud,  1  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, 

Yet  touched  and  shamed  by  ridicule  alone. 

O  sacred  weapon !  left  for  truth  s  delence, 
Sole  dread  of  folly,  vice,  and  insolence  I 
To  all  but  heaven-directed  hands  denied, 
The  muse  may  give  thee,  but  the  gods  must  pide^ 
Reverend  I  touch  thee !  but  with  honest  zeal, 
To  rouse  the  watchmen  of  the  pubhc  weal, 
To  virtue's  work  provoke  the  tardy  hall, 
And  goad  the  prelate  slumbering  m  his  stall. 
Ye  tinsel  insects !  whom  a  court  maintains. 
That  counts  your  beauties  oniy  by  your  stama, 
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  presa^ 
Like  the  last  Gazette  or  the  last  address. 

When  black  ambition  stains  a  public  cause, 
A  monarch's  sword  when  mad  yam  glorjj  draws, 
Not  Waller's  wreath  can  hide  the  nation  s  scar. 
Not  Boileau  turn  the  feather  to  a  star.  ^ 

Not  so  when  diademed  with  rays  divme,      ^ 
Touched  with  the  flame  that  breaks  from  virtue  sshnne. 
H  r  priestess  muse  forbids  the  good  to  die. 
An    opes  the  temple  of  eternity. 


384  EPILOGUE    TO   THE    SATISSS^ 

There  other  trophies  deck  the  truly  hrave 
Than  such  as  Anstis  casts  into  the  grave ; 
Far  other  stars  than  *  and  *  *  wear, 
And  may  descend  to  Mordington  from  Stair! 
[Such  as  on  Hough's  unsullied  mitre  shine. 
Or  beam,  good  Digby,  from  a  heart  like  thine,] 
Let  envy  howl,  while  heaven's  whole  chorus  sings, 
And  bark  at  honour  not  conferred  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: 
Are  none,  none  living!  let  me  praise  the  dead; 
And  for  that  cause  which  made  your  fathers  sMne 
Fall  by  the  votes  of  their  degenerate  line. 

F.  Alas  1  alas !  pray  end  what  you  began. 
And  write  neiLt  winter  more  Essays  on  Man* 


imi^tmmmfmt 


^8<i 


EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  TO  DR.  ARBUTHNOT, 


BElKa  THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THB  8ATIAE8. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

!?KI8  paper  is  a  sort  of  bill  of  complaint,  begun  many  years  sino® 
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  io  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  jud^e),  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  ovm.  laziness  to  undertake  so  awkv/ard  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  offejisive,  it 
will  be  only  to  those  I  am  least  sorry  to  offend,  the  vicious  cr  the 
nngenerous 

Many  will  know  tnelr  own  pictures  in  it,  there  being  not  a  circum- 
stance but  what  is  true ;  bull  have,  for  the  most  part,  spared  their 
names,  and  they  may  escape  being  laughed  at  if  they  please. 

I  would  have  some  of  them  to  know  it  was  owing  to  the  request  of 
the  learned  and  candid  friend  to  whom  it  is  inscribed,  tliat  I  make 
not  as  free  use  oi  thcii-s  as  they  have  done  of  mine.  However,  I 
shall  have  this  advantage  and  honour  on  my  side,  that  whereas,  hv 
their  proceeding,  any  abuse  loay  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. — Pope. 

P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  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  3ye,  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 ; 

33 


286  ELrcJtLt-a. 

By  land,  "by  water,  tliey  renew  tlie  charge, 
They  stop  the  chariot  and  they  board  the  bargs. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
E'en  Sunday  shines  no  sabbath-day  to  me  ; 
I'hen  from  the  jMint  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  foredoomed  his  father's  soui  to  cross 
Who  pens  a  stanza  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened  wailsf 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Appl)^  to  me  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  lawa^ 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the  cause  s 
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  nostnmi  can  this  plague  remove? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love? 
A  dire  dilemma!  either  way  I'n)  sped: 
If  foes,  they  write  ;  if  fnends,  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  honesi  anguish,  and  an  aching  head, 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 
This  saving  council,  "  Keep  your  peace  nine  year?.' 

"Nine  years!"  cries  he,  who  high  in  Drury  i.nne 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  hroken  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  have  it — make  it." 

Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  boimd, 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 

Pitholeon  sends  to  me  ;  "  You  know  his  grace ; 
[  want  a  patron  ;  ask  him  for  a  place." 
Pitholeon  libelled  me — "  But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you.  Sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  ?  Curll  invite    to  dine ' 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine." 
Bless  me  !  a  packet. — "  'Tis  a  stranger  sueS; 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orph.an  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  '*  Furies,  death  and  rage!" 
It  T  aporove,  "CommcTid  it  to  tlie  stage.'* 


.-- 


EPISTLES.  387 

Tliere  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission  ends ; 

The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 

Fired  that  the  house  rejects  him,  '"Sdeath,  I'll  print  it, 

And  shame  the  fools— Your  interest,  Sir,  with  Lintct." 

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  h*>  whispers,  "  Do,  and  we  go  snacks." 

(ilad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door; 

**  Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more." 

"lis  sung,  when  Midas'  ears  began  to  spring, 
(Midas,  a  sacred  person  and  a  king,) 
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  ?  [things , 

A,  Good  friend  !    forbear  ;    you  deal  in  dangerous 
I'd  never  name  queens,  ministers,  or  kings; 
Keep  close  to  ears,  and  those  let  asses  prick, 
'Tis  nothing.— P,  Nothing !  if  they  bite  and  kick  ? 
Out  with  it,  Dunciad !  let  the  secret  pass, 
That  secret  to  each  fool,  that  he's  an  ass : 
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  unconcerned  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  tlu-ough. 
He  spins  the  slight  self-pleasing  thread  anew : 
Destroy  his  fib,  or  sophistry,  in  vain  ; 
The  creature's  at  his  dirty  work  again, 
Throned  on  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,  his  free-masons  Moore  ? 
Does  not  one  table  Bavins  still  admit  ? 
Still  to  one  Bishop  Phillips  seem  a  wit? 
Still  Sappho — A.  Hold !  for  God's  sake,  you'll  offend ; 
No  names— be  calm — learn  prudence  of  a  friend 
I  too  could  wi-ite,  and  I  am  twice  as  tall ; 
But  foes  like  these— P.  One  flatterer  's  worse  tlian  all. 
Of  all  mad  creatures,  if  the  learned  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. 


r' 


388  EPISTLES. 

One  dedicates  in  high  heroic  prcse. 
And  ridicules  beyond  a  hundred  foes; 
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 : 
1  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. 
Say,  for  my  comfort,  languishing  in  bed, 
"Just  so  immortal  Maro  held  his  head:" 
And  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  let  me  know 
Gieat  Homer  died  three  thousand  years  ago. 
Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came : 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade. 

No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed  : 
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, 

E'en  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head. 

And  St.  John's  self  (great  Dryden's  friend  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,  Oldmixons,  and  Cooks. 
Soft  were  my  numbers;  who  could  take  offence. 

While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense? 

Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  mj^  flowery  theme, 

A  painted  mistress,  or  a  purling  stream. 

Yet  then  did  Gildon  draw  his  venal  quill ; 

I  wish'd  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sat  still: 

Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in  furious  fret; 

I  never  answered ;  1  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,  1  kiss  the  rod. 


EPISTLES. 


389 


Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence, 

And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 

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  ribhalds. 

From  flashing  Bentley  down  to  piddling  Tibbalds: 

Each  wight  who  reads  not,  and  but  scans  and  spells, 

Each  word-catcher,  that  live*S  on  syllables, 

E'en  such  small  critics  some  regard  may  claim, 

Preserved  in  Milton's  or  in  Shakespeare's  name. 

Pretty !  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 

Of  hairs,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms ! 

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  pilfered  pastorals  renown, 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half -a-crown, 
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  wbo  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  owned  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 
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. 
Blessed  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.; 
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; 
as* 


S90  crisTLEs. 

Like  Cato  give  liis  little  senate  laws, 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause ; 
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  plastered  posts,  with  tlaps,  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: 
Poems  I  heeded  (now  berhymed  so  long) 
No  more  than  thou,  great  George ;  a  birthday  song; 
I  ne'er  with  wits  or  witlings  passed  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  mouthed,  and  cried, 
With  handkerchief  and  orange  at  my  side; 
But,  sick  of  fops,  and  poetry,  and  prate, 
To  13ufo  left  the  whole  Castalian  state. 

Proud  as  Apollo  on  his  forked  hill 
Sat  full-blown  Bufo,  ])ufFed  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  undistinguished  race. 
Who  first  his  judgment  asked,  and  then  a  j)lace: 
Much  they  extolled  his  pictures,  much  his  seat, 
And  flattered  every  day,  and  sometimes  ate  ; 
Till  grown  more  frugal  in  his  riper  days, 
He  paid  some  bards  with  port,  and  some  with  praise  , 
To  some  a  dry  rehearsal  was  assigned. 
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  helped  to  bury  whom  he  helped  to  starve. 

May  some  choice  patron  bless  each  grey-goose  quill 
May  every  Bavius  have  his  Bufo  still ! 
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! 
Blessed  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: 


litMsTi.r.s.  391 


urn 


Of  all  thy  blameless  life  the  sole  ueturn 

My  verse,  and  Queensberry  weeping  o  er  th^ 

Oh !  let  me  live  my  own,  and  die  so  too ! 
(To  live  and  die  is  all  1  have  to  do ;) 
Maintain  a  poet's  dignity  and  ease,  t    i     c«  , 

And  see  what  friends,  and  read  what  books,  1  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. 

Why  am  I  asked  what  next  shall  see  the  light  j 
Heavens !  was  1  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  he  still; 
And  then  for  mine  obligingly  mistakes, 
The  first  lampoon  Sir  Will  or  Bubo  makes. 
Poor  guiltless  I !  and  can  I  choose  but  smile, 
When  every  coxcomb  knows  me  by  my  style? 

Cm-sed  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  How, 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe, 
Give  virtue  scandal,  innocence  a  fear. 
Or  from  the  soft-eyed  virgm  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  oul^; 
That  fop  whose  pride  aiFects  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, 
Vet  wants  the  honour,  injured,  to  defend  ; 
Who  tells  whate'er  you  think,  whate  er  you  say, 
And  if  he  he  not,  must  at  least  betray ; 
Who  10  the  dean  and  silver  bell  can  swear. 
And  sees  at  Cannons  what  was  never  there  ; 
Who  reads  but  with  a  lust  to  misapply. 
Makes  satire  a  lampoon,  and  fiction  he ; 
A  lash  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dread. 
But  all  such  babbling  blockheads  m  his  stead. 

Let  Sporus  tremble- A.  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? 


302  F.PISTLES, 

P.  Yet  let  me  flap  this  biigwitb  gilded  wingp. 

This  painted  child  of  dirt,  that  stinks  and  stiuga^ 

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  j 

Or  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  familiar  toad, 

Half  froth,  half  venom,  spits  himself  abroad, 

In  puns,  or  polities,  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  toilette,  flatterer  at  the  board, 

Now  trips  a  lady,  and  now  struts  a  lord. 

Eve's  tempter  thus  the  Rabbins  have  expressed, 

A  cherub's  face,  a  reptile  all  the  rest; 

Beauty  that  shocks  you,  parts  that  none  will  trust 

Wit  tliat  can  creep,  and  pride  thatli^cks  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,  e'en  to  kings,  he  held  a  shame, 
And  thought  a  lie  in  verse  or  prose  the  same  ; 
That  not  in  fancy's  maze  he  wandered  long, 
But  stooped  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 ; 
Laughed  at  the  loss  of  friends  he  never  had, 
'i'he  dull,  the  proud,  the  wicked,  and  the  mad 
The  distant  threats  of  vengeance  on  his  head, 
The  blow  vmfelt,  the  tear  he  never  shed  ; 
The  tale  revived,  the  lie  so  oft  o'erthrown, 
The  imputed  trash  and  dulness  not  his  own  ; 
The  morals  blackened  when  the  writings  'scape, 
The  libelled  person,  and  the  pictured  shape ; 
Abuse  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 — 


EPISTLES.  393 

Welcome  for  thee,  fair  virtue!  all  the  past; 
For  thee,  fair  virtue  !  welcome  e'en  the  last! 

A.  But  why  insult  the  poor,  affront  the  great  I 
P.  A  knave  's  a  knave  to  me  in  ev'ry  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  can  tell  you  how  this  man  was  bit: 
This  dreaded  satirist  Dennis  will  confess 
Foe  to  his  pride,  but  friend  to  his  distress  : 
So  humble,  he  has  knocked  at  Tibbald's  door, 
Has  drunk  with  Gibber;  nay,  has  rhymed  for  Moore, 
I'ull  ten  years  slandered,  did  he  once  reply  ? 
Three  thousand  suns  went  down  on  Welsted's  lie. 
To  please  a  mistress  one  aspersed  his  life ; 
He  lashed  him  not,  but  let  her  be  his  wife : 
Let  Budgell  charge  low  Grub  Street  on  his  quill, 
And  write  whate'er  he  pleased,  except  his  will ; 
Let  the  two  Curlls  of  town  and  court  abuse 
His  father,  mother,  body,  soul,  and  muse : 
Yet  why  1  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  bloods  (part  shed  in  honour's  cause, 
While  yet  in  Britain  honour  had  applause) 
Each  parent  sprung — A.  What  fortune,  pray  ? — 

P.  Their  own ; 
And  better  got  than  Bestia's  from  the  throne. 
Born  to  no  pride,  inheriting  no  strife, 
Nor  marrying  discord  in  a  noble  wife, 
Stranger  to  civil  and  religious  rage. 
The  good  man  walked  innoxious  through  his  agq : 
No  courts  he  saw,  no  suits  would  ever  try. 
Nor  dared  an  oath,  nor  hazarded  a  lie. 
Unlearned,  he  knew  no  schoolman's  subtle  art. 
No  language  but  the  language  of  the  heart. 
By  nature  honest,  by  experience  wise, 
Healthy  by  temp'rance  and  by  exercise ; 
His  life,  though  long,  to  sickness  past  unknown ; 
His  death  was  instant,  and  without  a  groan. 
O  gi-ant  me  thus  to  live,  and  thus  to  die  ! 
Who  sprung  from  kin^s  shall  know  less  joy  than  I. 


r*"- 


'394  EPISTLES. 

Oh,  friend !  may  each  domestic  bliss  be  thine  I 

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, 

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  fiicnd, 

Preser  re  him  social,  cheerful  and  serene, 

And  just  as  rich  as  when  he  served  a  queen. 

A.  Whether  that  blessing  be  denied  or  given. 
Thus  far  was  right,  the  rest  belongs  to  Heaven. 


EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  EAti-  OF  OXFORD 

AND   LORD   MORTIMER. 

Sent  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  with  Dr.  ParneIVs  Poems, 
published  by  our  Author,  after  the  said  Earl's  Jitipri- 
sonment  in  the  Tower  and  Retreat  into  the  Country, 
in  the  Year  1721. 

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  J 
With  softest  manners,  gentlest  heart,  adorn 'd  ! 
Bless'd  in  each  science  !  bless'd  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 ; 
Dexterous  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  l»ear  thy  Parnell  in  his  living  lays. 
Who,  careless  now  of  interest,  fame,  or  fate, 
i^erhaps  forgets  that  Oxford  e'er  was  great; 


EPISTLES.  395 

Or,  deeming  meanest  wliat  v/e  greatest  call, 
Beholds  thee  glorious  only  in  thy  fall. 

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,  and  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. 
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. 
E'en  now  she  shades  thj'^  evening  walk  v/ith  bay8« 
(No  hireling  she,  no  prostitute  to  praise,) 
E'en  now,  observant  of  the  parting  ray. 
Eyes  the  calm  sunset  of  thy  various  day; 
Through  fortune's  cloud  one  truly  great  can  '?co 
Nor  fears  to  tell  that  Mortimer  is  he. 


EPISTLE  TO    JAMES  CRAGGS,    ESQ. 

SECRETARY  OF  STATE,  IN  THE  YEAR  1720. 

A  SOUL  as  full  of  worth  as  void  of  pride. 
Which  nothing  seeks  to  shew  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  jvays, 
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  e'en  of  me  : 
The  patriot's  plain  but  untrod  path  pursue; 
If  not,  'tis  I  must  be  ashamed  of  you. 


398  EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  JERVAS 

WITH    MR.    DRYDEN's    TRANSLATION    OF    FRESNOy'i 
AUT    OF    PAINTING. 


This  verse  be  thine,  my  friend  !  nor  tliou  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  canvass  call  the  mimic  face : 
Read  these  instructive  leaves,  in  which  cons)>ire 
Fresnoy's  close  art,  and  Dryden's  native  fire  ; 
And  reading,  wish,  like  theirs,  our  fate  and  fanse, 
So  mix'd  our  studies,  and  so  join'd  our  name  ; 
Like  them  to  shine  through  long-succeeding  age  ; 
So  just  thy  skill,  so  regular  thy  rage. 

Smit  with  the  love  of  sister  arts  we  came, 
^nd  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! 
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. 
W^hile  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  com]iare, 
Match  Raphael's  grace  with  thy  loved  (iuido's  air, 
Caracci's  strength,  Corregio's  softer  line, 
Paulo's  free  stroke,  and  Titian's  warmth  divine. 

How  finish'd  with  illustrious  toil  appears 
This  small  well-po!ish'd  gem,  the  work  of  yearst 


EPISTLES.  S9) 

Yet  still  how  faint  by  precept  is  express'd 
T^e  living  image  in  the  painter's  breast! 
'J'hence  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  sorrow  shed, 
Those  tears  eternal  that  embalm  the  dead; 
Call  round  her  tomb  each  object  of  desire, 
Each  purer  frame  inform'd  with  purer  fire; 
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  arts  surprise, 
And  other  beauties  envy  Worsley's  eyes; 
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  woi-ks  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. 
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  preserves  a  face,  and  I  a  name. 


U 


398  EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  TO  MISS  BLOUNT 

WITH   THE  WORKS^  OF  VOITURE,    1717. 

In  these  p;ay  thoughts  the  loves  and  graces  shine, 

<\nd  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-hred: 

His  heart,  his  mistress  and  his  friend  did  share  ; 

His  time,  the  muse,  the  witty,  and  the  fair. 

Thus  wisely  careless,  innocently  gay, 

Cheerfully  he  play'd  the  trifled  life  away, 

Till  fate  scarce  felt  his  gentle  breath  suppress'd, 

As  smiling  infants  sport  themselves  to  rest. 

E'en  rival  wits  did  Voiture's  death  deplore, 

And  the  gay  mourn'd,  who  never  movu'n'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  've  breath. 

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. 

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,  [j.  their  place : 
Well  might  you  wish  for  change  by  those  accursed, 
But  the  last  tyrant  ever  proves  the  worst. 
Still  in  constraint  your  suffering  sex  remains, 
Or  bound  in  formal  or  in  real  chains : 


EPISTLES.  ^^ 


vVhole  years  neglected  for  some  moiUlis  adored, 

The  fawning  servant  turns  a  haughty  lord. 

Ah  '  quit  not  the  free  innocence  ot  lite 

For  the  dull  glory  of  a  virtuous  wife ; 

Nor  let  false  shews  nor  empty  titles  please : 

Aim  not  at  joy,  but  rest  content  with  ease. 

The  gods,  to  curse  Pamelia  with  her  prayers, 
Gave  the  gilt  coach  and  dappled  Flanders  mares, 
The  shining  robes,  rich  jewels  beds  ot  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  churms,— 
Those,  age  or  sickness,  soon  or  late,  disarms; 
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  Monthausier  was  only  changed  in  name: 
By  this  e'en  now  they  live,  e'en  now  they  chaiMTi 
Their  wit  still  sparkling,  and  their  flames  still  w aim. 

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  in  France  inspired  his  muse , 
The  brightest  eyes  in  Britain  now  peruse ; 
And  dead,  as  living,  'tis  our  author  s  pride     , 
Stm  to  dmrm  those  who  charm  the  world  beside. 


•  MademoiMlle  Faul»k* 


100  EPISTLES. 


EPISTLE  TO  THE  SAME, 

ON    HER   LEAVING   THE   TOWN    AFTER   THE    C0RONATIOSf» 

1715. 

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  Zephaiinda  flew, 
Saw  others  happy,  and  with  sighs  withdrew ; 
Not  that  their  pleasures  caused  her  discontent ; 
She  sigh'd  not  that  they  s^tay'd,  but  that  she  went. 

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  coid  coffee  trifle  with  the  spoon. 
Count  the  slow  clock,  and  dine  exact  at  noon  ; 
Di\evt  her  eyes  with  pictures  in  the  fire, 
Hum  half  a  tune,  tell  stories  to  the  squire; 
Up  to  her  godly  garret  after  seven. 
There  starve  and  pi*ay,  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  hounds  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. 

In  some  fair  evening,  on  your  elbow  laid, 
You  dream  of  triumphs  in  the  rural  shade ; 
!n  pensive  thought  recall  the  fancied  scene, 
•^  ee  coronations  rise  on  every  green  ; 
I'efore  you  pass  the  imaginary  sights 
'Jf  lords,  and  earls,  and  dukes,  and  garter'd  knights. 
While  the  spread  fan  o'ershades  your  closing  eyes, 
I  hen  give  or.e  flirt,  and  all  the  vision  flies. 
Ihns  vanish  sceptres,  coronets  and  balls, 
^nd  leave  you  in  lone  woods  or  empty  walls! 


EPISTLES*  401 

So  when  your  slave,  at  some  dear  idle  time, 
(Not  plagued  with  headaches  or  the  want  of  rhytae, 
Stands  in  the  streets  abstracted  from  the  crew, 
And  wliile  he  seems  to  study,  thinks  of  you ; 
Just  when  his  fancy  paints  y  our  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  may  now 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  xMOORE 

AUTHOR    OF    THE    CELEBRATED    WORM-POWDER. 

How  much,  egregious  Moore !  are  we 

Deceived  by  shows  and  forms ! 
Whate'er  we  think,  whate'er  we  see, 

All  human-kind  are  worms. 

Man  is  a  veiy  worm  by  birth. 

Vile  reptile,  weak,  and  vain! 
Awhile  he  crawls  upon  the  earth. 

Then  shrinks  to  earth  aga"n 

That  woman  is  a  woman  we  find 

E'er  since  our  grandam's  evil; 
She  first  conversed  with  her  own  kind, 

That  ancient  worm  the  devil. 

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. 

The  fops  are  painted  butterflies, 

That  flutter  for  a  day ; 
First  from  a  worm  they  take  their  rise. 

And  in  a  worm  decay. 

The  flatterer  an  ear-wig  grows ; 

Thus  worms  suit  all  conditions ; 
Misers  are  muck-worms,  silkwoi-ms  beaus. 

And  death-watches  physicians, 
34* 


402  EPISTLES. 

That  statesmen  have  the  worm,  is  seen 
\  By  all  their  winding  play ;  _ 

Their  conscience  is  a  worm  within, 
That  gnaws  them  night  and  day.    • 

Ah,  Moore  !  thy  skill  were  well  employ 'd, 
And  greater  gain  would  rise, 

If  thou  couldst  make  the  courtier  void 
The  worm  that  never  d:*es ! 

O  learned  friend  of  Abchurch-lane, 
Who  sett'st  our  entrails  free ; 

Vain  is  thy  art,  thy  powder  vain, 
Since  worms  shall  eat  e'en  thee. 

Our  fate  thou  only  canst  adjourn 
Some  few  short  years,  no  more ! 

E'en  Button's  wits  to  worms  shall  turn, 
Who  maggots  were  before 


EPISTLE  TO  MRS   M.  B. 

ON    HER   BIRTHDAY. 

Oh  !  be  thou  bless'd  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  joys  still  lost,  as  each  vain  year  runs  o'er. 
And  all  we  gain,  some  sad  reflection  more : 
Is  chat  a  birthday?  'tis,  alas!  too  clear, 
'Tis  but  the  fvmeral  of  the  former  year. 

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,  unt'elt,  that  tender  frame  destroy 
In  some  soft  dream,  or  ecstasy  of  joy. 
Peaceful  sleep  out  the  sabbath  of  the  tomb, 
\nd  wake  to  raiitures  in  a  lifV  to  come. 


L^ 


EFISTLES.  4^ 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  THOMAS  SOUTHERN, 

ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY,  1742. 

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  with  a  cloth  of  bays ; 

And  Ireland,  mother  of  sweet  singers. 

Presents  her  harp  still  to  his  fingers. 

The  feast  his  towering  genius  marks 

In  yonder  wild-goose  and  the  larks ! 

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  and  of  plays, 

Be  every  birthday  more  a  winner, 

Digest  his  thirty- thousandth  dinner; 

Walk  to  his  grave  without  reproach, 

^nd  scorn  a  rascal  and  a  coach* 


404 


PASTORALS ; 

■WITH  A 

DISCOURSE  ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

[written  in  the  year  1704;  pope  being  then  16.] 

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. 

The  original  of  poetry  is  ascribed  to  that  age  which 
succeeded  the  creation  of  the  world;  and  as  the  keep- 
ing of  flocks  seems  to  have  been  the  first  employment 
of  mankind,  the  most  ancient  sort  of  poetry  was  proba- 
bly Pastoral.  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  se- 
dentary 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  re- 
commend them  to  the  present.  And  since  the  life  of 
shepherds  was  attended  with  more  tranquillity  than  any 
other  rural  employment,  the  poets  chose  to  introduce 
their  persons,  from  whom  it  received  the  name  of 
Pastoral. 

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  is  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 


A    DISCOURSE    ON    PASTORAL    POETRY.  405 

Short,  the  fable,  manners,  thoughts,  and  expressions, 
are  full  of  the  greatest  simplicity  in  nature. 

The  complete  character  of  this  Poem  consists  in  sim- 
plicity, brevity,  and  delicacy ;  the  two  first  of  which 
render  an  eclogue  natural,  and  the  last  delightful. 

If  we  could  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  shoi*t,  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 

Eoetry  in  those  days  to  have  been  the  business  of  men, 
ut  their  recreation  at  vacant  hours. 
But,  with  a  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  infe- 
rence ;  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  tranquillity  of  a  country  life. 

We  must  therefore  use  some  illusion  to  render  a  Pas- 
toral delightful ;  and  this  consists  in  exposing  the  bast 
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  contains  some  par- 
ticular beauty  in  itself,  and  that  it  be  different  in  every 
eclogue.     Besides,  in  each  of  them  a  designed  scene  or 

f)rospect  is  to  be  presented  to  our  view,  which  should 
ikewise  have  its  variety.  This  variety  is  obtained,  in 
a  great  degree,  by  frequenf  comparisons,  drawn  from 
the  most  agreeable  objects  of  the  country;  by  interro- 
gations to  things  inanimate  ;  by  beautiful  digressions, 
but  those  short;  sometimes  by  insisting  a  little  on  cir- 
cumstances ;  and  lastly,  by  elegant  turns  on  the  words, 
which  render  the  numbers  extremely  sweet  and  pleas- 
ing.    As  for  the  numbers  themselves,  though  they  are 


406  A    DISCOURSE    ON 

properly  of  the  heroic  measure,  they  should   he  the 
smoothest,  the  most  easy  and  flowing  im.iginable. 

It  is  by  rules  like  these  that  we  ought  to  judge  of 
Pastoral :  and  since  the  instructions  given  for  an5^  art 
are  to  be  delivered  as  that  art  is  in  perfection,  they 
nuist  of  necessity  be  derived  from  those  in  whom  it  is 
acknowledged  so  to  be.  It  is  therefore  from  the  prac- 
tice of  Theocritus  and  Virgil  (the  only  undispuK-d 
authors  of  Pastoral)  that  the  critics  have  drawn  the 
foregoing  notions  concerning  it. 

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  in- 
stance, in  his  Fourth  and  Fifth  Idyllia.  But  it  is 
enough  that  all  others  learned  their  excellencies  from 
him,  and  that  his  dialect  alone  has  a  secret  charm  in 
it,  which  no  other  could  ever  attain. 

Virgil,  who  copies  Theocritus,  refines  upon  his  ori- 
ginal; and  in  all  points  where  judgment  is  principally 
concerned,  he  is  much  superior  to  his  master.  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. 

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  oitr  Spenser.  Tasso,  in  his 
Aminta,  has  as  far  excelled  all  the  pastoral  writers,  as, 
in  his  Gierusalemme,  he  has  outdone  the  epic  poets  oiE 
his  country.  But  as  this  piece  seems  to  have  been  tlie 
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  pas- 
toral style,  as  the  Mantuan  had  done  before  him.     He 


PASTORAL   POETRY.  407 

has  employed  the  Ljric  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 
tte  length  of  four  lines,  which  would  have  been  more 
closely  confined  in  the  couplet. 

In  the  manners,  thoughts,  and  characters,  he  comes 
near  to  Theocritus  himself;  though,  notwithstanding 
all  the  care  he  has  taken,  he  is  certainly  inferior  ii;  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  dif- 
ference betwixt  simplicity  and  rusticity,  so  the  expres- 
sion 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  re- 
peat 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,  fox 
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  parti- 
cular description,  as  it  may  every  season. 

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  re- 
spect 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 
ijeveral  ages  of  man,  and  the  different  passions  proper 
to  each  age. 

But,  after  all,  if  they  have  any  merit,  it  is  to  be  at- 
tributed to  some  good  old  authors,  whose  works,  as  I 
had  leisure  to  study,  so,  I  hope,  I  have  not  wanted  care 
to  imitate. 


A'i: 


PASTORALS. 


''RING. 

TO    SIR  WILLIAM   TRUMBALL. 

First  in  these  fields  I  try  tlie  sylvan  strains, 
Nor  blush  to  sport  on  Windsor's  blissful  plains; 
Fair  Thames !  flow  gently  from  thy  sacred  spring, 
"While  on  thy  hanks  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  pow'r, 
Enjoy  the  glory  to  be  great  no  more, 
And  carrying  with  you  all  the  world  can  boast 
To  all  the  world  illustriously  are  lost  I 
O  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  aerial  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: 
The  dawn  now  blushing  on  the  mountain's  side, 
Thus  Daphnis  spoke,  and  Strephon  thus  replied  : 

Daph.  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  shines  so  clear, 
And  lavish  Nature  paints  the  purple  year? 

Streph.  Sing  then,  and  Damon  shall  attend  the  strain, 
While  yon  slow  oxen  turn  the  furrow' d  plain. 
Here  the  bright  crocus  and  blue  vi'let  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. 


PASTORALS.  409 

Daph.  And  I  this  bowl,  where  wanton  ivy  twines, 
And  swelling  clusters  bend  the  curling  vines: 
Four  figures  rising  from  the  work  appear, 
TVit  various  seasons  of  tlie  rolling  year; 
And  what  is  that  which  binds  the  radiant  sky, 
Where  twelve  fair  signs  in  beauteous  order  lie? 

Dam.  Then  sing  by  turns,  by  turns  the  Muses  sing, 
Now  hawthorns  blossom,  now  the  daisies  spring; 
Now  leaves  the  trees,  and  flow'rs  adorn  the  ground ; 
Begin,  the  vales  shall  ev'ry  note  rebound. 

Streph.  Inspire  me,  Phoebus!  in  my  Delia's  praise, 
With  Waller's  strains,  or  Granville's  moving  lays: 
A  milk  white  bull  shall  at  your  altar  stand 
That  threats  a  fight,  and  spurns  the  rising  sand. 

Daph.  O  Love !  for  Sylvia  let  me  gain  the  prize. 
And  make  my  tongue  victorious  as  her  eyes; 
No  lambs  or  sheep  for  victims  I'll  impart; 
Thy  victim.  Love,  shall  be  the  shepherd's  heart. 

Streph.  My  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. 

Daph.  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! 

Streph.  O'er  golden  sands  let  rich  Pactolus  flow 
And  trees  weep  amber  on  the  banks  of  Po; 
Blest  Thames'  shores  the  brightest  beauties  yield: 
Feed  here  my  lambs,  I'll  seek  no  distant  field. 

Daph.  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. 

Streph.    All  nature  mourns,   the  skies  relent  in 
show'rs, 
Hush'd  are  the  birds,  and  closed  the  drooping  fllow'rs; 
If  Delia  smile,  the  flow'rs  begin  to  spring, 
The  skies  to  brighten,  and  the  birds  to  sing. 

Daph.  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. 

Streph.  In  spring  the  fields,  in  autumn  hills,  I  love; 
At  morn  the  plains,  at  noon  the  shady  grove : 
But  D'.lia  always ;  absent  from  her  sight, 
Nor  plains  at  mom  nor  groves  at  noon  delight. 

Daph.  Sylvia  's  like  autumn  ripe,  yet  mild  as  May, 
More  bright  th*n  noon,  yet  fresh  as  early  day  : 
35 


410  PASTORALS. 

E'en  spring  displeases  when  she  shines  not  liere; 
But  bless'd  with  her,  'tis  spring  throughout  the  )car. 

Streph.  Say,  Daphnis,  say,  in  wliat  glad  soil  ap- 
pears, 
A  wondrous  tree,  that  sacred  monarch  bears? 
Tell  me  but  this,  and  I'll  disclaim  the  prize. 
And  give  the  conquest  to  thy  Sylvia's  eyes. 

Da  PH.  Nay,  tell  me  first,  in  what  more  happy  fields 
The  thistle  springs,  to  which  the  lily  yields; 
And  then  a  nobler  prize  I  will  resign ; 
For  Sylvia,  charming  Sylvia,  shall  be  thine. 

Dam.  Cease  to  contend:  for,  Daphnis,  I  decree 
The  bowl  to  Strephon,  and  the  lamb  to  thee. 
Blest  swains,  whose  nymphs  in  ev'vy  grace  excel ; 
Blest  nymphs,  whose  swains  those  graces  sing  so  well  I 
Now  rise,  and  haste  to  yonder  woodbine  bow'rs, 
A  soft  retreat  from  sudden  vernal  show'rs  ; 
The  turf  with  rural  dainties  shall  be  crown'd. 
While  op'ning  blooms  diffuse  their  sweets  around. 
For  see  !  the  gath'ring  flocks  to  shelter  tend, 
And  from  the  Pleiads  fruitful  show'rs  descend. 


SUMMER. 

TO  DR.  GARTH. 

A  Shepherd's  boy  (he  seeks  no  better  name) 
Led  forth  his  flocks  along  the  silver  Thame, 
Where  dancing  sun-beams  on  the  waters  play'd, 
And  verdant  alders  form'd  a  quiv'ring  shade. 
Soft  as  he  moui-n'd,  the  streams  forgot  to  flow, 
The  flocks  around  a  dumb  compassion  show, 
And  Naiads  wept  in  ev'ry  wat'ry  bow'r, 
And  Jove  consented  in  a  silent  show'r. 

Accept,  O  Garth,  the  Muse's  early  lays, 
That  adds  this  wreath  of  ivy  to  thy  bays; 
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,  bea!)).% 
To  you  I  mourn  ;  nor  to  the  deaf  I  sing ; 
The  woods  shall  answer,  and  their  eclio  ring*. 
Tlie  hills  and  I'ocks  attend  my  doleful  lay: 
Why  art  thou  prouder  and  more  hard  than  theyt 


PASTORALS.  411 

The  bleating  sheep  with  my  complaints  agree, 
rhey  parch'd  with  heat,  and  I  inflamed  by  thee; 
The  sultry  Sirius  burns  the  thirsty  plains, 
While  in  thy  heart  eternal  V/inter  reigns. 

Where  stray  ye,  Muses  I  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  wat'ry  glass; 
But  since  those  graces  please  thy  eyes  no  more, 
I  shun  the  fountains  which  I  sought  before. 
Once  I  was  skill'd  in  ev'ry  herb  that  grew, 
And  ev'ry  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  bhul  my  brows  with  bays. 
That  flute  is  mine  which  Colin's  tuneful  breath 
Inspired  when  living,  and  bequeath'd  in  death. 
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  soine  transforming  power, 
The  captive  bird  that  sings  within  thy  bow'r! 
Then  might  my  voice  th.y  list'ning  ears  employ. 
And  I  those  kisses  he  receives  enjoy. 

And  yet  my  numbers  please  the  rural  throng; 
Rough  satyrs  dance,  and  Pan  aj)i)laiuls  the  song 
The  nymphs,  forsaking  every  cave  and  spring, 
Their  early  fruit  and  milk-white  turtles  bring! 
Each  am'rous  nymi)h  prefers  her  gifts  in  vain; 
On  you  their  gilts  are  all  bestow'd  again. 
For  you  the  swains  the  fairest  flow'rs  design, 
And  in  one  garland  all  their  bcantics  joii\: 
Accept  the  wreath  which  you  deserve  alone, 
In  whom  all  beauties  are  comprised  in  one. 

See  what  delights  in  sylvan  scenes  ai)])ear! 
Descending  gods  have  found  Klysium  here. 
In  woods  bright  Venus  with  Adonis  stray'd. 
And  chaste  Diana  haunts  the  forest-shade. 
Come,  lovely  nynij)!!,  and  bless  the  silent  hours, 
When  swains  from  shearing  seek  their  nightly  bow'rs, 
AVhen  weary  reapers  quit  the  sultry  field, 
And,  crown'd  with  corn,  their  thanks  to  Ceres  yield. 
Tlr.s  harmless  grove  no  lurking  viper  hides. 
But  in  n  y  breast  the  serpent  Love  abides. 


r 


412  PASTORALS. 

Here  bees  from  blossoms  sip  the  rosy  dew 
But  yom*  Alexis  knows  no  sweets  but  you. 
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  tiow'rs  sliall  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  ev'ry  grove, 
And  winds  shall  waft  it  to  the  powers  above. 
But  would  you  sing,  and  rival  Orpheus'  strain, 
The  wond'ring  forest  soon  should  dance  again, 
The  moving  mountains  hear  the  pow'rful  call, 
And  headlong  streams  hang  list'ning  in  their  fall! 
But  see,  the  shepherds  shun  the  noon-day  heat, 
The  lowing  herds  to  murm'ring  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: 
On  me  Love's  fiercer  flames  for  ever  prey ; 
By  night  he  scorches,  as  he  burns  by  day. 


AUTUMN. 

TO   MR.    WYCHERLET. 

Beneath  the  shade  a  spreading  beech  displays, 
Hylas  and  Mgon  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  iEgon'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; 
Oh,  skiil'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. 


"I 


PASTORALS.  413 

Go,  gentle  Gales,  and  bear  my  sighs  away ! 
To  Delia's  ear  the  tender  notes  convey. 
A.S  some  sad  turtle  his  lost  love  deplores, 
And  with  deep  murmurs  fills  the  sounding  shores, 
Thus,  far  from  Delia,  to  the  winds  I  mounij 
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  flow'rs  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? 

Go,  gentle  Gales,  and  bear  my  sighs  away! 
Cursed  be  the  fields  that  cause  my  Delia's  stay: 
Fade  ev'ry  blossom,  wither  ev'ry  tree, 
Die  ev'ry  flow'r,  and  perish  all  but  she. — 
What  have  I  said?     Where'er  my  Delia  flies, 
Let  spring  attend,  and  sudden  flow'rs  arise! 
Let  op'ning  roses  knotted  oaks  adorn. 
And  liquid  amber  drop  from  ev'ry  thorn. 

Go,  gentle  Gales,  and  bear  my  sighs  along! 
The  birds  shall  cease  to  tune  their  ev'ning  song, 
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  lab'rers  faint  with  pain. 
Not  show'rs  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  cave  and  echoing  rock  rebounds. 
Ye  Pow'rs,  what  pleasing  frenzy  soothes  my  mind ! 
Do  lovers  dream,  or  is  my  Delia  kind? 
She  comes,  my  Delia  comes  1 — Now  cease  my  lay, 
And  cease,  ye  Gales,  to  bear  my  sighs  away  ! 

Next  iEgon  sung,  while  Windsor  groves  admired? 
Rehearse,  ye  Muses,  what  yourselves  inspired. 

Resound,  ye  Hills,  resound  my  mournful  strain  I 
Of  perjured  Doris,  dying  I  complain : 
Here  where  the  mountains,  less'ning  as  tliey  rise, 
Lose  the  low  vales,  and  steal  into  the  skies  ; 
While  lab'ring  oxen,  spent  with  toil  and  heat. 
In  their  loose  traces  from  the  field  retreat ; 
While  curling  smokes  from  village-tops  are  seen, 
\nd  the  fleet  shades  glide  o'er  the  dusky  green. 

Kesound,  ye  Hills,  resound  my  mournful  lay! 
Beneath  yon  poplar  oft  we  pass'd  the  day: 

35* 


414  VASTOUATH. 

Oft  on  the  rind  I  carved  her  am  rous  vows. 
While  she  with  garlands  hvuig  the  bending  boughs s 
The  garlands  fade,  the  vows  are  worn  away; 
So  dies  her  love,  and  so  my  hopes  decay. 

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? 
Pan  came,  and  ask'd.  What  magic  caused  my  smart; 
Or  what  ill  eyes  malignant  glances  dart? 
What  eyes  but  hers,  alas,  have  pow'r  to  move ! 
And  is  there  magic  but  what  dwells  in  love! 


Forsake  mankind,  and  all  the  world — but  Love  ! 
I  know  thee,  Love !  on  foreign  mountains  bred, 
Wolves  gave  thee  suck,  and  savage  tigers  fed ; 
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  I 
One  leap  from  yonder  cliff" shall  end  my  pains: 
No  more,  ye  Hills,  no  more  resound  my  strains! 

Thus  sung  the  shepherds  till  th'  approach  of  nigK 
The  skies  yet  blushing  with  departing  light, 
When  fallmg  dews  with  spangles  deck'd  the  glade, 
And  the  low  sun  had  leugthen'd  ev'ry  shade. 


PASTORALS.  415 

WINTER. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  TEMPEST. 

Lycidas.    Thyrsis,  the  music  of  that    murm'ring 
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, 
Whilst  silent  birds  forget  their  tuneful  lays, 
Oh  sing  of  Daphne's  fate  and  Daphne's  praise 

Thyr.  Behold  the  groves  that  shine  with  silver  frost, 
Their  beauty  wither 'd,  and  their  verdure  lost. 
Here  shall  I  try  the  sweet  Alexis'  strain, 
That  call'd  the  list'ning  Dryads  to  the  plain? 
Thames  heard  the  numbers,  as  he  flow'd  along. 
And  bade  his  willows  learn  the  moving  song. 

Lyc.  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. 

Thyr.  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  heav'n  and  earth  deplore; 
Fair  Daphne  's  dead,  and  love  is  now  no  more  !" 

''i'is  done;  and  Nature's  various  charms  decay; 
See  gloomy  clouds  obscure  the  cheerful  day! 
Now  hung  with  pearls  the  dropping  trees  appear, 
Their  faded  honours  scatter'd  on  her  bier. 
See  where  on  earth  the  flow'ry  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; 
In  hollow  caves  sweet  echo  silent  lies. 
Silent,  or  only  to  her  name  replies: 


416  TASTOnALS. 

Her  name  with  ])leasure  once  she  taught  the  shore ; 
Now  Daphne 's  dead,  and  pleasure  is  no  more ! 

No  grateful  dews  descend  from  ev'ning  skies, 
Nor  morning  odours  from  the  flow  'rs  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  ; 
Th' industrious  bees  neglect  their  golden  store  ; 
Fair  Daphne  's  dead,  and  sweetness  is  no  more  ! 

No  more  the  mountain  larks,  while  Daphne  sings, 
Shall,  list'ning  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  f6r])ear, 
A  sweeter  music  than  their  own  to  hear, 
But  tell  the  reeds,  and  tell  the  vocal  shoro, 
Fair  Daphne  's  dead,  and  music  is  no  morel 

Her  fate  is  whisper'd  by  the  gentle  breeze, 
And  told  in  sighs  to  all  the  trembling  trees; 
The  trembling  trees,  in  ev'ry  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  wond'ring  mounts  on  high 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  starry  sky ! 
Eternal  beauties  grace  the  shining  scene, 
Fields  ever  fresh,  and  groves  for  ever  green  ! 
There  while  you  rest  in  amaranthine  bow'rs, 
Or  from  those  meads  select  unfading  flow'rs. 
Behold  us  kindly,  who  your  name  implore, 
Daphne,  our  goddess,  and  our  grief  no  more ! 

Lyc.  How  all  things  listen  while  thy  muse  complains ! 
Such  silence  waits  on  Philomela's  strains, 
In  some  still  ev'ning,  when  the  whisp'ring  breeze 
Pants  on  the  leaves,  and  dies  upon  the  trees. 
To  thee,  bright  Goddess,  oft  a  lamb  shall  bleed, 
If  teeming  ewes  increase  my  fleecy  breed. 
While  plants  their  shade,  or  flow'rs  their  odours  give, 
Thy  name,  thy  honour,  and  thy  praise  shall  live ! 

Thyr,  But  see,  Orion  sheds,  unwholesome  dews 
Arise,  the  pines  a  noxioi;s  shade  diffuse ; 
Sharp  Boreas  blows,  and  nature  feels  decay ; 
1'ime  conquers  all,  and  we  must  time  obey. 
Adieu,  ye  vales,  ye  mountains,  streams  and  groves; 
Adieu,  ye  shepherds'  rural  lays  and  loves ; 
Adieu,  my  flocks;  farewell,  ye  sylvan  crew; 
Daphne,  farewell;  and  all  the  world  adieu. 


417 


MESSIAH: 
A  SACRED  ECLOGUE, 

IM   IMITATION  OF  VIRGIL's  FOLLIO. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

Iv  reading  several  passages  of  the  prophet  Isaiah,  -which  Foretell  th« 
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  PoUio  of  Virgil.  This  will  not  seem  surprising,  when 
we  reflect  that  the  Eclogue  was  taken  from  a  Sibylline  prophecy  ou 
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  pas 
toral  poetry,  and  disposed  them  in  tliat  manner  which  served  most 
to  beautify  his  piece.  I  have  endeavoured  the  same  in  this  imilatiou 
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  ol 
the  prophet  are  superior  to  those  of  the  poet.    P. 

Ye  Nymphs  of  Solyma !  begin  the  song: 
To  heav'nly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fomitains,  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus,  and  th'  Aonian  maids. 
Delight  no  more — O  thou  my  voice  inspire, 
Who  touch'd  Isaiah's  hallow'd  lips  with  fire  ! 

Rapt  into  futm-e  times,  the  bard  begun : 
A  Virgin  shall  conceive,  a  Virgin  bear  a  Son  I 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise. 
Whose  sacred  flow'r  with  fragrance  fills  the  skief  j 
Th'  etherial  Spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move. 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 
Y    Heav'ns !  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour. 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  show'r! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
From  storm  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  heav'n  descend. 
Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn! 
Oh  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe!  be  born. 


418  MESSIAH. 

See  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  brings 

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  flow'ry  top  perfume  the  skies ! — 

Hark!  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers; 

Prepare  the  way  !  a  God,  a  God  appears! 

A  God,  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply ; 

The  rocks  proclaim  th' 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 : 

'Tis  he  th'  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  ev'ry  face  he  wipes  ofFev'ry  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, 

Explores  the  lost,  the  wand'ring  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 ; 

But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 

And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  ploughshare  end. 

Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joj-ful  sou 

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  fic  Id. 

The  swain  in  bai*ren  deserts  with  surprise 

Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise  ; 

And  starts  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 

New  falls  of  water  murm'ring  in  his  ear. 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 


MESSIAH.  419 

Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplexed  witli  thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ! 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palms  succeed, 

And  od'rous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed 

The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead. 

And  boys  in  flow'ry  bands  the  tiger  lead  ; 

The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet. 

And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet 

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 

The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 

Pleased  the  green  lustre  of  the  fields  survey. 

And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently  play. 

Rise,  crown'd  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise! 

Exalt  thy  tow'ry  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 ! 

See  barb'rous  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  Sabaean  spring;; ! 

For  thee  Idume's  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's  mountains  glow. 

See  heav'n  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 

And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day. 

No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 

Nor  ev'ning  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn ; 

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  reigni  I 


420 


ELEGY 

TO   THE    MEMORY   OP 

AN    UNFORTUNATE   LADY. 


What  beck'ning  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  w^ho  greatly  think  or  bravely  die? 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  pow'rs,  her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire  ? 
Ambition  first  spriuig  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,  svillen  pris'ners  in  the  body's  cage  ; 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres ; 
Like  Eastern  kings,  a  lazy  state  they  keep. 
And,  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep. 

From  these,  perhaps,  (ere  nacure  baae  her  ill 
Fate  snatch'd  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow. 
And  sep'rate  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  ! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breatli, 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  death 
Cold  is  that  breast  which  warm'd  the  world  l)elbre, 
And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roil  no  moi'e. 


I 


ii.Lfc<}7* 


421 


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,) 

*'  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  other's  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. 
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  dl 
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? 
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  flow'rs  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. 
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. 
E'en  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays, 
Shall  shortly  want  the  gen'rous  tear  he  pays! 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart; 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  grasp  be  o'er, 
The  muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more  I 


80 


^^ 


TWO    CHORUSES 


TO 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  BRUTUS. 


CHORUS  OF  ATHENIANS. 


STROPHE    I. 

Ye  shades,  where  sacred  truth  is  sought ; 

Groves,  where  immortal  sages  taught ; 

Where  heav'nly  visions  PUito  fired, 

And  Epicurus'  Lay  inspired! 

In  vain  your  guiltless  laurels  stood 

Unspotted  long  with  human  blood. 
War,  horrid  war,  your  thoughtful  walks  invadeSi 
And  steel  now  glitters  in  the  muses'  shades. 

ANTISTROPHE    1. 

O  heav'n-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  e'en  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* 


L 


CHORUSES  423 

ANTISTROPHE    IT, 

Ye  gods!  what  justice  rules  the  ball  I 

Freedom  and  arts  together  fall ; 

Fools  grant  whate'er  ambition  craves, 

And  men,  once  ignorant,  are  slaves. 

Oh,  cursed  effects  of  civil  hate, 

In  ev'ry  age,  in  ev'ry  state ! 
Still,  when  the  lust  of  tyrant  pow'r  succeeds, 
."Some  Athens  perishes,  some  TuUy  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, 
A  lid  arts  but  soften  us  to  feel  thy  flame. 
Love,  soft  intruder,  enters  here, 
But  ent'ring  learns  to  be  sincere. 
Marcus  with  blushes  owns  he  loves, 
And  Brutus  tenderly  repi-oves. 

Why,  virtue,  dost  thou  blame  desire. 

Which  nature  hath  imprest? 
Why,  nature,  dost  thou  soonest  fire 
The  mild  and  gen'rous  breast? 

CHORUS. 

Love's  purer  flames  the  gods  approve  ^ 
The  gods  and  Brutus  bend  to  love ; 
Brutus  for  absent  Porcia  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  wand'ring,  self-consuming  fire. 
But  Hymen's  kinder  flames  unite, 

And  burn  for  ever  one  ; 
Chaste  as  cold  Cinthia's  virgin  light, 
Productive  as  the  sim. 

SEMICHORUS. 

Oh,  source  of  ev'ry  social  tie, 
United  wish,  and  mutual  joy  I 


'124  CHORUSES. 

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  uaelts,  now  leaps,  now  burns, 
With  rev'rencc;  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. 


425 


PROLOGUE 

TO 

MR.  ADDISON'S  TRAGEDY  OF  CATO.l 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art, 
To  raise  the  genius,  and  to  mend  the  heart; 
To  make  mankind  in  conscious  virtue  bokl, 
Live  o'er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they  behokl; 
For  this  the  tragic  muse  first  trod  the  stage, 
Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  ev'ry  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 ; 
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  Heav'n  itself  surveys ;     - 
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? 
E'en  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, 
As  her  dead  father's  rev'rend  image  past 
The  pomp  was  darken'd,  and  the  day  o'ercast ; 
The  triumph  ceased,  tears  gush'd  from  ev'ry  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. 
36* 


426  PUOLOGUE    «0    SOPHONISBA. 

With  honest  scorn  the  first  famed  Cato  view'd 
Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece,  whom  she  subdued 
Your  scenes  precariously  vsubsist  too  long 
On  French  translations,  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. 


PROLOGUE  TO  SOPHONISBA. 

BY   POPE   AND   MALLET.* 

When  learning,  after  the  long  Gothic  night, 
Fair,  o'er  the  western  world  renew'd  its  light, 
With  arts  arising,  Sophonisba  rose : 
The  tragic  muse,  returning,  wept  her  woes. 
Vv'ith  her  the  Italian  scene  first  learn'd  to  glow, 
And  the  first  tears  for  her  were  taught  to  flow. 
Her  charms  the  Gallic  muses  next  inspired: 
Corneille  himself  saw,  wonder'd,  and  was  fired. 

What  foreign  theatres  with  pride  have  shown, 
Britain,  by  juster  title,  makes  her  own. 
When  Freedom  is  the  cause,  'tis  hers  to  fight; 
And  hers,  when  Freedom  is  the  theme,  to  write. 
For  this  a  British  author  bids  again 
The  heroine  rise,  to  grace  the  British  scene. 
Here,  as  in  life,  she  breathes  her  genuine  flame: 
She  asks,  what  bosom  has  not  felt  the  same? 
Asks  of  the  British  youth — Is  silence  there? 
She  dares  to  ask  it  of  the  British  fair. 

To  night  our  home-spun  author  would  be  true, 
At  once,  to  nature,  history,  and  you. 
Well  pleased  to  give  our  neighbours  due  applause, 
He  owns  their  learning,  but  disdains  their  laws. 
Not  to  his  patient  touch  or  happy  flame, 
'Tis  to  his  British  heart  he  trusts  for  fame. 
If  France  excel  him  in  one  free-born  thought, 
The  man,  as  well  as  poet,  is  in  fault. 

Nature !  informer  of  the  poet's  art, 
Whose  force  alone  can  raise  or  melt  the  heart. 
Thou  art  his  guide :  each  passion,  every  line, 
Whate'er  he  draws  to  please,  must  all  be  thine. 
Be  thou  his  judge  :  in  every  candid  breast, 
Thy  silent  whisper  is  the  sacred  test. 

*  "  I  have  been  told  by  Savage,  that  of  the  Prologue  toSophouisbe 
the  first  part  was  written  by  I'ope,  who  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
tinish  it:  and  that  the  concluding  hues  were  written  by  Mallet."— 
Da   Jcu^'i>OK. 


L- 


427 


EPILOGUE 

TO  MR.  ROWE'S  JANE  SHORE. 

DESIGNED    FOR   MRS.  OLDFIELD. 


Prodigious  this !  the  frail-one  of  car  play 

From  her  own  sex  should  mercy  tind  to-day  ! 

You  might  have  held  the  pretty  head  aside, 

Peep'd  in  your  fans,  been  serious,  thus,  and  cried, 

"  The  play  may  pass — but  that  strange  creature,  Shore 

I  can't — indeed  now — I  so  hate  a  whore !" — 

Just  as  a  blockhead  rubs  his  thoughtless  skull, 

And  thanks  his  stars  he  was  not  born  a  fool; 

So  from  a  sister  sinner  you  shall  hear, 

"  How  strangely  you  expose  yourself,  my  dear!" 

But  let  me  die,  all  raillery  apart, 

Our  sex  are  still  forgiving  at  their  heart; 

And  did  not  wicked  custom  so  contrive. 

We'd  be  the  best  good-natured  things  alive. 

There  are,  'tis  true,  who  tell  another  tale, 
That  virtuous  ladies  envy  while  they  rail: 
Such  rage  without  betrays  the  fire  within ; 
In  some  close  corner  of  the  soul  they  sin  ; 
Still  hoarding  up,  most  scandalously  nice, 
Amidst  their  virtues,  a  reserve  of  vice. 
The  godly  dame,  who  fleshly  failings  damns, 
Scolds  with  her  maid,  or  with  her  chaplain  crams-. 
Would  you  enjo)'^  soft  niglits,  and  solid  dinners? 
Faith,  gallants,  board  with  saints,  and  bed  with  sinners. 

Well,  if  our  author  in  the  wife  offends, 
He  has  a  husband  that  will  make  amends: 
He  draws  him  gentle,  tender,  and  forgiving ;  ^ 
And  sure  such  kind,  good  creatures  may  be  living. 
In  days  of  old,  they  pardon'd  breach  of  vows; 
Stern  Cato's  self  was  no  relentless  spouse : 
Plu — Plutarch,  what's  his  name,  that  writes  his  life? 
Tells  us,  that  Cato  dearly  loved  his  wife ; 


L 


428  EPILOGUE  TO  JANE  SHORE. 

Yet  if  a  friend,  a  night  or  so,  should  need  her, 
He'd  recommend  her  as  a  special  breeder. 
To  lend  a  wife,  few  here  would  scruple  make ; 
But,  pray,  which  of  you  all  would  take  her  back? 
Though  with  the  stoic  chief  our  stage  may  ring, 
The  stoic  husband  was  the  glorious  thing. 
The  man  had  courage,  was  a  sage,  'tis  true, 
And  loved  his  country — but  what's  that  to  you? 
Those  strange  examples  ne'er  were  made  to  fit  ye, 
But  the  kind  cuckold  might  instruct  the  City: 
There  many  an  honest  man  may  copy  Cato, 
Who  ne'er  saw  naked  sword,  or  look'd  in  Plato. 

If,  after  all,  you  think  it  a  disgrace. 
That  Edward's  miss  thus  perks  it  in  your  face  j 
To  see  a  piece  of  failing  flesh  and  blood, 
In  all  the  rest  so  imprudently  good; 
Faith,  let  the  modest  matrons  of  the  town 
Come  here  in  crowds,  and  stare  the  strumpet  down. 


420 


ODES. 


ON   ST.   CECILIA'S   DAY 

[written  in  the  year  1708.1 

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  fioatf 
Till  by  degrees,  remote  and  small, 
The  strains  decay, 
And  melt  away 
In  a  dying,  dying  fall. 

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 


430  ODE  ON  ST.  Cecilia's  day. 

Sloth  unfolds  her  arms  and  wakes, 

Listening  Envy  drops  her  snakes; 
Intestine  War  no  more  our  passions  wage, 
And  giddy  Factions  bear  away  their  rage. 

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'di 
And  half  unsheath'd  the  shining  blade; 
And  seas,  and  rocks,  and  skies  rebound, 
To  arms,  to  arms,  to  arms ! 

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, 
AVhat  sounds  were  heard. 
What  scenes  appear'd. 

O'er  all  the  dreary  coasts  I 
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  Ijrre, 
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  uncmi'd  hang  listening  round  their  heads. 

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  heroes'  armed  shades 
Glittering  through  the  gloomy  glades; 


ODE    ON    ST.  CKCILIa's    DAT.  4!fJ 

By  the  youths  that  died  for  love, 
Wandering  in  the  myrtle  grove. 
Restore,  restore  Eurydice  to  life : 
Oh,  take  the  husband,  or  restore  the  wife  I 
He  sung,  and  hell  consented 
To  hear  the  poet's  prayer; 
Stern  Proserpine  relented, 
And  gave  him  back  the  fair. 
Thus  song  could  prevuil 
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. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  the  lover  turns  hifeyes; 
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'  criet-* 

Ah!  see,  he  dies! 
Yet  e'en  in  death  Eurydice  he  sung, 
Eurydice  still  trembled  on  his  tongue ; 
Eurydice  the  woods, 
Eurydice  the  floods, 
Eurydice  the  rocks  and  hollow  mountains,  rung. 

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  con^ned  the  sound* 


432  ODE    ON    SOLITUDE, 

When  the  full  organ  joins  the  tuneful  quire, 
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. 


ON  SOLITUDE. 

[WRITTEN  TTHEN  THE  AUTHOR  WAS  ABOUT  TWELVE  YEARS  OLD.] 


Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  aci'es  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground : 

Whose  herbs  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire — 

Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire. 

Bless'd,  who  can  unconcern 'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away, 

In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind; 
Quiet  by  day — 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mix'd ;  sweet  recreation ; 

And  innocence,  which  most  does  please. 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown— 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stoxM 

Tell  where  I  lie. 


ODB— -VITAL   BPAR&.  433 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 


Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame ! 
Quit,  oh  quit  this  mortal  frame ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  Hngering,  flying; 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  nature !  cease  thy  strife. 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

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  I  can  this  be  death  t 

The  world  recedes ;   it  disappears  I 

Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  I  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring ; 

Lend,  lend  your  wings!     I  mount!  I  fly  I 

O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death!  where  is  thy  sting f 


484 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER, 
DEO  OPT.  MAA. 


Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime,  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  iinders 
Who  all  my  sense  confined, 

To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good. 
And  that  myself  am  blind: 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  sliisu, 

That  more  than  hea,ven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  awai/ 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives: 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 


THE   UNIVERSAL    PRATBR.  435 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh !  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied. 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so,     / 

Since  quicken'd  by  thy  breath : 
O  lead  me,  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death  I 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lol; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestow'd  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  spacer 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies; 
One  chorus  let  all  being  raise  I 

AU  nature's  incense  rise  I 


436 


EPITAPHS. 


Hb  saltern  accumulem  donis,  et  flingar  inatil 
Muncrel  V1RQ4 


ON  CHARLES  EARL  OF  DORSET, 
In  the  Church  of  Withyam,  in  Sussex. 

Dorset,  the  grace  of  courts,  the  muse's  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. 

Bless'd  courtier!  who  could  king  and  country  please, 

Yet  sacred  keep  his  friendships  and  his  ease. 

Bless'd  peer !  his  great  forefathers'  every  grace 

Reflecting,  and  reflected  in  his  race ; 

Where  other  Buckhursts,  other  Dorsets,  shine, 

And  patrons  still,  or  poets,  deck  the  line. 


ON  SIR  WILLIAM  TRUMBALL, 

One  of  the  Principal  Secretaries  of  State  to  King  Wil- 
liam III.^  who,  having  resigned  his  place,  died  in  his 
retirement  at  Easthamstead,  in  Berkshire,  1716. 

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; 


EPITAPHS.  437 

An  honest  courtier,  yet  a  patriot  too — 

Just  to  his  prince,  and  to  his  country  true ; 

Fill'd  with  the  sense  of  age,  tlie  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. 


ON  THE  HON.  SIMON  HARCOURT, 

Only  Son  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  Harcourt,  at  the 
Church  of  Stanton-Har court y  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  giief  but  when  he  died. 
How  vain  his  reason,  eloquence  how  weak. 
If  Pope  must  tell  what  Harcourt  cannot  speak! 
Oh  !  let  thy  once-loved  friend  inscribe  ihy  stone, 
And  with  a  father's  sorrows  mix  his  own  !  * 


ON  JAMES  CRAGGS,  ESQ. 

In  Westminster  Alley. 

JACOBUS    CRAGGS 

REGI    MAGN'/E    BKITANNI/E    A    SECRETIS 

ET    CONCIMIS    SANCriORIBUS, 

PRINCIPIS    r-ARITI-.H    AC    POPULI    AMOR    ET 

DF.LlCliE  : 

VIXIT,    TITULIS    ET    INVIDIA    MAJOR 

ANNOS,    HEU    PAUCOS,    XXXV. 

OB.    FEB.  XVI.    MDCCXX. 

Statesman,  yet  friend  to  truth  !  of  soul  sincere, 

fn  action  faithful,  and  in  honour  clear! 

Who  broke  no  promise,  served  no  private  end ; 

Who  gain'd  no  title,  and  ^vho  lost  no  friend: 

Ennobled  by  himself,  by  all  approved  ; 

Praised^  wept,  and  honour'd  by  the  muse  he  loved. 

37* 


$38  EPITAPHS. 

INTENDED  FOR  MR.  ROWE, 
In  Westminster  Ahhey. 

TiiY  reliques,  Rowe !  to  this  fair  urn  we  trust, 
And  sacred  place  by  Dryden's  awful  dust; 
Beneath  a  rude  and  nameless  stone  he  lies, 
To  Avhich  thy  tomb  shall  guide  inquiring  eyes 
Peace  to  thy  gentle  shade,  and  endless  rest! 
Bless'd  in  thy  genius,  in  thy  love  too  bless'd ! 
One  grateful  woman  to  thy  fame  supplies 
What  a  whole  thankless  land  to  his  denies. 


ON  MRS.  CORBET, 
Who  died  of  a  Cancer  in  her  Breast. 

Herk  rests  a  woman,  good  without  pretence, 
Bless'd  with  plain  reason  and  with  sober  sense! 
No  conquest  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. 


ON   THE   MONUMENT   OF   THE 

HONOURABLE  ROBERT  DIGBY, 

AND   OF   HIS   SISTER   MARY, 

Erected  by  their  Father  the  Lord  Dighy,  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: 


EPITAPHS.  439 

Of  softest  manners,  unaffected  mind, 
Lover  of  peace,  and  friend  of  human-kind! 
Go  live ;  for  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine ; 
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 ! 


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  snateh'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. 


ON  GENERAL  HENRY  WITHERS, 
In  Westminster  Abbey,  1729. 

Here,  Withers  I  rest ;  thou  bravest,  gentlest  mind ; 

Thy  country's  friend,  but  more  of  human-kind. 

O,  born  to  arms !  O  worth  in  youth  approved  I 

O  soft  humanity,  in  age  beloved ! 

For  then  the  hardy  veteran  drops  a  tear. 

And  the  gay  courtier  feels  the  sigh  sincere. 

Withers !  adieu ;  yet  not  with  thee  remove 

Tliy  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  licC-  beneath  this  stone. 


440  EPI1APH9. 

ON  MR.  ELIJAH  FENTON, 
At  Easthamstead,  in  Berkshire,  17S0. 

This  modest  stone,  what  few  vain  marbles  can, 

May  truly  say,  "  Here  lies  an  honest  man." 

A  poet  hless'd  beyond  the  poet's  fate, 

Whom  Heaven  kept  sacred  from  the  proud  and  great, 

Foe  to  loud  praise,  and  friend  to  learned  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 — 

P'rom  Nature's  temperate  feast  rose  satisfied, 

Thank'd  Heaven  that  he  had  lived,  and  that  he  died. 


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  e'en  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. 


ANOTHER. 

Well,  then !  poor  Gay  lies  under  ground, 
So  there  's  an  end  of  honest  Jack : 

So  little  justice  here  he  found, 

'Tis  ten  to  one  lie  '11  ne'er  con)e  back. 


EPITAPHS.  441 

INTENDED  FOR  SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON, 
In  Westminster  Abbey. 

ISAACUS  NEWTGNUS: 

Quem  Immortaleni 

•  Testantur  Tempus,  Natura,  Coelum  : 

Mortalem 

Hoc  Marmor  Fatetur. 

Nature  and  Nature's  laws  lay  hid  in  night; 
God  said,  Let  Newton  be  1  and  all  was  light. 


ON  DR.  FRANCIS  ATTERBURY, 

BISHOP   OF   ROCHESTER, 

Who  died  in  exile  in  Paris,  1732, 

f  His  only  daughter  having  expired  in  his  arms,  immediately 
after  she  arrived  in  France  to  see  him.] 

DIALOGUE. 

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  1 
Yes — **  Save  my  country,  Heaven!"  he  said,  and  died 


ON  EDMUND  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM, 

Who  died  in  the  nineteenth  year  of  his  age,  17J^^. 

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. 


.«"*•  > 


442  EPITAPHS. 

This  wecpini^  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  tlie  heart ; 
And  chiefs  or  sages  long  to  Britain  given, 
Pay  the  last  tribute  of  a  saint  to  Heaven. 


FOR  ONE  WHO  WOULD  NOT  BE  BURIF,!) 
IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Heroes  and  kings!  your  distance  keep 
In  peace  let  one  poor  poet  slee^p, 
Who  never  flatter'd  folks  like  you 
Let  Horace  blush,  ai;d  Virgil  too. 


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  i)i!i 
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 


L_ 


443 


MISCELLANIES. 


THE  BASSET  TABLE— AN  ECLOGUE. 

CARDEHA,    BMiLiNDA,    LOVET. 

Caruema.  The  basset  table  spread,  tbo  tallier  come, 
Why  stays  Sinilinda  in  the  dressing-room  ? 
Rise,  pensive  nymph  !  the  tallier  waits  fur  5011. 

Smil.  Ah,  madam!  since  my  Shar])er  is  untrue, 
\  joyless  make  my  once-adored  Alpheu. 
I  saw  him  stand  behind  Ombrelia's  chair, 
And  whisper  with  that  soft  deluding-  air, 
And  those  feign'd  sighs  which  cheat  the  li  stoning  fail 

Caud.   Is  this  the  cause  of  your  romantic  strains? 
A  mightier  grief  my  heavy  heai't  sustains; 
As  you  by  love,  so  I  by  fortune  cross'd  ; 
One,  one  bad  deal  three  septlevas  have  lost. 

Smil.  Is  that  the  grief  which  you  compare  with  mine? 
With  ease  the  smiles  of  fortune  I  resign: 
Would  all  my  gold  in  one  bad  deal  were  gone, 
Were  lovely  Sharper  mine,  and  mine  alone. 

Card.  A  lover  lost  is  but  a  common  care. 
And  prudent  nymphs  against  that  change  pre])aro : 
The  knave  of  clubs  thrice  lost — oh  !  who  could  guess 
This  fatal  stroke — this  unforeseen  distress? 

Smil.  See  Betty  Lovet!  very  ^-propos, 
She  all  the  cares  of  love  and  play  does  know 
Dear  Betty  shall  the  important  point  decide ; 
Betty  !  who  oft  the  pain  of  each  has  tried  ; 
Impartial,  she  shall  say  who  suffers  most, 
By  cards'  ill  usage,  or  by  lovers  lost. 

Lov.  Tell,  tell  your  griefs;  attentive  will  I  stay, 
Though  time  is  precious,  and  I  want  some  tea. 

Card.  Behold  this  equipage,  by  Mathers  wrought, 
With  fifty  guineas  (a  great  penn 'worth  bought. 


444  MISCELLANIES. 

See  on  the  toothpick  Mars  and  Cupid  strive, 
And  both  the  struggling  figures  seem  alive. 
Upon  the  bottom  shines  the  queen's  bright  face; 
A.  myrtle  foliage  round  the  thimble-case. 
Jove,  Jove  himself,  does  on  the  scissars  shine, 
The  metal  and  the  workmanship  divine — 

Smil.  This  snuflP-box — once  tne  pledge  of  Sharper'a 
love, 
When  rival  beauties  for  the  present  strove : 
At  Corticelli's  he  the  raffle  won; 
Then  first  his  passion  was  in  public  shown: 
llazardia  blush'd,  and  tnrn'd  her  head  aside, 
A  rival's  envy  (all  in  vain)  to  hide: — ^ 
Tliis  snuff-box — on  the  hinge  see  brilliants  shine 
This  snuff-box  will  I  stake :  the  prize  is  mine. 

Card.  Alas!  far  lesser  losses  than  I  bear 
Have  made  a  soldier  sigh,  a  lover  swear. 
And,  oh !  what  makes  the  disappointment  hard, 
'Twas  my  own  lord  that  drew  the  fatal  card. 
In  complaisance  I  took  the  queen  he  gave, 
Though  my  own  secret  wish  wa»  for  the  knave : 
The  knave  won  sonica,  which  I  had  chose, 
And  the  next  pull  my  septleva  I  lose. 

Smil.  But,  ah!  what  aggravates  the  killing  smart, 
The  cruel  thought  that  stabs  me  to  the  heart; 
This  cursed  Ombrelia,  this  undoing  fair. 
By  whose  vile  arts  this  heavy  grief  I  bear ; 
She,  at  whose  name  I  shed  these  spiteful  tears, 
She  owes  to  me  the  very  charms  she  wears. 
An  awkward  thing  when  first  she  came  to  town. 
Her  shape  unfashion'd,  and  her  face  unknown : 
She  was  my  friend ;  I  taught  her  first  to  spread 
Upon  her  sallow  cheeks  enlivening  red ; 
[  introduced  her  to  the  park  and  plays. 
And  by  my  interest  Cozens  made  her  stays. 
Ungrateful  wretch !  with  mimic  airs  grown  pert, 
She  dares  to  steal  my  favourite  lover's  heart. 

CARii.   Wretch  that  I  was,  how  often  have  1  sv/ore 
When  Winnall  tallied  I  would  punt  no  more  ! 
1  know  the  bite,  yet  to  my  ruin  run, 
And  see  the  folly  which  I  cannot  shun, 

Smil.  How  many  maids  have  Sharper's  vows   de 
ceived — 
How  many  cursed  the  moment  they  believed  I 
Yet  his  known  falsehoods  could  no  warning  prove; 
Ah !  what  is  warning  to  a  maid  in  love  ? 

Card.  But  of  what  marble  must  that  breast  be  form'.^ 
To  gaze  on  Basset  and  remain  unwarm'd? 
When  kings,  queens,  knaves,  are  set  in  decent  rank 
Exposed  in  glorious  heaps  the  tempting  bank, 


MISCELLANIES.  445 

Guineas,  half-guineas,  all  the  shining  train, 
The  winner's  pleasure,  and  the  loser's  pain, 
In  bright  confusion  open  rouleaus  lie — 
They  strike  the  soul,  and  glitter  in  the  eye : 
Fired  by  the  sight,  all  reason  I  disdain, 
My  passions  rise,  and  will  not  bear  the  rein. 
Look  upon  Basset,  you  who  reason  boast, 
And  see  if  reason  must  not  there  be  lost. 

Smil.  What  more  than  marble  must  that  heait  com- 
pose, 
Can  hearken  coldly  to  my  Sharper's  vows? 
Then,  when  he  trembles !  when  his  blushes  rise ! 
When  awful  love  seems  melting  in  his  eyes! 
With  eager  beats  his  Mechlin  cravat  moves; 
He  loves— I  whisper  to  myself.  He  loves ! 
Such  unfeign'd  passion  in  his  looks  appears, 
I  lose  all  memory  of  my  former  fears; 
My  panting  heart  confesses  all  his  charms — 
I  yield  at  once,  and  sink  into  his  arms. 
Think  of  that  moment,  you  who  prudence  boast ; 
For  such  a  moment,  prudence  well  were  lost.^ 

Card.  At  the  Groom-porter's  batter'd  bullies  play, 
Some  dukes  at  Marybone  bowl  time  away ; 
But  who  the  bowl  or  rattling  dice  compares 
To  Basset's  heavenly  joys  and  pleasing  cares? 

Smil.  Soft  Simplicetta  dotes  upon  a  beau; 
Prudina  Ukes  a  man,  and  laughs  at  show: 
Their  several  graces  in  my  Sharper  meet — 
Strong  as  the  footman,  as  the  master  sweet. 

Lov.  Cease  your  contention,  which  has  been  too  long 
I  grow  impatient,  and  the  tea 's  too  strong. 
Attend,  and  yield  to  what  I  now  decide : 
The  equipage  shall  grace  Smilinda's  side  ; 
The  snuff-box  to  Cardelia  I  decree. 
Now  leave  complaining,  and  begin  your  tea. 


VERBATIM  FROM  BOILEAU. 

UN  JOUR,  DIT  UN  AUTEUR,   RTC. 

Once,  (says  an  author,  where  I  need  not  say,) 
Two  travellers  found  an  oyster  in  their  way : 
Both  fierce,  both  hungry,  the  dispute  grew  strong, 
While,  scale  in  hand,  Dame  Justice  pass  d  along. 
Before  her  each  with  clamour  pleads  the  laws, 
hxplain'd  the  matter,  and  would  win  the  cause. 

38 


446  mi3c::i.tanies. 

Dame  Justice,  weighing  long  the  doubtful  right, 
Takes,  opens,  swallows  it  before  their  sight. 
The  cause  of  strife  removed  so  rarely  well, 
There,  take,  (says  Justice,)  take  ye  each  a  shell. 
We  thrive  at  Westminster  on  fools  like  you: 
'Twas  a  fat  oyster — live  in  peace — adieu. 


ANSWER  TO  THE  FOLLOWING  QUESTION 
OF  MRS.  HOWE. 

What  is  prudery? 

'Tis  a  beldam, 
Seen  with  wit  and  beauty  seldom. 
'Tis  a  fear  that  starts  at  shadow^s ; 
'Tis  (no,  'tisn't)  like  Miss  iVIeadows; 
*Tis  a  virgin  hard  of  feature, 
Old,  and  void  of  all  good-nature; 
liaau  and  fretful ;  would  seem  wise, 
Yet  plays  the  fool  before  she  dies. 
'Tis  an  ugly,  envious  shrew, 
That  rails  at  dear  Lepeil  and  you. 


OCCASIONED  BY  SOME  VERSES  OF  HIS 
GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

Musk,  'tis  enough,  at  length  thy  labour  ends. 
And  thou  shalt  live,  for  Buckingham  commends. 
Let  crowds  of  critics  now  my  verse  assail ; 
Let  Dennis  write,  and  nameless  numbers  rail ; 
This  more  than  pays  whole  years  of  thankless  pain, — 
Time,  health,  and  fortune  arc  not  lost  in  vain. 
Sheffield  approves,  consenting  Phoebus  bends, 
And  I  and  malice  from  this  hc.ur  are  friends. 


A  PROLOGUE,  BY  MR.  POPE, 

To  a  Play  for  Mr.  Dennis's  Benefit^  in  1733,  whi^s 

he  was  old,  blind,  and  in  great  disircsSf 

a  little  before  his  death. 

As  when  that  hero,  who,  in  each  campaign; 
Had  braved  the  Goth,  and  many  a  Vandal  slain. 


# 


MISCELLANIES.  M7 

Lay  fortunt-struck  a  spectacle  of  woe! 
Wept  by  each  friend,  forgiven  by  every  foe; 
Was  there  a  generous,  a  reflecting  mind, 
But  pitied  Belisarius,  old  and  blind? 
Was  there  a  chief  but  melted  at  the  sight? 
A  common  soldier,  but  who  clubb'd  his  mite? 
Such,  such  emotions  should  in  Britons  rise, 
When,  press'd  by  want  and  weakness,  Denis  lies; 
Dennis,  v.ho  long  had  warr'd  with  modern  Huns, 
'I'heir  quibbles  routed,  and  defied  their  puns; 
A  desperate  bulwark,  sturdy,  firm,  and  fierce, 
Against  the  Gothic  sons  of  frozen  verse: 
How  changed  from  him  who  made  the  boxes  groan, 
And  shook  the  stage  with  thunders  all  his  own! 
Stood  up  to  dash  each  vain  pretender's  hope. 
Maul  the  French  tyrant,  or  pull  down  the  pope  ! 
If  there  's  a  Briton  then,  true  bred  and  born, 
Who  holds  dragoons  and  wooden  shoes  in  scorn — 
If  there  's  a  critic  of  distinguish 'd  rage, 
If  there  's  a  senior  who  contemns  this  age, 
Let  him  to-night  his  just  assistance  lend. 
And  be  the  critic's,  Briton's,  old  man's,  friend. 


MACER:  A  CHARACTER. 

When  simple  Macer,  now  of  high  renown. 
First  sought  a  poet's  fortune  in  the  town, 
'Twas  all  the  ambition  his  high  soul  could  feel, 
To  wear  red  stockings,  and  to  dine  with  Steele : 
Some  ends  of  verse  his  betters  might  afford, 
And  gave  the  harmless  fellow  a  good  word. 
Set  up  with  these,  he  ventured  on  the  town. 
And  with  a  borrow'd  play  outdid  poor  Crown. 
There  he  stopp'd  short,  nor  since  has  writ  a  tittle, 
But  has  the  wit  to  make  the  most  of  little ; 
Like  stunted  hide-bound  trees,  that  just  have  got 
Sufficient  sap  at  once  to  bear  and  rot. 
Now  he  begs  verse,  and  what  he  gets  commends, 
Not  of  the  wits  his  foes,  but  fools  his  friends. 

So  some  coarse  country  wench,  almost  decay'd, 
Trudges  to  town,  and  first  turns  chambermaid: 
Awkward  and  supple  each  devoir  to  pay, 
She  flatters  her  good  lady  twice  a-day  ; 
Thought  wondrous  honest,  though  of  mean  degree, 
And  strangely  liked  for  her  simplicity: 
In  a  translated  suit,  then  tries  the  town, 
VVith  borrow'd  pins,  and  patches  not  her  own: 


448  MISCELLANIES. 

Butjust  endured  tlie  winter  she  began, 

Ana  in  four  months  a  batter'd  harridan. 

Now  nothing  left,  but  wither'd,  pale,  and  shrunk, 

To  bawd  for  others,  and  go  shares  with  punk. 


SON.G,  BY  A  PERSON  OF  QUALITY. 

[WRITTEN  IN  THE  YEAR  1783.] 

Fluttering  spread  thy  purple  pinions, 
Gentle  Cupid!  o'er  my  heart; 

I  a  slave  in  thy  dominions : 
Nature  must  give  way  to  art. 

Mild  Arcadians,  ever  blooming, 
Nightly  nodding  o'er  your  flocks. 

See  my  weary  days  consuming 
All  beneath  yon  flowery  rocks. 

Thus  the  Cyprian  goddess,  weeping, 
Mourn'd  Adonis,  darling  youth : 

Him  the  boar,  in  silence  creeping. 
Gored  with  unrelenting  tooth. 

Cynthia !  tune  harmonious  numbers : 
Fair  Discretion  I  string  the  lyre; 

Soothe  my  ever- waking  slumbers: 
Bright  Apollo !  lend  thy  choir. 

Gloomy  Pluto!  king  of  terrors, 

Arm'd  in  adamantine  chains. 
Lead  me  to  the  crystal  mirrois. 

Watering  soft  Elysian  plains. 

Moin-nful  Cyprus,  verdant  willow, 

Gilding  my  Aurelia's  brows, 
Morpheus  hovering  o'er  my  pillow, 

Hear  me  pay  my  dying  vows. 

Melancholy  smooth  Macander 

Swiftly  purling  in  a  round, 
On  thy  margin  lovers  wander, 

With  thy  flowery  chaplets  crown'd. 

Thus  when  Philomela,  drooping, 

Softly  seeks  her  silent  mate, 
See  the  bird  of  Juno  stooping; 

M^'lody  resigns  to  fate. 


MISCELLANIES. 


449 


ON  A  CERTAIN  LADY  AT  COURT. 

I  KKow  the  thing  that 's  most  uncommon ; 

(Envy,  be  silent  and  attend!) 
I  know  a  reasonable  woman, 

Handsome  and  witty,  yet  a  friend. 

Nor  warp'd  by  passion,  awed  by  rumour,— 
Not  grave  through  pride,  nor  gay  through  foUy,- 

An  equal  mixture  of  good  humour, 
And  sensible  soft  melancholy. 

"  Has  she  no  faults  then,  (envy  says,)  Sir?" 

Yes,  she  has  one,  I  must  aver : 
When  all  the  world  conspires  to  praise  her. 

The  woman 's  deaf,  and  does  not  hear. 


ON  HIS  GROTTO  AT  TWICKENHAM, 

Composed  of  Marbles^  Spars^   Gems^   Ores,  and 
^  Minerals, 

Thou  who  shalt  stop  where  Thames'  translucent  wave 
Shines  a  broad  mirror  through  the  shadowy  cave ; 
Where  lingering  drops  from  mineral  roofs  distil, 
And  pointed  crystals  break  the  sparkling  rill ; 
Unpolish'd  gems  no  ray  on  pride  bestow. 
And  latent  metals  innocently  glow : 
Approach.     Great  nature  studiously  behold ! 
And  eye  the  mine  without  a  wish  for  gold. 
Approach :  but  awful !  lo !  the  ^gerian  grot, 
Where  nobly  pensive  St.  John  sat  and  thought. 
Where  British  sighs  from  dying  Wyndham  stole. 
And  the  bright  flame  was  shot  through  Marchmont'a 

soul. 
Let  such,  such  only,  tread  this  sacred  floor, 
Who  dare  to  love  their  country,  and  be  poor. 

t8* 


J 


450  MISCELLANIES. 


ON   RECEIVING   FROM   THE 

RIGHT  HON.  LADY  FRANCES  SHIRLEY 
A  STANDISH  AND  TWO  PENS. 

Yes,  I  beheld  the  Athenian  queen 

Descend  in  all  her  sober  charms ! 
And  "Take,"  she  said,  and  smiled  serene, 

" Take  at  this  hand  celestial  arms: 

Secure  the  radiant  weapons  wield; 

This  golden  lance  shall  guard  desert. 
And  if  a  vice  dares  keep  the  field, 

This  steel  shall  stab  it  to  the  heart." 

Awed,  on  my  bended  knees  I  fell, 

Received  the  weapons  of  the  sky, 
And  dipp'd  them  in  the  sable  well, 

The  fount  of  fame  or  infamy, 

"What  well?  what  weapon?"  Flavia  cries; 

"  A  standish,  steel,  and  golden  pen  ! 
It  came  from  Bertram's,  not  the  skies; 

I  gave  it  you  to  write  again. 

But,  friend !  take  heed  whom  you  attack ; 

You'll  bring  a  house,  (I  mean  of  peers,) 
Red,  blue,  and  green — nay,  white  and  black, 

L*****  and  all,  about  your  ears. 

You'd  write  as  smooth  again  on  glass, 

And  run  on  ivory  so  glib. 
As  not  to  stick  at  fool  or  ass, 

Nor  stop  at  flattery  or  fib. 

Athenian  queen!  and  sober  charms! 

I  tell  ye,  fool!  there  's  nothing  in't: 
*Tis  Venus,  Venus  gives  these  arms; 

In  Dryden's  Virgil  see  the  print. 

Come,  if  you'll  be  a  quiet  soul. 

That  dares  tell  neither  truth  nor  lies, 

I'll  list  you  in  the  harmless  roll 
Of  those  that  sing  of  these  poor  ejes.** 


MISCELLANIES, 


461 


TO  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGUE. 

In  beauty  or  wit, 

No  mortal,  as  yet, 
To  question  your  empire  has  dared ; 

But  men  of  discerning 

Have  thought  that  in  learnmg, 
To  yield  to  a  lady  was  hard. 

Impertinent  schools, 

With  musty  dull  rules, 
Have  reading  to  females  denied ! 

So  papists  refuse 

The  Bible  to  use, 
Lest  flocks  should  be  wise  as  their  guide. 

*Twas  a  woman  at  first 

(Indeed  she  was  cursed) 
In  knowledge  that  tasted  delight ; 

And  sages  agree, 

The  laws  should  decree 
To  the  first  of  possessors  the  right. 

Then  bravely,  fair  dame, 

Resume  the  old  claim, 
Which  to  your  whole  sex  does  belong; 

And  lot  men  receive, 

From  a  second  bright  Eve, 
The  knowledge  of  right  and  of  wrong. 

But  if  the  first  Eve 

Hard  doom  did  receive, 
When  only  one  apple  had  she. 

What  a  punishment  new 

Shall  be  found  out  for  you, 
Who,  tasting,  have  robb'd  the  whole  tree! 


THE  FOURTH  EPISTLE  OF  THE  FIRST 
BOOK  OF  HORACE'S  EPISTLES. 

A   MODERN   IMITATION. 

Say,  St.  John,  who  alone  peruse 
Witli  candid  eye  the  mimic  muse, 


452  MISCELLANIES. 

What  schemes  of  politics,  or  lawfl. 
In  Gallic  lands  the  patriot  draws! 
Is  then  a  greater  work  in  hand, 
Than  all  the  tomes  of  Maine's  band? 
*  Or  shoots  he  folly  as  it  flies? 
Or  catches  manners  as  they  rise?' 
Or,  urged  by  unquench'd  native  heat, 
Does  St.  John  Greenwich  sports  repeat! 
"Where  (emulous  of  Chartres'  fame) 
E'en  Chartres'  self  is  scarce  a  name. 
To  you  (the  all-envied  gift  of  Heaven) 
The  indulgent  gods,  unask'd,  have  given 
A  form  complete  in  every  part, 
And,  to  enjoy  that  gift,  the  art. 
What  could  a  tender  motlier's  care 
Wish  better  to  her  favourite  heir, 
Than  wit,  and  fame,  and  lucky  hours — 
A  stock  of  health,  and  golden  showers, 
And  graceful  fluency  of  speech. 
Precepts  before  unknown  to  teach? 

Amidst  thy  various  ebbs  of  fear. 
And  gleaming  hope,  and  black  despair, 
Yet  let  thy  friend  this  truth  impart, 
A  truth  I  tell  with  bleeding  heart 
(Injustice  for  your  labours  past). 
That  every  hour  shall  be  your  last- 
That  every  hour  you  life  renew 
Is  to  your  injured  country  due. 

In  spite  of  fears,  of  mercy  spite, 
My  genius  still  must  rail,  and  write. 
Haste  to  thy  Twickenham's  safe  retreat. 
And  mingle  with  the  grumbling  great: 
There,  half  devour'd  by  spleen,  you  11  find 
The  rhyming  bubbler  of  mankind  ; 
There  (objects  of  our  mutual  hate) 
We'll  ridicule  both  church  and  state. 


EPIGRAM  ON  MRS.  TOFTS, 

A  handsome  Woman  with  a  fine  voice,  but  very 
covetous  and  2>roud. 

So  bright  is  thy  beauty,  so  charrr.ing  thy  song, 
As  had  drawn  both  the  beasts  and  their  Orpheus  along; 
But  such  is  thy  avarice,  and  such  is  thy  pride, 
That  the  beasts  must  have  starved,  and  the  poet  hap« 
died. 


MISCELLANIES*  453 


A  DIALOGUE. 


PoFE.      Since  my  old  friend  is  grown  so  great 
As  to  be  minister  of  state, 
I'm  told  (but  'tis  not  true,  I  hope) 
That  Craggs  will  be  ashamed  of  Pope. 

Craoqs.  Alas !  if  I  am  such  a  creature, 

To  grow  the  worse  for  growing  greater^ 
Why,  faith,  in  spite  of  all  my  biags, 
'Tis  Pope  must  be  ashamed  of  Craggs. 


TO  SIR  GODFREY  KNELLER, 

On  his  painting  for  me  the  Statues  of  Apollo,  FeniiSf 
and  Hercules, 

What  god,  what  genius,  did  the  pencil  maVe 

When  Kneller  painted  these? 
*Twas  friendship — warm  as  Phoebus,  kind  «6  love, 

And  strong  as  Hercules. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  LONDON 
In  the  Year  1715. 

Dear,  d — d,  distracting  town,  farewell  1 
Thy  fools  no  more  I'll  tease : 

This  year  in  peace,  ye  critics,  dwell— 
Ye  harlots,  sleep  at  ease ! 

Soft  B»*»  and  rough  C*****,  adieu  I 
Earl  Warwick,  make  your  moan^ 

The  lively  H***»*k  and  you 
May  knock  up  whores  alone* 

To  drink  and  droll  be  Rowe  allow'd 
Till  the  third  watchman  toll ; 

Let  Jervis  gratis  paint,  and  Frowdo 
Save  three-pence  and  his  soul. 


454  MISCELLANIES. 

Farewell  Arbuthiiot's  r.'iillery 

On  every  learned  sot, 
And  Garth,  the  best  good  Christian  h©, 

Although  he  knows  it  not. 

Lintot,  farewell !  thy  bard  must  go ; 

Farewell,  unhappy  Tonsou ! 
Heaven  gives  thee,  for  thv  loss  of  Row©, 

Lean  Philips,  and  tat  Johnson. 

Why  should  I  stay  ?    Both  parties  rage ; 

My  vixen  mistress  squalls ; 
The  wits  in  envious  feuds  engage ; 

And  Homer  (d — n  him!)  calls. 

The  love  of  art  lies  cold  and  dead 

In  Halifax's  urn ; 
And  not  one  muse  of  all  he  fed 

Has  yet  the  grace  to  mourn. 

My  friends,  by  turns,  my  friends  confound^ 

Betray,  and  are  betray'd: 
Poor  Y***rs  sold  for  fifty  pound, 

And  B******ll  is  a  jade. 

Why  make  I  friendship  with  the  great. 

When  I  no  favour  seek  ? — 
Or  follow  girls  seven  hours  in  eight?— 

I  need  but  once  a  week. 

Still  idle,  with  a  busy  air, 

Deep  whimsies  to  contrive; 
The  gayest  valetudinaire, 

Most  thinking  rake  alive. 

Solicitous  for  others'  ends, 

Though  fond  of  dear  repose ; 
Careless  or  drowsy  with  my  friends, 

And  frolic  with  my  foes. 

Luxurious  lobster-nights,  farewell, 

For  sober,  studious  days  I 
And  Burlington's  delicious  meal, 

For  salads,  tarts,  and  pease ! 

Adieu  to  all  but  Gay  alone, 
Whose  soul,  sincere  and  free, 

Loves  all  mankind,  but  flatters  none» 
And  so  may  starve  with  me. 


MISCELLANIES. 


466 


EPIGRAM 

On  one  who  made  long  Epitapka. 
Friend,  for  your  epitaphs  I  m  gneved, 

"Where  still  so  much  is  said : 
One  half  will  never  be  believed. 

The  other  never  read. 


EPIGRAM, 

Engraved  on  the  Collar  of  a  Dog  tvhich  I  gave  to 
his  Royal  Highness. 
I  AM  his  Highness'  dog  at  Kew : 
Pray  tell  me,  sir,  whose  dog  are  your 


EPIGRAM, 

Occasioned  by  an  Invitation  to  Court, 
In  the  lines  that  you  sent  are  the  Muses  and  Graces: 
You've  the  nine  in  your  wit,  and  the  three  in  your  laces. 


ON  AN  OLD  GATE, 

Erected  in  Chiswick  Gardens 
O  GATE,  how  earnest  thou  here? 
Gate.  I  was  brought  from  Chelsea  last  year, 
Battered  with  wind  and  weather 
Inigo  Jones  put  me  together. 

Sir  Hans  Sloane 

Let  me  alone : 
Burlington  brought  me  hither. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

What  are  the  falling  rills,  the  pendent  shades, 
The  morning  bowers,  the  even  colonnades. 
But  soft  recesses  for  the  uneasy  mmd 
To  sigh  unheard  in,  to  the  passmg  wind ! 
So  the  struck  deer,  in  some  sequester  d  part. 
Lies  down  to  die,  the  arrow  in  his  heart; 
There  hid  in  shades,  and  wasting  day  by  day. 
Inly  he  bleeds,  and  pants  his  soul  away. 


456  MlSCEfaLANlSC 


VERSES  LEFT  BY  MR.  POPE, 

On  his  lying  in  the  same  bed  ivhich  Wilmot  the  cele- 
brated Earl  of  Rochester  slept  in,  at  Adderbiiry^  then 
belonging  to  the  Duke  of  Argyle^  Julydth^  1739 

With  no  poetic  ardowr  fired> 

I  press'd  the  bed  where  Wihnot  lay: 

That  here  he  loved,  or  here  expired, 
Begets  no  numbers  grave  and  gay. 

But  in  thy  roof,  Argyle,  are  bred 

Such  thoughts  as  prompt  the  brave  to  lie 

Stretch'd  out  in  honour's  nobler  bed, 
Beneath  a  nobler  roof — the  sky: 

Such  flames  as  high  in  patriots  burn, 

Yet  stoop  to  bless  a  child  or  wife ; 
And  such  as  wicked  kings  may  mourn, 

When  freedom  is  more  dear  than  life. 


VERSES  TO  MR.  C. 
St.  James's  Place,  London,  October  22. 

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. 

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 ; 

For  three  whole  days  you  hei-e  may  rest, 
From  office,  business,  news,  and  strife ; 

And  (what  most  folks  would  think  a, jest) 
Want  nothing  else,  except  your  wife. 


r 


469 


NOTES. 


t.  76.    The  Rape  of  tee  Lock. 

It  appears  by  the  following  motto,  prefixed  in  some  of  the  earlief 
editions,  that  this  poem  was  written  or  published  at  the  lady'i 
request : — 

"  Nolueram,  Belinda,  tuos  violare  capillos; 
Sed  juvat,  hoc  precibus  me  tribuisse  tuis."— Mart. 

But  there  are  some  further  circumstances  not  unworthy  of  being 
related.  Mr,  Caryl  (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,  with  a  view 
of  putting  &n  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  tlie  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  Miscel- 
lany of  Bern.  Lintot's,  without  the  name  of  the  author.  But  it  was 
received  so  well,  that  he  made  it  more  considerable  the  next  year  by 
the  addition  of  the  machinery  of  the  Sylphs,  and  extended  it  to  five 
cantos.  These  additions  were  inserted  so  as  to  seem  not  to  be  added, 
but  to  grow  out  of  the  poem;  and  which  our  author  always  esteemed, 
and  justly,  the  greatest  effort  of  his  skill  and  art  as  a  poet. 

P.  76,  line  19.    Belinda  still,  &c. 

All  the  verses  from  hence  to  the  end  of  this  canto  were  added 
afterwards. 

P.  78,  line  2G.    In  the  clear  mirror,  &c. 

The  language  of  the  Platonists,  the  writers  of  the  intelligible  world 
of  spirits,  Ike. 

P.  78,  line  39.    And  now,  unveil'd,  &c. 

The  translation  of  these  verses,  containing  the  description  of  the 
toilette,  by  our  author's  friend  Dr.  Parnell,  deserve,  for  their  hu- 
mour, a  place  among  these  Notes. 

Et  nunc  dilectum  speculum,  pro  more  retectum, 
Emicat  in  mensa,  quae  splendet  pyxide  densa: 
Tum  primum  lympha,  se  purgat  Candida  Nj-mpha, 
Jamque  sine  menda,  ccelestis  imago  videnda, 
Nuda  capot,  bellos  retinet,  regit,  implet  ocellos. 
Haec  stupet  explorans,  ceu  cultus  numen  adorans. 
Inferior  claram  Pythonissa  apparet  ad  aram, 
Feitque  tibi  caute,  dicatque  Superbia  1  laute, 


460  ROTES. 

Dona  venusta;  oris,  quae  cunctis,  plena  laborfs, 
Excerpta  explorat,  dominamque  deamque  decoraft. 
Pyxide  devota,  se  pandit  hie  India  tota, 
Et  tota  ex  ista  transpirat  Arabia  cista; 
Testudo  hie  flectit,  dum  se  mea  Lesbia  pectit; 
Atque  elephas  lente,  te  pectit  Lesbia  dente ; 
Hunc  macuUs  noris,  nivei  jacet  ille  coloris. 
Hie  jacet  et  munde,  mnndus  muliebris  abundei 
Spinula  resplendens  seris  longo  ordine  pendens, 
Pulvis  suavis  odore,  et  epistola  siiavis  amure. 
Induit  arma  ergo  Veneris  pulcherrima  virgo  ; 
Pulchrior  in  prgesens  tempus  de  tempore  crescensj 
Jam  rsparat  risus,  jam  surgit  gratia  \isus, 
Jam  promit  cultu,  mirac'la  latentia  vultu ; 
Pigmina  jam  miscet,  quo  plus  sua  Purpura  gliscet, 
Et  gerainans  bellis  splendet  mage  fulgor  ocellis. 
Stant  Lemures  muti,  Nymphse  intentique  saluti, 
Hie  figit  Zonam,  capiti  locat  ille  Coronam, 
Haec  manicis  formam,  plicis  dat  et  altera  normam } 
Et  tibi  vel  Betty,  tibi  vel  nitidissima  Letlyl 
Gloria  factorum  temere  conceditur  horum. 

P.  79,  line  13.     The  busy  »ylphs,  &c. 

Ancient  traditions  of  the  Rabbis  relate,  that  several  of  the  fallen 
angels  became  amorous  of  women,  and  particularly  some ;  among 
the  rest  Asael,  who  lay  with  Naamah,  the  wife  of  Noah,  or  of  Ham, 
and  who  continuing  impenitent,  still  presides  over  the  women's  toi- 
lettes.— Bereshi  Eabbi  in  Genes,  vl.  2. 

P.  80,  line  4.    Launched  on  the  bosom,  &c 

From  hence  the  poem  continues,  in  the  first  edition,  to  line  46-« 
The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air- 
all  after,  to  the  end  of  the  canto,  being  addltiunaL 

P.  85,  line  32 ».»».  and  thinJc  of  Scylla'a  fatel 

Vide  Ovid.  Metam.  viii. 

P.  86,  line  12.    Bui  airy  substance,  &c. 

See  Milton,  book  vi.  of  Satan  cut  asunder  by  the  Archangel 
Michael. 

P.  86,  line  25.    Atalantis. 

A  famous  book  written  about  that  time  by  a  woman— full  of  court 
and  party  scandal,  and  in  a  loose  eflFeminacy  of  style  and  sentiment, 
which  well  suited  the  debauched  taste  of  the  better  vulgar. 

P.  88,  line  12.    And  there  a  goose-pie  talks. 
Alludes  to  a  real  fact :  a  lady  of  quality  imagined  herself  in  this 
condition. 

P.  89,  line  31 Sir  Plume  repairs. 

Sir  George  Brown.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  tooX 
the  thing  seriously.  He  was  angry  that  the  poet  should  make  him 
talk  nothing  but  nonsense ;  and,  in  truth,  one  could  not  well  blame 
him. 

P.  98,  2nd  line  from  bottom.     This  Partridge  soon,  &c. 
John  Partridge  was  a  ridiculous  star-gazer,  who  in  lus  Almanacki 


NOTES,  461 

every  3rear  never  falTed  to  predict  the  downfall  of  the  Pope,  and  the 
King  of  Frauca,  then  at  war  with  the  English. 

P.  97.    Essay  on  Man. 

The  opening  of  this  poem,  in  fifteen  lines,  is  taken  up  in  giving  aa 
account  of  the  subject,  which,  agreeably  to  the  title,  is  an  Essay  on 
Man,  or  a  philosophical  inquiry  into  his  nature  and  end,  his  pas- 
sions and  pursuits. 

The  exordium  relates  to  the  whole  work,  of  which  the  Eesav  on 
M an  was  only  the  first  book.  The  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth  lines 
alhide  to  the  subjects  of  this  Essay,  viz.  the  general  order  and  design 
of  Providence;  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind;  the  orijfcf,  use, 
and  end  of  the  passions  and  affections,  both  selfish  and  social :  and 
the  wrong  pursuits  of  power,  pleasure,  and  happiness.  The  tenth, 
eleventh,  twelfth,  &c.  have  relation  to  the  subjects  cf  the  books  in- 
tended to  follow,  viz.  the  characters  and  capacities  of  men,  and  the 
limits  of  learning  and  ignorance;  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth,  to 
the  knowledge  of  mankind,  and  the  various  manners  of  the  age. 

P.  97,  lines  T,  8.    A  wild  ...........  Or  garden. 

The  wild  relates  to  the  human  passions,  productive  (as  he  explains 
In  the  Second  Epistle)  both  of  good  and  evil;  the  garden,  to  human 
reason,  so  often  terajiting  us  to  transgress  the  bounds  God  has  set  to 
It,  and  wander  in  fruitless  inquiries. 

P.  98,  line  18.     The  str9ng  connexiont,  nice  dependencicg. 

The  thought  is  very  noble,  and  expressed  with  great  philosophic 
beauty  and  exactness.  The  system  of  the  universe  is  a  combination 
of  natural  and  moral  fitnesses,  as  the  human  system  is  of  body  and 
spirit.  By  the  "  strong  connexions,"  therefore,  the  poet  alluded  to 
the  natural  part;  and  by  the  "nice  dependencies,  to  the  moral.  For 
the  Essay  on  Man  is  not  a  system  of  naturalism,  hut  of  natural  reli- 
gion. Hence  it  is  that,  where  he  supposes  that  disorders  may  tend 
to  some  greater  good  in  the  natural  world,  he  supposes  they  may  tend 
likewise  to  some  greater  good  in  the  moral,  as  appears  from  tliese 
iublime  images  in  the  following  lines  :— 

"  If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  HeavVs  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  iu  a  Csesar's  mind, 
Or  turns  young  Ammon  loooC  to  scourge  mankind?'* 

P.  lOO,  line  23.    Ask  for  what  end,  &c. 

If  there  be  any  fault  in  these  lines,  it  is  not  in  the  general  senti- 
ment, but  a  want  of  exactness  in  expressing  it.  It  is  the  highest 
absurdity  to  think  that  earth  is  man's  footstool,  his  canopy  the  skies, 
and  the  heavenly  bodies  lighted  up  principally  for  his  use ;  jet  not 
8o,  to  suppose  fruits  and  minerals  given  for  this  end. 

P.  101,  line  28.    Here  loith  decrees  of  swiftness,  &c. 

It  is  a  certain  axiom  in  the  anatomy  of  creatures,  that  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  formed  for  strength,  their  swiftness  is  lessened;  or 
«s  they  are  formed  for  swiftness,  their  strength  is  abated. 

P.  101,  last  line.    And  stunn'd  him  with  the  mmic  of  the  spheret. 

This  instance  is  poetical  and  even  sublime,  but  misplaced.  He  is 
arguing  x>bilesophically  in  a  case  that  required  him  to  employ  tlie 


L. 


4G2  KOTES. 

Teal  objects  of  sense  only :  nntl,  wliat  is  worse,  he  speaks  of  thia  a9 
a  real  object — "if  Nature  thvuidcr'd,"  &c.  The  case  is  diJlennt 
where  (p.  103)  he  speaks  of  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  under 
the  sublime  imagery  of  "ruling  angels:"  for  whether  there  be  ruling 
angels  or  not,  there  is  real  motion,  which  was  all  his  argument 
Viauted;  but  if  there  be  no  "music  of  the  spheres,"  there  was  txo 
real  sound,  which  his  argument  could  not  do  Avithout. 

P.  102,  line  11 the  headlong  lioness. 

The  manner  of  the  lions  hunting  their  prey  in  the  deseits  of 
Af  icais  this: — At  their  first  going  out  in  the  night-time,  thc^-^  set  up 
a  loud  roar,  and  then  listen  to  the  noise  made  by  the  beasts  in  their 
flight,  pursuing  them  by  the  ear,  and  not  by  the  nostril.  It  is  pro- 
bable that  the  story  of  the  jackal's  hunting  for  the  lion  was  occa- 
sioned by  observation  of  this  defect  of  scent  in  that  terrible  animal. 

Page  103,  line  3.    Let  ruling  angels,  &c. 

The  poet,  throughout  this  poem,  with  great  art,  uses  an  advantage 
which  his  employing  a  Platonic  principle  for  the  foundation  of  his 
Essay  had  afforded  him ;  and  that  is,  the  expressing  himself  (as  here) 
in  Platonic  notions,  which,  luckily  for  his  purpose,  are  highly  poeti- 
cal, at  the  same  time  that  they  add  a  grace  to  the  uniformity  of  his 
reasoning. 

P.  104,  line  2.     The  proper  study,  &c. 

The  poet  having  shown,  in  the  First  Epistle,  that  the  ways  of  God 
are  too  high  for  our  comprehension,  rightly  draws  this  conclusion, 
and  methodically  makes  it  the  subject  of  his  introduction  to  the 
Second,  which  treats  of  the  nature  of  man. 

P.  105,  line  13.     Who  saw  its  fires  here  rise,  &c. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton,  in  calculating  the  velocity  of  a  comet's  motion, 
and  the  course  it  describes,  when  it  becomes  visible,  in  its  descent  to 
and  ascei.t  from  the  sun,  conjectured,  with  the  highest  appearance 
of  truth,  that  comets  revolve  perpetually  round  the  sun,  in  ellipses 
vastly  eccentrical,  and  very  nearly  approaching  to  parabolas ;  in 
which  he  was  greatly  confirmed,  in  observing  between  two  comets  a 
coincidence  in  their  perilielions,  and  a  perfect  agreement  in  their 
Velocities. 

P.  105,  line  23.    Mere  curious  pleasure,  or  ingenious  pain. 
That  is,  when  admiration  sets  the  mind  on  the  rack. 

P.  106,  line  36.    Nor  God  alone,  &c. 

These  words  are  only  a  simple  affirmation  in  the  poetic  dress  of  a 
eimilitude,  to  this  purpose — Good  is  not  only  produced  by  the  sub- 
dual of  the  passions,  but  by  the  turbulent  exercise  of  them  ;  a  truth 
conveyed  under  the  most  sublime  imagery  that  poetry  could  con- 
ceive or  paint:  for  the  author  is  here  only  showing  the  providential 
issue  of  the  passions,  and  how,  by  God's  gracious  dispo^itlon,  they 
are  turned  away  from  their  natural  bias,  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
mankind.  As  to  the  method  in  which  they  are  to  be  treated  by  man, 
in  whom  they  are  found,  all  that  he  contends  for  in  favour  of  them  is 
only  this,  that  they  should  not  be  quite  rooted  up  and  destroyed,  as 
the  Stoics,  and  their  followers  in  all  religions,  foolishly  attempted. 
Foi  the  rest,  he  constantly  repeats  this  advice: — 

"  The  action  of  the  sti-onger  to  suspend, 
Reason  still  use,  to  reason  still  attend." 


NOTES.  483 

p.  107,  line  29.     We,  wretched  subjectt,  &c. 

St,  Paul  himself  did  not  choose  to  employ  other  arguments,  when 
disposed  to  give  us  the  highest  idea  of  the  usefulness  of  Christianity 
(Rom.  vii.)  But,  it  may  be,  the  poet  finds  a  remedy  in  natural  reli- 
gion. Far  from  it.  He  here  leaves  reason  unrelieved.  What  is  this, 
then,  hut  an  intimation  that  we  ought  to  seek  for  a  cure  in  that  rcU* 
gion  which  only  dares  profess  to  give  it  ? 

P.  109,  lines  33,  34.     Wants,  frailties,  passions,  closer  still  ally 
The  common  interest,  &c. 

As  these  lines  have  been  misunderstood,  I  shall  give  the  reader 
their  plain  and  obvious  meaning.  To  these  frailties,  says  he,  we  owe 
all  the  endearments  of  private  life;  yet,  when  we  come  to  that  age 
which  generally  disposes  men  to  think  more  seriously  of  the  triie 
value  of  things,  and  consequently  of  their  provision  for  a  future  state, 
the  consideration,  that  the  grounds  of  those  joys,  loves,  and  friend- 
ships, are  wants,  frailties,  and  passions,  proves  the  best  expedient  to 
weaH  us  from  the  world;  a  disengagement  so  friendly  to  that  provi- 
sion we  are  now  making  for  another.  The  observation  is  new,  and 
would  in  any  place  be  extremely  beautiful,  but  has  here  an  infinite 
grace  and  propriety,  as  it  so  well  confirms,  by  an  instance  of  gi  eat 
moment,  the  general  thesis — That  God  makes  ill,  at  every  step,  pro- 
ductive of  good. 

P.  Ill,  line  1.    Here  then  we  rest,  &c. 

It  having  been  shown,  in  explaining  the  origin,  use,  and  end  of  the 
passions,  in  the  Second  Epistle,  that  man  has  social  as  well  as  selfish 
passions,  that  doctrine  naturally  introduces  the  Third,  which  treats 
of  man  as  a  social  animal,  and  connects  it  with  the  Second,  which 
considered  him  as  an  individual :  and  as  the  conclusion  from  the 
subject  of  the  First  Epistle  made  the  introduction  to  the  Second,  so 
here,  again,  the  conclusion  of  the  Second 

("  Ev'n  mean  self-love  becomes,  by  force  divine, 
The  scale  to  measure  others'  wants  by  thine") 

fonus  the  introduction  to  the  Third. 

P.  Ill,  2nd  line  from  bottom.    „....  greatest  with  the  least. 

As  acting  more  strongly  and  immediately  in  beasts,  whose  instinct 
is  plainly  an  external  reason ;  which  made  an  old  schoolman  say, 
with  great  elegance,  "  Deus  est  anima  brutorum:" 

"  In  this  'tis  God  directs * 

P.  112,  7th  line  from  bottom than  favoured  Man,  &c. 

Several  of  the  ancients,  and  many  of  the  Orientals  since,  esteemed 
those  who  were  struck  by  lightning  as  sacred  persons,  and  the  parti- 
cular favourites  of  Heaven. 

P.  114,  line  SO.    Man  walked  with  beast,  joint-tenant  of  the  shade. 

The  poet  still  takes  his  imagery  from  Platonic  ideas.  Plato  had 
said,  from  old  tradition,  that  duri'.g  the  golden  age,  and  under  the 
reign  of  Saturn,  the  primitive  language  then  in  use  was  common  to 
man  and  beasts.  Moral  philosophers  took  this  in  the  popular  sense, 
and  so  invented  those  fables  which  give  speech  to  the  whole  brute 
creation.  The  naturalists  understood  the  tradition  to  signify,  that, 
in  the  first  ages,  men  used  inarticulate  sounds  like  beasts  to  express 
their  wants  and  sensations,  and  that  it  was  by  slow  degrees  they 
came  to  the  use  of  speech. 


r" 


46f  NOTES. 

P.  115,  line  3.    Learn  from  the  birds,  StO. 

It  is  a  common  practice  among  navigators,  when  thrown  upon  a 
desert  coast  and  in  want  of  refreshments,  to  observe  what  fruits  have 
been  touched  by  the  birds,  and  to  Venture  on  these  without  furtlior 
hesitation  • 

P.  115,  lire  7.    Learn  of  the  Utile  nautilus  to  sail. 

Oppian  describes  this  fish  in  the  following  manner; — "They  swim 
on  the  surface  of  the  sea,  on  the  back  of  their  shells,  which  resemble 
the  hulk  of  a  ship:  they  raise  two  feet  like  masts,  avi  1  extend  a 
membrane  between,  which  serves  as  a  sail ;  the  other  two  feot  they 
employ  as  oars  at  the  side.  They  are  usually  seen  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean." 

P.  116,  line  7.     Then,  looking  up,  &c. 

The  poet  here  makes  their  more  serious  attention  to  religion  to 
have  arisen,  not  from  their  gratitude  amidst  abundance,  but  from 
their  helplessness  in  distress;  by  showing  that,  during  the  former 
state,  they  rested  in  second  causes,  the  immediate  authors  of  their 
blessings,  whom  they  revered  as  God;  but  that,  in  the  other,  they 
reasoned  up  to  the  First : 

"Then,  looking  up  from  sire  to  sire,"  &c. 

This,  I  am  afraid,  is  but  too  true  a  representation  of  human  nature, 

P.  116,  line  13.    Ere  wit  oblique,  &c. 

A  beautiful  allusion  to  thb  effects  of  the  prismatic  glass  on  tho 
rays  of  light. 

P.  116,  7th  line  ftom  bottom and  heaven  on  pride. 

This  might  be  very  well  said  of  those  times,  when  no  one  was  con- 
tent to  go  to  heaven  without  being  received  there  on  the  footing  of, 
a  god. 

P.  117,  line  36.    For  forms  of  government,  &c. 

The  author  of  these  lines  was  far  from  meaning  that  no  one  form 
of  government  is  itself  better  than  another  (as,  that  mixed  or  limited 
monarchy,  for  example,  is  not  preferable  to  absolute),  but  that  no 
form  of  government,  however  excellent  or  preferable  in  itself,  can  ba 
sufficient  to  make  a  people  happy,  unless  it  be  administered  witli 
integrity.  On  the  contrary,  the  best  sort  of  government,  wlien  tlie 
form  of  it  is  preserved  and  the  administration  corrupt,  is  most  dan- 
gerous. 

P.  117,  line  37.    For  modes  of  faith,  &c. 

These  latter  ages  have  seen  so  many  scandalous  contentions  fot 
"  modes  of  faith,"  to  the  violation  of  Christian  charity  and  dishonour 
of  Sacred  Scripture,  that  it  is  not  at  all  strange  they  should  becomi? 
the  object  of  so  benevolent  and  wise  an  author's  resentment.  But 
that  which  he  here  seemed  to  have  more  particularly  in  his  eye,  was 

the  long  and  mi  chievous  squabble  between  W d  and  Jackson, 

on  u  point  confessedly  above  reason,  and  amongst  those  adorable 
mysteries  which  it  is  the  honour  of  our  religion  to  find  unfathom- 
able 

P.  118,  line  1.     O  Happiness!  &c. 

The  two  foregoing  Epistles  having  considered  man  with  reg-ard  to 
the  means,  (that  is,  in  all  his  relations,  whether  as  an  individual  of 
a  member  of  society,)  this  last  comes  to  consider  him  with  regard  to 
the  end — that  if,  happiness. 


NOTES.  465 

p.  118,  lineC      get look'd,  seen  douhfe. 
"O'erloolc'd"  by  those  wh6  place  happiness  in  anything  exclusive 
of  virtue;  "  seen  double"  by  those  who  admit  anything  else  to  have 
a  share  with  virtue  in  procuring  happiness;  these  being  the  two  ge- 
neral mistakes  that  this  Epistle  is  employed  in  confuting. 

P.  119,  line  33.    Order  it  Heav*n'i  first  law. 
That  is,  the  first  law  made  by  God  relates  to  order;  which  is  a 
beautiful  allusion  to  the  Scripture  history  of  the  creation,  when  G~d 
first  appeased  the  disorders  of  chaos,  and  separated  the  light  from 
the  darkness 

P.  120,  line  34.    See  godlike  Turenne. 

This  epithet  has  a  peculiar  justness;  the  great  man  to  whom  it  is 
applied  not  being  distinguished  from  otlier  generals  for  any  of  his 
superior  qualities  so  much  as  for  his  providential  care  of  those  whom 
he  led  to  war;  which  was  so  extraordinary,  that  his  chief  purpose  in 
taking  on  himself  the  command  of  armies  seems  to  have  been  tho 
preservation  of  mankind.  In  this  "  godlike"  care  he  was  more  dis- 
tinguishably  employed  throughout  the  whole  course  of  that  famous 
campaign  in  which  he  lost  his  life. 

P.  120,  7th  line  from  bottom.    Lent  Heaven  a  parent,  &c. 

This  last  instance  of  the  poet's  illustration  of  the  ways  of  Provi- 
dence, the  reader  sees,  has  a  peculiar  elegance;  where  a  tribute  of 
piety  to  a  parent  is  paid  in  a  return  of  thanks  to,  and  made  subser- 
vient of  his  vindication  of,  the  Great  Giver  and  Father  of  all  tilings. 
The  mother  of  the  author,  a  person  of  great  piety  and  charity,  died 
the  year  this  poem  was  finished,  viz.  1 733. 

P.  121,  line  5.     Thtnt  me,  lilte  some  weak  prince,  &c. 

Agreeably  hereunto.  Holy  Scripture,  in  its  account  of  things  updei 
the  common  providence  of  Heaven,  never  represents  miracles  as 
wrought  for  the  sake  of  him  who  is  the  object  of  them,  but  in  ordi  r 
to  give  credit  to  some  of  God's  extraordinary  dispensations  to  mau- 
kind. 

P.  121,  line  7.    Shall  burning  Etna,  &c. 

Alluding  to  the  fate  of  those  two  great  naturalists,  Empedocles  and 
Pliny,  who  both  perished  by  too  near  an  approach  to  Etna  and  Vesu- 
vius, while  they  were  exploring  the  cause  of  their  eruptions. 

P.  122,  line  11.    Go,  fike  the  Indian,  &c. 

Alluding"  to  the  example  of  the  Indian  in  Ep.  I.  p.  99,  and  showing 
that  that  example  was  not  given  to  discredit  any  rational  hopes  of 
future  happiness,  but  only  to  reprove  the  folly  of  separating  them 
from  charity;  as  when  ' 

"zeal,  not  charity,  became  the  guide, 

And  hell  was  built  on  spite,  and  heav'n  on  pride." 

P.  123,  line  3.    Heroes  are  munh  the  tame,  5rc« 

This  character  might  have  been  drawn  with  much  more  force,  ^n*! 
d«4erved  the  poet's  care.  But  Milton  supplies  what  is  here  wanting 

**  They  err  who  count  it  glorious  to  subdue 
By  conquest  far  and  wide,  to  orerruri 
Large  countries,  and  in  field  great  battles  win« 


r* 


466  NOTES. 

Great  cities  by  assault.     What  do  these  worthies, 
But  rob  and  spoil,  burn,  slaughter,  and  enslave 
Peaceable  nations,  neighb'ring  or  remote, 
Made  captive,  yet  deserving  freedom  more 
Than  those  their  conqu'rors;  who  leave  behind 
Nothing-  but  ruin  wheresoe'er  th^y  rove, 
And  ali  the  flourishing  works  of  peace  destroy? 
Then  swell  Avith  pride,  and  must  be  titled  g'ods; 
Till  conqu'ror  Death  discovers  them  scarce  men, 
Kolling  in  brutish  vices,  and  deform'd. 
Violent  or  shameful  death  their  due  reward." 

Par.  Reg.  book  iil. 

Elotsa  to  Abelakd. 
P.  136,  line  5.     You  rais'd  these  hallow'd  walls. 
He  founded  the  monastery. 

P.  140,  line  15.    May  one  kind  grave,  &c. 

Abelard  and  Eloisa  were  interred  in  the  same  grave,  or  in  monu 
ments  adjoininsj-,  in  the  monastery  of  the  Paraclete.  lie  died  in  the 
year  1142,  she  in  1163. 

P.  141.    WiNDson  Forest. 

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,  when 
it  was  published. 

P.  142,  line  29.     The  fields  are  ravish' d,  &c. 

Alluding  to  the  destruction  made  in  the  New  Forest,  and  the  ty- 
rannies exercised  there  by  William  I. 

P.  142,  7th  line  from  bottom 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  weie  s"'i'S 
to  put  him  in  his  tomb:  so  that  they  were  obliged  to  eompouiul  with 
the  owner  before  they  could  perform  the  king's  obsequies. 

P.  142,  6th  line  from  bottom second  hope. 

Bichard,  second  son  of  William  the  Conqueror. 

P.  144,  line  26 and  as  chaste  a  queen. 

Queen  Anne. 

P.  145,  line  21.    Still  bears  the  name,  &o. 
The  River  Loddon. 

P.  146,  1.  86.    There  the  last  numbers  flowed  from  Cowleijs  lovgue. 

Cowley  died  at  Chcrtsey,  on  the  borders  of  the  forest,  and  was 
fiom  thence  conveyed  to  Westminster. 

P.  147,  line  5,     JTete  noble  Surrey,  &c. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  one  of  the  first  refiners  of  English 
poetry,  who  flourished  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII. 


NOTES.  467 


p.  147,  line  17.    ...  Edward'a  acts ^ 

Edward  III.  bojn  here. 

p.  147t  lme25.    ^,*,,m.,*...  Henry  mourn 
Henry  VI. 

P.  147,  line  28 once-fear'd  Edward  sleept. 

Edward  IV. 

P.  148,  9th  line  from  bottom.    And  templet  tise. 
The  fifty  new  churches. 

P.  149,  line  4.     Where  clearer  flames  glow  round  the  frczen  polg. 

The  poet  is  here  recommending  the  advantages  of  commerce,  and 
therefore  the  extremities  of  heat  and  cold  are  not  represented  in  a 
forbidding  manner :  as  again, 

"  Or  under  southern  skies  exalt  their  sails, 
Led  by  new  stars,  and  borne  by  spicy  gales." 

But  in  the  "Dunciad,"  where  the  mischief  of  Dulness  is  described, 
they  are  painted  in  all  their  inclemencies : — 

"See  round  the  poles,  where  keener  spangles  shine- 
Where  spices  smoke  beneath  the  burning  liuv.." 

P.  149,  line  12.    Unbounded  Thames,  && 
A  wish  that  London  might  be  made  a  free  port. 

P.  152.    The  Dunciad. 

This  poem  was  written  in  the  year  1726.  In  the  next  year  an  Im- 
perfect edition  was  published  at  Dublin,  and  reprinted  at  London  in 
12mo. ;  anoiher  at  Dublin,  and  another  at  London  in  8vo. ;  and  three 
others  in  12mo.  the  same  year.  But  there  was  no  perfect  edition 
before  that  of  London  in  4to.,  which  was  attended  with  notes.  We 
are  willing  to  acquaint  posterity  that  this  poem  was  presented  to 
King  George  the  Second  and  his  queen  by  the  hands  of  Sir  Robert 
Wulpole,  on  the  12th  of  Alarch,  1723-9.— Scuol.  Vet. 

It  was  expressly  confessed  in  the  preface  to  the  first  edition,  that 
this  poem  was  not  published  by  the  author  himself.  It  was  printed 
originally  in  a  foreign  country.  And  what  foreign  country?  Why, 
one  notorious  for  blunders;  where  finding  blanks  only  instead  of 
proper  names,  these  blunderers  filled  them  up  at  their  pleasure. 

The  very  hero  of  the  poem  hath  been  mistaken  to  this  hour;  so 
that  we  are  obliged  to  open  our  notes  with  a  discovery  who  he  really 
was.  We  learn  from  the  former  editor,  that  this  piece  was  presented 
by  the  hands  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole  to  King  George  the  Second. 
Now,  the  author  directly  tells  us,  his  hero  is  the  man 

"who  brings 

The  Smithfield  muses  to  the  ear  of  kings  :** 

and  it  is  notorious  who  was  the  person  on  whom  this  prince  con- 
ferred the  honour  of  the  Laurel. 

It  appears  as  plainly  from  the  apostrophe  to  the  great  ia  the  third 
verse  that  Tibbald  could  not  he  the  person,  who  was  never  an  author 
in  fashion,  or  caressed  by  the  great;  whereas  this  single  character- 
istic is  sufHcient  to  point  out  the  true  hero,  who,  above  all  other 
poets  of  his  time,  was  the  peculiar  delight  and  chosen  companion  of 


463  NOTES. 

the  nobility  of  England,  and  wrote,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  certain  of 
his  works  at  the  "eai"nest  desire  of  persons  of  quality." 

Lastly,  the  sixth  verse  affords  full  proof;  this  poet  being  the  only 
one  who  was  universally  known  to  have  had  a  son  so  exactly  like 
him,  in  his  poetical,  theatrical,  political,  and  moral  capacities,  that 
it  could  justly  be  said  of  him, 

*'  Still  Dunce  the  second  reign'd  like  Dunce  the  first.*' 

Bentk. 

P.  152,  line  2.     The  Smithfield  muses,  &c. 

Smithfield  is  the  place  where  Bartholomew  Fair  was  kept,  whose 
hows,  machinesi  and  dramatic  entertainments,  formerly  .igreeable 
only  to  the  taste  of  the  rabble,  were,  by  the  hero  of  this  poem  and 
others  of  equal  genius,  brought  to  the  Theatres  of  Covent  Garden, 
Lincoln's-inn  Fields,  and  the  Haymarket,  to  be  the  reigning  plea- 
sures of  the  court  and  town.  This  happened  in  the  reigns  of  King 
George  I.  and  II.    See  Book  iii. 

P.  152,  line  4 «...  by  Dulness,  Jove,  and  Fate. 

That  Is,  by  their  judgments,  their  interests,  and  their  inclinations. 

P.  153,  line  6.    Dean,  Drapier,  Bickerstaff,  or  Gulliver  I 

The  several  names  and  characters  he  assumed  in  his  ludicrous,  hii 
cplenetic,  or  his  party  writings;  which  take  in  all  his  works. 

P,  153,  line  9.    Or  praise  the  court,  or  magnify  mankind. 

Ironically — alluding  to  Gulliver's  representations  of  both.  The 
next  line  relates  to  the  papers  of  the  Drapier  against  the  currency  of 
Wood's  copper  coin  in  Ireland,  which,  upon  the  great  discontent  of 
the  people,  his  M^esty  was  graciously  pleased  to  recal. 

P.  153,  line  \1.    ........  by  his  famed  father's  hand. 

Mr.  Caius  Gabriel  Cibber,  father  of  the  Poet-laureate.  The  t^vo 
statues  of  the  lunatics  over  the  gates  of  Bedlam  Hospital  were  dona 
by  him; — as  the  son  justly  says  of  them,  no  ill  monuments  of  his 
fame  as  an  artist. 

P.  154,  line  22.    Like  Cimon,  &c. 

The  procession  of  a  Lord  Mayor  is  made  partly  by  land,  and  partly 
by  water.  Cimon,  the  famous  Athenian  general,  obtained  a  victory 
by  sea,  and  another  by  land,  on  the  same  day,  over  the  Pers^iaus  and 
Barbarians, 

P.  154,  line  26.    But  tiffd  in  Settle's  numbers  one  day  more. 

Settle  was  poet  to  the  City  of  London.  His  office  was  to  compose 
yearly  panegyrics  upon  the  Lord  Mayors,  and  verses  to  be  spokon  in 
the  pageants.  But  that  part  of  the  shows  being  at  loni,4h  frugal  y 
abolished,  the  «»ir.ployment  of  City  Poet  ceased;  so  that  u^Min  S title  a 
demise  there  was  no  successor  to  that  place. 

P.  154,  11th  line  from  bottom.    And  Ettsden  eke  out,  &c. 

Laurence  Eusden,  poet-laureate.  Mr.  Jacob  gives  a  catalogue  ■»{ 
some  few  only  of  his  works,  which  were  very  numerous.  Mr.  Cook, 
In  his  "  Battle  of  Poets,"  says  of  him, 

"  Eusden,  a  laurel'd  bard,  by  fortune  raisei^ 
By  very  few  was  read,  by  fewer  praised." 


NOTES. 

P.  154,  10th  line  from  bottom like  Tale's po 

NahumTate  was  poet  laureate — a  cold  writer,  of  no  invention,  b 
iOmetimes  translated  tolerably  when  befriended  by  Mr.  Dryrfen.  In 
his  second  part  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel  are  above  two  hundred 
admirable  lines  topether  of  that  great  hand,  which  strongly  shine 
through  the  insipidity  of  the  rest.  Something  parallel  may  be  ob- 
served of  another  uuthor  here  mentioned. 

P.  154,  6th  line  from  bottom.    Bayes,  formed  by  naturf.  Hic. 

It  is  hoped  the  poet  here  hath  done  full  justice  to  his  hero's  cha- 
racter, which  it  Avere  a  great  mistake  to  imagine  was  wholly  sunk  in 
stupidity:  he  is  allowed  to  have  supported  it  with  a  wonderful  mix- 
ture of  vivacity.  This  character  is  heightened  according  to  his  own 
desire,  in  a  letter  he  wrote  to  our  author.  "Pert  and  dull  at  least 
you  might  have  allowed  me.  What!  am  1  only  to  be  dull,  and  dull 
still,  and  again,  and  for  ever?"  He  then  solemnly  appealed  to  his 
own  conscience,  that  "he  could  not  think  himself  so,  nor  believe 
that  our  poet  did;  but  that  he  spoke  worse  of  him  than  he  could 
possibly  think,  and  concluded  it  must  be  merely  to  show  his  wit,  or 
for  some  profit  or  lucre  to  himself."  And  to  show  his  claim  to  wliat 
the  poet  was  so  unwilling  to  allow  him,  of  being  pert  as  well  as  dull, 
he  declares  he  will  have  the  last  word;  which  occasioned  the  follow- 
ing epigram  :— 

"Quoth  Gibber  to  Pope,  Though  in  verse  you  foreclose, 
I'll  have  the  last  word;  for,  by  — — ,  I'll  write  prose. 
Poor  Colly,  thy  reas'ning  is  none  of  the  strongest; 
For  know,  the  last  word  is  the  word  that  lasts  longest.* 

P.  155,  line  19.    There  hapless  Shakspeare,  &c. 

It  Is  not  to  be  doubted  but  Bayes  was  a  subscriber  to  Tibbald*a 
Shakspeare.  He  was  frequently  liberal  in  this  way,  and,  as  he  tells 
us,  "  subscribed  to  Mr.  Pope's  Homer  out  of  pure  generosity  and 
civility;  but  when  Mr.  Pope  did  so  to  his  Nonjuror,  he  concluded  it 
could  be  nothing  but  a  joke." 

This  Tibbald,  or  Theobald,  published  an  edition  of  Shakspeare,  of 
which  he  was  so  proud  himself  as  to  say,  in  one  of  Mist's  Journals, 
"  that  to  expose  any  errors  in  it  was  impracticable ;"  and  in  another, 
"that  whatever  care  might  for  the  future  be  taken  by  any  other  edi- 
tor, he  would  still  give  above  five  hundred  emendations,  that  shall 
escape  them  all." 

P.  155,  line  27.    •»......  Ogilhy  the  great. 

"John  Ogilby  was  one  who,  from  a  late  initiation  into  literature, 
tnade  such  a  progress  as  might  well  style  him  the  prodigy  of  his  time, 
sending  into  the  world  so  many  large  volumes;  his  translations  of 
Homer  and  Virgil  done  to  the  life,  and  with  such  excellent  sculp- 
tures; and,  what  added  great  grace  to  his  works,  he  printed  them 
all  on  special  good  paper,  and  in  a  very  good  letter." — Winstan  lv. 

P.  155,  line  28 m.  Newcastle  shines  complete. 

"The  Duchess  of  Newcastle  was  one  who  busied  lierself  in  the 
ravishing  delights  of  ])Oetry,  leaving  to  posterity  in  print  three  amiie 
volumes  of  her  studious  endeavours." — "Wikstanlv.  Langhaine 
reckons  up  eight  folios  of  her  Grace's;  which  were  usually  adorned 
with  gilded  covers,  and  had  her  coat  of  arms  upon  them. 

P.  155,  line  32 Settle,  Banks,  and  Broome. 

The  poet  has  mentioned  these  three  authors  in  particular,  as  they 
ore  parallel  to  our  hero  in  his  three  capacities: — 1.  Settle  was  his 
40 


470  NOTES. 

Brother  Laureate ;  oiuy  indeed  upon  haif-pay ,  for  the  City  instead  of 
the  Court ;  but  equally  famous  for  unintelligible  flights  in  his  poem» 
on  public  occasions,  such  as  shows,  birthdays,  &c.  2.  Banks  was  his 
rival  in  tragedy  (though  more  successful)  in  one  of  his  tragedies,  the 
•'  Earl  of  Eiisex,"  which  is  yet  alive;  "  Anna  Boleyn,"  the  "  Queen 
Df  Scots,"  and  "  Cyrus  the  Great,"  are  dead  and  gone.  These  he  drest 
in  a  sort  of  beggars'  velvet,  or  a  happy  mixture  of  the  thick  fustian 
and  thin  prosaic ;  exactly  imitated  in  "  Perolla  and  Isidora,"  "  Caesar 
in  Egypt,"  and  the  "  Heroic  Daughter."  3.  Broome  was  a  serving 
man  of  Ben  Jonson,  who  once  picked  up  a  comedy  from  his  l)etters, 
or  from  some  cast  scenes  of  his  master,  not  entirely  contemptible. 

P,  155,  line  35.    Caxton. 

A  printer  in  the  time  of  Edw.  IV.,  Rich.  III.,  and  Hen.  VII.; 
Wynkyn  de  Word,  his  successor,  in  that  of  Hen.  VII.  and  VIII.  The 
former  translated  into  prose  Virgil's  "  ^Eneis,"  as  a  history  ;  of  which 
he  speaks,  in  his  "  Proeme,"  in  a  very  singular  manner,  as  of  a  book 
hardly  known. 

P.  155,  line  39.    Nich  de  Lyra,  or  Harp^eld. 

A  very  voluminous  commentator,  whose  works,  in  five  vast  folios, 
were  prmted  in  1472. 

P.  155,  line  40.    Philemon. 

Philemon  Holland,  Doctor  in  Physic.  "  He  translated  so  many 
books,  that  a  man  would  think  he  had  done  nothing  else ;  insomuch 
that  he  might  be  called  Translator  General  of  his  age.  The  books 
alone  of  his  turning  into  English  are  sulRcient  to  make  a  country 
gentleman  a  complete  library." — Winstanly. 

P.  156,  line  3.    E'er  since  Sir  Fopling's  Periwig. 

The  first  visible  cause  of  the  passion  of  the  tov;n  for  our  hero,  waa 
8  fair  flaxen  fuU-bottom'd  periwig,  which,  he  tells  us,  he  wore  in  his 
first  play  of  the  •'  Fool  in  Fashion."  It  attracted,  in  a  particular 
manner,  the  friendship  of  Col.  Brett,  who  wanted  to  purchase  it. 

P.  156,  line  I7.    Asforc'dfrom  wind  guns,  &c. 

The  thought  of  tliese  four  verses  is  foimd  in  a  poem  of  our  Author's 
of  a  very  early  date  (namely  written  at  fourteen  years  old,  and  soon 
after  pnnted)  to  the  Author  of  a  poem  called  "  Successio." 

P.  156,  line  35.    3fy  Fletcher- 

A  familiar  manner  of  speaking,  used  by  modern  critics,  of  a  fa- 
vourite author.  Bays  might  as  justly  speak  thus  of  Fletcher,  as  a 
French  wit  did  of  Tully,  seeing  his  works  in  a  library,  "  Ah  !  mon 
cher  Ciceron!  je  le  connois  bien;  c'est  le  meme  que  Marc  Tulle." 
But  he  had  a  better  title  to  call  Fletcher  his  own,  having  made  so  free 
with  him. 

P.  156,  line  36.    Take  up  the  Bible,  Once  my  tetter  guide? 

When,  according  to  his  father's  intention,  he  had  been  a  clergyman, 
or  (as  he  thinks  himself)  a  bishop  of  the  church  of  Engidnd. 

P.  156,  line  39.    At  Whitens  amidst  the  Doctors. 

These  Doct<)rs  had  a  modest  and  upright  appearance,  no  air  ot 
over-bearing;  but,  like  true  Masters  of  Arts,  were  only  habited  iu 
black  and  white.  They  were  justly  styled  subtiles  and  graves,  but 
not  always  irrefragabiles,  being  sometimes  examined,  and,  by  a  nice 
distinction,  divided  and  laid  open. — Scrjel. 

This  learned  critic  is  to  be  understood  allegorically :  the  doctors  m 
this  place  mean  no  more  than  fal>e  dice,  a  cant  phrase  used  amongst 
gamesters.  So  the  meaning  of  these  four  sonorous  lines  is  only  w»t 
••  Shall  I  play  fair,  or  foul?" 


NOTES. 


P,  156,  line  44.    Ridpath—Mist, 


471 


George  Ridpath,  author  of  a  Whig  paper,  called  the  "Fljing 
Post ;"  Nathanael  Mist,  of  a  famous  Tory  journal. 

P.  156,  line  47.    Or  rob  Romda  ancient  geese  of  all  their  glories. 
Relates  to  the  well-known  story  of  the  geese  that  saved  the  Capitoli 
of  which  Virgil,  ^neid.  viii. 

"  Atque  hie  auratis  volitans  argenteus  anser 
Porticibus,  Gallos  in  limine  adesse  canebat  ;•' 

A  passage  I  have  always  suspected.  Who  sees  not  the  antithesis  of 
auratis  and  argenteus  to  be  unworthy  the  Virgilian  majesty  ?  And 
what  absurdity  to  say  a  goose  sings  ?  canebat. 

P.  156,  line  48.    And  cackling  save  the  Monarchy  of  Tories? 

Not  out  of  any  preference  or  affection  to  the  Tories,  For  what 
Hobbes  so  ingenuously  confesses  of  himself,  is  true  of  all  party- 
writers  whatsoever :  "  That  he  defends  the  supreme  powers,  as  the 
geese  bv  their  cackling  defended  the  Romans,  who  held  the  Capitol ; 
for  they  favoured  them  no  more  than  the  Gauls,  their  enemies;  Init 
were  as  ready  to  have  defended  the  Gauls,  if  they  had  been  possessed 
of  the  Capitol."    Epist.  Dedic.  to  the  "  Leviathan." 

P.  157,  line  1.    Gazetteers, 
A  band  of  ministerial  writers,  hired  at  the  price  mentioned  in  the 
note  on  b>ok  ii.  ver.  316,  who,  on  the  very  day  their  patron  quitted 
his  post,  laid  down  their  paper,  and  declared  they  would  never  more 
meddle  in  politics. 

P.  157,  line  4.  Ciliberian  forehead. 
So  indeed  all  the  MSS.  read,  but  I  make  no  scruple  to  pronounce 
them  all  wrong,  the  laureate  being  elsewhere  celebrated  by  our  poet 
for  his  great  modesty— modest  Cibber— read,  therefore,  at  my  peril, 
Cerberian  forehead.  This  is  perfectly  classical,  and,  what  is  more, 
Homerical;  the  dog  was  the  ancient,  as  the  bitch  is  the  modern, 
symbol  of  impudence;  (Kyvoj  efifx,cir  i;^av,  says  Achilles  to  Aga- 
memnon) which,  when  in  a  superlative  degree,  may  well  be  denomi- 
nated from  Cerberus,  the  dog  with  three  heads.— But  as  to  the  latter 
part  of  this  verse,  Cibberian  brain,  that  is  certainly  the  genume 
reading. 

P.  157,  line  11.    O  bom  in  sin,  &c. 
This  is  a  tender  and  passionate  apostrophe  to  his  own  works,  which 
he  is  going  to  sacrifice,  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  man  in  great 
aflliction  ;  and  reflecting,  like  a  parent,  on  the  many  miserable  tates 
to  which  they  would  otherwise  be  subject. 

P.  157,  line  14.  ^fy  better  and  more  Christian  progeny/ 
"  It  may  be  observable,  that  my  muse  and  my  spouse  were  equally 
prolific;  that  the  one  was  seldom  the  mother  of  a  child,  but  in  the 
■Tame  year  the  other  made  me  the  father  of  a  play.  I  thmk  we  had  a 
dozen  of  each  sort  between  us ;  of  both  which  kinds  some  died  ni  their 
mfancy,"  &c.    Life  of  C.  C.  p.  217,  »vo.  edit. 

P.  157,  line  17.    Gratis-given  Bland— sent  with  a  Pass. 
It  was  a  practice  so  to  give  the  "  Daily  Gazetteer  "  and  ministerial 
pamphlets  (in  which  this  B  was  a  writer/,  and  to  send  them  post- 
tree  to  all  the  towns  in  the  kingdom. 

P.  157,  line  19.  IVith  Ward,  to  Ape  and  Monkey  climes. 
«•  Edward  Ward,  a  very  voluminous  poet  in  Hudibrastie  verse,  hut 
best  known  by  the  "  London  Spy,"  in  prose.  Hehasoflateyenrs  kept 
a  public-house  in  the  city  (but  in  a  genteel  way),  and  with  his  wit, 
humour,  and  good  liquor  (ale),  afforded  his  guests  a  pleauirableenter- 
Uiiiment,  especially  those  of  the  high-church  party."— Jacob,  '•  Lives 


472  NOTES, 

of  Poets,"  vol.  ii.  p.  225.  Great  numher  of  his  works  were  yeafly  sold 
into  the  Plantations.  Ward,  in  a  book  called  '♦  Apollo's  Magfjot," 
declared  this  account  to  be  a  great  falsity,  protesting  that  his  public- 
house  was  not  in  the  City,  but  in  Moorfields. 

P.  157,  lines  24,  26.    Tate—ShadweB. 
Two  of  his  predecessors  in  the  Laurel. 

P.  157,  line  29.     With  that,  a  Tear,  {portentous  siffti  of  Grace  /)  &c. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  our  poet  hath  made  his  hero,  in  imitation 
of  Virgil's,  obnoxious  to  the  tender  passions.  He  was  indeed  so  given 
to  weeping,  that  he  tells  us,  when  Goodman  the  player  swore,  if  he 
did  not  make  a  good  actor,  he'd  be  damned;  "  the  surprise  of  being 
commended  by  one,  who  had  been  himself  so  eminent  on  the  stage, 
and  in  so  positive  a  manner,  was  more  than  he  could  support.  In  a 
word  (says  he)  it  almost  took  away  my  breath,  and  (laugh  if  you 
please)  fairly  drew  tears  from  my  eyes."    P.  149  of  his  Life,  «vo.  VV. 

P.  157,  line  36.    Now  flames  the  Cid,  &c. 

In  the  first  notes  on  the  ••  Dunciad  "  it  was  said,  that  this  author  was 
particularly  excellent  at  tragedy.  "  This  (says  he)  is  as  unjust  as  to 
say  I  could  not  dance  on  a  rope,"  But  certain  it  is  that  he  had  at- 
tempted to  dance  on  this  rope,  and  fell  most  shamefully,  having  pro- 
duced no  less  than  four  tragedies  (the  names  of  which  the  poet  pre- 
serves in  these  few  lines)  the  three  first  of  them  were  fairly  printed, 
acted,  and  damned;  the  fourth  suppressed  in  fear  of  the  like  treat- 
ment. 

P.  157,  line  39.    The  dear  Nonjuror— Mdih'e^g  old  stubble. 

A  comedy  threshed  out  of  Moliere's  "  Tartufle,"  and  so  much  the 
translator's  favourite,  that  he  assures  us  all  our  author's  dislike  to  it 
could  only  arise  from  disaffection  to  the  government : 

"  Qui  meprise  Cotin,  n'estime  point  son  Roi, 
Et  n'a,  selon  Cotin,  ni  Dieu,  ni  foi,  ni  loi Boilkac. 

He  assures  us,  that  "  when  he  had  the  honour  to  kiss  his  Majesty's 
hand  upon  presenting  his  dedication  of  it,  he  was  graciously  pleased, 
out  of  his  roval  bounty,  to  order  him  two  hundred  pounds  tor  it. 
And  this,  he  doubts  not,  grieved  Mr.  P." 

p.  157,  line  42.     When  the  last  blaze  tent  Ilion  to  the  sMes. 

See  Virgil,  ^n.  ii.,  where  I  would  advise  the  reader  to  peruse  the 
story  of  Troy's  destruction,  rather  than  in  Wynkyn.  Hut  I  caul  ion 
him  alike  in  both  to  beware  of  a  most  grievous  error,  that  of  thinking 
he  was  brought  about  by  I  know  not  what  Trojan  Horse;  there  never 
having  been  any  such  thing.  For,  first,  it  was  not  Trojan,  being 
made  by  the  Greeks;  and,  secondly,  it  was  not  a  horse,  butamara 
Ihis  is  clear  from  many  verses  in  Virgil : — 

—  •♦  Uterumque  armato  milite  complent." 
"  Inclusos  utero  Danaos  "  i         '    » 
Can  a  horse  be  said  utero  gerere  ?    Again, 

"  Uteroque  recusso, 
Insonuere  cava*." 

—  "  Atque  utero  sonitum  quater  arma  dedere." 
ay,  is  it  not  expressly  said 

"  Scandit  fatalis  machina  muros 

Foeta  arm  is  ?  " 

How  is  it  possible  the  word  foeta  can  agree  with  a  horso  ?  Anti 
indeed  can  it  be  conceived  that  the  chaste  and  virgin  Goddess  Pallas 
would  employ  herself  in  foriiiinu  and  fashifniiig  the  male  of  that 
species?  But  this  shall  be  proved  to  a  demonstration  in  our  Virgil 
restored. — Sc  k  i  au. 


NOTES.  473 

p.  157,  line  44,    Thttli. 

An  unfinished  poem  of  that  name,  of  which  one  sheet  was  printed 
many  years  ago,  by  Amb.  Philips,  a  northern  author.  It  Is  an  usual 
method  of  putting,  out  a  fire,  to  cast  wet  sheets  upon  it.  Some  critics 
have  been  of  opii,.ion  that  this  sheet  was  of  the  nature  of  the  Asbestos, 
which  cannot  be  consumed  by  fire.  But  I  rather  think  it  an  allo- 
gorica}  allusion  to  the  coldness  and  heaviness  of  the  writing. 

P.  158,  line  1.    Sacred  Dome. 

Where  he  no  sooner  enters,  but  he  reconnoitres  the  place  of  his 
original;  as  Plato  says  the  spirits  shall>  at  their  entrance  into  the 
celestial  regions. 

P.  158,  line  5.    Great  Mother. 

Magna  mater,  here  applied  to  dulness.  The  Quidnuncs,  a  name 
given  to  the  ancient  members  of  certain  political  clubs,  who  were  con- 
stantly inquiring  quid  nunc  ?  What  news  ? 

P.  158,  line  22.    Tibbald, 

Lewis  Tibbald  (as  pronounced)  or  Theobald  (as  written)  was  bred 
nn  attorney,  and  son  to  an  attorney  (says  Mr.  Jacob)  of  Sittenbum, 
in  Kent.  He  was  author  of  some  forgotten  plays,  translations,  and 
other  pieces.  He  was  concerned  m  a  paper  called  the  "  Censor,"  and 
a  translation  of  Ovid.  "  There  is  a  notorious  idiot,  one  hiajht 
Wliachum,  who,  from  an  underspuf-leather  to  the  law,  is  become 
an  under-strapper  to  the  playhouse,  who  hath  lately  burlesqued  the 
Metamorphoses  of  Ovid  by  a  vile  translation,  &c.  This  fellow  is 
concernea  in  an  impertinent  paper  called  the  '  Censor.*"— Dennis's 
"  Rem.  on  Pope's  Horn."  p.  9,  10. 

Ibid.    OzeU, 

"  Mr.  John  Ozell  (if  we  credit  Mr.  Jacob)  did  go  to  school  in 
Leicestershire,  where  somebody  left  him  something  to  live  on,  when 
he  shall  retire  from  business.  He  was  designed  to  be  sent  to  Cam- 
bridge, in  order  for  priesthood;  but  he  chose  rather  to  be  placed  in 
an  office  of  accounts,  in  the  City,  being  qualified  for  the  same  by  his 
skill  in  arithmetic,  and  writing  the  necessary  hands.  He  has  obii.;"d 
the  world  with  many  translations  of  French  plays." — Jacob,  "  Liven 
of  Dram.  Poets,"  p.  198. 

P.  l.'iS,  line  26.    A  Heideggre. 

A  strange  bird  from  Switzerland,  and  not  (as  some  have  supposed) 
the  name  of  an  eminent  person  who  was  a  man  of  parts,  and,  as  wai 
*aid  of  Petronius,  arbiter  elegantiarum. 

P  158,  line  32.    Witheri, 
See  on  P.  155,  line  32. 

Ibid.    Gildm. 

Charles  Gildon,  a  writer  of  criticisms  and  libels  of  the  last  ago,  bred 
at  St.  Omer's  with  the  Jesuits;  but  renouncing  popery,  he  published 
Blount's  books  against  the  divinity  of  Christ,  the  "  Oracles  of  Reason ," 
&c.  He  signalized  himself  as  a  critic,  having  written  some  very  bad 
plays;  abused  Mr.  P.  very  scandalously  in  an  anonymous  pimphlet 
of  the  "  Life  of  Mr.  Wycherley,"  printed  by  Curl;  in  another,  called 
the  "New  Rehearsal,"  printed  in  1714;  in  a  third,  entitled  the 
••  Complete  Art  of  English  Poetry,"  in  two  volumes ;  and  othprs. 

P.  168,  line  33.    Howard. 

Hon.  Edward  Howard,  author  of  the  "  British  Prmces,"and  a  great 
number  of  wonderful  pieces,  celebrated  by  the  late  Earls  of  Dorset 
gnd  Rochester,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Mr.  Waller,  &c. 


474  NOTES. 

p.  158,  line  45.    ....... «  under  Archer's  wing — Gaming,  ikc. 

When  the  statute  against  gaming  was  drawn  up,  it  was  represented 
that  the  king,  by  ancient  custom,  plays  at  hazard  one  ni.;ht  in  the 
year;  and  therefore  a  clause  was  inserted,  with  an  exception  as  Id 
that  particular.  Under  this  preteilce,  the  groonrt-porter  Had  a  room 
appropriated  to  gaming  all  the  summer  the  court  was  at  Kensinj^lon, 
which  his  Majesty  accidentally  being  acquainted  of,  with  a  ju^t  indi;,'- 
nation  prohibited.  It  is  reported,  the  same  practice  is  yet  continued 
wherever  the  court  resides,  and  the  hazard  table  there  open  to  all  tlif 
professed  gamesters  in  town. 

••  Greatest  and  justest  sov'reign  !  know  you  this  ? 
Alas!  no  more,  than  Thames'  calm  head  can  kno>v' 
Whose  meads  his  arras  drown,  or  whose  corn  o'erflow." 

DO.VNB  TO  QUBEJI  ELIX 

p.  159,  line  5.    Chapel  Royal. 

The  voices  and  instruments  used  in  the  service  of  the  Chapel  Royai 
being  also  employed  in  the  performance  of  the  Birthday  and  New 
Year  Odes. 

P.  159,  line  10.    But  piout  Needham. 

A  matron  of  great  fame,  and  very  religious  in  her  way ;  whose 
constant  prayer  it  was,  that  she  might  "  get  enough  by  her  profession 
to  leave  it  off  in  time,  and  make  her  peace  with  God."  But  her  fatf 
was  not  so  happy ;  for  being  convicted,  and  set  in  the  pillory,  she 
was  (to  the  lasting  shame  of  all  her  great  friends  and  votaries)  so  ill 
used  by  the  populace,  that  it  put  an  end  to  her  days. 

P.  159,  line  U-     Back  to  the  Devii. 

The  Devil  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street,  where  these  odes  are  usually  re. 
hearsed  before  they  are  performed  at  court:  upon  which  a  wit  of  these 
times  made  this  epigram : 

••  When  laureates  make  odes,  do  you  ask  of  wnat  sort? 
Do  you  ask  if  they  're  good,  or  are  evil  ? 
You  may  judge — from  the  devil  they  come  to  the  courtf 
And  go  from  the  court  to  the  devil." 

P.  159,  line  14.    Ogilbu.    God  save  lung  Log! 

See  Ogllby's  "  iEsop's  Fables,"  where,  in  tlie  story  of  the  Frogs 
Bnd  their  King,  this  excellent  hemistic  is  to  be  found. 

P.  160,  line  2.    Henley's  gilt  tub. 

The  pulpit  of  a  dissenter  is  usually  called  a  tub;  hut  that  of  Mr. 
Orator  Henley  was  covered  with  velvet,  and  adorned  with  gold.  He 
had  also  a  fair  altar,  and  over  it  is  thlj  extraordinary  inscription, 
•'  The  Primitive  Eucharist."    See  the  history  of  this  person.  Book  iii. 

Ibid.    Or  FlecJcnoe's  Irish  throne. 

Richard  Flecknoewas  an  Irish  priest,  but  had  laid  aside  (as  himself 
expressed  it)  the  mechanic  part  of  priesthood.  He  printed  some 
plays,  poems,  letters,  and  travels.  I  doubt  not  our  author  took  occa- 
sion to  mention  him  in  respect  to  the  poem  of  Mr.  Dryden,  to  which 
this  bears  some  resemblance,  though  of  a  character  more  different 
from  it  than  that  of  the  "  ^Eneid  "  from  the  "  Iliad,"  or  the  "  Lutriu" 
of  Boileau  from  the  "  Defait  de  Bouts  rime  of  Sarazin." 

P.  160,  line  3.     Or  that  where  on  her  Curia  tht  public  pours. 

Edmund  Curl  stood  in  the  pillorv  at  Charing  Cross,  in  March, 
1727-8.  "  This  (saith  Edmund  Curl)  is  a  false  assertion— I  had  in- 
deed the  corporal  punishment  of  what  the  gentlemen  of  the  long 
robe  are  pleased  jocosely  to  call  mounting  the  rostrum  for  one  hour: 
tout  that  scene  of  action  was  not  in  the  month  of  March,  but  in 
February."  ('«  Curliad,"12mo,  n.  19.)  And  of  the  History  of  his  being 
tossed  in  a  blanket,  he  saith,  "  Here,  Scriblerus  I  thou  leeseth  in 


NOTES.  475 

what  thou  assertest  concerning  the  blanket :  it  was  Qot  a  blanket,  but 
a  rug,"  p.  25.    Much  in  the  same  manner  Mr.  Gibber  remonstrated 
that  his  brothers,  at  Bedlam,  mentioned  Book  i.  were  not  braz2n,  but 
blocks;  yet  our  author  let  it  pass  unaltered,  as  a  trifle  that  no  way 
altered  the  relationship. 

P.  160j  line  15.    Rome  in  her  Capitol  saw  QUerno  ait, 

Caraillo  Querno  was  of  Apulia,  who  hearing  the  great  encourage- 
ment which  Leo  X.  gave  to  poets,  travelled  to  Rome  with  a  harp  irt 
his  hand,  and  sung  to  it  twenty  thousand  verses  of  a  poem  callea 
"  Alexias."  He  was  introduced  as  a  buffoon  to  Leo,  and  promoted  to 
the  honour  of  the  laurel ;  a  jest  which  the  court  of  Rome  and  the 
Pope  himself  entered  into  so  far,  as  to  cause  him  to  ride  on  an  ele- 
phant to  the  Capitol,  and  to  hold  a  solemn  festival  on  his  coronatioa 
at  which  it  is  recorded  the  poet  himself  was  ^<^  transported  as  to  wee 
for  joy.  He  Was  ever  after  a  constant  frequenter  of  the  Pope's  table 
drank  abundantly,  and  poured  forth  verses  without  nuniljer.  — • 
Paulus  .Jovrus,  ••  Elog.  Vir.  doct."  chap  Ixxxii.  Some  idea  of  hi« 
poetry  is  given  by  Fam.  Strada,  in  his  "  Proic»ions." 

P.  161,  line  14.    And  gentle  dulness  ever  loves  a  joke. 

This  species  of  mirth  called  a  joke,  arises  from  a  mal-entendu ;  and 
therefore  may  be  well  supposed  to  be  the  delight  of  dulness. 

P.  161,  line  24.    A  brain  of  feathers,  and  i  heart  of  lead  ;  i.  e. 

"  A  trifling  head,  and  a  contracted  heart," 

As  the  poet,  Book  iv.  describes  the  accomplished  sons  of  dulness;  of 
whom  this  is  only  an  image,  or  scarecrow,  and  so  stuffed  out  with 
these  corresponding  materials.— Scribl. 

P.  161,  line  27.    Never  was  dcuhed  out,  at  one  lucky  hit. 

Our  author  here  seems  willing  to  give  some  account  of  the  possi- 
bility of  dulness  making  a  wit  (which  could  be  done  no  other  way 
than  by  chance).  The  fiction  is  the  more  reconciled  to  probability, 
by  the  known  story  of  Apelles,  who  being  at  a  loss  to  express  the 
foam  of  Alexander's  horse,  dashed  his  pencil  in  despair  at  the  picture, 
and  happened  to  do  it  by  that  fortunate  stroke. 

P.  161,  Kne  30.    And  called  the  pJutntom  More. 

Curl,  in  his  key  to  the  "  Dunciad,"  affirmed  this  to  be  James  More 
Smith,  Esq.,  and  it  is  probable  (considering  what  is  said  of  him  in 
the  "  Testimonies")  that  some  might  fancy  our  author  obliged  to  re- 
present this  gentleman  as  a  plaj^iary,  or  to  pass  for  one  himself.  His  case 
indeed  was  like  that  of  a  man  1  have  heard  of,  who,  as  he  was  sitting 
in  company,  perceived  his  next  neighbour  had  stolen  his  handker- 
chief. "  Sir  (said  the  thief,  finding  himself  detected),  do  not  expose 
me,  I  did  it  for  mere  want;  be  so  good  but  to  take  it  privately  out  of 
my  pocket  again,  and  say  nothing."  The  honest  man  did  so,  but  the 
other  cried  out,  "  See,  gentlemen,  what  a  thief  we  have  among  u»- 
look,  he  is  stealing  my  handkerchief  I  " 

Ibid.  The  phantom  More. 
It  appears  from  hence,  that  this  is  not  the  name  of  a  real  person^ 
but  fictitious.  More  from  fiu^og,  stultus,  ftu^iei,  stultitia,  to  repre 
tent  the  folly  of  a  plagiary.  Thus  Erasmus,  Admonuit  me  Mori, 
cognomen  tibi,  quod  tarn  ad  Moriae  vocabulum  accedit  quam  es  ipse 
i  re  alienus.  Dedication  of  Moriae  Encomium  to  Sir  Thos.  Moore 
the  farewell  of  which  may  be  our  author's  to  his  plagiary,  Vale,; 
More  !  et  moriam  tuam  gnavittr  defende.  Adieu,  More !  and  be  sure 
strongly  to  defend  thy  own  folly. — Scribl. 

P.  161,  line  33.    But  lofty  Lintot. 
We  enter  here  upon  the  episode  of  the  booksellers :  persons,  whose 
tiQines  being  more  known  and  famous  in  the  learned  world  than  those 


476  NOTES. 

of  the  authors  in  this  poem,  do  therefore  need  less  explanation.  The 
Bction  of  Mr.  Lintot  here  imitates  that  of  Dares  in  Virgil,  rising  jnst 
in  this  manner  to  lay  hold  on  a  bull.  This  eminent  bookseller 
printed  the  "  Rival  Modes  "  before-mentioned. 

P.  161 ,  line  38.    Stood  dauntlese  Curl. 

We  Come  now  to  a  character  of  much  respect,  that  of  Mr.  Edmund 
Curl.  As  a  plain  repetition  of  great  actions  is  the  best  praise  of  them, 
we  shall  only  say  of  this  eminent  man,  that  he  carried  tlie  trade 
many  lengths  beyond  what  it  ever  before  had  arrived  at ;  and  that  he  was 
the  envy  and  admiration  of  all  his  profession.  He  possessed  himself 
of  a  command  over  all  authors  whatever ;  he  caused  them  to  write 
what  he  pleased ;  they  could  not  Call  their  very  names  their  own. 
He  was  not  only  famous  among  these ;  he  was  taken  notice  of  by  the 
state,  the  church,  and  the  law,  and  received  particular  marks  of  dis- 
tinction fronl  each. 

P.  161,  last  line.    CurVs  Corinna, 

This  name,  it  seems,  was  taken  by  one  Mrs.  T ,  who  procured 

BOme  private  letters  of  Mr.  Pope,  while  almost  a  boy,  to  Mr.  Crom- 
well, and  sold  them  without  the  consent  of  either  of  those  gentlemen 
to  Curl,  who  printed  them  in  12mo,  1727.  He  discovered  her  to  be 
the  publisher,  in  his  Key,  p.  11.  We  only  take  this  opportunity  of 
mentioning  the  manner  m  which  those  letters  got  abroad,  which  the 
author  was  ashamed  of  as  very  trivial  things,  full  not  only  of  levities, 
but  of  wrong  judgments  of  men  and  books,  and  only  excusable  from 
the  youth  ana  inexperience  of  the  Writer. 

P.  182,  line  5.    Obscene  with  filth,  &c. 

Though  this  incident  may  seem  too  low  and  base  for  the  dignify  of 
an  epic  poem,  the  learned  very  well  know  it  to  be  but  a  copy  of 
Homer  and  Virgil ;  the  very  words  ov6o?  and  fimus  are  used  by  l;.c:n, 
though  our  poet  (in  compliance  to  modern  nicety)  has  rem  iikably 
enriched  and  coloured  his  languaE;e,  as  well  us  raised  the  versification, 
in  this  episode,  and  in  the  following  one  of  Eliza. 

P.  162,  hne  12.    Bowii  with  the  Bible,  vp  with  the  Popei's  Arrm. 
The  Bible,  Curl's  sign;  the  Cross  Keys,  Lintot's. 

P.  162,  line  13. 
See  Lucian's  Icaro-Menippus ;  where  this  fiction  is  more  extended. 

P.  162,  5  lines  from  bottom.    Evans,  Young,  and  Sivift. 

Some  of  those  persons,  whose  writings,  epigrams,  or  jests  he  had 
owned. 

P.  163,  line  4 like  Congreve,  Addison,  and  Prior. 

These  authors  being  such  whose  names  will  reach  posterity,  we 
shall  not  give  any  account  of  them,  but  proceed  to  those  of  whom  it 
is  necessary.  Besalecl  Morris  was  author  of  satires  on  the  translators 
of  Homer,  with  many  other  things  printed  in  newspapers.     "  Hoiid 

writ  a  satire  against  Mr.  P .    Capt.  Breval  was  author  of  •  The 

Confederates,'  an  ingenious  dramatic  performance  to  exj)ose  Mr.  P., 
Mr.  Gay,  Dr.  Arb,  and  some  ladies  of  quality,"  says  Curl,  Key,  p.  li. 

P.  163,  line  5.    Mears,  Warner,  Wilkins. 
Booksellers,  and  printers  of  much  anonymous  stuff. 

P.  163,  line  6.    Breval,  Bond,  Besalecl. 

I  foresee  it  will  be  objected  from  this  line,  that  we  were  m  an  erroi 
In  our  assertion  on  v.  50  of  this  book,  that  More  was  a  fictitious 
name,  since  these  persons  am  equally  represented  by  the  poet  as 


NOTES.  477 

phantoms.  So  at  first  sj/^ht  it  may  seem;  but  be  not  deceived, 
reader;  these  also  are  not  real  persons.  'Tis  true,  t'url  declares 
Breval,  a  Captain,  author  of  a  piece  called  •'  The  Confederates ;"  but 
the  same  Curl  first  said  it  was  written  by  Joseph  Gay :  is  his  second 
assertion  to  be  credited  any  more  than  his  first  ?  He  likewise  affirms 
Bond  to  be  one  who  writ  a  satire  on  our  poet.  But  whore  is  such  a 
satire  to  be  found;  where  was  such  a  writer  ever  heard  of?  As  for 
Besaleel,  it  carries  forgery  in  the  very  name ;  nor  is  it,  as  the  others 
are,  a  surname.  Thou  may'st  depend  upon  it,  no  such  authors  ever 
lived ;  all  phantoms. — Scribl. 

P.  163,  line  8.    Joseph  Gay, 

A  fictitious  name  put  by  Curl  before  several  pamphlets,  which 
made  them  pass  with  many  for  Mr.  Gay's. 

P.  163,  line  17.    this  magic  gift. 

In  verity  (saith  Scriblerus)  a  very  bungling  trick.  How  much 
better  might  our  worthy  brethren  of  Grub  Street  be  taught  (as  in 
many  things  they  have  already  been)  by  the  modem  master  of  Pole- 
mics,  who  when  they  make  free  with  their  neighbours,  seize  upon 
their  good  works  rather  than  their  good  name ;  as  knowing  that  those 
will  produce  a  name  of  their  own. 

P.  163,  line  18.    Cook  thatt  he  Prior. 

The  man  here  specified  writ  a  thing  called  •*  The  Battle  of  Poets," 
In  which  Philips  and  Welsted  were  the  heroes,  and  Swift  and  Pope 
utterly  routed.  He  also  published  some  malevolent  things  in  the 
British,  London,  and  Daily  Journals  5  and  at  the  same  time  wrote 
letters  to  Mr.  Pope,  protesting  his  innocence.  His  chief  work  was  a 
translation  of  Hesioa,  to  which  Theobald  writ  notes  and  half-notes, 
which  he  carefully  owned. 

Ibid.    and  Coneanen,  Swift. 

In  the  first  edition  of  this  poem  there  were  only  asten'sks  in  this 
place,  but  the  names  were  since  inserted,  merely  to  fill  up  the  verse, 
and  give  ease  to  the  ear  of  the  reader. 

P.  163,  line  20.    And  we  too  boast  our  Garth  and  Addison. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  our  author's  love  of  praising 

food  writers.  He  has  in  this  very  poem  celebrated  Mr.  Locke,  Sir 
saac  Newton,  Dr.  Barrow,  Dr.  Atterbury,  Mr.  Dryden,  Mr.  Congreve, 
Dr.  Garth,  Mr.  Addison ;  in  a  word,  almost  every  man  of  his  time 
that  deserved  it ;  even  Gibber  himself  (presuming  him  to  be  author  of 
the  "  Careless  Husband  ").  It  was  very  difficult  to  have  that  pleasure 
in  a  poem  on  this  subject,  yet  he  has  found  means  to  insert  their 
panegyric,  and  has  made  even  Dulness  out  of  her  own  mouth  pro- 
nounce it. 

P.  163,  line  24,    On  Codrtuf  old,  or  Dunton'$  modei-n  bed. 

Of  Codrus  the  poet's  bed,  see  Juvenal,  describing  his  poverty  very 
copiously,  Sat.  iii.  v.  103,  &c. 

John  Dunton  was  a  broken  bookseller,  and  abusive  scribbler ;  he 
writ  •*  Neck  or  Nothing,"  a  violent  satire  on  some  ministers  of  state ;  a 
libel  on  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  and  the  Bishop  of  Peterborough,  &c. 

P.  163,  line  28.    And  Tutchin  flagrant  from  the  scourge. 

John  Tutchin,  author  of  some  vile  verses,  and  of  a  weekly  paper 
called  the  "  Observator."  He  was  sentenced  to  be  wliipiKnl  through 
several  towns  in  the  west  of  England,  upon  which  he  pctitiont-d  King 
James  II.  to  be  hanged.  When  that  prinee  died  in  exile,  he  wrote  an 
invective  against  his  memory,  occasii  ned  by  some  humane  elegies  on 
his  death.    He  lived  till  the  time  of  Queen  Anne. 


478  NOTES. 

p.  163,  fine  29.    There  Ridpath,  Roper. 

^  Authors  of  the  "Flying  Post,"  and  "Post-boy,"  two  scandalouj 

fi  papers  on  different  sides,  for  which  they  equally  and  alternately  de- 

served to  be  cudgelled,  and  were  so. 

P.  163,  line  37.    Eliza. 

Eliza  Haywood.  This  woman  was  authoress  of  those  most  scandal- 
ous books,  called  •♦  The  Court  of  Carimania,"  and  the  "  New  Utopia."* 

P.  163,  line  40.    Kirkall. 

The  name  of  an  engraver :  some  of  this  lady's  works  were  printed 
h)  four  volumes  in  12mo,  with  her  picture  thus  dressed  up  before 
them. 

P.  163,  4th  line  from  bottom.    Osborne. 

Thomas  Osborne,  a  bookseller  in  Gray's-inn,  very  well  qualified  by 
his  impudence  to  act  this  part;  therefore  placed  here  instead  of  a  less 
deserving  predecessor.  This  man  published  advertisements  for  a  year 
together,  pretending  to  sell  Mr.  Pope's  subscription  books  of  Homer's 
Iliad  at  half  the  price;  of  which  books  he  had  none;  but  cut  to  the 
size  of  them,  which  was  quarto,  the  common  books  in  folio,  without 
copper-plates,  on  a  worse  paper,  and  never  above  half  the  value. 

P.  164,  line  31.    kolli. 

Paulo  Antonio  Rolli,  an  Italian  poet,  and  writer  of  many  operas 
in  that  language,  which,  partly  by  the  help  of  his  genius,  prevailed 
in  England  nearly  twenty  years.  He  taught  Italian  to  some  fine  gen- 
tlemen, who  affected  to  direct  the  operas. 

P.  164,  line  33.    Bentley  his  mouth,  &c. 

Not  spoken  of  the  famous  Dr.  Richard  Bentley,  but  of  one  Thomas 
Bentley,  a  small  critic,  who  aped  his  uncle  in  a  little  Horace.  The 
great  one  was  intended  to  be  dedicated  to  the  Lord  Halifax;  but,  on 
a  change  of  the  ministry,  was  given  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford ;  for  wliich 
reason  the  little  one  was  dedicated  to  his  son,  the  Lord  Harley. 

P.  164,  line  39.     Wehted. 

Leonard  Welsted,  author  of  the  "  Triumvirate,"  or  a  lettev  in  verse 
from  Palemon  to  Celia  at  Bath,  which  was  meant  for  a  satire  on  Mr. 
P.  and  some  of  his  friends,  about  the  year  1718. 

P.  165,  line  18.    J,  Durant  Breval. 
Author  of  a  very  extraordinary  book  of  travels,  and  some  poems 

»  P.  165,  line  38.    Whitfield. 

The  preacher. 

P.  165,  line  40.    Bray  back  to  him  again* 

The  poet  here  celebrated.  Sir  R.  B.,  delighted  much  in  the  word 
•♦bray,"  which  he  endeavoured  to  ennoble  by  applying  it  to  the 
Bound  of  armour,  war,  &c. 

P.  165,  last  line.    Who  sings  so  loudly,  and  who  sings  so  long. 

A  just  character  of  Sir  Richard  Blackmore,  knight,  who,  as  Mr, 
Dryden  expresseth  it. 

Writ  to  the  rumbling  of  his  coach's  wneels ; 

and  whose  indefatigable  Muse  produced  no  less  than  six  epic  poems: 
♦*  Prince  and  King  Arthur,"  twenty  books;  "Eliza,"  ten;  "Alfred," 
twelve;  "The  Redeemer,"  six;  besides  "Job,"  in  folio;  the  whole 
"Book  of  Psalms;"  "The  Creation,"  seven  books;  "  Nature  oi 
Man,"  three  broks;  and  nia'iy  more.  It  is  in  tliis  sense  he  is  styled 
Rfterwards  "  the  evt-ilastiug  BlaLkmore."   Notwithstanding  all  which 


NOTES.  ^  4?> 

Mr.  Gildon  seems  assured,  that  "  this  admiraWe  author  d.d  not  think 
himself  on  the  same  footing  with  Homer."— Compare  Art  of  Poeiry, 
vol.  i.  p.  108. 

P.  166,  line  15.    In  naked  majesty  Oldmixon  stands. 

Mr.  John  Oldmixon,  next  to  Mr.  Dennis,  the  most  ancient  critic  of 
our  nation.  He  was  all  his  life  a  virulent  party-writer  for  hire,  and 
received  his  reward  in  a  small  place,  which  he  enjoyed  to  his  death. 

P.  166,  line  23.    Nezt,  Smedlcy  dived. 

The  person  here  mentioned,  an  Irishman,  was  author  and  publisher 
of  many  scurrilous  pieces;  a  weekly  Whitehall  Journal  in  the  year 
1722,  in  the  name  of  Sir  James  Baker;  and  particularly  whole  vo- 
lumes of  Billingsgate  against  Dr.  Swift  and  Mr.  Pope,  called  "Gul- 
liveriana"  and  "  Alexandriana,"  printed  in  8vo. 

P.  166,  line  31.    Concanen. 
Matthew  Concanen,  an  Irishman,  hred  to  the  law. 

P.  166, 11th  line  from  bottom.    With  each  a  sicMy  brother  at  his  baekt 
Sons  of  a  day!  &c. 

These  were  daily  papers,  a  number  of  which,  to  lessen  the  expenset 
were  printed  one  on  the  back  of  another. 

P.  166,  5th  line  from  bottom.     Osborne. 

A  name  assumed  by  the  eldest  and  gravest  of  these  writers,  who  at 
last,  being  ashamed  of  his  pupils,  gave  his  paper  over,  and  in  his  age 
remained  silent 

P.  166,  2nd  line  from  bottom.    ArncUl. 

William  Arnall,  bred  an  attorney,  was  a  perfect  genius  in  this  sort 
of  work.  He  began  under  twenty  with  furious  party-papers;  then 
succeeded  Concanen  in  the  "British  Journal." 

P.  167.  line  34.    And  Milboum. 

Luke  Milboum,  a  clergyman,  the  fairest  of  critics;  who,  when  he 
wrote  against  Mr.  Dryden's  Virgil,  did  him  justice  in  printing  at  the 
same  time  his  own  translations,  which  were  mtolerable. 

P.  168,  line  35.     Toland  and  Tindal. 

Two  persons,  not  so  happy  as  to  be  obscure,  who  wrvote  against  the 
religion  of  their  country.  Toland,  the  author  of  the  Atheist's 
Liturgy,  called  "Pantheisticon,"  was  a  spy  in  pay  to  Lord  Oxford. 
Tindal  was  author  of  the  "  Rights  of  the  Christian  Church,"  and 
"  Christianity  as  Old  as  the  Creation." 

P.  169,  line  2.    Morgan. 

A  writer  against  religion,  distinguished  no  otherwise  from  the  rab- 
ble of  his  tribe,  than  by  the  pompousness  of  his  title, — "a  moral 
philosopher." 

P.  169,  line  3.    Norton. 

Norton  Ce  Foe,  said  to  be  the  natural  offspring  of  the  famous  Da- 
niel De  Foe,  one  of  the  authors  of  the  "  Flying  Post." 

P.  171,  line  8.    And  Shadwell  nods  the  poppy,  &c. 

Shadwell  took  opium  for  many  years,  and  died  of  too  large  a  dot* 
intheyear  1G92. 

P.  181,  line  ?•    Kardssus  praised. 
Lord  Hervey,  extravagantly  lauded  in  Middleton's  dedication  of 
ttoe  "Life  of  Cicero." 


490  NOTES. 

p.  181 ,  line  9.    Montalio, 
Sir  Thomas  Hanmer,  editor  of  the  rival  Shakspeare. 

P.  181 ,  line  14.    Bold  Benson. 

This  man  endeavoured  to  raise  himself  to  fame  by  erecting  tnona 
monts,  striking  coins,  setting  up  heads,  and  procuring  transhitions,  of 
Milton. 

P.  182,  last  line.    Still  expelling  Locke. 

In  the  year  1703  there  was  a  meeting  of  the  heads  of  the  University 
of  Oxford  to  censure  Mr.  Locke's  ••  Essay  on  Human  Understanding," 
and  to  forbid  the  reading  it. 

P.  183,  line  2.    Crousaz. 
Author  of  the  commentary  on  the  "  Essay  on  Man.'' 

p.  183,  line  22.     While,  towering  (?er  your  alphabet,  like  Saul, Stands 
our  digamma. 

Alludes  to  the  boasted  restoration  of  the  Mo\\a  digamma,  in  his 
long-projected  edition  of  Homer. 

P.  1 84,  line  27-     Walker  I  our  hat. 

A  well-known  expression  of  Bentley  to  one  of  the  fellows  of  his  col- 
lege, whose  constant  attendance  on  him  was  charged  to  sycophancy. 

P.  186,  line  7.    Annius. 

The  name  taken  from  Annius,  the  monk  of  Viterho,  famous  for 
many  impositions  and  forgeries  of  ancient  manuscripts  and  inscrip- 
tions, which  he  was  prompted  to  by  mere  vanity;  but  our  Annius 
had  a  more  substantial  motive. 

Annius,  Sir  Andrew  Fountains. 

P.  186,  3rd  line  from  bottom.    Douglas. 

A  physician  of  great  learning  and  no  less  taste;  above  all,  curlou 
fn  what  related  to  Horace;  of  whom  he  collected  every  edition,  tran^ 
lation,  and  comment,  to  the  number  of  several  hundred  volumes. 

P.  188,  line  6.     Willcina'  wings. 

One  of  the  first  projectors  of  the  Royal  Society ;  who,  among 
many  enlarged  and  useful  notions,  entertained  the  extravagant  lio))8 
of  a  possibility  to  fly  to  the  moon;  which  has  put  tome  volatile 
geniuses  on  making  wings  for  that  purpose. 

P.  188,  5th  line  from  bottom.    Silenus. 

Mr.  Thomas  Gordon.  Silenus  was  an  Epicurean  philosopher,  as 
appears  from  Virgil,  Eclogue  vi.  where  he  sings  the  principles  of  that 
philosophy  in  his  drink. 

P.  189,  line  17.    Poor  W**. 
Philip,  Duke  of  Wharton,  who  died  an  exile  and  an  outlaw  in  1731, 

P.  192,  last  line.    And  universal  darkness  buries  all. 

If  the  last  line  of  a  poem  ought  to  be  the  most  forcible,  the  tau- 
tology here  is  peculiarly  unfortunate.  Of  the  fourth  book  in  gciieral. 
Gray  expressed  himself,  that  it  was  masterly,  adding,  "  'lliat  the 
genii  of  the  operas  and  schools,  with  their  attendants,  were  as  fine  ua 
any  thing  Pope  had  ever  written;  but  that  the  metaphvsician's  part 
was,  to  hini,  the  worst ;  and  that  there  were  a  few  ill-expressed  lines, 
ond  even  some  hardly  intelligible." 


NOTES.  ^1 

P.  IS.*?,  line  6  from  bottom.    Ixt  mch  teach  nthen. 

The  inadcquary  of  all  but  arti^^ts  to  judge  of  an  art  is  a  maxim  of 
ftijridit  origin.  "  Oo  jiictorc,  sculptore,  lietore,  nisi  aitifcx,  judiciire 
Don  potest,"  says  Pliny. 

P.  194,  line  12.    All  fodla  have  tiill  an  itching  to  deride. 

Warburton  conceives  this  "  to  allude  to  idiots  and  natural  fools,  wim 
are  observed  to  be  ever  on  the  grin."  It  more  obvio\isly  alludes  to  llie 
foolisli  jealousy  which  tempts  Inferior  writers  to  ridicule  (hose  whom 
tlicy  cannot  hope  to  equal.  One  of  the  well  knows  absurdities  oi 
llobbes  was  his  attributing  laughter  to  pride  I 

P;  194,  line  21.    Insects  «n  the  bankt  of  Nite. 

Fenton  am'.isint;ly,  and  with  sufficient  truth,  pronounces  "tl^c  Nilo 
to  be  as  fruitful  of  Knglish  similes  as  the  sun  ;"  compassionately  add- 
ing, "  that  it  v/ould  be  as  hard  to  restrain  a  young  poet  from  either, 
as  forbidding  fire  and  water  was  esteemed  among  the  Romans." 

P.  194,  line  10  from  bottom.    One  science  only  will  one  ^cmtis  fit, 

Warton  vindicates  this  maxim;  but  adduces  only  the  weak  cx- 
Bmi)lcs: — that  La  Fontaine  wrote  clever  talcs,  but  was  hissed  in 
comedy;  that  Terence  made  no  attempt  in  tragedy;  that  Ilowe'a 
"Biter"  was  wretched;  that  Heemskirk  and  Tcniers  could  never 
have  succeeded  in  the  sublime  of  painting;  that  Tully  made  bad 
verses,  &c. 

P.  195,  line  13  from  bottom.    Sure  to  hate  most,  &c. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  the  picture  of  criticism,  as  sketched  by  Swift, 
himself  the  most  unsparing  of  critics  : — "  Momus,  fearing  the  worst, 
and  calling  to  mind  an  ancient  prophecy,  which  bore  no  very  good 
face  to  his  children  the  modems,  bent  his  flight  to  the  regions  of  a 
malignant  deity,  called  Criticism.  She  dwelt  on  the  top  of  a  snowy 
mountain  in  Nova  Zcmbla :  there  Momus  found  her  extended  in  her 
tlen,  on  the  spoils  of  numberless  volumes,  half  devoured.  At  her  right 
hand  sat  Ignorance,  her  father  and  husband,  blind  with  age;  at  her 
left,  Pride,  her  mother,  drossing  her  up  in  the  scraps  of  paper  herself 
had  torn.  There  was  Opinion,  her  sister,  light  of  foot,  hoodwinked 
an(l  headstrong,  yet  giudy,  and  perpetually  turning.  About  her 
played  her  children.  Noise  and  Impudence,  Dulnessanu  Vanity,  Posi 
tiveness.  Pedantry  and  III  Manners.  Tlxe  goddess  herself  had  clawa 
like  a  cat,"  &c.  &c.— Tale  of  a  Tub. 

P .  195,  line  10  from  bottom.    BoM  in  the  practice  of  mistaken  rulet. 

The  Abb6  d'Aubignac,  patronised  by  Richelieu,  wrote  a  treatise  on 
the  Aristotelic  rules  of  the  drama;  but  this  did  not  prevent  his  wrilia^ 
a  tragedy,  which  was  hissed  off  the  stage. 

P.  19(i,  line  4.    Cavil  you  may,  but  never  criticise. 

The  author,  after  this  verse,  originally  inserted  the  foUowing« 
.  which  he  has  however  omitted  in  all  the  later  editions : — 

Zoilus,  had  these  been  known,  without  a  name 
Had  died,  and  Perault  ne'er  been  damn  d  to  famo* 
The  sense  of  sound  antiquity  had  reign  d. 
And  sacred  Homer  yet  been  unprofaried. 
None  e'er  had  thought  his  comprehensive  mind 
To  modem  customs,  modern  rules  confined; 
Who  for  all  ages  writ,  and  all  mankind. 

P.  198,  line  4    Pride,  the  nevM--failing  vice  offnolf. 

The  evil  of  false  confidence  to  the  poet  is,  that  it  makes  htm 
contemptuous  of  advice :  the  evil  of  ex'^essive  correction  is,  that  it 
substitutes  exactness  for  vigour,  and  replnees  the  impulses  of  llu-  inta- 
^oatiou  bv  the  labours  of  the  judgment     The  <;hief  hazard  of  ooi* 

41 


482  HOTES. 

reption  in  poetry  arises  from  tlie  tamerii.'ss  which  use  threes  ore? 
the  noblest  idea;  a  portion  of  itsovioinal  brilliancy  is  lost  at  every 
new  contemplation  J  until  at  last  the  mind  becomes  completely  dis- 
qualified for  a  true  estimate  of  its  value;  the  force  of  words  super- 
sedes the  force  of  sentiment ;  the  clear,  free,  and  salient  stream  of 
thought  runs  dry ;  and  all  is  first,  smoothness,  and  next,  stagnation. 

P.  198,  last  line.    Hills  peep  o'er  hiils,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise! 

Johnson  lavishes  panegyric  on  this  simile,  as  "  the  most  apt,  the 
''most  proper,  and  the  mo^t  sublime  of  any  in  the  English  language  :** 
he  omits  to  mention  that  the  simile,  and  of  course  the  panegyric,  be« 
long  to  another.  Warton  gives  the  passage  almost  word  for  word  from 
Diummond  :— 

All  as  a  pilgrim  who  the  Alpes  doth  passe 

******** 

Till  mounting  some  tall  mountaine,  he  doth  finde 
More  hights  before  him  thann  he  left  behinde. 

P.  19.9,  line  16  from  bottom.  Once  on  a  time  La  ManchcHs  Timght. 

An  allusion  to  a  story  in  the  "  Second  Part  of  Don  Quixote,"  writ- 
ten by  Alonzo  Avellanada,  and  translated  by  Le  Sage. 

P.  200,  line  9  from  bottom.    Some  hy  old  worda  to  fame  have  made 
pretence. 

The  adoption  of  obsolete  phrases  must  be  injurious  to  poetry;  for 
that  which  is  not  capable  of  being  understood  is  not  capable  of  bein« 
felt:  but  Gray,  a  true  critic,  pronounces  that  "  the  language  of  the 
age  is  never  the  language  of  poetry  :"  he  might  have  added,  nor  is  the 
language  of  vulgarity  the  language  of  nature;  though  this  dogma  has 
been  stoutly  fought  for. 

P.  200,  line  5  from  bottom.   Fungoso, 
Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour." 

P.  201,  line  17.    The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  thv  sense, 

Johnson,  in  the  '*  Rambler,"  justly  controverts  this  principle;  de» 
ries  that  Pope's  examples  exemplify  any  thing  but  the  failure  of  his 
theory;  and  contemptuously  asks,  why  the  speed  of  Camilla  should 
be  pictured  by  the  slowest  line  in  our  language  ?  The  obvious  sou'  c9 
of  the  error  in  the  text  exists  in  the  supposition  that  ihe  Greek  and 
Roman  quantities  can  be  transferred  to  English  Poetry.  The  genius 
of  the  classic  and  the  English  tongues  is  totally  distinct :  and  all  at- 
tempts to  mould  English  syllables  into  ancient  harmony  hive  only 
given  additional  evidence  of  the  hopelessness  of  the  enterprise. 

P.  203,  line  13.    Scotists. 

The  disciples  of  Johannes  Duns  Scotus,  the  great  unintelligibb 
doctor,  the  Kant  of  his  day.  "  Thomists,"  the  disciples  of  Thomas 
Aquinas,  celebrated  for  his  singular  subtlety,  and  his  •'  Suimna 
Sumraas,"  containing  comments  on  Aristotle,  &c. 

P.  203,  line  14.    Kindred  cobtveba. 

Bale  narrates,  as  a  miracle  of  the  seventh  century,  that,  at  the  sixth 
general  council  of  Constantinople,  where  the  mass  was  estahli^lipd 
and  the  clergy  were  forbidden  to  marry,  avast  quantity  of  cobwebs 
were  seen  suddenly  to  fall  on  the  heads  of  the  people. 

P.  203,  line  14.    Duck  Lane. 

A  place  where  old  and  second-hand  books  were  sold  formerly,  niut 
Bmithfield.— PoPB. 


JfOTES.  483 

p.  203,  line  27     Against  Drydcn  rose, 

Dryden  unhappily  exposed  himself  too  much  to  the  censure  of  the 
moralist :  living  m  a  loose  day,  he  submitted  to  the  general  habit,  and 
Increased  the  degeneracy  which  his  powerful  mind  was  given  to  re- 
claim. The  person  here  carelessly  alluded  to,  was  Jeremy  Collier,  a 
rough  critic,  but  an  honest  writer :  the  critic  was  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, who  ridiculed  with  memorable  pleasantry  the  extravagances 
of  Dryden's  plays. 

P.  203,  line  32.    MObouma. 

Luke  Milboum,  a  clergyman,  and  a  tolerable  critic ;  but,  unluckily 
for  his  fame,  opposed  to  Pope  in  his  comments  on  Shakspeare. 

P.  203,  line  34.    Zoilus. 

A  lesson  to  criticism  in  both  his  life  and  death  ;  a  general  trafficker 
In  abuse,  he  wrote  against  all  the  highest  names  of  Greek  literature. 
Homer,  Aristotle,  Plato,  Demosthenes,  &c. :  having  thus  rendered 
himself  obnoxious  to  his  countrymen,  he  fled  to  Egypt,  where,  ac- 
cordmg  to  the  narrative  of  Vitruvius,  he  was  seized  by  Ptolemy 
Philadelphus,  who,  in  his  abhorrence  of  critical  libel,  ordered  him  to 
be  stoned  to  death. 

P.  204,  line  I.    Our  eon*  their  father i  failing  language  see. 

This  is  one  of  the  fantastic  sorrows  of  poetry :  the  language  of 
Dryden  is  still  as  fresh  as  it  was  on  the  day  when  it  flowed  fr^^ra  his 
powerful  pen. 

P.  204,  line  27.    If  wit  to  much  from  ignorance  undergo, 

Warton  refers  to  the  amusing  anecdote  of  Boileau's  presenting  the 
*  order  for  his  pension  to  the  French  treasurer  The  order  was  ex- 
pressed, "  in  satisfaction  for  his  works;"  the  treasurer,  who  may  be 
supposed  to  have  been  buried  from  his  infancy  in  the  dust  of  his 
oflice,  asked  "  what  kind  of  works  ?" — "Masonry,"  replied  the  con- 
temptuous bard  i  •'  I  am  a  builder." 

A  still  more  curious  example  of  this  species  of  ignorance  lately  oc- 
curred even  in  our  own  stirring  country.  An  opulent  banker  in  the 
west  of  England  was  requested  to  receive  subscriptions  for  the  testi- 
monial to  the  memory  of  Sir  Walter  Scott :  the  banker  gravely  re- 
plied, "that  he  had  no  objection  tc  receive  the  subscriptions,  except 
his  never  having  heard  the  name  before;  and  he  wished  previously  to 
know  to  what  firm  it  belonged." 

P.  205,  line  10.    And  not  a  masTe,  &c 

Alluding  to  the  custom  in  that  age  of  ladies  going  in  masks  to  the 
play. 

P.  205,  line  13.    foreign  reign. 

The  reign  of  William  III. 

P.  207,  line  11  from  bottom.    Nap,  fly  to  altara,  &:c. 

A  passage  imitated  from  Boileau's  ♦•  II  n'est  temple  si  saint,  det 
anges  respects."  Dr  Perrier,  a  French  scribbler,  had  followed  Doileau 
to  church,  and  insisted  on  his  listening  to  a  newly  written  Ode  durmg 
the  elevation  of  the  host ;  desiring  also  his  opinion,  "  whether  it  were 
not  a  rival  of  Malheibe  !" 

P.  208,  line  11.    The  mighty  Siagyrite,  ts-c 
Aristotle,  the  first  and  the  best  of  critics. 

P.  208,  line  14  from  bottom.    Grave  QuintUian,  &c. 

The  manuscripts  of  Quintilian,  complete,  were  found  by  the  learned 
Poggio,  in  1417,  in  the  dust  at  the  bottom  of  a  tower  of  the  monaster  j 
of  2»C  Gal,  near  Constance. 


4Bii  NOTES. 

P.  209,  Une  23.    Immortal  Vlda  f  && 

A.  rare  instance  of  poetry  leading  to  the  highest  honours  of  proife? 
sional  life.  Vida  was  the  son  of  a  Cremonese  peasant,  but  of  an  aq 
cient  Italian  line. 

P.  209,  line  8  from  the  bottom.    Such  waa  the  Muse,  &c. 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham's  rank,  opulence,  and  love  of  lirerature, 
intitled  him  to  more  distinction  than  he  deserved  by  his  ability  :  bit 
he  was  the  object  of  panegyric  to  the  whole  living  generation  of  poetn. 
Yet  not  to  all  with  equal  success.  Pope's  insertion  of  this  cotiplet  in 
his  second  edition,  touched  the  feeling  or  the  vanity,  which  had  been 
Bo  often  wooed  in  vainj  and  from  that  period  this  powerful  nobleman 
vras  his  friend. 

P.  209,  line  6  from  bottom.    Such  waa  Roscommon,  &c. 

An  "  Essay  on  Translated  Verse"  seems,  at  first  sight,  to  be  a 
barren  subject;  yet  Roscommon  has  decorated  it  with  many  precepts 
of  utility  and  taste,  and  enlivened  it  with  a  tale  in  imitation  of 
Boileau. 

P.  211,  line  2  from  bottom.    Hiprh  on  a  rock  of  ice,  &c 

In  Milton's  poem  on  the  fifth  of  November,  a  description  of 
the  tower  of  Fame  is  given  from  tlie  twelfth  book  of  the  "  Metamor- 
phoses." The  icy  ascent  to  the  temple  in  the  text  implies  the  inse- 
curity and  chillnessof  the  first  efforts  for  human  distinction.  Tho 
Image,  like  all  the  principal  features  of  the  poem,  is  from  Chaucer. 

P.  212,  line  25.    So  Zembla'a  rocks,  &c. 

It  gives  some  insight  into  the  nature  of  poetical  impression,  to  ob- 
serve that  nearly  all  those  passages  in  our  greater  authors  which  have 
'   jeome  popular,  are  distinguished  by  beauty  of  epithet. 

P.  212,  line  14  from  bottom.    Four  faces  had  the  dome,  &c. 

The  temple  is  described  to  be  square,  the  four  fronts  with  open 
gates  facing  the  different  quarters  of  the  world,  as  an  intimation  that 
all  nations  of  the  earth  may  alike  be  received  hito  it.  The  western 
front  is  of  Grecian  architecture :  the  Doric  order  was  peculiarly 
sacred  to  heroes  and  worthies.  Those  whose  statues  are  after  men- 
tioned, were  the  first  names  of  old  Greece  in  arms,  and  arts.— Pope. 

P.  213,  line  3.    There  great  Alcidcs,  &c. 

This  figure  of  Hercules  is  drawn  with  an  eye  to  the  position  of  the 
famous  statue  of  Farnese. — Pope. 

P.  213,  line  18.    And  the  great  founder  of  the  Peraian  name, 

Cyrus  was  the  beginning  of  the  Persian,  as  Ninus  was  of  the  Assy- 
rian monarchy. 

P.  213,  line  31.    Egypt's  priests,  &c 

The  learning  of  the  old  Egyptian  priests  consisted  for  the  most  part 
in  geometry  and  astronomy  :  they  also  preserved  the  history  of  their 
nation.  The  greatest  hero  on  record  is  Sesostris,  whose  actions  and 
conquests  may  be  seen  at  large  in  Diodorus,  Ac. 

P.  214,  line  24.    The  youth  that  all  thkiga  but  himself  subdued. 
Alexander  the  Great.  ' 

P.  214,  line  16  from  bottom.    Timdleon,  glorious  in  his  brother's  blooa. 

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,  preferring  his  duty  to  his  country  to 
all  the  obligations  of  blood.— Popb« 


NOTES.  483 

p.  21 4,  line  6  from  bottom.    He  whom  ungrateful  Athen$,  &c. 

Aristides,  who  for  his  great  integrity  was  distinguished  by  the  appel« 
lation  of  "  the  Just." 

P.  214,  line  4  from  bottom.    Martyr'd  Phocion. 

Who,  when  he  was  about  to  drink  the  hemlock,  charged  his  son  to 
foii^ive  his  enemies,  and  not  to  revenge  his  death  on  those  Athenians 
who  had  decreed  it. — Wartox. 

P.  215,  line  18  from  bottom.    Four  twans  sustain,  &c. 

Pindar  being  seated  in  a  soaring  chariot,  alludes  to  the  chariot -races  he 
celebrated  in  the  Grecian  games  :  tlie  swans  are  emblems  of  poetry, 
their  posture  intimates  the  sublimity  and  activity  of  his  genius.  Nep- 
tune presided  over  the  Isthmian,  and  Jupiter  over  the  Olympian 
games. — Pope. 

P.  225,  line  4  from  bottom.    Manly  raves. 

The  principal  character  in  the  "  Plain  Dealer"  of  Wycherley. 
The  epithet  "  generous"  seems  but  ill  applied  to  that  harsh  and  crude 
libe  Jer  of  human  nature. 

P.  226,  line  1.    Hate  it  in  a  queen. 

Supposed  to  be  Queen  Caroline,  who  was  frequently  laughed  at  for 
an  idle  pedantry,  and  a  pretended  love  of  science, 

P.  226,  line  9.     Vnthought-of  frailties  cheat  us  in  the  wise. 

Warton  tells  us,  that  thenightbefore  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  Prince 
Eugene,  having  occasion  to  return  to  Marlborough's  tent,  soon  after 
the  council  held  on  the  operations  of  the  forthcoming  day  had  broken 
up,  found  the  great  duke  giving  orders  to  his  aide-de-camp.  Colonel 
Selwyn  (who  narrated  the  circumstance),  by  the  liglit  of  a  single 
candle,  all  the  ethers  having  been  put  out  the  moment  the  council  was 
over.  '•  What  a  man  is  this,"  said  the  Prince,  "  who  at  such  a  time 
can  think  of  saving  candle-ends  I" 

P.  226,  line  21.    Patricio's  high  desert 
Lord  Godolphin. 

P.  226,  line  27.    Charron. 

Author  of  the  celebrated  treatise  "  De  la  Sagesse,"  and  friend  of 
Montaigne. 

P,  226, 1  ine  29.    A  perjwed  prince,  &c. 

Louis  XI.  of  France  wore  in  his  hat  a  leaden  image  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,  which,  when  he  swore  by,  he  feared  to  break  his  oath. — Popb. 

P.  226,  line  30.    A  godless  regent  tremble  at  a  star. 

Philip,  Dukeof  Orleans,  Uegentin  the  minority  of  Louis  XV.  super* 
stitious  enough  to  be  a  believer  in  judicial  astrology,  though  an  unbe« 
liever  in  all  religion. 

P.  226,  line  31.    The  throne  a  bigot  keep,  a  genius  quit. 

Philip  V.  of  Spain,  who,  after  renouncing  the  throne  for  religion, 
resumed  it  to  gratify  his  Queen :  and  Victor  Amadeus  II.,  king  of  Sar. 
dinia,  who  resigned  the  crown,  and,  trying  to  reassume  it,  was  im> 
prisoned  till  his  death. 

P.  226,  line  12  from  bottom.    Europe  a  tvoman,  child,  or  dotard,  rule. 

The  Czarina,  the  French  King,  the  Pope,  and  her  wisest  monarch; 
the  King  of  Sardinia. 

89* 


488  NOTES. 

p.  227>  line  3.    Tho  same  adust  complexion   4c. 

Philip  II.  of  Spain  was  atrabilaire  :  Charles  V.  suffered  much  from 
oile.    Melancholy  drove  Charles  to  the  cloister,  and  Philip  to  war. 

P.  227,  line  20  from  bottom.    'Tisfrom  high  life,  &c. 

The  sarcasm  of  this  well-known  passage,  more  than  its  soundness, 
has  assisted  its  celebrity. 

P.  228,  line  21  from  bottom.     Wharton  stands  confess'd. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  nistances  on  record  of  the  abuse  of 
nature,  fortune,  of  great  talents  turned  into  contempt,  of  hip;h  rank 
degraded,  of  vast  opulence  made  useless,  and  of  memorable  opportu- 
nities perverted  into  disaster,  shame,  and  ruin. 

P.  228,  line  13  from  bottom.     Wilmot. 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester,  famous  for  his  wit  and  extrava- 
gances in  the  time  of  Charles  II. 

P.  229,  line  14.     When  Ca:iar  made  a  noble  damer&c. 
Servilia :  She  was  the  sister  of  Cato  and  mother  of  Brutus. 

P.  229,  line  19  from  bottom.    Sober  Lanesboroiv,  &c. 
Lord  Lanesborow,  who  danced  when  a  cripple  from  the  gout 

P.  229,  line  5  from  bottom.    And  in  that  p^iff  expires. 
Told  by  Lady  Bolingbroke  of  an  old  Parisian  Countess. 

P.  230 ,  line  2.    And — Bctln—aive  this  cheek  a  little  red. 

The  mistress  was  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Oldiield;  the  maid  Mrs. 
Saunders,  her  friend,  also  a  clever  actress. 

P.  230,  line  5  from  bottom.     7  cannot  part  tvith  that,  &.c. 

The  words  of  Sir  William  Bateman  in  his  last  moments.  Warton 
justly  observes,  that  the  realiLieb  of  avarijeand  jjluttony  defy  all  ex- 
0;,'^e  ration. 

P.  232,  line  17  from  bottom.    HardU/ stmo  a  child. 

It  was  said,  that  some  mons  rous  u>e  of  a  dead  bndy  for  this  pur- 
pose was  made  by  a  woman  of  r.mk  at  tlu;  time.  The  rest  of  the  clia- 
racter  was  desii;ned  for  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton. 

P.  233,  line  13  from  bottom.    Cries,  *  AhJ  how  charming,'  &.C. 
The  Duchess  of  Montague. 

P.  235,  line  9.     Chloe  is  prudent,  (fee. 

Lady  Suffolk.  Pope  dining  at  her  table  henrd  hor  toll  onoof  the 
footmen  to  remind  her  to  send  to  know  iiow  Mrs.  Blount,  wi.o  v.iis 
Ul,  had  passed  the  night. 

P.  235,  line  23  from  bottom.    Mahomet. 

Servant  to  the  late  Kmg,  said  to  be  the  son  of  a  Turki  li  Ra^pa,  v.hom 
he  took  at  the  siege  of  Buda,  and  constantly  kept  about  his  pe:.^ou.— 
Pope. 

P.  233.    Epistlk  IIL 

This  Epistle  was  written  after  a  violent  outcry  against  our  aiithorj 
on  suspicion  that  he  had  riiiiculed  a  wortliy  noblcnian  nicioly  i'cr  his 
wrong  taste.  He  justified  himself  on  that  aitide  iu  a  letter  to  the  Karl 
of  Biiiliugto&. 


■^ 


N'OTES.  487 

p.  2nr!,  line  1.     TV/io  shall  decide,  he 
The  speakers  are  Pope  and  the  old  and  witty  Lord  BalliUi-st. 

P.  238,  last  line.    Ward,  Waters. 

John  Ward  of  Hackney,  Esq.  member  of  parliament,  being  prose* 
cuted  by  the  Ducbess  of  Buckingham,  and  convicted  of  for^try.  was 
first  expelled  the  house,  and  then  stood  on  the  pillory  on  the  17th  of 
March,  1727.  The  Waters  here  mentioned  is  the  same  person  wlio  is 
introduced  under  the  character  of  "  Wise  Peter,"  whose  name  was 
Walter,  though  sometimes  called  Waters. 

P.  239, 1  in  e  1 6.    Beneath  the  patriot '»  clonJc. 

This  is  a  Itoie  story,  which  happened  in  the  reign  of  WliHam  III.  to 
an  unsuspected  old  patriot,  who  coming  out  at  the  back-door  from 
having  been  closeted  by  the  king,  where  he  had  received  a  large  bag 
of  guineas,  the  bursting  of  the  bag  discovered  his  business  tliere.— 
Pope. 

P.  239,  line  6  from  bottom.    Colepepper'*. 

Sir  William  Colepepper,  Bart. 

P.  240,  line  12.    Turner. 

One,  who  being  possessed  of  £.300,000,  laid  down  his  coach,  because 
Interest  was  reduced  from  five  to  four  per  cent.,  and  then  put  £70,000 
into  the  Charitable  Corporation  for  better  interest;  which  sum  having 
lost,  he  took  it  so  much  to  heart,  that  he  kept  his  chamber  ever  after. 
It  is  thought  he  would  not  have  outlived  it,  but  that  he  was  heir  to  an- 
other estate,  which  he  daily  expected;  and  that  by  this  course  of  life 
he  saved  both  clothes  and  all  other  expenses. — Popb. 

P.  240,  line  14.    Vnhappy  Wharton,  &c 

A  nobleman  of  great  qualities;  but  as  unfortunate  in  the  application 
of  them,  as  if  they  had  been  vices  and  follies. — Popk. 

P.  240,  line  15.    Hophina. 

A  citizen,  whose  rapacity  obtained  him  the  name  of  Vulture  Hop- 
kins. 

P. 240,  line  16.    Japhet  nose  andean? 

Japhet  Crook,  alias  Sir  Peter  Stronger. 

P.  240,  line  2(5.    Endow  a  college,  or  a  cat. 
•♦  La  belle  Stuart,"  of  Grammont's  Memoirs,  was  the  endowcr. 

P.  240,  line  30.    Bond  damns  the  poor,  &c. 

This  Epistle  was  written  in  the  year  173(»,  when  a  cnrporrition  was 
established  to  lend  money  to  the  poor  on  pledges,  by  the  name  of  the 
Charitable  Corporation. 

P.  241,  line  3.    Wise  Peter,  &c. 

Peter  Walter,  a  person  not  only  eminent  in  the  wisdom  of  his  pro- 
fession, as  a  dexterous  attorney,  but  allowed  to  be  a  good,  if  not  a  safe 
conveyancer;  extremely  respected  by  the  nobility  of  tliii  land,  though 
free  from  all  manner  of  luxury  and  ostentation. 

P.  241,  line  6.    Rom^s  great  Didiut. 

A  Roman  lawyer,  so  rich  as  to  purchase  the  empire  when  it  was  set 
to  sale  on  the  death  of  Pertina::. — Pope. 

P.  241,  line  7-    The  crown  of  Poland,  &c. 

The  two  persons  here  mentiorcd,  Mr.  Gage,  and  lady  Mary  Herbert, 
daughter  of  William,  Marquis  of  Powis,  in  the  Mississippi  despised  U 


NOTES. 

f  ealize  above  £300,000 ;  the  gentlemsn  with  a  v3ew  to  the  purchase  of 
the  crown  of  Poland,  the  lady  on  a  vision  of  the  like  royal  natme.— 
Pope. 

P.  241,  line  9.    Mdric^a  dreams,  &c. 

Lady  Mary  Herbert,  daughter  of  William,  Marquis  of  Powis.— . 

POPB. 

P.  241,  line  13.    Much-injured  Blunt,  &c. 

Sir  John  Blunt,  originally  a  scrivener,  was  one  of  the  fsrst  projectors 
of  _ the  Soiitli  Sea  Company,  and  afterwards  one  of  the  direciois  and 
chief  managers  of  the  famous  scheme  in  1720.  lie  was  also  one  of  those 
who  suffered  most  severely  by  the  bill  of  pains  and  penalties  on  the 
said  directors. — Popk. 

P.  243,  line  23.     Oxforxi's  better  part, 
Edward  Harley,  Earl  of  Oxford.— Pope. 

P.  243,  line  9  from  bottom.    The  Man  o/Rnss,  &c. 

Kyrle  possessed  about  i'500  a  year  :  by  his  union  of  activity,  intelli- 
gence, and  character,  he  promoted  many  of  those  improvements,  whose 
utility  is  felt  in  every  neighbourhood. 

P.  244,  line  16  from  bottom.    Great  VilUers  lies,  &c. 

This  lord.yet  more  famous  for  his  vices  than  his  misfortunes,  having 
been  possessed  of  about  .-t'SO.OOO  a  year,  and  passed  through  many  of 
the  highest  posts  in  the  kingdom,  died  in  the  year  16.i7»  in  a  remote 
inn  in  Yorkshire, reduced  to  the  utmost  misery. — Pope. 

P.  244,  line  13  from  bottom.    Shrewsbtirp. 

The  Countess  of  Shrewsbury,  a  woman  abandoned  to  gallantries. 
The  ear] ,  her  husband,  was  killed  by  the  Duke  of  Duckingham  in  a  duel  $ 
Bnd  it  has  been  said ,  that  during  the  combat  she  held  the  Duke's  horse* 
in  the  habit  of  a  page. — Pope. 

P.  247,  line  8  from  bottom.    Topham. 
A  gentleman  famous  for  a  judicious  collection  of  drawinga. 

P.  248.  line  4.    Ripley. 

This  man  was  a  carpenter,  employed  by  a  first  minister,  who  raised 
him  to  an  architect,  without  any  genius  in  the  art;  and,  after  some 
wretched  proofs  of  his  insufficiency  in  public  buildings,  macle  him 
comptroller  of  the  Board  of  Works. — Pope. 

P.  248,  line  6.    Bubo. 

Bubb  Duddmgton,  who  had  just  built  a  fine  house  at  Eastb«rjf» 
near  Blandford. 

P.  248,  line  19  from  bottom.    Le  Noire. 

The  architect  of  the  groves  and  grottoes  of  Versailles:  he  came 
hither  on  a  mission  to  improve  our  taste.  He  planted  St.  James's  and 
Greenwich -parks. — Pope. 

P.  250,  line  19  from  bottom.     Verrio  or  Ivgumi'e. 

Verrio  (Antonio)  painted  many  ceilings,  &c.  at  Windsor,  Hampton 
Court,  &c.  and Laguerre  at  Blenheim  Castle,  and  other  jdaces. — Pops, 

P.  252,  line  1.    See  the  wild  toasfe,  Ac. 

Pope's  remarks  on  this  Epistle  seem  contradicted  bv  the  fact,  tliat 
Addison  died  on  the  17th  of  June,  1719,  and  consequently  Pope  could 
not,  in  1720,  request  to  share  with  him  in  the  friendship  of  Cra^gs. 
The  explanation  is,  that  the  six  oniu'luding  lines  were  written  oa  a 
former  occasion,  and  while  both  Addison  and  Cra^gs  were  livin^i. 


SOTES,  489 

p.  853,  line  3.    Tliis  the  blue  varnish,  that  the  green. 
Thl«  a  collector  of  silver,  that  of  brass  coins. — Warborton. 

P.  253,  line  7.    Poor  Vadius. 

Prom  the  Memoirs  of  Scriblerus.    Vadius  was  Dr.  Woodward. 

P.  253,  line  10.    Neglects  his  bride. 

If  Dio  be  a  true  chronicler,  a  noble  Roman  in  the  time  of  Tiberius 
{U'stinguished  himself  by  an  extraordinary  taste  for  antiques.  This 
|)ersonage,  whose  name  was  Vibius  Rufus,  boasted  that  he  possessed 
the  two  noblest  pieces  of  antiquity  in  the  world;  one  was  Cicero's 
widow,  Terentia,  whom  he  had  married  in  her  third  widowliood,  and 
who  had  arrived  at  the  mature  age  of  a  hundred  years ;  the  other  was 
the  chair  in  which  Cassar  was  assassinated. — Warburton. 

P.  253,  line  13.    Her  gods  and  godlike  heroes,  &c. 

"Winkelman's  History  of  the  Ancient  Arts  was  once  the  standard  of 
all  knowledge  and  criticism :  it  has  since  fallen  to  its  level,  and  is 
considered  to  be  little  beyond  a  laborious  catalogue  ;  but  it  gives  some 
amusing  details  of  the  fates  of  statues,  &c.  When  the  Austrians 
took  Madrid,  Lord  Galloway  made  a  search  for  a  celebrated  bust  of 
Caligula,  which  one  of  the  Colonnas  had  carried  to  Spain  ;  it  was  at 
length  found  in  the  Escurial,  as  the  weight  to  a  church-clock. 

P.  253,  last  line.    And  praised,  unenvied,  &c. 

Those  six  lines  form  Craggs's  epitaph.  Warton  remarks,  that 
though  Pope  was  attached  to  Bolingbroke's  party,  he  had  seen  enough 
of  both  sides  to  trust  neither  too  far:  he  regarded  them  both  when 
In  power  as  nearly  the  same.    On  this  subject  he  wrote, — 

*'  Our  ministers  like  gladiators  live : 
'Tis  half  their  business  blows  to  ward  or  give 
The  good  their  virtue  would  effect,  or  sense, 
Dies  between  exigents  and  self-defence." 

P.  254,  line  3  from  bottom.    Lord  Fanny  spins,  &c 

Those  were  the  lines  by  which  Pope  struck  the  first  blow  in  the 
battle  with  Lord  Hervey.  Lord  Hervey's  appearance  was  efleminate; 
and  he  was  said  to  improve  a  peculiarly  pale  complexion  by  the  un- 
manly aid  of  rouge. 

P.  255,  line  16.    TVhatf  like  Sir  Richard,  &c. 
Johnson  describes  Blackmore  as  a  man,  who  destroyed  a  good  repu- 
tation as  a  physician  by  a  bad  one  as  a  poet. 

P.  255,  line  21.    Falling  horse. 

The  horse  on  which  his  Majesty  charged  at  the  bittle  of  Oudenard  | 
when  the  Pretender  and  the  princes  of  the  blood  of  France  fled  belore 
him. — Wa  rton. 

P.  255,  line  11  from  bottom.    Darty  his  ham-pie. 
Darteneuf,  a  contemptible  fellow,  who  made  a  ridiculous  reputa- 
tion by  his  gluttony.    On  reading  this  passage  he  acknowledged  (ha 
application;  but  said,  that  if  Pope  had  given  him  "  8weet-pie  mstead 
of  ham-pie,  he  could  never  have  forgiven  him." 

P.  255,  Ime  5  from  the  bottom.    Downright  Shippen. 
A  member  of  parliament  in  opposition  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole  ,  a 
frequent  speaker,  and  supposed  to  be  conspicuous  for  sense,  integrity, 
and  love  of  liberty ;  yet,  in  contradiction  to  the  whole  three,  a  rahk 
Jacobite. 

P.  256,  line  14.    To  run  a-tmtck 

Alludes  to  a  practice  among  the  Malayans,  vho  are  grcst  gamesterji 


490  NOTES. 

whiclj  is,  that  when  a  man  has  lost  all  his  property,  he  fntoxicstetf 
himself  with  opium,  works  himself  up  to  a  fit  of  frenzy,  tushes  into 
the  streets,  and  attacks  and  murders  all  he  meets. — Warto:^. 

P.  256,  line  17.    Save  but  our  army  ! 

It  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  blindness  of  politicians,  that  the 
standing  army  of  England,  from  which  the  overthrow  of  our  liberties 
had  been  so  violently  predicted,  has  been  uniformly  the  protector  of 
those  liberties. 

P.  256,  line  25.    Delia's  rage. 

A  Miss  Mackenzie  was,  at  this  time,  presumed  to  ha%'e  died  of 

[wison,  administered  by  a  rival.  The  suspected  Delia's  name  is  given 
n  the  old  edition,  "  Lady  D — ne." 

P.  256,  line  26.    Page. 

A  brutal  jud^e,  whose  conduct  on  Savage's  trial  is  given  down  to 
Ignominy  by  Johnson. 

P.  257,  line  23.    And  he,  ivhose  lightning,  &c. 

Charles  Mordaunt,  Earl  of  Peterborough,  who  in  1705  took  Barce- 
lona, and  in  the  winter  following,  with  only  230  horse  and  900  foot, 
accomplished  the  conquest  of  Valencia. 

P.  258,  line  9.    Bethel. 

Bethel,  a  frequent  and  familiar  correspondent  of  Pope :  he  performs 
in  this  Epistle  the  part  of  the  Horatian  Ofellus. 

P.  258,  line  18.    Will  choose  a  pheasant,  &c. 

In  the  original  a  peacock,  a  stronger  contrast.  The  peacock  was 
among  the  most  costly  dishes  of  Roman  epicurism:  its  price  \\a5 
sometimes  fifty  denarii,  about  a  guinea  and  a  half.  The  re;iring  of 
peacocks  for  the  table  was  a  trade  :  a  flock  of  a  hundred  has  been  r!itcd 
at  ^'322  of  our  money.  Aufidius  Lurco,  according  to  Varro,  made  au 
income  of  nearly  £500  a  year  by  peacocks  alone. 

P.  253,  line  25.    Oldfield. 
A  fool,  who  ate  himself  out  of  his  fortune. 

P.  258,  line  26.    Hog  barbecued,  &c 

A  West  Indian  term  of  gluttony;  a  hog  roasted  whole,  stufrVd  vrilh 
ipice,  and  basted  with  Madeira  wine. — Popk. 

P.  259,  line  4.    Bedford-head. 
A  famous  eating-house. 

P.  260,  line  6  from  bottom.    In  South  Sea  days,  &c. 

Pope  had  South  Sea  seock,  valued  in  the  day  of  national  i^^adne^s  at 
fcetween  £20,000  and  £'30,000.    He  kept  it  until  it  vanished  inio  ;ur. 

P.  260,  line  3  from  bottom.     Than  in  five  acres,  iSiC. 
Pope's  villa  at  Twickenham  was  rented  from  a  Mrs.  Vernon. 

P.  261,  line  6  from  bott  jra.    Shades,  that  to  Bacon,  && 
Gorhambury,  near  St.  Albans. 

P.  261 ,  line  3  from  bottom.    ProMrf  Buckingham's  delii^ht 
Villi6r5,  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Page  262,  line  1.    I've  often  wish'd. 
dope's  part  of  this  poem  begins  at  the  hundred  and  twenty  -fiflh 


NOTES.  491 

lin<^ ;  but  such  is  his  dexterity  of  imitation,  that  thechange  is  scarcely 
discoverable. 

P.  262,  line  22.    In  my  right  wits. 

Swift  for  some  years  had  laboured  under  an  apprehension  of  in- 
ganity.  His  abruptness,  eccentricity,  and  singular  fondness  for  look- 
ing on  the  repulsive  side  of  human  nature,  might  have  justified  tho 
alarm,  from  the  beginning  of  his  career. 

P.  262,  hne  6  from  bottom.    Nor  cross  the  channel  twice  a  year. 

Swift  held  himself  so  strongly  aggrieved  by  bein;?  fixed  in  Irelnnd, 
that  he  was  continually  soliciting  an  exchange  of  his  preffnnenl  for 
an  English  benefice.  Notwithstanding  his  old  and  ojjcn  hostility  to 
Sir  R.  Walpole,  he  appears  to  have,  at  one  time,  been  on  tiie  point  of 
obtaining  an  English  deanery.  But  his  love  of  political  busile  was 
not  to  be  resisted :  and  he  had  but  just  arrived  in  London,  fur  the 
j)urpose  of  concluding  the  arrant^enient ;  when  he  plunged  intu  a  news- 
paper with  Bolingbroke,  and  commenced  a  course  of  vigorous  libel 
OQ  the  only  man  who  could  efl'ect  his  object. 

P.  264,  line  12.    My  lord  and  me,  &c. 

Harley.  The  premier's  intimacy  with  Swift  naturally  promised  a 
share  in  that  official  overthrow  which  pours  from  the  fountains  of 
the  treasury :  and  Swift  clearly  calculated  on  being  a  b!^hop.  But 
"The  Tale  of  the  Tub"  stood  in  his  way  ;  and  the  queen  honour- 
ably refused  to  suffer  its  writer  to  take  his  place  among  tl-.e  heads  of 
the  church.  Swift's  adherence  to  Mrs.  Howard,  justly  obnoxious  as 
she  was  to  the  queen,  might  have  not  slightly  assisted  the  ruyal  deter- 
mination. 

P.  265,  line  24.    He  had  a  stofi-y  of  two  mice. 

Warton  observes  that  this  story  "  belongs  to  ^sop,  though  not  in- 
serted in  the  collection  which  bears  his  name."  His  authority  is 
Babrius,  piobably  himself  too  late  to  be  an  authority:  but  Warton, 
from  his  silence  on  the  subject,  might  seem  to  be  unaware  of  the 
curious  controversy  on  iEsop,  which  put  the  world  of  scholarship  in 
commotion  about  the  beginning  of  the  century;  threw  Sir  William 
Temple's  rash  panegyric  of  antiquity  into  ridicule;  and  produced  the 
"  bellum  piusquam  civile"  of  Boyle,  Atterbury,  Fremd,  Bentley,  &c. 
Literary  quarrel  never  adopted  a  more  promising  topic,  for  all  its 
features  were  contestable.  It  was  thus  disputed,  and  may  be  disputed 
still, — whether  the  F.ables  were  originally  Greek  or  Indian ; — whether 
they  were  written  in  the  most  remote  antiquity,  or  were  as  recent  as 
the  day  of  Socrates,  or  were  chiefly  the  production  of  yet  more 
recent  times; — whether  they  were  originally  in  prose  or  inverse;  — 
whether  a  syllable  of  the  life  of  .lEsop  by  Hlanudes  is  true  or  false  i 
whether  iEsop  were  a  slave  and  deformed,  or  free  and  straiglu- 
backed; — whether  he  were  a  Greek,  an  Egyptian,  or  a  Phrygian;  — 
whether  he  lived  in  the  sixth  century  before  our  era,  or  whether  he 
ever  existed.  The  fate  of  the  Fables  is  equally  curious  in  point  of 
change.  The  first  known  collection  was  made  by  Phalcreus  of  Athens 
about  the  fourth  century,  B.C.;  (perhaps  originally  translated  from 
some  oriental  dialect ;)  their  first  Greek  shape  was  prose,  for  Socrates 
employed  his  prison  hours  in  turning  some  of  them  into  verse:  the 
example  was  followed,  and  the  chief  fables  were  thrown  into  elegiac 
metre.  They  were  again  either  collected,  or  versified,  by  Babrius, 
about  the  close  of  the  Augustan  age.  Again,  the  monk  Planudes,  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  broke  down  the  verse  into  prose,  and  gave 
us  the  yEsop  of  modern  times.  A  learned  paper  by  Tyrrwhit,  "  Dis- 
•ertatio  de  Babrio,"  renewed  the  subject  in  1776,  and  supplied  all  tht 
facts  that  are  now  capable  of  being  ascertained. 

P.  268,  line  17.    I  'Q  do  what  Mead, 
The  celebrated  physician. 


492 


NOTKS. 


P.  2G3,  line  17.    Cheselderu 

The  most  adventurous,  but  the  most  successful  surgical  operatOT  of 
his  day :  a  friend  of  Pope. 

P.  269,  line  2.    Who  notehea  stickt  at  Westminster, 
Exchequer  tallies. 

P.  269,  line  3.    Barnard. 

Sir  John  Bamatd,  Knight,  was  born  at  Readinj»,  and  brouf^ht  up  at 
a  school  at  Wandsworth  in  Surrey  :  his  parents  were  Quakers.  In 
1/03,  he  quitted  the  Society  of  Quakers,  was  received  into  the  church 
by  Compton,  Bishop  of  London,  and  continued  a  member  of  it.  He 
became  a  celebrated  member  of  parliament,  and  an  eminent  merchant 
and  magistrate  of  London. 

P.  269,  line  6.    As  Bug  now  has,  and  Dorimnnt,  &c. 

The  industry  of  the  commentators  has  been  unable  to  apply  those 

names. 

P.  270,  line  13  from  bottom.    Linen  worthy  lady  Mary. 

Pope  could  never  forgive  Lady  Mary's  at  once  laughing  at  his  pas- 
sion, and  libelling  his  poetry.  This  celebrated  woman,  thoujh  a 
beauty,  and  vain  of  her  charms,  was  supposed  to  be  singularly  negligent 
of  her  person.  Walpole  says,  "  that  when  she  left  Florence,  after  a 
three  weeks'  stay  in  one  of  the  archduke's  palaces,  they  were  obliged 
to  fumigate  the  rooms."    And  this  in  Italy  I 

P.  273,  line  8.    It  brighten'd  Craggs's. 

The  secretary  was  the  son  of  a  man  originally  in  a  menial  situation, 
yet  who  by  industry  and  character  rose  to  be  postmaster-general. 

P.  273,  line  19.    See  Ward  by  batter 'd  beaux,  &c. 
Ward  and  Dover,  well-known  quacks. 

P.  273,  line  24.    Disdain  whatever  Cornbury  disdain** 
Lord  Cornbury,  a  man  of  talents  and  virtue, 

P.  273,  line  5  from  bottom.    Amtis  birth. 
Garter  king-at-arms. 

P.  274,  line  8  from  bottom.    Wilmot. 
The  Earl  of  Rochester. 

P.  276,  line  18  from  bottom.    Cfiild. 
Sir  Francis  Child,  the  banker. 

P.  276,  line  18  from  bottom.    Craggs  and  ChUd. 

Pope  had  some  South  Sea  Stock,  which  he  kept  until  it  sank  to 
nothing.  Warburton,  to  the  credit  of  the  poet's  cquanimitv,  informa 
us,  that  he  used  to  say, — '•  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him  that  he  did 
not  grow  rich  by  the  public  calamity." 


P.  278,  line  12.    And  beastly  Skelton,  &c 
Poet  laureate  to  Henry  VIII. 

P.  278,  line  14.    Chrisfs  Kirk  qf  the  Greeiu 
AbiiUad  written  by  James  I.  of  Scotland. 


■^1 


NOTES.  4JI8 

P.  279,  line  15.    Gammer  Gurton,  &c. 

One  of  the  first  printed  plays  in  En£;lish,  written  by  Still  of  Christ'a 
College,  Camljridge ;  afterwards  bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells. 

P.  279.  line  5  from  bottom.    Betterton's g)-ave  action. 
This  celebrated  actor  was  one  of  the  earliest  friends  of  Pope. 

P.  281,  line  10.    Should  Ripley  venture,  &c. 

Ripley  was  the  government  architect ;  and,  with  the  usual  ill  fate  of 
lavourites,  contrived  to  please  none  but  his  employers. 

P.  283,  line  12.    Congreve. 
He  alludes  to  the  characters  of  Brisk  and  Witwood. 

P.  283,  line  15.    Astrea. 
A  name  taken  by  Mrs.  Behn,  authoress  of  several  gross  plays,  dtc 

P.  283,  line  38.    From  heads  to  ears,  and  noivfrom  ears  to  eyea. 

The  course  of  theatrical  degeneracy,  as  Warburton  says,  "  from 
plays  to  operas,  and  from  operas  to  pantomimes." 

P.  293,  line  1.    Again?  new  tumults,  &e. 
Pope  has  here  adopted  the  metre  of  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  translation. 

P.  293,  line  9.    Number  five,  &c. 
Murray's  Chambers,  in  King's  Bench  Walks. 

P.  293,  line  18.    MaJce  but  hit  riches,  Ac 

Bowles  quotes  Seward  for  the  anecdote  of  Mansfield's  early  life ; 
that  he  told  his  friend.  Lord  Foley,  that,  from  the  slenderness  of  his 
mcome,  he  must  give  up  the  bar,  and  take  orders:— a  resolution 
which  Lord  Foley  prevented,  by  giving  him  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year. 

P.  295,  line  6.    In  Spenser  native  Muse  play. 

This  praise  is  not  of  either  the  most  discriminating  or  the  loftiest 
order:  yet  Spenser  was  an  established  favourite  of  Pope.  Spence  re- 
cords his  saying, — ♦'  There  is  something  in  Spenser  that  pleases  one 
as  strongly  in  age  as  in  youth  :  I  read  the  '  Faery  Queen '  when  I  was 
about  twelve,  with  a  vast  deal  of  delight ;  and  I  think  it  gave  me  as 
much  when  1  read  it  over  about  a  year  or  two  ago." 

P.  S75>  line  9.    MuOi  better  metre. 
Prom  Boileau  :— 

*•  Avant  lui,  Juvenal  avait  dit  en  Latin, 
Qu'on  est  assis  ii  I'aise  aux  sermons  de  Cotin.** 

P.  375,  line  12.    Bubo. 
Bubb  Doddington. 

P.  375,  line  13.    SirBUly. 
Sir  William  Young,  of  use  to  the  minister,  as  a  talker  against  tlraft 

P.  375,  line  14.    H—ggins. 

Formerly  gaoler  of  the  Fleet  prison,  who  enriched  himself  b>  many 
exactions,  for  which  he  was  tried  and  expelled.— Popii. 

P.  375,  line  10.    Wlw  cropped  our  ears. 
Said  to  be  executed  by  the  captain  of  a  Spanish  shiu  on  one  Jcnkui^ 

12 


494  KOTES. 

a  captain  of  an  English  one.  He  cut  off  his  ears,  and  bid  him  cany 
them  to  the  king  his  master. — Pope.  The  whole  story  was  afterward 
said  to  be  a  fiction. 

P.  376,  line  3.    But  in  hia  happier  hour. 

Pope  here  forgets  his  party  to  compliment  the  minister :  but  thla 
slight  tergiversation  may  be  forgiven,  when  we  are  told  thnt  it  was  in 
return  for  a  favour  conferred,  not  on  himself,  but  on  his  friend,  the 
Abb^  Southcote. 

Walpole's  private  life  was  gross,  his  personal  manners  were  rough, 
and  his  ministerial  principles  were  avowedly  and  und(ni;vbly  formed 
on  the  corruptibility  of  the  human  character  :  but  his  management  of 
England,  during  the  doubtful  period  of  the  Hanover  succession,  was 
masterly.  Eve  n  Hurke  gives  him  all  the  praise  that  can  be  awanied 
to  a  successful  statesman.  Bowles  quotes  the  sufficiently  -cliaiac- 
teristic  description  from  the  pen  of  Lady  M.  W.  Montague  :— 

On  seem  ff  a  portrait  of  Sir  Robei't  Walpole. 
•*  Such  were  the  lively  eyes  and  rosy  hue 
Of  Robin's  face,  when  Robin  first  I  knew. 
The  gay  companion,  and  the  favourite  guest. 
Loved  without  awe,  and  without  fear  caress'd> 
His  cheerful  smile,  and  open,  honest  look 
Added  new  graces  to  the  truths  he  spoke." 

P.  376.  line  9.    He  laughs,  no  doubt. 

Walpole's  general  remark  that  "  every  man  has  his  price,"  hM 
been  diluted  by  his  biographer.  Archdeacon  Coxe,  into  a  particular 
sneer  at  the  patriots  of  his  day,  '•  All  those  have  their  price."  But  the 
phrase  was  only  too  characteristic  of  Walpole's  rough  dealing  wi^h 
mankind,  his  habitual  contempt  for  all  professions  of  public  virtue, 
and  his  personal  experience.  Corruption,  in  his  day,  was  a  notorious 
agent,  and  an  agenton  all  sides  alike  :  the  ministerialist  was  corrupted 
by  possession,  the  oppositionist  was  corrupted  in  prospect.  The  purse 
was  the  notorious  instrument  of  political  conversion. 

Practices  thus  alien  to  the  natural  honesty  of  the  British  mind,  were 
to  be  accounted  for  only  by  the  rapid  changes  of  party,  which  ex- 
hibited  all  things  as  saleable;  the  anxious  revolutions  of  government 
for  the  last  fifty  years,  which  exhibited  all  things  as  uncertain  ;  and 
the  result  of  both,  and  more  powerful  than  either,  the  irreligicn  which 
had  begun  to  usurp  all  men's  minds.  In  Walpole's  day,  England  was 
hurrying  down  into  tlie  infidelity  of  the  continent;  and,  but  for  the 
sudden  awakening  of  her  church  to  a  sense  of  her  danger,  she  might 
have  shared  the  fearful  punishment  which,  before  the  close  of  the 
century,  was  to  cover  the  continent  with  such  unexampled  devas- 
tation. 

Warton  mentions,  to  the  credit  of  Walpole's  placability,  that,  during 
Atterbury's  confinement  in  the  Tower,  a  fine  of  a  thousand  pounds 
falling  to  him  as  Dean  of  Westminster,  which  could  not  be  received, 
except  by  setting  the  seal  to  the  lease  in  full  chapter ;  Walpole  strongly 
interested  himself  to  have  the  chapter  held  m  the  Tower,  that  the 
bishop  might  have  the  benefit  of  the  fine.  The  chapter  was  held  in 
the  Tower,  and  Atterbury  received  the  thousand  pounds,  immediately 
before  his  banishment. 

P.  376,  line  13.    A  joke  on  JeJcyl. 

Sir  Joseph  Jekyl,  master  of  the  rolls,  a  true  Whig  in  his  principles, 
end  a  man  of  the  utmost  probity, — Popjs. 

P.  376,  line  21.     Why,  answer,  Littleton. 

George  Littleton,  secretary  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  distinguished 
for  both  his  writings  and  speeches  in  the  spirit  of  liberty.— Popk. 

P.  376,  line  25.    Sejanua. 

This  minister,  delivered  down  to  "immortal  shame"  by  the  pen  of 
Tacitus,  burned  the  panegyric  of  Crematius  Cordus  on  Brutus  and 


NOTES.  405 

CsBsius :  the  book  iinraediatoly  became  popular.  Bacon  savs,  with 
his  quaint  force,—"  The  priishing  of  wits  enhances  tlieir  authority: 
Q  forbidden  writing  is  thought  to  be  a  certain  spark  of  truth,  that  fliM 
up  in  the  faces  of  them  that  seek  to  tread  it  out." 

P.  376,  line  25.    Fleury, 
Cardinal ;  and  minister  to  Louis  XV. 

P.  376,  line  11  from  hottomt— Henley— Osbom. 
See  them  in  their  places  in  the  Dunciad.— Pope, 

P.  376,  line  2  from  bottom.    The  jn-ide  ofMiddleton, 

Middleton's  "  Life  of  Cicero,"  which  appeared  in  1741,  was  onco 
regarded  as  a  standard  of  English  writing.  Middleton,  though  an  ac- 
complished scholar  and  able  man,  yet  disingenuous  by  habit,  and  dis-. 
contented  on  principle,  unfortunately  signalized  his  career  hy  attack- 
ing nearly  all  the  eminent  ecclesiastical  names  of  his  day,  and  is  still 
remembered  as  the  defeated  assailant  of  Sherlock  and  Waterland. 
His  latest  work  of  notoriety,  the  "  Free  Inquiry  into  the  Miraculous 
Poweis,"  brought  down  on  him  the  resentment  of  his  profession;  and, 
as  he  lived  useless,  he  died  dishonoured.  He  was  acute  without  judg- 
ment, zealous  without  sincerity,  and  learned  without  knowledge. 

P.  377.  line  4.    Carolina. 

Consort  to  King  George  II.  She  died  in  1737.  Queen  Caroline  had 
been  charged  with  severity  of  temper;  and  it  was  openly  said,  that 
even  on  her  death  bed,  she  had  refused  pardon  to  the  prince,  her  son, 
who  had  entreated  that  he  might  receive  her  blessing.  Coxe  says,  on 
this  point, — "  I  am  happy  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  remove  the 
stigma  from  the  memory  of  this  great  princess  :  she  sent  her  blessing 
to  her  son,  with  a  message  of  forgiveness,  and  told  Sir  R.  Walpole 
"  she  would  have  seen  him  with  pleasure,  but  prudence  forbade  tiie 
interview,  as  it  might  embarrass  and  irritate  the  king."  This  may  be 
vindication ;  but  it  must  be  limited  to  the  queen.  Courtiership  on  the 
death  bed ! — prudence  preventing  a  mother  from  seeing  her  son  at  the 
last  glance  that  she  was  to  give  to  this  world.  The  genius  of  etiquette 
was  probably  never  so  honoured  before. 

P.  377,  line  16.    Immortal  S—k. 

Charles  Hamilton,  third  son  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  who  was 
created  Earl  of  Selkirk  in  1687. 

P.  377,  line  20  from  bottom.    Three  sovereigns  died, 
Mary,  William,  and  Anne :  the  gracious  prince  was  George  L 

P.  377,  line  16  from  bottom.    Or  peeress  shall  I  fret. 

Bowles  says  this  alludes  to  Lady  M.  Montague,  who  was  reported 
to  have  suffered  her  sister,  the  Countess  of  Mar,  to  sink  into  dcsii- 
tution  in  Paris.  But  he  denies  the  destitution,  chiefly  on  the  ground 
that  the  earl's  Scotch  estate  was  given  to  his  wife  and  daughter  by 
George  I.  for  their  maintenance.  Yet  the  Scotch  estate  might  not  be 
large;  the  rents  paid  to  an  exile  are  not  always  of  the  most  punctual 
order;  and  Lady  Mary's  personal  profligacy  was  the  natural  school  foi 
hardness  of  heart. 

P.  377,  line  12  from  bottom.    Cibber'ason—RicJu 
TwD  players  :  look  for  them  in  the  Dunciad.— Popb. 

P.  377,  line  4  from  bottom.    If  Dloun  t  despatch'd  himself. 

He  was  the  younger  son  of  Sir  Henry  Blount,  who  wrote  an  admlr- 
Bble  account  of  a  Voyage  to  tlie  Levant,  \0'M;  and  younger  brother 
of  Sir  Thomas  Pope  Blount,  who  wrote  the  "  Ctnsura  Authorum;"* 
and  this  Charles  Blount  was  not  only  the  author  of  the  "  Oracles  of 
Reason,"  but  of  an  infidel  treiitise,  iutitled  '•  Auima  Mundi,"  andol 


NOTES. 

the  "  Life  of  Apollonius  Tyan!E\is>,*'  in  folio,  1600;  with  notes  said  to 
be  taken  from  the  manuscript  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury.  It  was 
his  sister-in-law  with  whom  he  was  in  love,  when  he  destroyed  him- 
Belf. 

P.  377.  line  3  from  bottom.    Tasteran. 

A  Piedinontese  nobleman,  who  wrote  a  "  Philosophical  Discourse  on 
Death,"  in  defence  of  suicide.  He  was  banished  from  Piedmont  for 
his  excesses,  and  lived  long  in  misery;  but  at  length  recanted  his  phi- 
losopliical  absurdities,  and  died  in  penitence. 

P.  377»  line  2  from  bottom.    But  ahaU  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. — Pope. 

P.  377,  last  line.    Learn,  from  their  hooka,  to  hang. 

The  circumstance  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  note  excited  much 
commiseration  at  the  time.  It  was  the  case  of  an  unfortunate  debtor 
of  the  name  of  Smith,  a  bool<binder,  who  with  his  wife  was  found 
liane;ing  in  his  room  in  the  King's  Bench :  they  were  within  a  few 
yards  of  each  other,  both  dead;  and  their  infant,  two  years  old,  lay, 
shot  dead,  in  its  cradle.  The  suicide  had  evidently  been  of  the  most 
deliberate  kind  :  the  husband  and  wife  were  dressed  with  peculiar 
neatness;  a  curtain  was  drawn  between  them,  as  if  to  conceal  their 
dying  strugfjles  from  each  other;  and  a  loaded  pistol  lay  at  tlie  foot  of 
the  man,  and  a  knife  near  the  woman,  apparently  to  complete  the  ca- 
tastrophe if  the  rope  should  fail.  Two  letters  lay  on  the  table,  one 
to  their  landlord  relative  to  his  rent,  and  the  other  to  a  Mr.  Brindky, 
attempting  to  justify  their  suicide. 

P.  378,  line  3.    This  cdlla  the  church  to  deprecate  our  ain. 

Alluding  to  the  forms  of  prayer  composed  in  the  times  of  public 
calamity  and  distress. 

P.  378,  line  4.    Gin. 

A  spirituous  liquor,  the  exorbitant  use  of  which  had  almost  de- 
stroyed the  lowest  rank  of  the  people,  till  it  was  restrained  by  an  act 
of  parliament  in  1736. — Pope. 

P.  378,  line  5.    Foster. 

A  preacher  of  celebrity  among  the  Dissenters ;  he  wrote  a  *'  De- 
fence of  Christianity"  against  Toland.  Warburton,  an2;ry  for  once 
with  Pope,  quotes  Hobbes,  ••  that  there  are  very  few  bishops  that  can 
act  a  sermon  so  well  as  divers  Presbyterians  and  fanatic  preachers  can 
do." 

P.  378,  line  7.    QuaTcei'a  wife. 
A  Mrs.  Drummond,  a  preacher. 

P.  378,  line  8.    Outdo  Llcndiff. 

A  prelate  of  irreproachable  character,  who  is  said  never  to  have  of- 
fended Pope ;  and  whose  son  is  no  small  ornament  to  his  profession. 
Dr.  Harris,  of  Doctors'  Commons.— Warton. 

P.  378,  line  &.    Humble  Allen. 

Allen  of  Bath.  Pope,  in  the  first  edition  of  this  poem,  had  written 
*'  low-born,"  a  depth  to  which  Allen's  humility  did  not  descend  :  the 
cnithet  was  therefore  changed,  and  an  apologetical  letter  sent  m  ex- 
planation. It  seems  probable  that  the  rich  man  was  not  muth  morp 
taptivated  by  his  new  epithet  than  his  old, .  The  affair  w.is  obvi,)u.-.ly 
too  delicate  even  for  Pope's  dexterity;  and  he  fiuiiui  th.tt  tlic  e  are 
iiriuos  fur  which  evca  their  posscssois  art"  ni.>l  too  wiilina  to  iM 
praiHid 


NOTE  3.  497 

P.  378,  line  10.    Let  prreatnest  own  her. 

Warburton,  who,  if  not  the  depository  of  Pope's  secrets,  was  at  least 
the  instrument  by  which  he  conveyed  his  intentions  to  ihe  public,  af. 
firms  that  all  this  bold  and  highly  wrought  passage  alkuled  only  to 
Theodora,  the  profligate  empress  of  Justmian.  But  a  moral  drawn 
from  an  oriental  libertine,  and  drawn  through  the  dreary  lapse  of  a 
thousand  years,  is  too  unlike  the  author's  keen  sense  of  living  inci- 
dents,  to  be  taken  as  his  object.  The  court,  in  his  dav,  offered  more 
than  one  Theodora;  or,  if  England  wete  unproductive,  France  teemed. 
Tlie  last  century,  on  the  continent,  was  the  reign  of  mistresses. 

P.  378,  line  22.    And  hers  the  Gospel. 

An  unbecoming  phrase ;  but  meant  merely  to  signify  that  the  dis- 
posal of  honours  in  church  as  well  as  state  rested  in  unpure  hajids. 

P.  378,  line  11  from  bottom.    'TU  avarice  all. 

Warton  quotes  Bolingbroke's  antithetical  exjjression , — "  so  far  from 
having  the  virtues,  we  have  not  even  the  vices  of  our  ancestors.* 
Bolingbroke  himself  the  living  example  of  specious  degeneracy ! 

P.  379,  line  1.    Paxton. 

Solicitor  to  the  treasury^  whose  office  was  to  denounce  attacks  on  th« 
government. 

P.  379,  line  11.    Ev'n  Guthrie. 

The  ordinary  of  Newgate,  who  publishes  the  "  Memoirs  of  the 
Malefactors,"  and  is  often  prevailed  on  to  be  so  tender  of  their  repu- 
tation, as  to  set  down  no  more  than  the  initials  of  their  names.-- 
Pope. 

P.  379,  line  21.    The  town'*  inqutring  yet. 

Swift  says,—"  I  have  long  observed,  that  twenty  miles  from  London 
nobody  understands  hints,  initial  letters,  or  town-facts  and  passages:* 
but  this  was  written  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  communication  of  in- 
telligence of  this  order  is  more  extensive  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

'     P.  379,  line  3  from  bottom.    Wretched  Wild. 

Jonathan  Wild,  a  famous  thief,  and  thiet-impeacher,  who  was  at 
last  caught  in  his  own  train,  and  hanged. — Pope. 

P.  380,  line  26.    Scarborough. 

Earl  of,  and  Knight  of  the  Garter,  whose  personal  attachrnents  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  par- 
ties.—Pope. 

P.  380,  line  27.    Eshet's  peaceful gi-ove. 

The  house  and  gardens  of  Esher,  in  Surrey,  belonging  to  the  Honour- 
able Mr.  Pelham,  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle. 

P.  380,  line  32.    Seeker  is  decent. 

A  great  deal  of  Pope's  unhappy  style  of  alluding  to  the  heads  of  the 
establishment  must  be  referred  to  his  own  prejudices;  some  to  the 
pert  freethinking  fashion  of  the  day.  Seeker,  the  archbishop,  was  an 
honest,  learned,  and  useful  divine.  Benson  was  a  man  of  general 
esteem,  and  who  would  probablv  have  been  a  bishop,  but  for  the  m- 
terference  of  Gibson,  the  Bishop  of  London,  who  charged  him  with 
unscriptural  notions  on  the  subject  of  sacrifice— an  objection  perfectly 
sufficient ;  for  what  can  be  more  pernicious  than  error  armed  with 
Authority  ? 

P.  380,  line  34.    To  Berkley,  every  virtue. 

The  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  memorable  for  his  zeal,  his  learning,  and  hif 
42* 


ids  NOTt:s. 

metaphysical  fancies.  He  mounted  a  paradox,  and  rnde  it,  lill  ho  left 
common  sense  out  of  si£;ht,  and  was  flung:  the  common  fate  of  all 
who  hope  to  succeed  in  a  science,  of  wliicli  nature  has  denied  us  ac((  ss 
to  the  first  principles.  Until  we  know  what  spirit  is,  metaphy^iics 
must  be  a  dream. 

P.  380,  line  13  from  bottom.    S(nnert. 

John,  Lord  Somers,  died  in  17I6.  He  had  been  lord  keeper  in  the 
reign  of  William  111.,  who  took  from  liim  the  seals  in  17(;0.  The  i.u- 
thor  had  the  honour  of  knowing  him  in  1/06.  A  faitl)ful,  able,  and 
Incorrupt  minister,  who,  to  the  qualities  of  a  consummate  statesman, 
added  those  of  a  man  of  learning  and  politeness. — Popk. 

P.  300,  line  13  from  bottom.    Halifax. 

A  peer,  no  less  distinguished  by  his  love  of  letters  than  his  abilities 
In  parliament.  He  was  disgraced  in  171O,  on  the  change  of  Queen 
Anne's  ministry. — Popb. 

P.  380,  line  11  from  bottom.    Shrewaburp. 

Charles  Talbot,  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  had  been  secretary  of  state, 
embassador  in  France,  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland,  lord  chamberlain, 
and  lord  treasurer.  He  several  times  quitted  his  employments,  and 
was  often  recalled.    He  died  in  17I8.— Pope. 

P.  380,  line  10  from  bottom.    Carleton. 

Henry  Boyle,  Lord  Carleton,  nephew  of  the  famous  Robert  Boyle, 
who  was  secretary  of  state  under  William  III.  and  president  of  tlie 
council  under  Queen  Anne. — Pope. 

P.  300,  line  10  from  bottom.    Stanhope. 

James,  Earl  Stanhope ;  a  nobleman  of  equal  courage,  spirit,  and 
learning;  general  in  Spain,  and  secretary  of  state. — Popk. 

P.  380,  line  6  from  bottom.    PuUeney,  Che$terfield. 

Warton  tells  us,  that  he  heard  "  a  lady  of  exquisite  wit  and  judg- 
ment say  of  those  two  celebrated  men,  that  the  latter  was  always 
striving  to  be  witty,  the  former  could  not  help  being  so."  If  this  we":  e 
tl;e  case,  Pulteney  has  reason  to  complain  of  biography ;  for  while 
ciiesterfield  has  left  us  many  happy  jVitr^ZV^pni,  Pulteney  has  left  no- 
tliing  but  the  dry  pages  of  the  "  Craftsman,"  and  even  there  his  pos- 
session has  been  more  than  disputed.  Warton  rather  maliciously  adds, 
that  the  lines  on  Argyll  were  inserted,  after  the  duke's  declaring  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  "  on  occasion  of  some  of  Pope's  satires,"  that  if  any 
man  dared  to  use  his  name  in  an  invective,  he  would  run  him  througn 
the  body,  and  throw  himself  on  the  mercy  of  his  peers,  who,  he 
trusted,  would  weigh  the  provocation.  Argyll's  well-known  character 
might  justify  the  poet's  prudence  in  passing  him  by,  but  scarcely  justi- 
fies his  volunteering  a  panegyric. 

P.  301,  line  11.    My  Lord  Mayor. 

Sir  John  Barnard,  mayor  in  this  year,  1738;  a  man  respected  for  his 
Integrity,  activity,  and  intelligence :  he  was  a  member  of  parliament, 
in  1747,  the  city  voted  him  a  statue. 

P.  381 ,  line  29.    What  RicJielieu,  &c. 

The  arrogant,  but  the  able  minister  of  France,  As  he  had  raised 
he  monarchy  to  its  height  by  violence,  he  laboured  to  keep  it  there 
by  corruption  :  his  first  object  had  been  accomplished  in  the  ruin  of 
Protestantism ;  his  next,  in  the  purchase  of  the  whole  literary  body  of 
France.  He  is  said  also  to  have  expended  eighty  thousand  crowns  a 
year  in  public  pensions  to  writers  of  all  countries; — an  immense  sum 
m  liis  day  :  but  his  private  bribes  were  probably  much  more  lavish, 
M.i'1  much  moi£  effectual. 


NOTE9.  499 

P*  181 ,  line  9  from  bottorn .    A>na!l!  aid  me  while  I  lie. 

One  of  the  writers  for  the  Walpole  ministry  :  a  shrewd  and  sensible 
man;  but  latterly  wasteful;  and,  after  undergoing  ere.it  distress, 
closing  his  career  by  tlie  still  more  unhappy  fate  of  suicide. — Bowles. 

P.  382,  line  6.     To  break  mr/  windows. 

Pope  had  become  obnoxious  to  the  street  politicians;  and  they 
broke  his  windows,  one  day,  when  Lords  Bolingbioke  and  BathursC 
were  at  dinner  with  him 

P.  382,  lines  21,  22.    S Te.—P—ge. 

Sherlock  and  Page 

P.  382,  line  24    In  power. 
A  line  in  an  epistle  to  Sir  R.  Walpole,  by  Lord  Melcombei 

P.  382,  line  28.    He  only  stain'd. 

The  priest  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  line,  notwithstanding;  Poprt 
denying  note,  was  Dr.  Allured  Clarke,  who  wrote  a  panegyric  on 
Queen  Caroline. 

P.  382,  line  29.     Flotnd  youtli. 
Lord  Hervey,  alluding  to  his  painting  himself. 

P.  394,  line  16. 

This  Epistle  was  sent  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  with  Dr.  Painell'3 
Poems  published  by  our  author,  after  the  said  earl's  imprisonment  in 
the  Tower,  and  retreat  into  the  country,  in  the  year  1721. — Popb. 

P.  395,  line  18  from  bottom. 

Craggs  was  made  secretary  at  war  in  1/17,  when  the  Earl  of  Sunder- 
land and  Mr.  Addison  were  appointed  secretaries  of  state :  this  Epistle 
appears  to  have  been  written  soon  after  he  was  made  one  of  the  secre- 
taries of  state.  He  was  deeply  implicated  in  the  famous  South  Sea 
scheme:  he  died  soon  after  the  detection  of  it,  and  would  most  pro- 
bably have  been  called  to  a  severe  account  had  he  lived.  He  died  of 
the  small-pox,  February  16,  1721. 

P.  396,  line  10.    So  mix'd  our  studies. 

Pope's  fondness  for  painting,  an  art  in  which  he  was  rot  born  to 
excel,  led  him  into  frequent  intercourse  with  Jervas.  The  painter 
was  an  intelligent  and  accomplished  man,  who  prob  ibly  returned  the 
poet's  attfntions  by  his  anecdotes  of  high  life.  He  was  the  most 
fashionable  portrait-painter  of  his  day,  though  Walpole  boldly  pro. 
nounces  him  defective  in  the  three  great  points  of  his  art— drawing, 
colouring,  and  composition.  Jervas  was  remarkable  for  vanity  of  per- 
son :  Lady  Bridgewater  was  silting  to  him;  and  after  paying  her 
some  rapturous  compliment  on  her  beauty  (for  he  conceived  himself 
to  be  m  love  with  her),  he  said,  that  "  she  had  not  a  handsome  ear."— 
«'  And  pray,  Mr.  Jervas,"  said  she,  "  what  is  a  handsome  ear  i"  Jep- 
vas  turned  up  his  cap,  and  showed  her  his  own. 

P.  396,  line  17.    In  pleasing  tasks,  <tc. 

A  head  of  Betterton  by  Pope  is  in  Lord  Mansfield's  possession  j 
another  is  in  the  collection  at  Arundel  Castle. 

P.  396,  line  3  from  bottom.    Paulo's  free  stroke. 

Warton  says  that  Reynolds  told  him,  "he  dii  not  think  Iht 
epithets  of  the  various  painters  well  applied  : "  but  they  are  unques- 
tionably the  epithets  which  criticism  has  applied  to  ihem  fr<;m  ilieu 
first  days  of  fame ;  and  if  Pope  thus  loses  the  merit  of  originaUty,  at 
least  he  has  the  value  of  precedent. 


ajO  NOTES. 

P.  396,  last  line.    The  work  of  years  f 
Ffesnoy  employed  above  twenty  years  in  finishing  his  pocin, 

P.  397,  line  19.'.  Thus  ChurchilPs  race. 

Churchill's  race  were  the  four  beautiful  daughters  of  John,  the 
great  Duke  of  Marlborough  ;  Henrietta,  Countess  of  Godolphin, 
afterwards  Duchess  of  Marlborough  ;  Anne,  Countess  of  Sunder- 
land;  Elizabeth,  Countess  of  Bridgewater;  and  Mary,  duchess  jf 
Montagu. 

P.  397.  line  20.    'Wmsley'a  eyes. 

Frances,  Lady  Worsley,  wife  of  Sir  Robert  Worsley,  Bart.,  of 
Appuldereombe,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight;  mother  of  Lady  Carteret,  tlie 
wife  of  John,  Lord  Carteret,  afterwards  Earl  Granville. 

P.  397,  line  21.    Each  pleasing  Blount. 
The  two  sisters,  Teresa  and  Martha  Blount. 

P.  398,  line  19.    The  Smiles  and  Loves* 

From  the  pretty  epitaph  on  Voiture : 

*♦  Etrusca;  Veneres,  Camoenae  Iberae, 
Hermes  Gallicus,  et  Latina  Siren, 
Risus,  Delicise,  et  Dicacitates, 
Lusus,  Ingenium,  Joci,  Lepores, 
Et  quicquid  unquam  fuit  elegantiarium* 
Quo  Vecturius  hoc  jacent  sepulcro." 

P.  399,  line  12  from  bottom.    Thus  Voiture's  early  can. 
Mademoiselle  Paulet. 

P.  400.    Mrs.  Teresa     lount. 
On  her  leaving  town  after  the  coronation  of  George  I.  in  17lO» 

P.  402.    Mrs.  Martha  Blount. 

Pope's  attachment  to  this  woman  lasted  to  the  close  of  his  life;  but 
it  was  less  like  that  of  a  lover,  than  of  a  child  to  its  nurse;  and  she  re- 
turned the  feeling  much  in  the  style  of  a  nurse  to  a  child,  alternately 
fondling,  and  tyrannizing  over,  her  rather  capricious  charge.  She  pro- 
bably clung  to  his  fame,  for  her  heart  seems  never  to  have  been  inter- 
ested in  the  connection.  But  after  a  long  and  intimate  intercourse, 
she  suddenly  assumed  a  ridiculous  reserve;  and,  as  Wharton,  with 
just  contempt  at  this  affectation,  remarks  : — *'  When  she  visited  Pope, 
in  his  very  last  illness,  and  her  company  seemed  to  give  him  fresh 
spirits,  the  antiquatpd  prude  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  stay  and 
oass  the  night  at  Twickenham,  because  of  her  reputation !" 

P.  4()a    Sir  William  Trumhall. 

Our  author's  friendship  with  this  gentleman  commenced  at  very  un- 
equal years;  he  was  under  sixteeen,  but  Sir  William  above  sixty,  and 
had  lately  resigned  his  employment  of  secretary  of  state  to  king  Wil- 
liam— P. 

P.  408,  line  1.    First  in  these  fields. 
*'  Prima  Syracosio  dignata  est" — Virgil. 

P.  408,  line  12.    In  your  native  shades. 

Sir  W.  Trumhall  was  born  in  Windsor-forest,  to  which  he  retreated, 
»fter  he  llftd  resigned  the  post  of  secretary  of  state  to  King  William 
IIL— P. 

P.  409,  line  12.     Granville. 
George  Granville,    afterwards   Lord   Lancdowne,   known  for  hit 


NOtFS.      s  501 

a?hTs  mS— pT^'*^^  ^^  composed  very  young;  and  proposed  Wallei 

P.  410.  Une  4.    A  wondrous  tree,  that  sacred  monarch  bears  f 

»hA  !l.fi'"?i°V°  ^^®  '■oy^l  oaJ*'  Jn  which  Charles  II.  had  been  hid  from 
the  pursuit  after  the  battle  at  Worcester^?. 

P.  410,  line  18  from  bottom.    A  Shepherdta  bop. 
Spenser. 

P.  411,  line  21.    Colin, 

•oi^J?5„»"^"™®  j*'^®?  ^y  Spenser  in  his  Eclogues,  where  his  mistress  is 
celebrated  under  that  of  Rosalinda.— Warton. 

P.  41 1 ,  line  24.    Rosalinda's. 

"^^'f '*t)^e  lady  with  whom  Spenser  fell  violently  in  love,  as  soon 
as  ne  left  Cambridge,  and  went  into  the  north;  it  is  uncertain  into 
What  famUy,  and  in  what  capacity.— Warton. 

P.  412,  line  10.    Your  praioe  the  birds. 

Pope  had  first  written  the  lines,— 

"  Your  praise  the  tuneful  birds  to  heaven  shall  bear. 
And  listening  wolves  grow  milder  as  they  hear .' 

but  he  acknowledges  this  to  have  been  an  oversight;  "and  theau- 
thor,  young  as  he  was,  soon  found  the  absuidity,  which  Spenser  him- 
self had  overlooked,  of  introducing  wolves  into  England." 

P.  412,  line  9  from  bottom    The  art  of  Terence,  and  Menander'a  firo, 

"Alluding,"  says  Warburton,  "  to  Csesar's  character  of  Terence,-*. 
O  dimidiate  Menander  !"  &c.  a  sufficiently  qualified  panegyric  of  the 
Roman  Comedian ;  but  that  any  allusion  was  intended  is  by  no  meai'^ 
clear.  It  is  curious  to  find  modern  criticism  dilating  on  the  *•  comic 
power"  of  Terence,  which  the  character  so  distinctly  denies  :— • 

•*  Lenibus  atque  utinara  scriptis  adjuncta  foret  vit 
Vomica" 

P.  413,  line  28.    Not  balmy  sleep,  &c 

"  Quale  sopor  fessis.** — Virgii- 

Warton  attributes  this  passage  to  Drummond  of  Hawthornden'* 
picturesque  lines : — 

•'  To  virgins  flowers,  to  sun-burnt  earth  the  rain. 
To  mariners  fair  winds  amid  the  main. 
Cool  shades  to  pilgrims,  whom  hot  glances  bum. 
Are  not  so  pleasing  as  thy  blest  return." 

Milton's  noble  lines  concluding  with 

••  Nor  glittering  starlight  without  thee  is  sweet.* 

contain  the  same  idea;  but  expressed,  as  it  could  be  expressed  only, 
by  the  goUlen  flow  of  Milton. 

P.  414,  Sne  4  tmm  bottom.    Thxu  mmg. 

To  this  poem  Warton  appends  a  note  in  praise  of  the  pastorals  of 
Fairfax,  whose  verse  is  almost  Shaksperian  ;  and  Bowles  adds  Brown's 
pastorals,  from  which  even  Milton  did  not  disdain  to  borrow. 

P.  415.    Mrs.  Temped. 

This  lady  was  of  an  ancient  family  in  Yorkshire,  and  particularly 
admired  by  the  author's  friend,  Mr.  Walsh;  who,  having.celehratcd 
her  in  a  pastoral  elegy,  desired  his  friend  to  do  the  same,  as  appears 
from  one  of  his  letters,  dated  September  9, 170G :— ' '  Vour  last  ech^gue 


S02  »     NOTES. 

beitiff  r>n  the  same  suhject  with  mine,  on  Mrs.  Tempest's  death,  1 
should  take  it  very  kindly  in  you  to  give  it  a  little  turn,  as  if  it  were 
to  the  memory  of  the  same  lady."  Her  death  having  happened  on  the 
night  of  the  great  storm  in  I7OS,  ^ave  a  propriety  to  this  eclogue, 
which  in  its  general  turn  alludes  to  it.  The  scene  of  the  pastoral  lies 
in  a  grovet  the  time  is  midnight — P. 

P.  415,  line  22.    Cypress  garlands  bring. 
Bowles  quotes  the  pretty  ballad  from  "  the  Maid's  Tragedy  ;••— 

**  Lay  a  garland  on  my  brow 

Of  the  dismal  yew. 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear  ; 

Say,  I  died  true. 
My  love  was  false,  hut  I  was  true. 

From  my  hour  of  birth  : 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Softly,  gentle  earth." 

P.  416,  line  27.    But  see,  where  Daphno» 

Thus  Milton  :— 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more 

Where  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves. 

And  hears  the  inexpressive  nuptial  song 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love." — Lycidas, 

P.  416,  the  four  last  lines. 

These  last  four  lines  allude  to  the  several  subjects  of  the  fotir  pa9» 
totals,  and  to  the  several  scenes  of  them  particularized  before  in 
«ach.— P. 

P.  417,  line  8.  A  Virgin  shall  conceive — All  crimes  shall  cease,  &C-" 
ViRG.  Eel.  iv.  ver.  6. 

P.  418,  line  1.    See,  Nature  hastes,  &c.— Viro.  Eel.  iv.  ver.  18. 

P.  410,  line  7.    Harht  a  glad  voice,  &c.— Viro.  Eel.  iv.  ver.  46. 

P.  418,  line  6  from  bottom.  The  lambs  with  wolves,  &c. — Vir* 
Eel.  iv.  ver.  21. 

P.  419,  line  13.    Rise,  crowned  with  light,  impsriul  Salem,  riset 

The  thoughts  of  Isaiah,  which  compose  the  latter  part  of  the  poem, 
arc  wonderfully  elevated,  and  much  above  those  general  exclamations 
of  Virgil,  which  make  the  loftiest  parts  of  his  Poi'lio. — P. 

P.  425,  line  7-    Tyrants  no  more. 

Possibly  In  allusion  to  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  saying,  that  "the 
Cinna  of  Comeille  made  him  wish  to  pardon  the  Cardinal  de  Rohau." 

P.  425,  line  11.    In  pitying  love. 

Warton  contemptuously  asks,  "  Why  then  did  Addison  mtroduce 
the  loves  of  Juba  and  Marcia?"  The  answer  may  fairly  be,  that  no 
play  can  be  popular  without  some  touch  of  nature ;  and  that  those 
loves  furnish  the  only  touch  of  nature  in  the  play.  It  must,  however, 
be  acknowledged,  that  of  all  loves,  on  or  off"  tlie  stage,  those  are  the 
least  qualified  to  take  the  heart  of  the  spectator  by  surprise.  Marcia 
is  more  frigid  than  Cato  himself,  and  Juba  is  as  formal  as  an  ambassador. 
That  the  haughty  daughter  of  the  head  of  the  Roman  commonwealth 
should  stoop  to  the  passion  of  a  Lybian  leader  of  savages,  was  suiii- 
cJently  improbable;  but  that  passion  should  declaim  in  the  language 
of  either,  was  an  impossibility.  Even  the  love  of  Desdemona  was  at- 
tributed by  her  countrymen  to  witchcraft ;  yet  what  incomparabi|' 
tUperior  ground  for  passion  was  laid  in  the  impetuous  and  fiery  viviai» 


NOTKS.       ^  503 

"MWir''vJ?S?J,?r^"'l/'^'''■'''^'''':"^"^<'^^    e^tqtiisitesensibilit,  of  his 
talr  Venetian  !       It  is  saul  in  imperfect  apulojry  for  Addison    tln« 

1m1.' if')^-  Kf  ^  ^"  ^?''  ^'^<?"?^^' '"  <^onipl[,nc.nt  to  the  hahits  of  t  he 
tK;.^  ^^  V"""^  honestly  be  said,  in  tribute  to  the  necessities  of 
diPnrP^wifh^,°.P'''y  ^-^^  """  effectually  engage  the  interest  of  the  au- 
dience without  passion ;  and  of  all  the  movers  of  hvinnathv.  tho 
«mplest,  the  most  powerful,  and  the  most  universal,  is  love.     ^ 

P.  425,  line  2  from  bottom.    Britons,  attend. 
It  has  been  already  remarked,  that  the  orisinal  word  was  "  arise ••• 
Sme.  '"'^     ^"^^  '°°  inflammatory :  such  were  the  delicacies  of  the 

P.  443.    The  Bassbt  TADtB. 

M7^?/!®'^  aI^'"?^  *°  '^'^  P^^"*  «'e  not  perfectly  clear.  He  and  I  adw 
Wortley  Mon  ague  wrote  six  "  Town  Eclogues"  of  which  four  were 
by  her  ladyship ;  but  which  four,  is  the  difficulty.  "" 

irJ^  .J'  ¥^^^11  POf^m  was  popular.  Gay  wrote  a  "  Quaker's 
Eclogue,"  and  hwift  a  "  Footman's  Eclogue."  It  was  proba  1  v  on 
this  occasion,  and  to  the  ideas  suggested  bv  the  latter  jeM  Ves^rit  t\mt 
day  ote' "?hP.T';  «-f^.J.^^1i«h.  ••'  I  think!""'said  S&  one 
day  to  Fope,  thepastoral  ridicule  is  not  yet  exhausted :  what  think 
Ifl^^^^n^'^l  P?''^''?'  ^™°"S  '^^  thieves  there  ?»  Gay  was  fur- 
nished  with  the  design  (how  far  advanced  by  Swift's  vigOTous  con. 

ln*i   an  ir"  am  ?nL\t  ■''^'^  of  satiro.^annot^ow  be  toldK"  found 

A  ^roV;J       ^"'^  ext;„oramary  source  of  emolument  and  fame, 
otti,  v.;?:— ^°*  ^^  Wortley  Montague  is  preserved  (Alga- 

*•  Thou  silver  deity  of  secret  night, 

Direct  my  footsteps  through  the  woodland  shade* 
v^u  '^onscious  witness  of  unknown  delight. 
The  lover's  guardian,  and  the  Muse's  aid; 
By  thy  pale  beams  I  solitary  rove; 
To  ihee  my  tender  grief  confide  : 
Serenely  sweet,  you  gild  the  silent  grove. 
My  friend,  my  goddess,  and  my  guide. 
f  EVn  thee,  fair  queen,  from  thy  amazing  height, 

,,T,"f  charms  of  young  Endymion  drew. 
Veil  d  m  the  mantle  of  concealing  night. 
With  all  thy  greatness,  all  thy  coldness  too." 
Her  ladyship  is  recorded  to  have  had  a  female  jealousy  of  correction. 

JS^'  •■,  °^'  K°P^'  °°  touching;  for  then,  whatever  is  cckkI  for  anv. 
thmg  will  pass  for  yours ;  and  tlie  rest  for  inline."  ^ 

P.  447,  line  5.    Was  there  a  chief,  See. 

The  fine  figure  of  the  commander,  in  that  capital  picture  of  Belisa. 
rius,  at  Chiswick,  supplied  the  poet  with  this  beautiful  idea— War. 
BUBTOW.  " ««» 

P.  447,  line  10.    Their  quibbles  routed,  and  defied  their  puns. 
An  old  gentleman  of  the  last  century,  who  used  to  frequent  Button's 
cottee-house,  told  me  they  had  many  pleasant  scenes  of  Dennis's  indi-r- 
nation  and  resentment,  when  Steele  and  Rowe,  in  particular,  teaze'ii 
Dim  u'lth  a  pun. — Wabton. 

P.  447,  line  24.    When  simple  Macer,  dec 

This  character  first  appeared  in  the  volume  of  Pope's  and  Swifft 
"  Miscellanies  "  in  1774.  Warton  conceives  Macer  to  be  James  Moore 
Smith,  writer  of  the  "  Rival  Modes,"  a  comedy,  and  a  contilbutor  to 
a  virulent  journal,  the  "  Inquisitor."  set  up  by  the  Duke  of  Whartoa 
He  had  pilfered  some  verses  from  Pope. 


504 


NOTES. 


Bowles,  with  greater  probability,  conceives  Macer  to  have  beeti  In- 
tended for  Philips,  to  whom  Pope  had  taken  an  early  and  an  invete- 
rate dislike:  he  is  elsewhere  called  "  lean  Philips."    His  fir'-t  literary 
acquaintance  was  with  Steele  :  he  borrowed  the  •*  Distressed  Mother 
from  Voltaire>  and  translated  the  "  Persian  Tales." 

P.  449,  line  4.    A  reasonable  woman. 

The  lady  was  Mrs.  Howard,  of  Marble-hill,  bed-chamber  woman 
to  Queen  Caroline,  and  afterwards  Countess  of  Suffolk.  Pope's  pane- 
gyric might  have  been  more  meritoriously  applied. 

P.  449,  line  6  from  bottom.    Egeridn  grot. 

The  retreat  where  Numa  sought  counsel  of  his  genius,  the  nymph 
Egeria;  a  fiction  almost  too  fine  for  his  rude  age,  and  ruder  country. 
Juvenal,  in  some  of  those  lines  which  signally  show  the  picturesque 
eloquence  of  the  great  poet,  exclaims  against  the  artificial  taste,  which 
had  attempted  to  decorate  the  haunt  of  the  king  and  his  living 
oracle  :•«- 

"  Quanto  praestantius  esset 
Numen  aquae,  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undas 
Herba,  nee  ingenuum  violarent  marmora  tophum  V 

P.  449,  line  4  from  bottom.    British  sighs  from  dying  Wyndka:iu 

Pope's  early  Jacobitism  reconciled  even  his  acute,  and  rather  con- 
temptuous mmd,  to  all  the  absurdities  of  party.  Sir  William  Wynd- 
ham  was  a  Jacobite;  Wrong-headed  enough  to  think  that  a  Stuart  reign 
was  compatible  with  liberty;  obstinate  enough  to  persevere  in  his 
folly  to  the  end  of  his  days:  and,  with  the  usual  morality  of  faction, 
flexible  enough  to  take  office  under  a  government,  which  existed 
solely  on  the  principle  of  excluding  the  Stuarts  from  the  throne.  In 
the  reign  of  Anne,  and  on  the  accession  of  the  Oxford  cabinet,  he  thus 
became  successively  master  of  the  buck-hounds,  secretary  at  war,  and 
chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  But  the  accession  of  the  Brunswick  line 
brought  in  a  more  decided  pohcy;  and  the  prosperous  Jacobite  was 
dismissed  from  all  his  places,  and  committed  to  the  Tower.  From 
this  confinement,  however,  he  was  released  on  bail  J  and*  exliaustiag 
the  re»t  of  Im  days  in  retirement^  died  in  1744k 


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INOERY  INC. 

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N.  MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA  Af,Qf,7 


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