Part 2

But when, _Mecænas_, will Thy Star appear In our low Orb, and gild the _British_ Sphere? Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes Dissembled under _DORSET's_ fair Disguise? If so; go on, Great _Sackvile_, to regard The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward. So to Thy Fame a _Pyramid_ shall rise, Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies. For if a Verse Eternity can claim, Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name. This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain _Octavius_ hover'd long, and sought to Reign. This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight, Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight. Let him his Title to such Glory bring, You give as freely, and more nobly sing. Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce, He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse. _Horace_ and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd, The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.

O Light of _England_, and her highest Grace! Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race! Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line, While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell The noblest Poets, and who most excel. Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send, Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.

But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough, And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease, May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease, Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. Observe their twenty faces, how they strain To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time, Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme) Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task, As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask, To build a Poem of the vastest price, A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_. So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_ May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd. I pity Madmen who attempt to fly, And raise their _Airy Babel_ to the Sky. Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name, Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame, Not so the Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd, By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few, The stately Fabrick in perfection view. While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece, The Work of many rowling Centuries.

For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays. How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore, For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar. Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.

[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_]

Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay, Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day. A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art. The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines, And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known, And by successful gleanings made his Own. So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day, Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd! Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design, _Mæanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine! Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd, But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd.

[_Ben. Johnson_.]

He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase; 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page; So secred was th' Authority of Age! The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass, Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_. But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_, Melted it down, and slung the Dross away He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_, And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn. We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar, Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before. Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame, Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name. Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way, Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play. Whether his Crimes more excellently shine, Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine, And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine. All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke, And learn the Language which the Victor spoke. So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew. Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His, Were _Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_.

Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame Are fill'd with larger particles of flame. Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan, And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.

[_Fletcher_ and _Beaument_]

_Fletcher_, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine, Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line. Who, prodigal of Sense, by _Beaumont's_ care, Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair. Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring, A _bragging Bessus_, or _inconstant King_. Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise In his _Amyntors_, and _Aspasia's_. But _Rome_ and _Athens_ must the Plots produce With _France_, the Handmaid of the _English_ Muse

[_Shakespear_.]

Ev'n _Shakespear_ sweated in his narrow Isle, And Subject _Italy_ obey'd his Stile. _Boccace_ and _Cinthio_ must a tribute pay, T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play. Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules, Or borrow Learning from _Athenian_ Schools: Yet He, with _Plautus_, could instruct and please, And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease. By inborn strength so _Theseus_ bent the Pine, Which cost _the Robber_ many Years Design[2].

[2] _See Plutarch's Life of Theseus_.

Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest. Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will, Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill, Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain Of _Æschylus_, or sooth in _Ovid's_ vein. I feel a Pity working in my Eyes, When _Desdemona_ by _Othello_ dyes. When I view _Brutus_ in his Dress appear; I know not how to call him too severe. His _rigid Vertue_ there attories for all, And makes a Sacrifice of _Cæsar's_ Fall.

[_Cowley_.]

Nature work'd Wonders then; when _Shakespear_ dy'd Her _Cowley_ rose, drest in her gaudy Pride. So from great Ruins a new Life she calls, And Builds an _Ovid[3]_ when a _Tully_ Falls.

[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd.

With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings, And _David's_ Toils in _David's_ numbers Sings? Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves, His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves, Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear, _Hermits_ may read them to a Virgin's Ear. Unstoln _Promethean_ Fire informs his Song, Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong. His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply, Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.

Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought, Unjustly is imputed for a Fault. A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free, Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea. Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain Presuming _Xerxes_ shall pretend to Reign, And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.

Hail _English_ Swan? for You alone could dare With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air: And to your Lute _Pindaric_ Numbers call, Nor fear the Danger of a _threatned Fall_. O had You liv'd to _Waller's_ Reverend Age, Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page! Then _Britain's_ Isle might raise her Trophies high, And _Solid Rome_, or _Witty Greece_ outvy. The _Rhine_, the _Tyber_, and _Parisian Sein_, When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main, Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse, Than gentle _Cowley's_ never-dying Verse. The _Thames_ should sweep his briny way before, And with his Name salute each distant Shore.

[_Milton._]

Then You, like Glorious _Milton_ had been known To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own. _Milton_! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies, While Earth below grows little, as She Flies. Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight, Far as the Confines of retreating Light. Tells the _sindg'd Moor_, how scepter'd Death began His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man. Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel, By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.

Now _Seraphs_ crown'd with _Helmets_ I behold, _Helmets_ of Substance more refin'd than Gold: The Skies with an united Lustre shine, And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn. God's _plated Son, Majestically gay_, Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies, Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes. O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore, And transfix d Angels groan upon the _Diamond-Floor_. Then, wheeling from _Olympus_ Snowy top, Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell, And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer. I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies, _Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries, _Despair of better state, and loss of Light Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain, But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign, And Register the Fate which we Sustain? Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_.

O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display, For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay? Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View, Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You. Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design, Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine, All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine. Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose. Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee. Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight, Below was Darkness, but Above was Light: Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay In nether Night, and such a want of Day. But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires: Like an unhooded _Hawk_, who, loose to Prey, With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way. There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place, And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race: Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee, There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear, And rowl with _Homer_ in the brightest Sphere; To whom _Calliope_ has joyn'd thy Name, And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.

[_Waller_.]

Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose. Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote, When room is granted to the Speech and Thought. Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along. Like _Waller's_ Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime, Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime. His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown In Numbers sweet and _Courtly_ as his Own. Who no unmanly _Turns_ of Thought pursues, Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse. Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay, Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away. In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung, Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung. If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_. Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings _Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main, Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain, Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care, Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair. As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill; So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such, No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much. As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine, The Substance precious, and the Work Divine: So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase, Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace, A mighty Value in a little Space. So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old, When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told. But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less, Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success. O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast, To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest? To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove, In strains lamenting his neglected Love. Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake, And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake. Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline; And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine. Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known; Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone.

Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew, And _Waller's_ praise Eternally pursue, Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel, So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.

But now the forward Muse converts her Eye To see where _Denham_, and _Roscommon_ fly, Cautiously daring, and correctly High. Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace, Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race. Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs, Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares, With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time, And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme. Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence, Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense, The _Critick_ judges what the _Muse_ indites, And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes. 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size, But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price. _Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read, Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead. Fam'd _Cooper's Hill_ shall, like _Parnassus_, stand, And _Denham_ reign, the _Phæbus_ of the Land.

[4] _Epictetus._

Among these sacred and immortal Names, [_Oldham_.] A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims; See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way. But misty Clouds of unexpected Night, Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light. Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust. O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those. The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay, In all the Trappings of the flowry _May_. He set him out unsufferably bright, And sow'd in every part his beamy Light. Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon, For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.

His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey, Like _Satyrs_ Rough, but not Deform'd as they. His Sense undrest, like _Adam_, free from Blame, Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame, True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill, A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.

Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the _Romish_ Crimes, In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes. All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue, And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung. Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse. In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore, And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

[_Lee._]

Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage, And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page, When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire, She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire. Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul. He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast, Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last. I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame; But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?

[_Otway._ and _Dryden._]

Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be, The moving parts of Tragic Poetry. If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise; If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_ deserves the Bays. We grant a Genius shines in _Jaffeir's_ Part, And _Roman Brutus_ speaks a Master's Art. But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze. A rising Meteor never was design'd, T'amaze the sober part of Human kind. Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse. Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go, Emptily Gay, magnificently Low, Like Ancient _Rome's_ Religion, Sacrifice and Show. Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize, Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes. The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage, May please the Young _Sir Foplings_ on the Stage. But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find Like _Spencer's_ Giant sunk away in Wind. It grates judicious Readers when they meet Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet. Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these, Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas. _Lee_ aim'd to rise above great _Dryden's_ Height, But lofty _Dryden_ keeps a steddy Flight. Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air. The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name, By industry he kindled to a Flame. The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung. His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine, _All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine._ His _Images_ so strong and lively be, I hear not Words alone, but Substance see; Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love. I weep to hear fond _Anthony_ complain In _Shakespear's_ Fancy, but in _Virgil's_ Strain.

Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer, Himself[5] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err. But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim The sounding Title of a Poem's Name. For Raillery, and what creates a Smile Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. That _Heav'nly Heat_ refuses to be seen In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.

[5] See Preface to _Aurengzebe_.

If we would do him right, we must produce The _Sophoclean Buskin_; when his Muse With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear, And _Peals_ applauding shake the Theater.

They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise, Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays. Is he oblig'd to _France_, who draws from thence By _English_ Energy, their Captive Sense? Tho' _Edward_ and fam'd _Henry_ Warr'd in vain, Subduing what they could not long retain: Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails, And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.

This does superiour excellence betray; O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design She must her Own Originals decline, And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. Pardon this just transition to thy Praise, Which Young _Thalia_ sung in Rural Lays.

As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain, Such _Tityrus's_ charming Number show, Please like the River, like the River flow. When his first Years in mighty Order ran, And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man, Around his Lips the _Waxen Artists_ hung, And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke, More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide, Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.

Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains, Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares, Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years. Yet still, like _Ætna's_ _Mount_, he kept his Fire, And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier. He smil'd, like _Phoebus_ in a Stormy Morn, And sung, like _Philomel_ against a Thorn.

Here _Syren of sweet Poesy_, receive That little praise my unknown Muse can give. Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear Tho' angry _B----more_ in Heroicks jeer.

A Bard, who seems to challenge _Virgil's_ Flame, And would be next in Majesty and Name. With lofty _Maro_ he at first may please; The Righteous _Briton_ rises by degrees. But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows, And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close, The _Mantuan_ Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight, Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight. Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song Runs smooth as _Thames's_ River, and as strong. Like his own _Neptune_ he the Waves confines, While _Bl----re_ rumbles, like the King of Winds. His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength, Jade out our Patience with excessive length. While Readers, Yawning o'er his _Arthurs_ see Whole Pages spun on one poor _Simile_. We grant he labours with no want of Brains, Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains, One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise The _World's_ _Imperial Poem_ in Six Days. But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay, Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay: In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train, Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain: Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer, And call the smiling Angels to his care. Must sleep less Nights, _Vulcanian_ Labours prove, Like _Cyclops_, forging Thunder for a _Jove_. With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style, Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File. If You design to make Your Prince appear As perfect as Humanity can bear. Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please, Deaf to the _Syrens_ of alluring ease. No Terrours Thee, _Achilles_, could invade, Nor Thee, _Ulysses_, any Charms persuade. This must be done, if Poets would be Read, Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.

Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains _Virgilian Addison_ describes _Campaigns_. Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find, Not of the _Gyant_, nor the _Pygmy_ kind. Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song, Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.

This _Congreve_ follows in his Deathless Line, And the _Tenth Hand_ is put to the Design. The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil Claims more than _Shakespear's_ Wit, or _Johnson's_ Oil. Sing on, _Harmonious Swan_, in weeping strains, And tell _Pastora's_ Death to mournful Swains. Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares. Or let thy _Satyr_ grin with half a Smile, And jeer in _Easy Etherege's_ Style. Let _Manly Wycherly_ chalk out the Way, And Art direct, where Nature goes astray. 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings, The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.