Part 2

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