And each bold figure just begins to live,
The treach’rous 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: 295
In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
But soon the short-lived vanity is lost;
Like some fair flower the early Spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but ev’n in blooming dies.
What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? 300
The owner’s wife that other men enjoy;
Then most our trouble still when most admired,
And still the more we give, the more required;
Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to please, 305
‘T is what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;
By fools ‘t is hated, and by knaves undone!
If Wit so much from Ignorance undergo,
Ah, let not Learning too commence its foe!
Of old those met rewards who could excel, 310
And such were prais’d who but endeavour’d well;
Tho’ triumphs were to gen’rals only due,
Crowns were reserv’d to grace the soldiers too.
Now they who reach Parnassus’ lofty crown
Employ their pains to spurn some others down; 315
And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools;
But still the worst with most regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 320
Are mortals urged thro’ sacred lust of praise!
Ah, ne’er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive divine. 325
But if in noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain,
Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
No pardon vile obscenity should find, 330
Tho’ Wit and Art conspire to move your mind;
But dulness with obscenity must prove
As shameful sure as impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease
Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: 335
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, 340
And not a mask went unimprov’d away;
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smil’d at what they blush’d before.
The following license of a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; 345
Then unbelieving priests reform’d the nation,
And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
Where Heav’n’s free subjects might their rights dispute,
Lest God himself should seem too absolute;
Pulpits their sacred satire learn’d to spare, 350
And vice admired to find a flatt’rer there!
Encouraged thus, Wit’s Titans braved the skies,
And the press groan’d with licens’d blasphemies.
These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! 355
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an author into vice:
All seems infected that th’ infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundic’d eye.
An Essay on Criticism: Part III
Rules for the conduct and manners in a Critic. Candour. Modesty. Good breeding. Sincerity and freedom of advice. When one’s counsel is to be restrained. Character of an incorrigible poet. And of an impertinent critic. Character of a good critic. The history of criticism, and characters of the best critics; Aristotle. Horace. Dionysius. Petronius. Quintilian. Longinus. Of the decay of Criticism, and its revival. Erasmus. Vida. Boileau. Lord Roscommon, &c. Conclusion.
LEARN then what morals Critics ought to show,
For ‘t is but half a judge’s task to know.
‘T is not enough Taste, Judgement, Learning join;
In all you speak let Truth and Candour shine;
That not alone what to your Sense is due 5
All may allow, but seek your friendship too.
Be silent always when you doubt your Sense,
And speak, tho’ sure, with seeming diffidence.
Some positive persisting fops we know,
Who if once wrong will needs be always so; 10
But you with pleasure own your errors past,
And make each day a critique on the last.
‘T is 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, 15
And things unknown proposed as things forgot.
Without good breeding truth is disapprov’d;
That only makes superior Sense belov’d.
Be niggards of advice on no pretence,
For the worst avarice is that of Sense. 20
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.
‘T were well might critics still this freedom take, 25
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And stares tremendous, with a threat’ning eye,
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.
Fear most to tax an honourable fool,
Whose right it is, uncensured to be dull: 30
Such without Wit, are poets when they please,
As without Learning they can take degrees.
Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires,
And flattery to fulsome dedicators;
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more 35
Than when they promise to give scribbling o’er.
‘T is 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? 40
Still humming on their drowsy course they keep,
And lash’d so long, like tops, are lash’d asleep.
False steps but help them to renew the race,
As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of these, impenitently bold, 45
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets, in a raging vein,
Ev’n 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! 50
Such shameless bards we have; and yet ‘t is 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, 55
And always list’ning 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. 60
Name a new play, and he ‘s the poet’s friend;
Nay, show’d his faults — but when woul
d poets mend?
No place so sacred from such fops is barr’d,
Nor is Paul’s church more safe than Paul’s churchyard:
Nay, fly to altars; there they ‘ll talk you dead; 65
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, 70
Bursts out, resistless, with a thund’ring tide.
But where ‘s the man who counsel can bestow,
Still pleas’d to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Unbiass’d or by favour or by spite;
Not dully prepossess’d nor blindly right; 75
Tho’ learn’d, well bred, and tho’ well bred sincere;
Modestly bold, and humanly severe;
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe;
Bless’d with a taste exact, yet unconfin’d, 80
A knowledge both of books and humankind;
Gen’rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?
Such once were critics; such the happy few
Athens and Rome in better ages knew. 85
The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
He steer’d securely, and discover’d far,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star.
Poets, a race long unconfin’d and free, 90
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
Receiv’d his laws, and stood convinc’d ‘t was fit
Who conquer’d Nature should preside o’er Wit.
Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense; 95
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who, supreme in judgement as in wit,
Might boldly censure as he boldly writ,
Yet judg’d with coolness, though he sung with fire; 100
His precepts teach but what his works inspire.
Our critics take a contrary extreme,
They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm;
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By Wits, than Critics in as wrong quotations. 105
See Dionysius Homer’s thoughts refine,
And call new beauties forth from ev’ry line!
Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
The Scholar’s learning with the courtier’s ease.
In grave Quintilian’s copious work we find 110
The justest rules and clearest method join’d.
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
All ranged in order, and disposed with grace;
But less to please the eye than arm the hand,
Still fit for use, and ready at command. 115
Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
And bless their critic with a poet’s fire:
An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
Whose own example strengthens all his laws, 120
And is himself that great sublime he draws.
Thus long succeeding critics justly reign’d,
License repress’d, and useful laws ordain’d:
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew,
And arts still follow’d where her eagles flew; 125
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 believ’d, but little understood, 130
And to be dull was construed to be good;
A second deluge learning thus o’errun,
And the monks finish’d what the Goths begun.
At length Erasmus, that great injur’d name,
(The glory of the priesthood and the shame!) 135
Stemm’d the wild torrent of a barb’rous age,
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.
But see! each Muse in Leo’s golden days
Starts from her trance, and trims her wither’d bays.
Rome’s ancient genius, o’er its ruins spread, 140
Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev’rend head.
Then sculpture and her sister arts revive;
Stones leap’d to form, and rocks began to live;
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung;
A Raphael painted and a Vida sung: 145
Immortal Vida! on whose honour’d brow
The poet’s bays and critic’s ivy grow:
Cremona now shall ever boast thy name,
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!
But soon by impious arms from Latium chased, 150
Their ancient bounds the banish’d Muses pass’d;
Thence arts o’er all the northern world advance,
But critic learning flourish’d most in France;
The rules a nation born to serve obeys,
And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. 155
But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised,
And kept unconquer’d and uncivilized;
Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
We still defied the Romans, as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder few 160
Of those who less presumed and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restor’d Wit’s fundamental laws.
Such was the Muse whose rules and practice tell
‘Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.’ 165
Such was Roscommon, not more learn’d than good,
With manners gen’rous 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, 170
Who justly knew to blame or to commend;
To failings mild but zealous for desert,
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
This humble praise, lamented Shade! receive;
This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: 175
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 th’ unlearn’d their wants may view, 180
The learn’d reflect on what before they knew;
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;
Averse alike to flatter or offend;
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. 185
POEMS, 1708–17
CONTENTS
Ode for Music on St. Cecilia’s Day
Argus
The Balance of Europe
The Translator
On Mrs. Tofts, a Famous Opera-Singer
Epistle to Mrs. Blount, with the Works of Voiture
The Dying Christian to His Soul
Epistle to Mr. Jervas
Impromptu to Lady Winchilsea
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
Messiah
Prologue to Mr. Addison’s Cato
Epilogue to Mr. Rowe’s Jane Shore
To a Lady, with the Temple of Fame
Upon the Duke of Marlborough’s House at Woodstock
Lines to Lord Bathurst
Macer
Epistle to Mrs. Teresa Blount
Lines Occasioned by Some Verses of His Grace the
Duke of Buckingham
A Farewell to London
Imitation of Martial
Imitation of Tibullus
The Basset-Table
Epigram on the Toasts of the Kit-Cat Club
The Challenge
The Looking-Glass
Prologue Designed for Mr. D’Urfey’s Last Play
Prologue to the ‘Three Hours after Marriage’
Prayer of Brutus
To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Extemporaneous Lines
Ode for Music on St. Cecilia’s Day
This ode was written at the suggestion of Richard Steele, in 1708. It was recast in 1730 in briefer form so that it might be set to music; and the first four stanzas were considerably changed.
I
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 5
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 10
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: 15
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats:
Till by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away 20
In a dying, dying fall.
II
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; 25
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, 30
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
List’ning Envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy Factions hear away their rage. 35
III
But when our country’s cause provokes to arms,
How martial music ev’ry bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais’d his strain,
While Agro saw her kindred trees 40
Descend from Pelion to the main:
Transported demigods stood round,