Yet, if we look more clofely, we shall find Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind: 15 Nature affords at Icaft a glimmering light;
Tis hard to fay, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But of the two, lefs dangerous is th' offence patience, than mislead our fenfe. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs; A fool might once himself alone expofe,
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.
Tis with our judgments as our watches; none
Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true genius is but rare,
True tafte as feldom is the Critic's fharé;
Both muft alike from Heaven derive their light,
Thefe born to judge, as well as thofe to write.
The lines, "though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the flighteft fketch, if juftly trac'd,
Is by ill-colouring but the more difgrac❜d,
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac'd:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of fchools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but
fools.
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fenfe,
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 fpite.
All fools have ftill an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpight,
There are who judge ftill worse than he can write.
Some bave at frit for Wits, then Poets past;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at laft.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pafs,
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor aís.
Thofe half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our
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Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit: As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains; Thus in the foul while memory prevails, The folid power of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's foft figures melt away, One fcience only will one genius fit; So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts. Like Kings, we lofe the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition ftill to make them more : Each might his feveral province well command, Would all but ftoop to what they underRand.
The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reafon to admire.
Then Criticifm the Mufe's handmaid prov'd,
To drefs her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention ftray'd,
Who could not win the mifirefs, wood the maid;
Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, 106
Sure to hate moft the men from whom they
learn'd.
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art
By Doctors' bills to play the Doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prefcribe, apply, and call their mafters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor time nor moths e'er fpoil'd fo much as they:
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made. 115
Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to display,
And thofe explain the meaning quite away.
You then whofe judgment the right courfe
would fteer,
Know well each ANCIENT's proper character:
His Fable, Subject, fcope in cvery page ;
Religion, Country, genius of his Age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.
Be Homer's works your ftudy and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night; 135
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims
bring,
And trace the Mufes upward to their fpring;
Still with itfelf compar'd, his text perufe:
And let your comment be the Mantuan Mufc.
When firft young Maro, in his boundlefs mind
A work outlaft immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains fcorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine every part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the fame, 135
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold defign;)
And rules as ftrict his labour'd work conf.ne,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line,'
Learn hence for ancient rules a just efteem;
To copy nature, is to copy them.
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
For there's a happinefs as well as care.
Mufic resembles Poetry; in each
Are hamelefs graces which no methods teach,
And which a master-hand alone can reach. 145)
If, where the rules not far enough extend,
(Since rules were made but to promote their end)
Some lucky Licenfe aniwer to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that License is a rule."
Thus Pegaius, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track;
From vulgar bounds with brave diforder part,
And fratch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Which, without paffing through the judgmeat,
gains
The heart, and all its end at once attains.
In profpects thus, fome objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rife,
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.
Great Wits fometimes may gloriously offend,
And rife to faults true Critics dare not mend. 160
But though the Ancients thus their rules invade
(As Kings difpenfe with laws themfelves have ris
made);
Moderns, beware! or, if you must offend
Againft the precept, ne'er tranfgrefs its end :
Let it be feldom, and compell'd by need;
And have, at leaft, their precedent to plead.
The Critie elle proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whofe prefumptuous
thoughts
169
Thofe freer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults;
Some fgures monftrous and mis-shaped appear,
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near,
Due diftance reconciles to form and grace,
A prudent chief not always muft difplay
His powers in equal ranks, in fair array,
But with th' occafion and the place comply,
Conceal his force, nay fometimes feem to fly.
Thofe oft are ftratagems which error feem,
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
Still green with bays each ancient Altar ftands, Above the reach of facrilegious hands; Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage, Destructive War, and all-involving Age. See from each cline the learn'd their incenfe bring! r95
Hear, in all tongues confenting Paans ring ! In praife fo juft let every voice be join'd. And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of univerfal praise! Whofe honours with increase of ages grow As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty name fhall found, | And-worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
may fome fpark of your celeftial fire, The laft, the meaneft of your fons infpire, (That, on weak wings, from far purfuès your flights:
Whoever thinks a faultlefs piece to fee,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be
In every work regard the writer's end,
255
Since none can compafs more than they intend;
And if the means be juft, the conduct true,
Applaufe, in fpite of trivial faults, is due.
As men of breeding, fometimes men of wit,
T'avoid great errors muft the lefs commit: 260
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain wits a fcience little known, 199
T'admire fuperior fenfe, and doubt their own:
Of all the caufes which confpire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and mifguide the mind,Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays,
What the weak head with ftrongest bias rules, 15 PRIDE, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever Nature has in worth deny'd, She gives in large recruits of needful Pride! For as in bodies, thus in fouls, we find What wants in blood and fpirits, fwell'd with wind:
Pride, where Wit fails, fteps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of fenfe.
If once right reafon drives that cloud, away,.
Truth breaks upon us with refiftless day.
Truft not yourfelf: but, your defects to know,
Make ufe of every friend-and every foe.
A little learning is a dangerous thing!
Drink deep, or tafte not the Pierian spring!:
There fhallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely fobers us again.
Fir'd at first fight with what the Mufe imparts,
la fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,
While, from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor fee the lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with ftrange furprize
New diftant scenes of endless fcience rife!
So pleas'd at, firft the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and feem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal fnows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the laft:
But, thofe attain'd, we tremble to furvey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way: 230
Th' increafing profpect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arife!
A perfect judge will read each Work of Wit With the fame fpirit that its author writ: Survey the WHOLE, nor feek flight faults to 235
For not to know fome trifles, is a praife..
Moft Critics, fond of fome fubfervient art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part:
They talk of principles, but notions prize, 265
And all to one lov'd folly facri: ce.
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they fay,
A certain Bard encountering on the way,
Difcours'd in terms as juft, with looks as fage,
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian ftage; 270
Concluding all were defperate fots and fools,
Who durft depart from Ariftotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge fo nice,
Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's ad-
vice :
Made him obferve the fubject, and the plot, 275
The manners, paffions, unities; what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a combat in the lifts left out.
"What! leave the combat cut?" exclaims the
Knight.
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. "Not fo by heaven (he anfwers in a rage! "Knights, fquires, and fteeds, muft enter on the stage."
So vaft a throng the fage can neʼer contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."
Thus Critics, of lefs judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing, not exact but nice, Form fhort ideas; and offend in arts (As moft in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to Conceit alone their tafte confine, And glittering thoughts ftruck out at every line; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft 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 every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True Wit is Nature to advantage drefs'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er fo well exprefs'd;
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Something, whose truth convinc'd at fight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind. 300
As fhades more fweetly recommend the light,
So modeft plainnefs fets off fprightly wit;
For works may have more wit than does them
good,
As bodies perifh through excefs of blood.
Others for Language all their care exprefs, 305 And value books, as women men, for drefs: Their praife is ftill the ftyle is excellent : The fenfe, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit of fenfe beneath is rarely found. 310
Falfe eloquence, like the prifmatic glafs,
It gaudy colours fpreads on every place;
The face of Nature we no more furvey,
All glares alike, without diftinétion gay:
Fut true expreffon, like th' unchanging fun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expreffion is the drefs of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more fuitable;
A vile conceit, in pompous words exprefs'd, 320
Is like a clown in regal purple drefs'd':
For different flyles with dinerent fubjects fort,
As feveral garbs, with country, town, and court.
Some by eid words to Fame have made pretence,
Ancients in phrafe, mere moderns in their fenfe;
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a tiyle, 326 |
Amaz'd th' unlearn'd, and make the learned
finile.
Unlucky, as Fungofa in the play,
Thefe parks with awkward vanity difplay
What the fine gentleman wore yefierday; 330.
And but fo mimic ancient wits at beft,
As apes our grandi res in their doublots dreft.
In words, as fafhions, the fame rule will hold;
Alike fantaftic, if too new or old :
Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 335
Nor yet the last to lay the old afide.
But moft by numbers judge a poct's fong; And fmooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:
In the bright Mufe though thoufand charms con-
fpire,
Her voice is all the fe tuneful fools admire; 340
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church re-
pair,
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
Thefe, equal fyllables alone require,
Though at the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join;
And ten low words oft' creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the fame unvary'd chimes,
With fure returns of till expected rhymes;
Where er
you find
"the cooling western
breeze,"
In the next line it tree;"
If crystal freams creep,"
"whispers through the
«with pleaing murmurs
370 The line too labours, and the words move Low. Not fo when fwift Camilla fcours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and fkims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprize,
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
New his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs feal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfans and Grees like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdued by found!
The power of Muic all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes; and fhun the fault of fuch,
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much, 3
At every trifle fcorn to take offence,
That always fhews great pride, or little fenfe;
Thofe heads, as ftoinachs, are not fure the beft,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; 39
For fools admire, but men of fenfe approve :
As things feem large which we through mifts de
fory,
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.
Some foreign writers, fome our own defpife;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize: 395
Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
To one fmall fed, and all are damn'd befide.
Meanly they feek the bleffing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the fouthern wit fublimes, 400
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the firft has thone on ages past,
Enlights the prefent, and fhall warm the last.
Though each may feel increases and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days. 405
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value ftill the true.
Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonfenfe which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with But catch the fpreading notion of the town; "fcep:"
Then at the last and only couplet fraught
With feme unmearing thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the forg, 355
That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and
Nor praife nor blame the writings, but the men.
Of all this fervile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulnefs joins with quality; 415
A conftant Critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonfenfe for my Lord,
What woful ftuff this madrigal would be,
In fome farv'd hackney-fonneteer, or me!
But let a Lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightons! how the ftyle refines!
Before his facred name flies every fault,
And each exalted ftanza teems with thought!
So much they fcorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purpofely go wrong:
So Schifmatics the plain believers quit,
And are hut damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praife at morning what they blame at night,
But always think the last opinion right.
A Mufe by thefe is like a mistress us'd,
This hour the 's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt fenfe and nonfenfe daily change their
fide.
435
Ak them the caufe; they 're wifer ftill, they fay;
And ftill to-morrow's wifer than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, fo wife we grow;
Our wifer fons, no doubt, will think us fo.
Once School-divines this zealous jfle o'erspread;
Who knew moft fentences was deepest read; 441
Faith, gofpel, all, feem'd made to be difputed,
And none had fenfe enough to be confuted:
Scotifts and Thomifts, now in peace remain,
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itself has different dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in Wit fhould take their
turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation fafe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some, valuing thofe of their own fide or mind,
Still make themfelves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praife ourfelves in other men. 455
Parties in Wit attend on thofe of State,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of Parfons, Critics, Beaux;
But fenfe furviv'd, when merry jefts were paft;
For rifing merit will buoy up at laft.
Might he return, and blefs once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, purfue;
But, like a fhadow, proves the fubftance true :
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groflhefs, not its own.
When first that un too powerful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glovics, and augment the day.
Be thou the firft, true merit to befriend; His praife is loft, who flays till all commend. 475 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but juft to let them live beti nes.
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours foften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just shade and light ;
When mellowing years their full perfection 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 moft miftaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings; In youth alone its empty praife we boaft, But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft: Like fome fair flower the early fpring fupplies, That gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this Wit, which muft our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; The moft our trouble ftill when moft admir'd, And ftill the more we give, the inore requir'd; Whofe fame with pains we guard, but lofe with ease,
Sure fome to vex, but never all to please ;
'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone !
If Wit fo much from ignorance undergo,
Ah, let not learning too commence its foe!
Of old, thofe met rewards, who could excell, 510
And fuch were prais'd who but endeavour'd well;
Though triumphs were to generals only due,
Crowns were referv'd to grace the foldiers too.
Now, they who reach Parna Tus' lofty crown,
Employ their pains to fpura fome others down;
And while felf-love each jealous writer rules,
Contending wits become the sport of fools:
But ftill the worst with molt regret commend,
For each ill author is as bad a friend.
To what bafe ends, and by what abject ways, 520,
Are mortals urg'd through facred luft of praife!
Ah, ne'er fo dire a thirft of glory boast,
Nor in the Critic let the man be loft.
Good-nature and good-fense must ever join ;.
To err, is human; to forgive, divine.
But if in noble minds fome dreg remain, Not yet purg'd off, of fpleen and four difdain; Difcharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in thefe flagitious times. No pardon vile obfcenity fhould find, Though wit and art confpire to move your mind; But dulnefs with obscenity must prove As fhameful fure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleafure, wealth, and eafe, Sprang the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increafe:
When love was all an eafy Monarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war: filts rul'd the ftate, and ftatefmen farces writ; Nay wits had penfions, and young lords had wit: The Fair fat panting at a Courtier's play, And not a mark went unimprov❜d away : The modeft fan was lifted up no more, And Virgins fmil'd at what they blufh'd before. The following licenfe of a foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; Then unbelieving Priests reform'd the nation, 485 And taught more pleafint methods of falvation;
No longer
now that golden age appears,
When Patriarch-wits furviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of Fame (our fecond life) is loft, 480
And bare threefcore is all ev'n that can boast;
Our fons their fathers' failing language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is, fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd
Some bright idea of the master's mind,
VOL. VI.
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