 | Poems |  |
Mr. POPE.
In the African Captive, see Pope wake Surprize,
And call Pity's tears into feminine eyes;
When poor Oroonoko is goaded by foes,
That player outrageously pictures his woes:
Tho' his person is fashion'd and prun'd by Perfection,
His weakness incessantly meets our detection;
With a fine rounded voice, full of Melody's tones,
He wastes half its compass in sighs and in groans;
And thinks, 'cause the buskin he's ta'n into keeping,
His duty directs he should always be weeping.
—When the tear of a man from his eye-lids will start,
It should seem like a tribute that's wrung from the heart;
As an offering that's paid to the 'cause of a crime,
To woe that's unmeasur'd, and grief that's sublime:
But if they're call'd forth on each trivial occasion,
Their worth is no more, and they lose their persuasion;
Then Ridicule laughs, at the tears as they roll,
To tell us the man has—a half-finish'd soul;
With a dropsical brain, which his fancy dispenses,
To drown his perception, his reason, and senses;
That makes his high judgment for ever caught napping,
And which ne'er can have ease but by constantly tapping.
Tho' his Hotspur's an excellent critical sop,
His Bellamy stalks but a solemnized sop:
As Clarinda steps back with a face fraught with wonder,
When he sues her for pity in accents of thunder.
And call Pity's tears into feminine eyes;
When poor Oroonoko is goaded by foes,
That player outrageously pictures his woes:
Tho' his person is fashion'd and prun'd by Perfection,
His weakness incessantly meets our detection;
138
He wastes half its compass in sighs and in groans;
And thinks, 'cause the buskin he's ta'n into keeping,
His duty directs he should always be weeping.
—When the tear of a man from his eye-lids will start,
It should seem like a tribute that's wrung from the heart;
As an offering that's paid to the 'cause of a crime,
To woe that's unmeasur'd, and grief that's sublime:
But if they're call'd forth on each trivial occasion,
Their worth is no more, and they lose their persuasion;
Then Ridicule laughs, at the tears as they roll,
To tell us the man has—a half-finish'd soul;
With a dropsical brain, which his fancy dispenses,
To drown his perception, his reason, and senses;
That makes his high judgment for ever caught napping,
And which ne'er can have ease but by constantly tapping.
Tho' his Hotspur's an excellent critical sop,
His Bellamy stalks but a solemnized sop:
As Clarinda steps back with a face fraught with wonder,
When he sues her for pity in accents of thunder.
Tho' his strong understanding is blest with profundity,
His face mars its force by a stupid rotundity;
It was form'd to accomplish less amiable uses,
And wine, by a smile, every maid—but the Muses;
Too fastuous for exquisite passion's digression,
Too fair for a hero, too round for expression;
Like a beggar at law, whom no barrister blesses,
His mind lacks an agent to plead its distresses;
All his muscles rebel 'gainst judicious controul,
And his face gives the lie to a sensible soul.
His fears to do less than enough, never quit him,
His cloaths in the gentleman ne'er seem to fit him:
With rant he too often disgusts the beholders,
And offends by continually writhing his shoulders.
But his faults like the stones of the pavement decay,
When quick dropping springs wear the surface away.
His face mars its force by a stupid rotundity;
It was form'd to accomplish less amiable uses,
And wine, by a smile, every maid—but the Muses;
Too fastuous for exquisite passion's digression,
Too fair for a hero, too round for expression;
Like a beggar at law, whom no barrister blesses,
His mind lacks an agent to plead its distresses;
139
And his face gives the lie to a sensible soul.
His fears to do less than enough, never quit him,
His cloaths in the gentleman ne'er seem to fit him:
With rant he too often disgusts the beholders,
And offends by continually writhing his shoulders.
But his faults like the stones of the pavement decay,
When quick dropping springs wear the surface away.
He has gain'd, as a fence 'gainst the sorrows of life,
An excellent friend in an elegant wife;
By Young's sober Night Thoughts he perfects each plan,
As she re-peruses his—Essay on Man:
Thus jocund, they dignify Hymen's sweet rites,
And the work of each other, each other delights:
But she oft gives his follies a well-manner'd check,
And holds him from ill, with a chain round his neck:
Thus he's kept in a cage, as Dame Fitz keeps her squirrels,
And by wedlock's improv'd—like the blood of the Burrells.
An excellent friend in an elegant wife;
By Young's sober Night Thoughts he perfects each plan,
As she re-peruses his—Essay on Man:
Thus jocund, they dignify Hymen's sweet rites,
And the work of each other, each other delights:
But she oft gives his follies a well-manner'd check,
And holds him from ill, with a chain round his neck:
Thus he's kept in a cage, as Dame Fitz keeps her squirrels,
And by wedlock's improv'd—like the blood of the Burrells.
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