University of Virginia Library

'Tis not the point in works of art
With care to furnish every part,
That each to high perfection rais'd,
May draw attention and be prais'd,
An object by itself respected,
Tho' all the others were neglected:
Not masters only this can do,
But many a vulgar artist too:
We know distinguish'd merit most
When in the whole the parts are lost,
When nothing rises up to shine,
Or draw us from the chief design,
When one united full effect
Is felt, before we can reflect
And mark the causes that conspire
To charm, and force us to admire.
This is indeed a master's part,
The very summit of his art,
And therefore when ye shall rehearse
To friends for trial of your verse,
Mark their behaviour and their way,
As much, at least, as what they say;
If they seem pleas'd, and yet are mute,
The poem's good beyond dispute;
But when they babble all the while,
Now praise the sense, and now the stile,
'Tis plain that something must be wrong,
This too weak or that too strong.
The art is wanting which conveys
Impressions in mysterious ways,
And makes us from a whole receive
What no divided parts can give:
Fine writing, therefore, seems of course
Less fit to please at first than worse.
A language fitted to the sense
Will hardly pass for eloquence.
One feels its force, before he sees
The charm which gives it pow'r to please,
And ere instructed to admire,
Will read and read and never tire.
But when the stile is of a kind
Which soars and leaves the sense behind,
'Tis something by itself, and draws
From vulgar judges dull applause;
They'll yawn, and tell you as you read,
“Those lines are mighty fine indeed;”
But never will your works peruse
At any time, if they can choose.
'Tis not the thing which men call wit,
Nor characters, tho' truly hit,
Nor flowing numbers soft or strong,
That bears the raptur'd soul along;
'Tis something of a diff'rent kind,
'Tis all those skilfully combin'd,
To make what critics call a whole,
Which ravishes and charms the soul.

Alexis by fair Celia's scorn
To grief abandon'd and forlorn,
Had sought in solitude to cover
His anguish, like a hopeless lover:
With his fond passion to debate,
Gay Strephon sought his rural seat,
And found him with the shepherds plac'd
Far in a solitary waste.—

My friend, quoth he, you're much to blame;
This foolish softness quit for shame;
Nor fondly doat upon a woman,
Whose charms are nothing more than common.
That Celia's handsome I agree,
But Clara's handsomer than she:
Euanthe's wit, which all commend,
Does Celia's certainly transcend:
Nor can you find the least pretence
With Phebe's to compare her sense;
With better taste Belinda dresses,
With truer step the floor she presses;
And for behaviour soft and kind,
Melissa leaves her far behind:
What witchcraft then can fix the chain
Which makes you suffer her disdain,
And not attempt the manly part
To set at liberty your heart?
Make but one struggle, and you'll see
That in a moment you'll be free.

This Strephon urg'd, and ten times more,
From topics often touch'd before:
In vain his eloquence he try'd;
Alexis, sighing, thus reply'd;

If Clara's handsome and a toast,
'Tis all the merit she can boast:
Some fame Euanthe's wit has gain'd,
Because by prudence not restrain'd.
Phebe I own is wondrous wise,
She never acts but in disguise:
Belinda's merit all confess
Who know the mystery of dress:
But poor Melissa on the score
Of mere good-nature pleases more:
In those the reigning charm appears
Alone, to draw our eyes and ears,
No other rises by its side
And shines, attention to divide;
Thus seen alone it strikes the eye,
As something exquisite and high:
But in my Celia you will find
Perfection of another kind;
Each charm so artfully exprest
As still to mingle with the rest:
Averse and shunning to be known,
An object by itself alone,
But thus combin'd they make a spell
Whose force no human tongue can tell;
A pow'rful magic which my breast
Will ne'er be able to resist:
For as she slights me or complies,
Her constant lover lives or dies.