 | Poems |  |
Mrs. POPE.
Like Thalestria the Amazon, wise, bold, and strong,
See Pope lift her head 'midst the caballing throng;
Good sense thro' the range of her character flies,
It prevails in her action, and lives in her eyes;
It prescribes the true bounds to a tragical start,
And tempers the ills of a feebly-wrote part.
She knows the grammatical rules of her duty,
Which aids a comedian, as neatness aids beauty;
Tho' 'tis possible both have made conquests without 'em,
The wiser examples are anxious about 'em.—
In the great points of acting, when Judgment's delighted,
The rays of concordance are aptly united;
The arm, and the voice, and the eye, and the mien,
Must all correspond to give force to the scene;
Abrupt oppositions the sense will confound,
Like a trumpet that's crack'd, or hiatus in sound;
It was qualified thus Pope besieg'd our affection,
And pleas'd the idea, when led by reflection.—
When first Desdemona is smote, as accus'd
By Othello, who raves that his wife has abus'd
The connubial bed; then her passions will rise,
Thro' a climax of grief, and engender surprise;
She attaches electrical force to her art,
And communicates woe to each auditor's heart.—
Her Sylvia's an elegant portrait which charms us,
Whose frankness subdues, and whose loveliness warms us;
A luxuriance of worth plays in Viola's duties,
And she gives Cowley's nonsense extraneous beauties.
If Siddons (who feeds on the fools of the minute,
And whose bosom retains all the furies within it,
Tho' cold as the hall of a capon-fed vicar,
Whose tongue gives you prayers, but whose bounty no liquor,
Who writes her large name on base Flattery's card,
(Like Daffy's Elixir in Paul's funeral yard;)
All-buskin'd, with insolent stride, stalks before her,
The wise welcome Pope, and step forth to adore her:
Who despising those arts, by which Meanness has risen,
Hid her merits from Rumour, in Modesty's prison.—
Tho' delicate fears have oft sicklied her action,
Those fears ne'er reduc'd her strong force of attraction;
Such retreats made the judgment more keenly admire,
'Tis the something not granted which fans our desire,—
With the wings of an eagle she flew o'er her station,
And explor'd but those objects which grace our creation;
Still gliding content with the fame she had won,
Tho' nerv'd in her vision to flit round the sun;
While lapwings and owls flutter'd after their prey,
Till they lost e'en themselves in the blaze of the day.
See Pope lift her head 'midst the caballing throng;
Good sense thro' the range of her character flies,
It prevails in her action, and lives in her eyes;
200
And tempers the ills of a feebly-wrote part.
She knows the grammatical rules of her duty,
Which aids a comedian, as neatness aids beauty;
Tho' 'tis possible both have made conquests without 'em,
The wiser examples are anxious about 'em.—
In the great points of acting, when Judgment's delighted,
The rays of concordance are aptly united;
The arm, and the voice, and the eye, and the mien,
Must all correspond to give force to the scene;
Abrupt oppositions the sense will confound,
Like a trumpet that's crack'd, or hiatus in sound;
It was qualified thus Pope besieg'd our affection,
And pleas'd the idea, when led by reflection.—
When first Desdemona is smote, as accus'd
By Othello, who raves that his wife has abus'd
The connubial bed; then her passions will rise,
Thro' a climax of grief, and engender surprise;
She attaches electrical force to her art,
And communicates woe to each auditor's heart.—
Her Sylvia's an elegant portrait which charms us,
Whose frankness subdues, and whose loveliness warms us;
A luxuriance of worth plays in Viola's duties,
And she gives Cowley's nonsense extraneous beauties.
If Siddons (who feeds on the fools of the minute,
And whose bosom retains all the furies within it,
201
Whose tongue gives you prayers, but whose bounty no liquor,
Who writes her large name on base Flattery's card,
(Like Daffy's Elixir in Paul's funeral yard;)
All-buskin'd, with insolent stride, stalks before her,
The wise welcome Pope, and step forth to adore her:
Who despising those arts, by which Meanness has risen,
Hid her merits from Rumour, in Modesty's prison.—
Tho' delicate fears have oft sicklied her action,
Those fears ne'er reduc'd her strong force of attraction;
Such retreats made the judgment more keenly admire,
'Tis the something not granted which fans our desire,—
With the wings of an eagle she flew o'er her station,
And explor'd but those objects which grace our creation;
Still gliding content with the fame she had won,
Tho' nerv'd in her vision to flit round the sun;
While lapwings and owls flutter'd after their prey,
Till they lost e'en themselves in the blaze of the day.
Tho' her name always means what it should do—an host.
She often does least where she strives—to do most;
With an eager avidity, asking applause,
Tho' the end is denied by a sight of the cause:
Thus priests over-righteous their wishes defeat,
Thus swordsmen from zeal, have been wond'rously beat.
'Tis in acting, like love, sometimes Chance plays the game,
And they're oft most successful who scarce ever aim;
Tho' by Science, and all her sweet inmates assisted,
This nymph had play'd better, had Yates ne'er existed.
But let not the children of Envy suppose
That Discernment and Pope have been frequently foes;
As she knows to anatomize purely her text,
And ne'er leaves the audience by Dulness perplext;
For there are, who would damn, by a bestial perception,
The loftiest ideas of human conception;
such animals mouthing that heaven-caught wit,
Which the sweet bard of Avon with energy writ,
Is by far more terrific to rational Fear,
Than Nero, who pour'd boiling lead in the ear.
She often does least where she strives—to do most;
With an eager avidity, asking applause,
Tho' the end is denied by a sight of the cause:
Thus priests over-righteous their wishes defeat,
Thus swordsmen from zeal, have been wond'rously beat.
202
And they're oft most successful who scarce ever aim;
Tho' by Science, and all her sweet inmates assisted,
This nymph had play'd better, had Yates ne'er existed.
But let not the children of Envy suppose
That Discernment and Pope have been frequently foes;
As she knows to anatomize purely her text,
And ne'er leaves the audience by Dulness perplext;
For there are, who would damn, by a bestial perception,
The loftiest ideas of human conception;
such animals mouthing that heaven-caught wit,
Which the sweet bard of Avon with energy writ,
Is by far more terrific to rational Fear,
Than Nero, who pour'd boiling lead in the ear.
But, alas! who can hope to be wise as they ought,
When the evils of life taint the progress of thought?
Like a snow-ball, the mind, fraught with peace in its prime,
Moves swiftly adown the steep shelvings of Time;
Accumulates filth from Society's sons,
And strengthens and hardens its coat as it runs;
Till habit on habit is negligent laid,
And the object appears motley, vile, and ill-made;
At last, when its indirect wanderings are o'er,
And the sated despoiler can gather no more,
The form lies repos'd at the base of the hill,
A globular concrete of good and of ill;
As its worth has been mix'd with the radix of woe,
And the dirt of the valley has sullied the snow.
When the evils of life taint the progress of thought?
Like a snow-ball, the mind, fraught with peace in its prime,
Moves swiftly adown the steep shelvings of Time;
203
And strengthens and hardens its coat as it runs;
Till habit on habit is negligent laid,
And the object appears motley, vile, and ill-made;
At last, when its indirect wanderings are o'er,
And the sated despoiler can gather no more,
The form lies repos'd at the base of the hill,
A globular concrete of good and of ill;
As its worth has been mix'd with the radix of woe,
And the dirt of the valley has sullied the snow.
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