Vida's Art of Poetry Translated into English Verse, By the Reverend Mr. Christoph. Pitt |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
Book III. |
 | Vida's Art of Poetry |  |
80
Book III.
What
style, what language suits the poet's lays,
To claim Apollo's, and the muses praise,
I now unfold; to this last bound I tend,
And see my promis'd labours at an end.
To claim Apollo's, and the muses praise,
I now unfold; to this last bound I tend,
And see my promis'd labours at an end.
81
First, then, with care a just expression chuse,
Led by the kind indulgence of the muse,
To dress up ev'ry subject when you write,
And set all objects in a proper light.
But lest the distant prospect of the goal
Should damp your vigour, and your strength controul,
Rouse ev'ry power, and call forth all the soul.
See! how the nine the panting youth invite,
With one loud voice to reach Parnassus' height;
See! how they hold aloft th' immortal crown,
To urge the course, and call the victor on;
See from the clouds each lavish goddess pours,
Full o'er thy head, a sudden spring of flow'rs,
And roses fall in odorif'rous show'rs,
Celestial scents, in balmy breezes fly,
And shed ambrosial spirits from the sky.
Led by the kind indulgence of the muse,
To dress up ev'ry subject when you write,
And set all objects in a proper light.
But lest the distant prospect of the goal
Should damp your vigour, and your strength controul,
Rouse ev'ry power, and call forth all the soul.
See! how the nine the panting youth invite,
With one loud voice to reach Parnassus' height;
See! how they hold aloft th' immortal crown,
To urge the course, and call the victor on;
See from the clouds each lavish goddess pours,
Full o'er thy head, a sudden spring of flow'rs,
And roses fall in odorif'rous show'rs,
Celestial scents, in balmy breezes fly,
And shed ambrosial spirits from the sky.
In chief avoid obscurity, nor shroud
Your thoughts and dark conceptions in a cloud;
For some we know affect to lose the light,
Lost in forc'd figures, and involv'd in night,
Studious and bent to shun the common way,
They skulk in darkness, and abhor the day.
Oh! may the sacred nine inspire my lays,
To shine with pride in their own native rays;
For this we need not importune the skies,
In our own pow'r and will the blessing lies.
Expression, boundless in extent, displays,
A thousand forms, a thousand several ways,
In different hues from different quarters brought,
It makes unnumber'd dresses for a thought;
Such vast varieties of ways we find,
To paint conception, and unfold the mind.
If e'er you toil, but toil without success,
To give your images a shining dress;
Quit your pursuit, and chuse a different way
'Till breaking forth, the voluntary ray
Cuts the thick darkness, and lets down the day.
Your thoughts and dark conceptions in a cloud;
For some we know affect to lose the light,
Lost in forc'd figures, and involv'd in night,
82
They skulk in darkness, and abhor the day.
Oh! may the sacred nine inspire my lays,
To shine with pride in their own native rays;
For this we need not importune the skies,
In our own pow'r and will the blessing lies.
Expression, boundless in extent, displays,
A thousand forms, a thousand several ways,
In different hues from different quarters brought,
It makes unnumber'd dresses for a thought;
Such vast varieties of ways we find,
To paint conception, and unfold the mind.
If e'er you toil, but toil without success,
To give your images a shining dress;
Quit your pursuit, and chuse a different way
'Till breaking forth, the voluntary ray
Cuts the thick darkness, and lets down the day.
Since then a thousand forms you may pursue,
A thousand figures rising to the view,
Unless confin'd and streighten'd in your scheme,
With the short limits of a scanty theme,
From these to those with boundless freedom pass,
And to each image give a different face.
The readers hence a wond'rous pleasure find,
That charms the ear, and captivates the mind,
In this the laws of nature we obey,
And act as her example points the way,
Which has on ev'ry diff'rent species thrown
A shape distinct and figure of its own;
Man differs from the beast that haunts the woods,
The bird from ev'ry native of the floods.
A thousand figures rising to the view,
Unless confin'd and streighten'd in your scheme,
With the short limits of a scanty theme,
83
And to each image give a different face.
The readers hence a wond'rous pleasure find,
That charms the ear, and captivates the mind,
In this the laws of nature we obey,
And act as her example points the way,
Which has on ev'ry diff'rent species thrown
A shape distinct and figure of its own;
Man differs from the beast that haunts the woods,
The bird from ev'ry native of the floods.
See how the poet banishes with grace
A native term to give a stranger place;
From different images with just success,
He cloaths his matter in the borrow'd dress,
The borrow'd dress the things themselves admire,
And wonder whence they drew the strange attire.
Proud of their ravisht spoils they now disclaim
Their former colour, and their genuine name,
And in another garb, more beauteous grown,
Prefer the foreign habit to their own.
Oft' as he paints a battle on the plain,
The battle's imag'd by the roaring main;
Now he the fight a fiery deluge names,
That pours along the fields a flood of flames;
In airy conflict, now the winds appear,
Alarm the deeps, and wage the stormy war;
To the fierce shock th' embattel'd tempests pour,
Waves charge on waves; th' encount'ring billows roar.
Thus in a vari'd dress the subject shines,
By turns the objects shift their proper signs;
From shape to shape alternately they run,
To borrow other's charms, and lend their own;
Pleas'd with the borrow'd charms, the readers find,
A crowd of different images combin'd
Rise from a single object to the mind.
So the pleas'd trav'ler from a mountain's brow,
Views the calm surface of the seas below;
Tho' wide beneath the floating ocean lies
The first immediate object of his eyes,
He sees the forests tremble from within,
And gliding meadows paint the deeps with green;
While to his eyes the fair delusions pass
In gay succession thro' the watry glass.
'Tis thus the bard diversifies his song,
Now here, now there, he calls the soul along.
The rich variety, he sets to sight,
Cloys not the mind, but adds to our delight.
Now with a frugal choice the bard affords
The strongest light, and energy of words;
While humble subjects, he contrives to raise
With borrow'd splendors, and a foreign blaze.
This, if on old tradition we rely,
Was once the current language of the sky;
Which first the muses brought to these abodes,
Who taught to men the secrets of the gods.
For in the court of Jove their choirs advance,
And sing alternate, as they lead the dance,
Mixt with the gods; they hear Apollo's lyre;
And from high heav'n the panting bard inspire.
Nor bards alone, but other writers reach
This bold, this daring privilege of speech;
In chief the orators, to raise their sense,
In this strong figure dress their eloquence.
When with persuasive strokes they plead a cause,
And bridle vice, and vindicate the laws;
Or on the dreadful verge of death defend,
And snatch from fate a poor devoted friend.
Ev'n the rough hinds delight in such a strain,
When the glad harvest waves with golden grain;
And thirsty meadows drink the pearly rain;
On the proud vine her purple gems appear;
The smiling fields rejoyce, and hail the pregnant year.
First from necessity the figure sprung
For things, that would not suit our scanty tongue,
When no true names were offer'd to the view,
Those they transferr'd that border'd on the true;
Thence by degrees the noble licence grew.
The bards those daring liberties embrac'd,
Thro' want at first, thro' luxury at last:
They now to alien things, at will; confirm
The borrow'd honours of a foreign term.
So man, at first, the rattling storm to fly,
And the bleak horrors of the wintry sky,
Rais'd up a roof of osiers o'er his head,
And clos'd with homely clay the slender shed.
Now, regal palaces, of wond'rous size,
With brazen beams, on Parian columns rise,
That heave the pompous fabrick to the skies.
But other writers sprinkle here and there
These bolder beauties with a frugal care;
So vast a freedom is allow'd to none;
But suits the labours of the bard alone;
Who in the laws of verse himself restrains,
Ty'd up to time in voluntary chains.
Others, by no restraint or stop with-held,
May range the compass of a wider field;
The sacred poets, who their labours fill
With pleasing fictions, or with truths at will,
Their thoughts in bolder liberties express,
Which look more beauteous in a foreign dress.
To all, unusual colours they impart,
Nor blush, if e'er detected in their art.
A native term to give a stranger place;
From different images with just success,
He cloaths his matter in the borrow'd dress,
The borrow'd dress the things themselves admire,
And wonder whence they drew the strange attire.
Proud of their ravisht spoils they now disclaim
Their former colour, and their genuine name,
And in another garb, more beauteous grown,
Prefer the foreign habit to their own.
84
The battle's imag'd by the roaring main;
Now he the fight a fiery deluge names,
That pours along the fields a flood of flames;
In airy conflict, now the winds appear,
Alarm the deeps, and wage the stormy war;
To the fierce shock th' embattel'd tempests pour,
Waves charge on waves; th' encount'ring billows roar.
Thus in a vari'd dress the subject shines,
By turns the objects shift their proper signs;
From shape to shape alternately they run,
To borrow other's charms, and lend their own;
Pleas'd with the borrow'd charms, the readers find,
A crowd of different images combin'd
Rise from a single object to the mind.
So the pleas'd trav'ler from a mountain's brow,
Views the calm surface of the seas below;
Tho' wide beneath the floating ocean lies
The first immediate object of his eyes,
He sees the forests tremble from within,
And gliding meadows paint the deeps with green;
85
In gay succession thro' the watry glass.
'Tis thus the bard diversifies his song,
Now here, now there, he calls the soul along.
The rich variety, he sets to sight,
Cloys not the mind, but adds to our delight.
Now with a frugal choice the bard affords
The strongest light, and energy of words;
While humble subjects, he contrives to raise
With borrow'd splendors, and a foreign blaze.
This, if on old tradition we rely,
Was once the current language of the sky;
Which first the muses brought to these abodes,
Who taught to men the secrets of the gods.
For in the court of Jove their choirs advance,
And sing alternate, as they lead the dance,
Mixt with the gods; they hear Apollo's lyre;
And from high heav'n the panting bard inspire.
Nor bards alone, but other writers reach
This bold, this daring privilege of speech;
In chief the orators, to raise their sense,
In this strong figure dress their eloquence.
86
And bridle vice, and vindicate the laws;
Or on the dreadful verge of death defend,
And snatch from fate a poor devoted friend.
Ev'n the rough hinds delight in such a strain,
When the glad harvest waves with golden grain;
And thirsty meadows drink the pearly rain;
On the proud vine her purple gems appear;
The smiling fields rejoyce, and hail the pregnant year.
First from necessity the figure sprung
For things, that would not suit our scanty tongue,
When no true names were offer'd to the view,
Those they transferr'd that border'd on the true;
Thence by degrees the noble licence grew.
The bards those daring liberties embrac'd,
Thro' want at first, thro' luxury at last:
They now to alien things, at will; confirm
The borrow'd honours of a foreign term.
So man, at first, the rattling storm to fly,
And the bleak horrors of the wintry sky,
Rais'd up a roof of osiers o'er his head,
And clos'd with homely clay the slender shed.
87
With brazen beams, on Parian columns rise,
That heave the pompous fabrick to the skies.
But other writers sprinkle here and there
These bolder beauties with a frugal care;
So vast a freedom is allow'd to none;
But suits the labours of the bard alone;
Who in the laws of verse himself restrains,
Ty'd up to time in voluntary chains.
Others, by no restraint or stop with-held,
May range the compass of a wider field;
The sacred poets, who their labours fill
With pleasing fictions, or with truths at will,
Their thoughts in bolder liberties express,
Which look more beauteous in a foreign dress.
To all, unusual colours they impart,
Nor blush, if e'er detected in their art.
Sometimes beyond the bounds of truth they fly,
And boldly lift their subject to the sky;
When with tumultuous shouts the heav'ns rebound,
And all Olympus trembles with the sound.
Or with repeated accents they relate
The fall of Troy, and dwell upon her fate;
Oh sire! oh country, once with glory crown'd;
Oh wretched race of Priam, once renown'd!
Oh Jove! see Ilium smoaking on the ground!
And boldly lift their subject to the sky;
88
And all Olympus trembles with the sound.
Or with repeated accents they relate
The fall of Troy, and dwell upon her fate;
Oh sire! oh country, once with glory crown'd;
Oh wretched race of Priam, once renown'd!
Oh Jove! see Ilium smoaking on the ground!
They now name Ceres for the golden grain,
Bacchus for wine, and Neptune for the main:
Or from the father's name point out the son;
Or for her people introduce a town:
So when alarm'd her natives dread their fates,
Pale Asrick shakes, and trembles thro' her states:
And some, by Achelous' streams alone,
Comprise the floods of all the world in one.
Bacchus for wine, and Neptune for the main:
Or from the father's name point out the son;
Or for her people introduce a town:
So when alarm'd her natives dread their fates,
Pale Asrick shakes, and trembles thro' her states:
And some, by Achelous' streams alone,
Comprise the floods of all the world in one.
Lo! now they start aside, and change the strain
To fanci'd converse with an absent swain;
To grots and caverns all their cares disclose,
Or tell the solitary rocks their woes;
To scenes inanimate proclaim their love,
Talk with an hill, or whisper to a grove.
On you they call, ye unattentive woods,
And wait an answer from your bord'ring floods.
To fanci'd converse with an absent swain;
To grots and caverns all their cares disclose,
Or tell the solitary rocks their woes;
89
Talk with an hill, or whisper to a grove.
On you they call, ye unattentive woods,
And wait an answer from your bord'ring floods.
Sometimes they speak one thing, but leave behind
Another secret meaning in the mind.
A fair expression artfully dispense,
But use a word that clashes with the sense.
Thus pious Helen stole the faithful sword,
While Troy was flaming, from her sleeping lord.
So glorious Drances tow'r'd amid the plain,
And pil'd the camp with mountains of the slain;
Immortal trophies rais'd from squadrons kill'd,
And with vast spoils ennobled all the field.
Another secret meaning in the mind.
A fair expression artfully dispense,
But use a word that clashes with the sense.
Thus pious Helen stole the faithful sword,
While Troy was flaming, from her sleeping lord.
So glorious Drances tow'r'd amid the plain,
And pil'd the camp with mountains of the slain;
Immortal trophies rais'd from squadrons kill'd,
And with vast spoils ennobled all the field.
But now to mention farther I forbear,
With what strong charms they captivate the ear;
When the same terms they happily repeat,
The same repeated seem more soft and sweet.
This,
were Arcadia judge, if Pan withstood,
Pan's judge Arcadia would condemn her god.
With what strong charms they captivate the ear;
When the same terms they happily repeat,
The same repeated seem more soft and sweet.
90
Pan's judge Arcadia would condemn her god.
But tho' our fond indulgence grants the muse,
A thousand liberties in diff'rent views;
When e'er you chuse an image to express
In foreign terms, and scorn the native dress,
Yet be discreet; nor strain the point too far,
Let the transition still unforc'd appear,
Nor e'er discover an excess of care;
For some we know with aukward violence
Distort the subject, and disjoint the sense;
Quite change the genuine figure, and deface
The native shape with ev'ry living grace;
And force unwilling objects to put on
An alien face, and features not their own.
A low conceit in disproportion'd terms,
Is like a boy dress'd up in giants arms;
Blind to the truth, all reason they exceed,
Who name a stall, the palace of the steed,
Or grass the tresses of great Rhæa's head.
'Tis best sometimes an image to express
In its own colours, and its native dress.
The genuine words with happy care to use,
If nicely cull'd, and worthy of the muse.
A thousand liberties in diff'rent views;
When e'er you chuse an image to express
In foreign terms, and scorn the native dress,
Yet be discreet; nor strain the point too far,
Let the transition still unforc'd appear,
Nor e'er discover an excess of care;
For some we know with aukward violence
Distort the subject, and disjoint the sense;
Quite change the genuine figure, and deface
The native shape with ev'ry living grace;
And force unwilling objects to put on
An alien face, and features not their own.
A low conceit in disproportion'd terms,
Is like a boy dress'd up in giants arms;
Blind to the truth, all reason they exceed,
Who name a stall, the palace of the steed,
Or grass the tresses of great Rhæa's head.
91
In its own colours, and its native dress.
The genuine words with happy care to use,
If nicely cull'd, and worthy of the muse.
Some things alternately compar'd are shown,
Both names still true, and mutually their own;
But here the least redundance you must shun;
Tell us in short, from whence the hint you drew,
And set the whole comparison to view;
Lest, mindless of your first design, you seem
To lead the mind away, and rove from theme to theme.
Both names still true, and mutually their own;
But here the least redundance you must shun;
Tell us in short, from whence the hint you drew,
And set the whole comparison to view;
Lest, mindless of your first design, you seem
To lead the mind away, and rove from theme to theme.
But now pursue the method, that affords
The fittest terms, and wisest choice of words.
Not all deserve alike the same regard,
Nor suit the god-like labours of the bard;
For words as much may differ in degree,
As the most various kinds of poetry.
Tho' many a common term and word we find
Disperst promiscuously thro' ev'ry kind.
Those that will never suit th' heroick rage,
Might grace the buskin, and become the stage;
Their large, their vast variety explore
With piercing eyes, and range the mighty store.
From their deep fund the richest words unfold,
With nicest care be each expression cull'd,
To deck your numbers in the purest gold.
The vile, the dark degen'rate crowd refuse,
And scorn a dress that would disgrace the muse.
Then to succeed your search, pursue the road,
And beat the track the glorious antients trod.
To those eternal monuments repair,
There read, and meditate for ever there.
If o'er the rest some mighty genius shines,
Mark the sweet charms, and vigor of his lines.
As far as Phœbus and the heav'nly pow'rs
Smile on your labours, make his diction your's.
Your style by his authentick standard frame,
Your voice, your habit, and address the same.
With him proceed to cull the rest; for there
A full reward will justifie your care.
Examine all; and bring from all away
Their various treasures as a lawful prey.
Nor would I scruple, with a due regard,
To read sometimes a rude unpolish'd bard.
Among whose labours I may find a line,
Which from unsightly rust I may refine,
And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.
How often may we see a troubled flood,
Stain'd with unsettled ooze, and rising mud?
Which, (if a well the bord'ring natives sink)
Supplies the thirsty multitude with drink.
The trickling stream by just degrees refines,
'Till in its course the limpid current shines;
And taught thro' secret labyrinths to flow,
Works itself clear among the sands below.
For nothing looks so gloomy, but will shine
From proper care, and timely discipline;
If, with due vigilance and conduct, wrought
Deep in the soul, it labours in the thought.
Hence on the antients we must rest alone,
And make their golden sentences our own.
To cull their best expressions claims our cares,
To form our notions, and our styles on theirs.
See how we bear away their precious spoils,
And with the glorious dress enrich our styles;
Their bright inventions for our use convey,
Bring all the spirit of their words away,
And make their words themselves our lawful prey.
Unsham'd in other colours to be shown,
We speak our thoughts in accents not our own.
But your design with modest caution weigh,
Steal with due care, and meditate the prey.
Invert the order of the words with art,
And change their former site in ev'ry part.
Thus win your readers, thus deceive with grace,
And let th' expression wear a diff'rent face;
Your self at last, the glorious labour done,
Will scarce discern his diction from your own.
Some, to appear of diffidence bereft,
Steal in broad day, and glory in the theft;
When with just art, design, and confidence,
On the same words they graft a diff'rent sense;
Preserve th' unvari'd terms and order too,
But change their former spirit for a new.
Or, with the sense of emulation bold,
With antient bards a glorious contest hold:
Their richest spoils triumphant they explore,
Which, rang'd with better grace, they varnish o'er,
And give them charms they never knew before.
So trees, that change their soils, more proudly rise,
And lift their spreading honours to the skies;
And, when transplanted, nobler fruits produce,
Exalt their nature, and ferment their juice.
So Troy's fam'd chief the Asian empire bore,
With better omens, to the Latian shore;
Tho' from thy realm, O Dido, to the sea
Call'd by the gods reluctantly away;
Nor the first nuptial pleasures could controul
The fixt, the stubborn purpose of his soul.
Unhappy queen! Thy woes supprest thy breath;
Thy cares pursu'd thee, and surviv'd in death.
Had not the Dardan fleet thy kingdom sought,
Thy life had shone unsulli'd with a fault.
The fittest terms, and wisest choice of words.
Not all deserve alike the same regard,
Nor suit the god-like labours of the bard;
For words as much may differ in degree,
As the most various kinds of poetry.
Tho' many a common term and word we find
Disperst promiscuously thro' ev'ry kind.
Those that will never suit th' heroick rage,
Might grace the buskin, and become the stage;
92
With piercing eyes, and range the mighty store.
From their deep fund the richest words unfold,
With nicest care be each expression cull'd,
To deck your numbers in the purest gold.
The vile, the dark degen'rate crowd refuse,
And scorn a dress that would disgrace the muse.
Then to succeed your search, pursue the road,
And beat the track the glorious antients trod.
To those eternal monuments repair,
There read, and meditate for ever there.
If o'er the rest some mighty genius shines,
Mark the sweet charms, and vigor of his lines.
As far as Phœbus and the heav'nly pow'rs
Smile on your labours, make his diction your's.
Your style by his authentick standard frame,
Your voice, your habit, and address the same.
With him proceed to cull the rest; for there
A full reward will justifie your care.
Examine all; and bring from all away
Their various treasures as a lawful prey.
93
To read sometimes a rude unpolish'd bard.
Among whose labours I may find a line,
Which from unsightly rust I may refine,
And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.
How often may we see a troubled flood,
Stain'd with unsettled ooze, and rising mud?
Which, (if a well the bord'ring natives sink)
Supplies the thirsty multitude with drink.
The trickling stream by just degrees refines,
'Till in its course the limpid current shines;
And taught thro' secret labyrinths to flow,
Works itself clear among the sands below.
For nothing looks so gloomy, but will shine
From proper care, and timely discipline;
If, with due vigilance and conduct, wrought
Deep in the soul, it labours in the thought.
Hence on the antients we must rest alone,
And make their golden sentences our own.
To cull their best expressions claims our cares,
To form our notions, and our styles on theirs.
94
And with the glorious dress enrich our styles;
Their bright inventions for our use convey,
Bring all the spirit of their words away,
And make their words themselves our lawful prey.
Unsham'd in other colours to be shown,
We speak our thoughts in accents not our own.
But your design with modest caution weigh,
Steal with due care, and meditate the prey.
Invert the order of the words with art,
And change their former site in ev'ry part.
Thus win your readers, thus deceive with grace,
And let th' expression wear a diff'rent face;
Your self at last, the glorious labour done,
Will scarce discern his diction from your own.
Some, to appear of diffidence bereft,
Steal in broad day, and glory in the theft;
When with just art, design, and confidence,
On the same words they graft a diff'rent sense;
Preserve th' unvari'd terms and order too,
But change their former spirit for a new.
95
With antient bards a glorious contest hold:
Their richest spoils triumphant they explore,
Which, rang'd with better grace, they varnish o'er,
And give them charms they never knew before.
So trees, that change their soils, more proudly rise,
And lift their spreading honours to the skies;
And, when transplanted, nobler fruits produce,
Exalt their nature, and ferment their juice.
So Troy's fam'd chief the Asian empire bore,
With better omens, to the Latian shore;
Tho' from thy realm, O Dido, to the sea
Call'd by the gods reluctantly away;
Nor the first nuptial pleasures could controul
The fixt, the stubborn purpose of his soul.
Unhappy queen! Thy woes supprest thy breath;
Thy cares pursu'd thee, and surviv'd in death.
Had not the Dardan fleet thy kingdom sought,
Thy life had shone unsulli'd with a fault.
Come then, ye youths, and urge your generous toils;
Come, strip the antients, and divide the spoils
Your hands have won—but shun the fault of such,
Who with fond rashness trust themselves too much.
For some, we know, who by their pride betray'd,
With vain contempt reject a foreign aid;
Who scorn those great examples to obey,
Nor follow where the antients point the way.
While from the theft their cautious hands refrain,
Vain are their fears; their superstition vain.
Nor Phœbus' smiles th' unhappy poet crown;
The fate of all his works prevents his own.
Himself his mould'ring monument survives,
And sees his labours perish while he lives:
His fame is more contracted than his span,
And the frail Author dies before the Man.
How would he wish the labour to forbear,
And follow other arts with more successful care?
Come, strip the antients, and divide the spoils
96
Who with fond rashness trust themselves too much.
For some, we know, who by their pride betray'd,
With vain contempt reject a foreign aid;
Who scorn those great examples to obey,
Nor follow where the antients point the way.
While from the theft their cautious hands refrain,
Vain are their fears; their superstition vain.
Nor Phœbus' smiles th' unhappy poet crown;
The fate of all his works prevents his own.
Himself his mould'ring monument survives,
And sees his labours perish while he lives:
His fame is more contracted than his span,
And the frail Author dies before the Man.
How would he wish the labour to forbear,
And follow other arts with more successful care?
I like a fair allusion cleanly wrought;
When the same words express a different thought.
And such a theft true criticks dare not blame,
Which late posterity shall crown with fame.
Void of all fear, of ev'ry doubt bereft,
I would not blush, but triumph in the theft.
Nor on the Antients for the whole rely,
The whole is more than all their works supply;
Some things your own invention must explore,
Some virgin images untouch'd before.
When the same words express a different thought.
And such a theft true criticks dare not blame,
Which late posterity shall crown with fame.
97
I would not blush, but triumph in the theft.
Nor on the Antients for the whole rely,
The whole is more than all their works supply;
Some things your own invention must explore,
Some virgin images untouch'd before.
New
terms no laws forbid us to induce,
To coin a word, and sanctify to use;
But yet admit no words into the song,
Unless they prove the stock from whence they sprung;
Point out their family; their kindred trace,
And set to view the series of their race;
But where you find your native tongue too poor,
Transport the riches of the Grecian store.
Inform the lump, and work it into Grace,
And with new life inspire th'unwieldy mass;
Till chang'd by discipline, the word puts on
A foreign nature, and forgets its own.
So Latium's language found a rich increase,
And grew and flourish'd from the wealth of Greece.
Till use in time had rifled Argos' stores,
And brought all Athens to th' Hesperian shores.
How many words from rich Mycenæ come?
Of Greek extraction in the dress of Rome?
That live with ours, our rights and freedom claim,
Their nature diff'rent, but their looks the same;
Thro' Latium's realms, in Latium's garb they go,
At once her strangers, and her natives too.
Long has her poverty been fled, and long
With native riches has she grac'd her tongue.
Nor search the poets only, but explore
Immortal Tully's unexhausted store;
And other authors, born in happier days
Shall answer all your wants, and beautify your lays.
To coin a word, and sanctify to use;
But yet admit no words into the song,
Unless they prove the stock from whence they sprung;
Point out their family; their kindred trace,
And set to view the series of their race;
But where you find your native tongue too poor,
Transport the riches of the Grecian store.
Inform the lump, and work it into Grace,
And with new life inspire th'unwieldy mass;
Till chang'd by discipline, the word puts on
A foreign nature, and forgets its own.
So Latium's language found a rich increase,
And grew and flourish'd from the wealth of Greece.
98
And brought all Athens to th' Hesperian shores.
How many words from rich Mycenæ come?
Of Greek extraction in the dress of Rome?
That live with ours, our rights and freedom claim,
Their nature diff'rent, but their looks the same;
Thro' Latium's realms, in Latium's garb they go,
At once her strangers, and her natives too.
Long has her poverty been fled, and long
With native riches has she grac'd her tongue.
Nor search the poets only, but explore
Immortal Tully's unexhausted store;
And other authors, born in happier days
Shall answer all your wants, and beautify your lays.
Oft, in old bards, a verse above the rest
Shines, in Barbarick spoils and trophies drest;
Thus Gaul, her victor's triumph to compleat,
Supplies those words that paint her own defeat,
And vanquish'd Macedon, to tell her doom,
Gives up her language with her arms to Rome.
Then can we fear with groundless diffidence
A want of words that shall express our sense?
Shines, in Barbarick spoils and trophies drest;
Thus Gaul, her victor's triumph to compleat,
Supplies those words that paint her own defeat,
And vanquish'd Macedon, to tell her doom,
Gives up her language with her arms to Rome.
99
A want of words that shall express our sense?
But if compell'd by want, you may produce
And bring an antiquated word in use;
A word earst well receiv'd, in days of Yore,
A word our old forefathers us'd before:
O'er ages past, the daring bard may climb,
Nathless, and maugre the dark walks of time.
Well pleas'd the reader's wonder to engage,
He brings our grandsires habit on the stage,
And garbs that whilom grac'd an uncouth age.
Yet must not such appear in ev'ry place;
When rang'd too thick, the poem they disgrace.
Since of new words such numbers you command,
Deal out the old ones with a sparing hand.
When e'er your images can lay no claim
To a fixt term, and want a certain name;
To paint one thing, the licens'd bard affords
A pompous circle, and a crowd of words.
And bring an antiquated word in use;
A word earst well receiv'd, in days of Yore,
A word our old forefathers us'd before:
O'er ages past, the daring bard may climb,
Nathless, and maugre the dark walks of time.
Well pleas'd the reader's wonder to engage,
He brings our grandsires habit on the stage,
And garbs that whilom grac'd an uncouth age.
Yet must not such appear in ev'ry place;
When rang'd too thick, the poem they disgrace.
Since of new words such numbers you command,
Deal out the old ones with a sparing hand.
When e'er your images can lay no claim
To a fixt term, and want a certain name;
To paint one thing, the licens'd bard affords
A pompous circle, and a crowd of words.
100
Two plighted words, in one with grace appear,
When they with ease glide smoothly o'er the Ear.
Two may embrace at once, but seldom more,
No verse can bear the mingled shape of four;
Nor triple monsters dwell on Latium's shore.
When mixt with smooth, these harsher strains are found,
We start with horror at the frightful sound;
The Grecian bards, in whom such freedoms please,
May match with more success such words as these;
Heap hills on hills, and bid the structure rise,
Till the vast Pile of mountains prop the skies.
When they with ease glide smoothly o'er the Ear.
Two may embrace at once, but seldom more,
No verse can bear the mingled shape of four;
Nor triple monsters dwell on Latium's shore.
When mixt with smooth, these harsher strains are found,
We start with horror at the frightful sound;
The Grecian bards, in whom such freedoms please,
May match with more success such words as these;
Heap hills on hills, and bid the structure rise,
Till the vast Pile of mountains prop the skies.
What words soever of vast bulk we view,
One of less size may sometimes split in two;
Sometimes we sep'rate from the whole a part.
And prune the more luxuriant limbs with art.
Thus when the names of heroes we declare,
Names, whose unpolish't sounds offend the ear,
We add; or lop some branches which abound,
Till the harsh accents are with smoothness crown'd,
That mellows ev'ry word, and softens every sound.
By such an happy change, Sicharbas came
To sink his roughness in Sichæus' name.
Hence would I rather choose those dire alarms
Of vast Enceladus, and heav'n in arms,
And the fierce Titan's battles to rehearse,
Harmonious names, that glide into the verse;
Than count the rough, the barb'rous nations o'er,
Which Rome subdu'd of old from shore to shore.
One of less size may sometimes split in two;
Sometimes we sep'rate from the whole a part.
And prune the more luxuriant limbs with art.
Thus when the names of heroes we declare,
Names, whose unpolish't sounds offend the ear,
We add; or lop some branches which abound,
Till the harsh accents are with smoothness crown'd,
That mellows ev'ry word, and softens every sound.
101
To sink his roughness in Sichæus' name.
Hence would I rather choose those dire alarms
Of vast Enceladus, and heav'n in arms,
And the fierce Titan's battles to rehearse,
Harmonious names, that glide into the verse;
Than count the rough, the barb'rous nations o'er,
Which Rome subdu'd of old from shore to shore.
Let
things submit to words, on no pretence,
But make your words subservient to your sense.
Nor for their sake admit a single line,
But what contributes to your main design.
Thro' ev'ry part most diligently pierce,
And weigh the sound and sense of ev'ry verse.
Unless your strictest caution you display,
Some words may lead the heedless bard away;
Steal from their duty, and desert their post,
And skulk in darkness, indolently lost;
Or while their proper parts their fellows ply,
Contribute nought but sound and harmony.
This to prevent, consult your words; and know
How far their strength, extent, and nature go.
To all their charges, and their labours fit;
To all, their sev'ral provinces of wit.
Without this care, the poem will abound
With empty noise, and impotence of sound;
Unmeaning terms will crowd in ev'ry part,
Delude the ear, but never reach the heart.
Yet would I sometimes venture to disperse
Some words, whose splendor should adorn my verse;
(Words, that to wit and thought have no pretence,
And rather vehicles of sound than sense;)
Till in the gorgeous dress the lines appear,
And court with gentle harmony the ear.
Nor with too fond a care such words pursue,
They meet your sight, and rise in ev'ry view.
Oft, from its chains the shackled verse unloose,
And give it liberty to walk in prose;
Renew the poem with unweary'd pain,
Bind and cement the shatter'd parts again;
The lurking faults and errors you may see,
When the words run unmanacled and free.
But make your words subservient to your sense.
Nor for their sake admit a single line,
But what contributes to your main design.
Thro' ev'ry part most diligently pierce,
And weigh the sound and sense of ev'ry verse.
Unless your strictest caution you display,
Some words may lead the heedless bard away;
Steal from their duty, and desert their post,
And skulk in darkness, indolently lost;
Or while their proper parts their fellows ply,
Contribute nought but sound and harmony.
102
How far their strength, extent, and nature go.
To all their charges, and their labours fit;
To all, their sev'ral provinces of wit.
Without this care, the poem will abound
With empty noise, and impotence of sound;
Unmeaning terms will crowd in ev'ry part,
Delude the ear, but never reach the heart.
Yet would I sometimes venture to disperse
Some words, whose splendor should adorn my verse;
(Words, that to wit and thought have no pretence,
And rather vehicles of sound than sense;)
Till in the gorgeous dress the lines appear,
And court with gentle harmony the ear.
Nor with too fond a care such words pursue,
They meet your sight, and rise in ev'ry view.
Oft, from its chains the shackled verse unloose,
And give it liberty to walk in prose;
Renew the poem with unweary'd pain,
Bind and cement the shatter'd parts again;
The lurking faults and errors you may see,
When the words run unmanacled and free.
103
Attend, young bard, and listen while I sing;
Lo! I unlock the muses sacred spring,
Lo! Phœbus calls thee to his inmost shrine;
Hark! in one common voice, the tuneful nine
Invite and court thee to the rites divine.
When first to man the privilege was giv'n,
To hold by verse an intercourse with heav'n,
Unwilling that th' immortal art should lye,
Cheap, and exposed to ev'ry vulgar eye,
Great Jove, to drive away the grov'ling crowd,
To narrow bounds confin'd the glorious road,
For more exalted spirits to pursue,
And left it open to the sacred few.
For many a painful task, in ev'ry part,
Claims all the poet's vigilance and art.
'Tis not enough his verses to compleat,
In measure, numbers, or determin'd feet;
Or render things, by clear expression, bright,
And set each object in a proper light.
To all, proportion'd terms he must dispense,
And make the sound a picture of the sense;
The correspondent words exactly frame,
The look, the features, and the mien the same:
His thoughts the bard must suitably express,
Each in a diff'rent face, and diff'rent dress.
Lest in unvari'd looks the crowd be shown,
And the whole multitude appear as one.
With rapid feet and wings, without delay,
This swiftly flies, and smoothly skims away:
That, vast of size, his limbs huge, broad and strong,
Moves pond'rous, and scarce drags his bulk along.
This, blooms with youth and beauty in his face,
And Venus breaths on ev'ry limb a grace:
That, of rude form, his uncouth members shows,
Looks horrible, and frowns with his rough brows;
His monstrous tail in many a fold and wind,
Voluminous and vast, curls up behind:
At once the image and the lines appear
Rude to the eye, and frightful to the ear.
Nor are those figures giv'n, without a cause,
But fixt and settled by determin'd laws;
All claim and wear, as their deserts are known,
A voice, a face, and habit of their own.
Lo! when the sailors steer the pond'rous ships,
And plough, with brazen beaks, the foamy deeps.
Incumbent on the main that roars around;
Beneath their lab'ring oars the waves resound,
The prows wide-ecchoing thro' the dark profound:
To the loud call each distant rock replies,
Tost by the storm the tow'ring surges rise;
While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore,
Dasht from the strand, the flying waters roar,
Flash at the shock, and gath'ring in an heap,
The liquid mountains rise, and over-hang the deep.
See thro' her shores Trinacria's realms rebound,
Starting and trembling at the bellowing sound;
High-bounding o'er the waves the mountains ride,
And clash with floating mountains on the tide.
But when blue Neptune from his car surveys
And calms at one regard the raging seas;
Stretcht like a peaceful lake the deep subsides,
And the pitch't vessel o'er the surface glides.
The poet's art and conduct we admire,
When angry Vulcan rolls a flood of fire;
When on the groves and fields the deluge preys,
And wraps the crackling stubble in the blaze.
Nor less our pleasure; when the flame divides,
And climbs aspiring round the cauldron's sides;
From the dark bottom work the waters up,
Swell, boil, and hiss, and bubble to the top.
Thus in smooth lines, smooth subjects we rehearse,
But the rough rock requires as rough a verse.
If gay the subject, gay must be the song;
And the brisk numbers quickly glide along:
When the fields flourish; or the skies unfold
Swift from the flying hinge their gates of gold.
If sad the theme, then each grave line moves slow,
The mournful numbers languishingly flow,
And drag, and labour with, a weight of woe;
If e'er the boding bird of night, who mourns
O'er ruins, desolation, graves, and urns,
With piercing streams the darkness should invade,
And break the silence of the dismal shade.
When things are small, the terms should still be so,
For low words please us, when the theme is low.
But when some giant, horrible and grim,
Enormous in his gait, and vast in ev'ry limb,
Stalks tow'ring on; the swelling words must rise
In just proportion to the monster's size.
If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,
The verse too labours; the throng'd words scarce move.
When each stiff clod beneath the pond'rous plough,
Crumbles and breaks; th' encumber'd lines march slow.
Nor less; when pilots catch the friendly gales,
Unfurl their shrowds, and hoist the wide-stretch't sails.
But if the poem suffers from delay,
Let the lines fly precipitate away.
And when the viper issues from the brake;
Be quick; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack
His rising crest, and drive the serpent back.
When night descends; or stun'd by num'rous strokes,
And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;
The line too sinks with correspondent sound,
Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.
When the wild waves subside, and tempests cease,
And hush the roarings of the sea to peace;
So oft' we see the interrupted strain
Stop'd in the midst,—and with the silent main,
Pause for a space—at last it glides again.
When Priam strains his aged arm, to throw
His unavailing jav'lin at the foe;
(His blood congeal'd, and ev'ry nerve unstrung,)
Then with the theme complies the artful song;
Like him, the solitary numbers flow
Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow.
Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force
Beats down embattled armies in his course:
The raging youth on trembling Ilion falls,
Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls;
Provokes his flying courser to his speed,
In full career to charge the warlike steed;
He piles the field with mountains of the slain;
He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain.
In this the poet's justest conduct lies,
When with his various subjects he complies,
To sink with judgment, and with judgment rise.
We see him now, remissive of his force,
Glide with a low, and inoffensive course;
Stript of the gawdy dress of words he goes,
And scarcely lifts the poem up from prose:
And now he brings with loosen'd reins along
All in a full career the boundless song;
In wide array luxuriantly he pours
A crowd of words, and opens all his stores.
The lavish eloquence redundant flows,
Thick as the fleeces of the winter-snows.
When Jove invests the naked Alps, and sheds
The silent tempest on their hoary heads.
Sometimes the god-like fury he restrains,
Checks his impetuous speed, and draws the reins;
Balanc'd and pois'd, he neither sinks nor soars,
But ploughs the midmost space, and steers between the shores,
And shaves the confines;—'till, all dangers past,
He shoots with joy into the port at last.
Lo! I unlock the muses sacred spring,
Lo! Phœbus calls thee to his inmost shrine;
Hark! in one common voice, the tuneful nine
Invite and court thee to the rites divine.
When first to man the privilege was giv'n,
To hold by verse an intercourse with heav'n,
Unwilling that th' immortal art should lye,
Cheap, and exposed to ev'ry vulgar eye,
Great Jove, to drive away the grov'ling crowd,
To narrow bounds confin'd the glorious road,
For more exalted spirits to pursue,
And left it open to the sacred few.
For many a painful task, in ev'ry part,
Claims all the poet's vigilance and art.
'Tis not enough his verses to compleat,
In measure, numbers, or determin'd feet;
Or render things, by clear expression, bright,
And set each object in a proper light.
To all, proportion'd terms he must dispense,
And make the sound a picture of the sense;
104
The look, the features, and the mien the same:
His thoughts the bard must suitably express,
Each in a diff'rent face, and diff'rent dress.
Lest in unvari'd looks the crowd be shown,
And the whole multitude appear as one.
With rapid feet and wings, without delay,
This swiftly flies, and smoothly skims away:
That, vast of size, his limbs huge, broad and strong,
Moves pond'rous, and scarce drags his bulk along.
This, blooms with youth and beauty in his face,
And Venus breaths on ev'ry limb a grace:
That, of rude form, his uncouth members shows,
Looks horrible, and frowns with his rough brows;
His monstrous tail in many a fold and wind,
Voluminous and vast, curls up behind:
At once the image and the lines appear
Rude to the eye, and frightful to the ear.
Nor are those figures giv'n, without a cause,
But fixt and settled by determin'd laws;
All claim and wear, as their deserts are known,
A voice, a face, and habit of their own.
105
And plough, with brazen beaks, the foamy deeps.
Incumbent on the main that roars around;
Beneath their lab'ring oars the waves resound,
The prows wide-ecchoing thro' the dark profound:
To the loud call each distant rock replies,
Tost by the storm the tow'ring surges rise;
While the hoarse ocean beats the sounding shore,
Dasht from the strand, the flying waters roar,
Flash at the shock, and gath'ring in an heap,
The liquid mountains rise, and over-hang the deep.
See thro' her shores Trinacria's realms rebound,
Starting and trembling at the bellowing sound;
High-bounding o'er the waves the mountains ride,
And clash with floating mountains on the tide.
But when blue Neptune from his car surveys
And calms at one regard the raging seas;
Stretcht like a peaceful lake the deep subsides,
And the pitch't vessel o'er the surface glides.
The poet's art and conduct we admire,
When angry Vulcan rolls a flood of fire;
106
And wraps the crackling stubble in the blaze.
Nor less our pleasure; when the flame divides,
And climbs aspiring round the cauldron's sides;
From the dark bottom work the waters up,
Swell, boil, and hiss, and bubble to the top.
Thus in smooth lines, smooth subjects we rehearse,
But the rough rock requires as rough a verse.
If gay the subject, gay must be the song;
And the brisk numbers quickly glide along:
When the fields flourish; or the skies unfold
Swift from the flying hinge their gates of gold.
If sad the theme, then each grave line moves slow,
The mournful numbers languishingly flow,
And drag, and labour with, a weight of woe;
If e'er the boding bird of night, who mourns
O'er ruins, desolation, graves, and urns,
With piercing streams the darkness should invade,
And break the silence of the dismal shade.
107
For low words please us, when the theme is low.
But when some giant, horrible and grim,
Enormous in his gait, and vast in ev'ry limb,
Stalks tow'ring on; the swelling words must rise
In just proportion to the monster's size.
If some large weight his huge arms strive to shove,
The verse too labours; the throng'd words scarce move.
When each stiff clod beneath the pond'rous plough,
Crumbles and breaks; th' encumber'd lines march slow.
Nor less; when pilots catch the friendly gales,
Unfurl their shrowds, and hoist the wide-stretch't sails.
But if the poem suffers from delay,
Let the lines fly precipitate away.
And when the viper issues from the brake;
Be quick; with stones, and brands, and fire, attack
His rising crest, and drive the serpent back.
When night descends; or stun'd by num'rous strokes,
And groaning, to the earth drops the vast ox;
The line too sinks with correspondent sound,
Flat with the steer, and headlong to the ground.
108
And hush the roarings of the sea to peace;
So oft' we see the interrupted strain
Stop'd in the midst,—and with the silent main,
Pause for a space—at last it glides again.
When Priam strains his aged arm, to throw
His unavailing jav'lin at the foe;
(His blood congeal'd, and ev'ry nerve unstrung,)
Then with the theme complies the artful song;
Like him, the solitary numbers flow
Weak, trembling, melancholy, stiff, and slow.
Not so young Pyrrhus, who with rapid force
Beats down embattled armies in his course:
The raging youth on trembling Ilion falls,
Bursts her strong gates, and shakes her lofty walls;
Provokes his flying courser to his speed,
In full career to charge the warlike steed;
He piles the field with mountains of the slain;
He pours, he storms, he thunders thro' the plain.
In this the poet's justest conduct lies,
When with his various subjects he complies,
To sink with judgment, and with judgment rise.
109
Glide with a low, and inoffensive course;
Stript of the gawdy dress of words he goes,
And scarcely lifts the poem up from prose:
And now he brings with loosen'd reins along
All in a full career the boundless song;
In wide array luxuriantly he pours
A crowd of words, and opens all his stores.
The lavish eloquence redundant flows,
Thick as the fleeces of the winter-snows.
When Jove invests the naked Alps, and sheds
The silent tempest on their hoary heads.
Sometimes the god-like fury he restrains,
Checks his impetuous speed, and draws the reins;
Balanc'd and pois'd, he neither sinks nor soars,
But ploughs the midmost space, and steers between the shores,
And shaves the confines;—'till, all dangers past,
He shoots with joy into the port at last.
For what remains unsung; I now declare
What claims the poet's last and strictest care.
When, all adventures past, his labours tend
In one continu'd order to their end;
When the proud victor on his conquest smiles,
And safe enjoys the triumph of his toils;
Let him by timely diffidence be aw'd,
Nor trust too soon th' unpolisht piece abroad.
Oh! may his rash ambition ne'er inflame
His breast, with such a dangerous thirst of fame.
But let the terror of disgrace controul
The warm, the partial fondness of his soul;
And force the bard to throw his passion by,
Nor view his off spring with a parent's eye;
Till his affections are by justice crost,
And all the father in the judge is lost.
He seeks his friends, nor trusts himself alone,
But asks their judgment, and resigns his own;
Begs them, with urgent pray'rs, to be sincere,
Just, and exact, and rigidly severe;
Due verdict to pronounce on ev'ry thought,
Nor spare the slightest shadow of a fault;
But, bent against himself, and strictly nice,
He thanks each critick that detects a vice;
Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
The piece thrown by; the bard again reviews
The long-forgotten labours of his muse:
Lo! on all sides far diff'rent objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wond'ring eyes.
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engrost,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuin stamp, and image of his mind.
This thought and that, indignant he rejects;
When most secure, some danger he suspects;
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects
With kind severities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of ev'ry part,
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From ev'ry line to wipe out ev'ry blot,
'Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinisht numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sov'reign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft' as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.
In diff'rent lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of ev'ry verse.
In this persist; for oft' one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft', without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errors you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft' to improve his muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a diff'rent sky.
For thus his genius takes a diff'rent face
From each respective genius of a place.
The soul too varies; and the bard may find
A thousand diff'rent motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will ev'ry moment rise,
While from each part the scatt'ring darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amiss,
He adds new flow'rs to beautifie the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such,
Who with excess of care correct too much;
Whose barb'rous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dang'rous than the wound.
'Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die; the limbs appear
Seam'd and deform'd with one continu'd scar.
No fix't determin'd number will I set;
But when some years the labour shall compleat;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish't piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heav'nly song,
The theme of ev'ry hand and ev'ry tongue;
See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to swell the vast applause;
The vast applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages shall obscure thy fame,
And earths last ends shall hear thy darling name.
Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the muse?
What claims the poet's last and strictest care.
When, all adventures past, his labours tend
In one continu'd order to their end;
110
And safe enjoys the triumph of his toils;
Let him by timely diffidence be aw'd,
Nor trust too soon th' unpolisht piece abroad.
Oh! may his rash ambition ne'er inflame
His breast, with such a dangerous thirst of fame.
But let the terror of disgrace controul
The warm, the partial fondness of his soul;
And force the bard to throw his passion by,
Nor view his off spring with a parent's eye;
Till his affections are by justice crost,
And all the father in the judge is lost.
He seeks his friends, nor trusts himself alone,
But asks their judgment, and resigns his own;
Begs them, with urgent pray'rs, to be sincere,
Just, and exact, and rigidly severe;
Due verdict to pronounce on ev'ry thought,
Nor spare the slightest shadow of a fault;
But, bent against himself, and strictly nice,
He thanks each critick that detects a vice;
Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
111
The long-forgotten labours of his muse:
Lo! on all sides far diff'rent objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wond'ring eyes.
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engrost,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuin stamp, and image of his mind.
This thought and that, indignant he rejects;
When most secure, some danger he suspects;
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects
With kind severities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of ev'ry part,
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From ev'ry line to wipe out ev'ry blot,
'Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
112
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinisht numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sov'reign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft' as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.
In diff'rent lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of ev'ry verse.
In this persist; for oft' one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft', without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errors you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft' to improve his muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a diff'rent sky.
113
From each respective genius of a place.
The soul too varies; and the bard may find
A thousand diff'rent motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will ev'ry moment rise,
While from each part the scatt'ring darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amiss,
He adds new flow'rs to beautifie the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such,
Who with excess of care correct too much;
Whose barb'rous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dang'rous than the wound.
'Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die; the limbs appear
Seam'd and deform'd with one continu'd scar.
No fix't determin'd number will I set;
But when some years the labour shall compleat;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
114
Permit the finish't piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heav'nly song,
The theme of ev'ry hand and ev'ry tongue;
See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to swell the vast applause;
The vast applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages shall obscure thy fame,
And earths last ends shall hear thy darling name.
Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the muse?
Thrice happy bards! who, taught by Heav'n, obey
These rules, and follow where they lead the way;
And hear the faithful precepts I bestow'd,
Inspir'd with rage divine, and lab'ring with the god.
But art alone, and human means must fail,
Nor these instructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the gods their present aid supply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths, that lead
The panting youth to steep Parnassus' head;
And show'd the tuneful muses from afar,
Mixt in a solemn choir and dancing there.
Thither forbidden by the fates to go,
I sink and grovel in the world below.
Deter'd by them, in vain I labour up,
And stretch these hands to grasp the distant top.
Enough for me, at distance if I view
Some bard, some happier bard the path pursue;
Who, taught by me to reach Parnassus' crown,
Mounts up, and calls his slow companions on.
But yet these rules, perhaps, these humble lays,
May claim a title to a share of praise;
When, in a crowd, the gath'ring youths shall hear
My voice and precepts with a willing ear;
Close in a ring shall press the list'ning throng,
And learn from me to regulate their song.
Then, if the pitying Fates prolong my breath,
And from my youth avert the dart of death;
Whene'er I sink in life's declining stage,
Trembling and fainting on the verge of age,
To help their wearied master shall they run,
And lend their friendly hands to guide him on;
Thro' blooming groves his tardy progress wait,
And set him gently down at Phœbus' gate,
The while he sings, before the hallow'd shrine,
The sacred poets, and the tuneful nine.
Here then in Roman numbers will we rise
And lift the fame of Virgil to the skies;
Ausonia's pride and boast; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my song:
First how the mighty bard transported o'er
The sacred muses from th' Aonian shore;
Led the fair sisters to th' Hesperian plains,
And sung in Roman towns the Grecian strains;
How in his youth to woods and groves he fled,
And sweetly tun'd the soft Sicilian reed;
Next, how in pity to th' Ausonian swains,
He rais'd to heav'n the honours of the plains;
Rapt in Triptolemus his car on high,
He scatter'd peace and plenty from the sky:
Fir'd with his country's Fame, with loud alarms,
At last he rous'd all Latium up to arms;
In just array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a god.
Father of verse! from thee our honours spring;
See! from all parts, our bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear proud trophies from the spoils of Greece.
Low, in Elyzium's vales, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy Lawrels, and adore thy song:
On thee, on thee, thy country turns her eyes;
On thee, the fame of all her bards relies:
They crowd to thee, and court thy aid divine;
(For all their honours but depend on thine,)
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of ev'ry verse.
Unrival'd bard! all ages shall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rise;
Such heav'nly numbers in thy song we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phœbus' hands impart
His soul, his genius, and immortal art.
What help or merit in these rules are shown,
The youth must owe to thee, and thee alone.
The youth, whose wand'ring feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er steep Parnassus' sacred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths, which thou hast trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For thee, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
For thee, with incense bid the temples blaze;
Our solemn hymns shall still resound thy praise.
Hail holy bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thy self alone,
Requires no song, no numbers but thy own.
Look down propitious, and my thonghts inspire;
Warm my chast bosom with thy sacred fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
Deep in my Breast, and kindle all my Soul!
These rules, and follow where they lead the way;
And hear the faithful precepts I bestow'd,
Inspir'd with rage divine, and lab'ring with the god.
But art alone, and human means must fail,
Nor these instructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the gods their present aid supply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths, that lead
The panting youth to steep Parnassus' head;
115
Mixt in a solemn choir and dancing there.
Thither forbidden by the fates to go,
I sink and grovel in the world below.
Deter'd by them, in vain I labour up,
And stretch these hands to grasp the distant top.
Enough for me, at distance if I view
Some bard, some happier bard the path pursue;
Who, taught by me to reach Parnassus' crown,
Mounts up, and calls his slow companions on.
But yet these rules, perhaps, these humble lays,
May claim a title to a share of praise;
When, in a crowd, the gath'ring youths shall hear
My voice and precepts with a willing ear;
Close in a ring shall press the list'ning throng,
And learn from me to regulate their song.
Then, if the pitying Fates prolong my breath,
And from my youth avert the dart of death;
Whene'er I sink in life's declining stage,
Trembling and fainting on the verge of age,
To help their wearied master shall they run,
And lend their friendly hands to guide him on;
116
And set him gently down at Phœbus' gate,
The while he sings, before the hallow'd shrine,
The sacred poets, and the tuneful nine.
Here then in Roman numbers will we rise
And lift the fame of Virgil to the skies;
Ausonia's pride and boast; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my song:
First how the mighty bard transported o'er
The sacred muses from th' Aonian shore;
Led the fair sisters to th' Hesperian plains,
And sung in Roman towns the Grecian strains;
How in his youth to woods and groves he fled,
And sweetly tun'd the soft Sicilian reed;
Next, how in pity to th' Ausonian swains,
He rais'd to heav'n the honours of the plains;
Rapt in Triptolemus his car on high,
He scatter'd peace and plenty from the sky:
Fir'd with his country's Fame, with loud alarms,
At last he rous'd all Latium up to arms;
In just array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a god.
117
See! from all parts, our bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear proud trophies from the spoils of Greece.
Low, in Elyzium's vales, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy Lawrels, and adore thy song:
On thee, on thee, thy country turns her eyes;
On thee, the fame of all her bards relies:
They crowd to thee, and court thy aid divine;
(For all their honours but depend on thine,)
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of ev'ry verse.
Unrival'd bard! all ages shall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rise;
Such heav'nly numbers in thy song we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phœbus' hands impart
His soul, his genius, and immortal art.
What help or merit in these rules are shown,
The youth must owe to thee, and thee alone.
118
Aloft, o'er steep Parnassus' sacred head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths, which thou hast trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For thee, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
For thee, with incense bid the temples blaze;
Our solemn hymns shall still resound thy praise.
Hail holy bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thy self alone,
Requires no song, no numbers but thy own.
Look down propitious, and my thonghts inspire;
Warm my chast bosom with thy sacred fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
Deep in my Breast, and kindle all my Soul!
| Vida's Art of Poetry | |