Poems on Several Occasions To which is added Gondibert and Birtha, A Tragedy. By William Thompson |
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On Mr. Pope's WORKS.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
122
On Mr. Pope's WORKS.
Written soon after his Death.
Man
not alone hath End: In measur'd Time,
(So Heav'n has will'd) together with their Snows
The everlasting Hills shall melt away:
This solid Globe dissolve, as ductile Wax
Before the Breath of Vulcan; like a Scroll
Shrivel th' unfolded Curtains of the Sky;
Thy Planets, Newton, tumble from their Spheres,
That lead harmonious on their mystic Rounds:
The Moon be perisht from her bloody Orb;
The Sun himself, in liquid Ruin, rush
And deluge with destroying Flames the Globe—
Peace then, my Soul, nor grieve that Pope is dead.
(So Heav'n has will'd) together with their Snows
The everlasting Hills shall melt away:
This solid Globe dissolve, as ductile Wax
Before the Breath of Vulcan; like a Scroll
Shrivel th' unfolded Curtains of the Sky;
Thy Planets, Newton, tumble from their Spheres,
That lead harmonious on their mystic Rounds:
The Moon be perisht from her bloody Orb;
The Sun himself, in liquid Ruin, rush
And deluge with destroying Flames the Globe—
Peace then, my Soul, nor grieve that Pope is dead.
If 'ere the tuneful Spirit, sweetly strong,
Spontaneous Numbers, teeming in my Breast,
Enkindle; O, at that exalting Name,
Be favourable, be propitious now,
While, in the gratitude of Praise, I sing
The Works and Wonders of this Man divine.
Spontaneous Numbers, teeming in my Breast,
Enkindle; O, at that exalting Name,
Be favourable, be propitious now,
123
The Works and Wonders of this Man divine.
I tremble while I write.—His lisping Muse
Surmounts the loftiest Efforts of my Age.
What wonder? when an Infant, He apply'd
The loud Papinian Trumpet to his Lips,
Fir'd by a sacred Fury, and inspir'd
With all the God, in sounding Numbers sung
“Fraternal Rage, and guilty Thebes' Alarms.”
Surmounts the loftiest Efforts of my Age.
What wonder? when an Infant, He apply'd
The loud Papinian Trumpet to his Lips,
Fir'd by a sacred Fury, and inspir'd
With all the God, in sounding Numbers sung
“Fraternal Rage, and guilty Thebes' Alarms.”
Sure at his Birth (Things not unknown of old)
The Graces round his Cradle wove the Dance,
And led the Maze of Harmony: the Nine,
Prophetick of his future Honours, pour'd
Plenteous, upon his Lips Castalian Dews;
And Attic Bees their golden store distill'd.
The Soul of Homer, sliding from its Star,
Where, radiant, over the poetic World
It rules and sheds its Influence, for Joy
Shouted, and bless'd the Birth: the sacred Choir
Of Poets, born in elder, better Times,
Enraptur'd, catch'd the elevating Sound,
And roll'd the glad'ning News from Sphere to Sphere.
The Graces round his Cradle wove the Dance,
And led the Maze of Harmony: the Nine,
Prophetick of his future Honours, pour'd
Plenteous, upon his Lips Castalian Dews;
And Attic Bees their golden store distill'd.
The Soul of Homer, sliding from its Star,
Where, radiant, over the poetic World
It rules and sheds its Influence, for Joy
124
Of Poets, born in elder, better Times,
Enraptur'd, catch'd the elevating Sound,
And roll'd the glad'ning News from Sphere to Sphere.
O listen to
Alexis' tender Plaint!
How gently rural! without Coarseness, plain;
How simple in his elegance of Grief!
A Shepherd, but no Clown. His every Lay
Sweet as the early Pipe along the Dale,
When Hawthorns bud, or on the thymy Brow
When all the Mountains bleat, and Vallies sing.
Soft as the Nightingale's harmonious Woe,
In dewy Even-Tide, when Cowslips drop
Their sleepy Heads, and languish in the Breeze.
How gently rural! without Coarseness, plain;
How simple in his elegance of Grief!
A Shepherd, but no Clown. His every Lay
Sweet as the early Pipe along the Dale,
When Hawthorns bud, or on the thymy Brow
When all the Mountains bleat, and Vallies sing.
Soft as the Nightingale's harmonious Woe,
In dewy Even-Tide, when Cowslips drop
Their sleepy Heads, and languish in the Breeze.
Imperial Windsor! on thy Brow august,
Superbly gay, exalt thy tow'ry Head;
(Much prouder of his Verse than of thy Stars)
And bid thy Forests dance, and nodding, wave
A verdant Testimony of thy Joy:
A native Orpheus warbling in thy Shades.
Superbly gay, exalt thy tow'ry Head;
(Much prouder of his Verse than of thy Stars)
And bid thy Forests dance, and nodding, wave
125
A native Orpheus warbling in thy Shades.
Next, in the Critic-Chair survey him thron'd,
Imperial in his Art, prescribing Laws
Clear from the knitted Brow, and squinted Sneer;
Learn'd, without Pedantry; correctly bold,
And regularly Easy. Gentle, now,
As rising Incense, or descending Dews,
The variegated Echo of his Theme:
Now, animated Flame commands the Soul
To glow with sacred Wonder. Pointed Wit
And keen Discernment form the certain Page.
Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;
As Fabian, clear; and as Petronius gay.
Imperial in his Art, prescribing Laws
Clear from the knitted Brow, and squinted Sneer;
Learn'd, without Pedantry; correctly bold,
And regularly Easy. Gentle, now,
As rising Incense, or descending Dews,
The variegated Echo of his Theme:
Now, animated Flame commands the Soul
To glow with sacred Wonder. Pointed Wit
And keen Discernment form the certain Page.
Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;
As Fabian, clear; and as Petronius gay.
But whence those peals of Laughter shake the Sides
Of decent Mirth? Am I in Fairy-Land?
Young, evanescent Forms, before my Eyes,
Or skim, or seem to skim; thin Essences
Of fluid Light; Zilphs, Zilphids, Elves and Gnomes;
Genij of Rosicruce, and Ladies' Gods!—
And, lo, in shining trails, Belinda's Hair,
Bespangling with dishevel'd Beams the Skies,
Flames o'er the Night. Behind, a Satyr grins
And, jocund, holds a Glass, reflecting, fair,
Hoops, Crosses, Mattadores; Beaux, Shocks, and Belles,
Promiscuously whimsical and gay.
Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd Head,
Droops o'er the laughing Page: while Boileau skulks,
With Blushes cover'd, low beneath the Desk.
Of decent Mirth? Am I in Fairy-Land?
Young, evanescent Forms, before my Eyes,
Or skim, or seem to skim; thin Essences
126
Genij of Rosicruce, and Ladies' Gods!—
And, lo, in shining trails, Belinda's Hair,
Bespangling with dishevel'd Beams the Skies,
Flames o'er the Night. Behind, a Satyr grins
And, jocund, holds a Glass, reflecting, fair,
Hoops, Crosses, Mattadores; Beaux, Shocks, and Belles,
Promiscuously whimsical and gay.
Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd Head,
Droops o'er the laughing Page: while Boileau skulks,
With Blushes cover'd, low beneath the Desk.
More mournful Scenes invite. The milky Vein
Of amorous Grief devolves its placid Wave
Soft-streaming o'er the Soul, in weeping Woe
And Tenderness of Anguish. While we read
Th' infectious Page, we sicken into Love,
And languish with involuntary Fires.
The Zephyr, panting on the silken Buds
Of breathing Violets; the Virgin's Sigh,
Rosy with Youth, are turbulent and rude,
To Sappho's Plaint, and Eloïsa's Moan.
Of amorous Grief devolves its placid Wave
Soft-streaming o'er the Soul, in weeping Woe
And Tenderness of Anguish. While we read
Th' infectious Page, we sicken into Love,
And languish with involuntary Fires.
The Zephyr, panting on the silken Buds
Of breathing Violets; the Virgin's Sigh,
127
To Sappho's Plaint, and Eloïsa's Moan.
Heav'ns! what a Flood of empyréal Day
My aking Eyes involves! A Temple soars,
Rising like Exhalations, on a Mount,
And, wide, its Adamantine Valves expands.
Three monumental Columns, bright in Air,
Of figur'd Gold, the Center of the Quire
With Lustre fill. Pope on the Midmost shines
Betwixt his Homer and his Horace plac'd,
Superior by the Hand of Justice. Fame,
With all her Mouths th' eternal Trumpet swells,
Exulting at his Name; and, grateful, pours
The lofty Notes of never-dying Praise,
Triumphant, floating on the Wings of Wind,
Sweet o'er the World: th' Ambrosial Spirit flies
Diffusive, in its Progress wid'ning still,
“Dear to the Earth, and grateful to the Sky.”
Fame owes Him more than e'er she can repay:
She owes her very Temple to his Hands;
Like Ilium built; by Hands no less divine!
My aking Eyes involves! A Temple soars,
Rising like Exhalations, on a Mount,
And, wide, its Adamantine Valves expands.
Three monumental Columns, bright in Air,
Of figur'd Gold, the Center of the Quire
With Lustre fill. Pope on the Midmost shines
Betwixt his Homer and his Horace plac'd,
Superior by the Hand of Justice. Fame,
With all her Mouths th' eternal Trumpet swells,
Exulting at his Name; and, grateful, pours
The lofty Notes of never-dying Praise,
Triumphant, floating on the Wings of Wind,
Sweet o'er the World: th' Ambrosial Spirit flies
Diffusive, in its Progress wid'ning still,
“Dear to the Earth, and grateful to the Sky.”
Fame owes Him more than e'er she can repay:
128
Like Ilium built; by Hands no less divine!
Attention, rouze thyself! the Master's Hand,
(The Master of our Souls!) has chang'd the Key,
And bids the Thunder of the Battle roar
Tumultuous . Homer, Homer is our own!
And Grecian Heroes flame in British Lines.
What Pomp of Words! what nameless Energy
Kindles the Verse; invigours every Line;
Astonishes, and overwhelms the Soul
In Transport tost! When fierce Achilles raves,
And flashes, like a Comet, o'er the Field,
To wither Armies with his Martial Frown;
I see the Battle rage; I hear the Wheels
Careering with their brazen Orbs! The Shout
Of Nations rolls (the Labour of the Winds)—
Full on my Ear, and shakes my inmost Soul.
Description never cou'd so well deceive:
'Tis real! Troy is here, or I at Troy
Enjoy the War. My Spirits, all on Fire,
With unextinguish'd Violence are born
Above the World, and mingle with the Gods.
Olympus rings with Arms! the Firmament,
Beneath the Light'ning of Minerva's Shield,
Burns to the Center: rock the Tow'rs of Heav'n.
All Nature trembles! save the Throne of Jove!—
Have Mercy, Pope, and kill me not with Joy:
'Tis tenfold Rage, an Agony of Bliss!
Be less a God, nor force me to adore.
(The Master of our Souls!) has chang'd the Key,
And bids the Thunder of the Battle roar
Tumultuous . Homer, Homer is our own!
And Grecian Heroes flame in British Lines.
What Pomp of Words! what nameless Energy
Kindles the Verse; invigours every Line;
Astonishes, and overwhelms the Soul
In Transport tost! When fierce Achilles raves,
And flashes, like a Comet, o'er the Field,
To wither Armies with his Martial Frown;
I see the Battle rage; I hear the Wheels
Careering with their brazen Orbs! The Shout
Of Nations rolls (the Labour of the Winds)—
Full on my Ear, and shakes my inmost Soul.
Description never cou'd so well deceive:
'Tis real! Troy is here, or I at Troy
129
With unextinguish'd Violence are born
Above the World, and mingle with the Gods.
Olympus rings with Arms! the Firmament,
Beneath the Light'ning of Minerva's Shield,
Burns to the Center: rock the Tow'rs of Heav'n.
All Nature trembles! save the Throne of Jove!—
Have Mercy, Pope, and kill me not with Joy:
'Tis tenfold Rage, an Agony of Bliss!
Be less a God, nor force me to adore.
To root Excesses from the human-Breast,
Behold a beauteous Pile of Ethicks rise;
Sense, the Foundation; Harmony, the Walls;
(The Dorique grave, and gay Corinthian join'd)
Where Socrates and Horace jointly reign.
Best of Philosophers! of Poets too
The best! He teaches thee thyself to know:
That Virtue is the noblest gift of Heav'n:
“And vindicates the Ways of God to Man.”
O hearken to the Moralist polite!
Enter his School of Truth; where Plato's self
Might preach; and Tully deign to lend an Ear.
Behold a beauteous Pile of Ethicks rise;
Sense, the Foundation; Harmony, the Walls;
(The Dorique grave, and gay Corinthian join'd)
Where Socrates and Horace jointly reign.
Best of Philosophers! of Poets too
The best! He teaches thee thyself to know:
That Virtue is the noblest gift of Heav'n:
“And vindicates the Ways of God to Man.”
130
Enter his School of Truth; where Plato's self
Might preach; and Tully deign to lend an Ear.
Last see him waging with the Fools of Rhyme
A wanton, harmless War. Dunce after Dunce
Beaux, Doctors, Templars, Courtiers, Sophs and Cits,
Condemn'd to suffer Life. The motley Crew,
Emerging from Oblivion's muddy Pool,
Give the round Face to view, and shameless Front
Proudly expose; till Laughter have her Fill.
A wanton, harmless War. Dunce after Dunce
Beaux, Doctors, Templars, Courtiers, Sophs and Cits,
Condemn'd to suffer Life. The motley Crew,
Emerging from Oblivion's muddy Pool,
Give the round Face to view, and shameless Front
Proudly expose; till Laughter have her Fill.
Born to improve the Age, and cheat Mankind
Into the Road of Honour!—Vice again
The gilded Chariot drives:—for He is dead!
Into the Road of Honour!—Vice again
The gilded Chariot drives:—for He is dead!
I saw the sable Barge, along his Thames,
In slow Solemnity beating the Tide,
Convey his sacred Dust!—Its Swans expir'd,
Wither'd in Twit'nam Bow'rs the Laurel-Bough;
Silent the Muses broke their idle Lyres:
Th' attendant Graces check'd the sprightly Dance,
Their Arms unlock'd, and catch'd the starting Tear,
And Virtue for her lost Defender mourn'd!
In slow Solemnity beating the Tide,
Convey his sacred Dust!—Its Swans expir'd,
Wither'd in Twit'nam Bow'rs the Laurel-Bough;
131
Th' attendant Graces check'd the sprightly Dance,
Their Arms unlock'd, and catch'd the starting Tear,
And Virtue for her lost Defender mourn'd!
| Poems on Several Occasions | |