A Collection of Poems Occasionally Writ On Several Subjects. By Isaac Thompson |
 | I. |
| II. |
AN ESSAY Upon the ART of POETRY. |
 | A Collection of Poems |  |
146
AN ESSAY Upon the ART of POETRY.
Written An' Dom' 1728.
Munus & officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo;
Unde parantur opes, quid alat formetq; poetam:
Quid deceat, quid non, quò virtus, quò ferat error.
Hor.
Unde parantur opes, quid alat formetq; poetam:
Quid deceat, quid non, quò virtus, quò ferat error.
Hor.
149
Of all ill Writers, by the Critics curst,
Bad Poets are undoubtedly the worst;
Who, in the Spite of Genius, strive to chime
In Strains as poor and lean as Pharaoh's Kine.
But those, whose Fortune, better Stars proclaim,
Who feel the Touches of celestial Flame,
By whom the Soul is lifted and refin'd,
They merit loud applause from all Mankind.
Bad Poets are undoubtedly the worst;
Who, in the Spite of Genius, strive to chime
In Strains as poor and lean as Pharaoh's Kine.
150
Who feel the Touches of celestial Flame,
By whom the Soul is lifted and refin'd,
They merit loud applause from all Mankind.
But while with vain Desire vast Numbers stray,
Few find the happy Genius of the Way;
Such as of old was known the sacred Road,
Where Homer travel'd, and where Virgil trod:
And such as since, in later Times was known,
To lead a Milton and an Addison.
Whose strains Divine, far future Sons shall fire,
And thousand Ages yet to come, admire.
You, who would learn to imitate their Lays,
Hear kindly, what my friendly Muse essays,
Tho' she on slender Wings, attempts to rise,
And diffident, revolves her enterprize.
Few find the happy Genius of the Way;
Such as of old was known the sacred Road,
Where Homer travel'd, and where Virgil trod:
And such as since, in later Times was known,
To lead a Milton and an Addison.
Whose strains Divine, far future Sons shall fire,
And thousand Ages yet to come, admire.
You, who would learn to imitate their Lays,
Hear kindly, what my friendly Muse essays,
Tho' she on slender Wings, attempts to rise,
And diffident, revolves her enterprize.
Hard is the Task when Counsel is design'd:
Such is the Pride of the most empty Mind,
It hates Advice,
and would be thought to know
As well as you, perhaps and better too:
Thus ev'ry Fool esteems your Precepts stuff,
And each poor vacant Head is wise enough;
And let it so remain, the gen'rous Heart
Shall kindly take what Friendship can impart.
Our Thoughts on Things in various Manners fall,
And nothing tastes exact alike to all:
The Man of Sense is pleas'd with nat'ral Thoughts,
And Fools are always proud of finding Faults.
Mankind attains Delight by diff'rent Ways;
One likes to sneer, another likes to praise;
A third in raving Madness loves to grieve;
Thus all Men's nat'ral Tempers feed and live.
Such is the Pride of the most empty Mind,
151
As well as you, perhaps and better too:
Thus ev'ry Fool esteems your Precepts stuff,
And each poor vacant Head is wise enough;
And let it so remain, the gen'rous Heart
Shall kindly take what Friendship can impart.
Our Thoughts on Things in various Manners fall,
And nothing tastes exact alike to all:
The Man of Sense is pleas'd with nat'ral Thoughts,
And Fools are always proud of finding Faults.
Mankind attains Delight by diff'rent Ways;
One likes to sneer, another likes to praise;
A third in raving Madness loves to grieve;
Thus all Men's nat'ral Tempers feed and live.
Not damp'd at this, the Muse begins her flight,
And braves the Risque of ev'ry Critic's spite.
To trace those Paths, which have been travel'd o'er
By Horace, Buckingham, and Pope, before;
Blest Poets, whom the sacred Nine inspir'd,
Their Genius lifted, and their Raptures fir'd.
Rash my Design! nor am I yet so vain,
To match with these, or think to rival them:
But while Mankind allows they all excel
In Nature's Master-piece of Writing well;
The Muse permits, and prompts me to pursue
In humbler flights, and warms me at the view;
And tho' th' attempt be bold, the Labour hard,
The glorious Toil shall be its own reward;
To sing, and imitate superior Lays,
Shall purchase Pleasure, if it win no Praise.
And braves the Risque of ev'ry Critic's spite.
152
By Horace, Buckingham, and Pope, before;
Blest Poets, whom the sacred Nine inspir'd,
Their Genius lifted, and their Raptures fir'd.
Rash my Design! nor am I yet so vain,
To match with these, or think to rival them:
But while Mankind allows they all excel
In Nature's Master-piece of Writing well;
The Muse permits, and prompts me to pursue
In humbler flights, and warms me at the view;
And tho' th' attempt be bold, the Labour hard,
The glorious Toil shall be its own reward;
To sing, and imitate superior Lays,
Shall purchase Pleasure, if it win no Praise.
Then know, tho' Verse, in vain that Mortal tries,
Whose Genius leads not, and whose Star denies;
Yet still a Mind, from Heav'n with Genius fir'd,
Stands need of human Means, and Arts acquir'd,
No Art without it, ever could excel,
Nor Genius void of Art can thrive so well:
Let both conspire, but let the foremost reign,
And long as Homer's, shall your Verse remain;
The latest Times, you happy Strains shall please,
And ev'ry Age your gath'ring Fame encrease.
Whose Genius leads not, and whose Star denies;
Yet still a Mind, from Heav'n with Genius fir'd,
Stands need of human Means, and Arts acquir'd,
No Art without it, ever could excel,
Nor Genius void of Art can thrive so well:
153
And long as Homer's, shall your Verse remain;
The latest Times, you happy Strains shall please,
And ev'ry Age your gath'ring Fame encrease.
Consider Nature well, before you start,
And take your skill from her to judge of Art;
She is the Source, whence all true Beauties flow,
And what is merit, she first made it so:
Hence, you will learn with Justice to despise
Those mean Conceits which vulgar Readers prize.
And take your skill from her to judge of Art;
She is the Source, whence all true Beauties flow,
And what is merit, she first made it so:
Hence, you will learn with Justice to despise
Those mean Conceits which vulgar Readers prize.
If Nature has design'd you for the Muse,
She will not fail to charm you with her views;
Still as you follow, she'll invite you more,
And make that Pleasure, which was toil before;
Be this the Test whereon to prove your force,
Your love of Nature, is your Vein for Verse.
She will not fail to charm you with her views;
Still as you follow, she'll invite you more,
And make that Pleasure, which was toil before;
Be this the Test whereon to prove your force,
Your love of Nature, is your Vein for Verse.
In the first Ages, while Mankind were blest
With easy Labour and successive Rest;
Ere haughty Monarchs learn'd to swell in State,
Or wretch'd amidst dissembling Flatt'rers sat;
When happy Courts were held on smiling Plains,
And Kings were Shepherds, and their Princes Swains.
When trains of Nobles haunted Groves and Springs,
And Hearts were plain, and Crowns were easy Things.
Then Nature charm'd in all her various Dress,
And Time fled on in golden Years of Peace:
Then first the Muse essay'd her tender Voice,
And Rocks reply'd, and Hills return'd the Noise:
On Pipes of Reeds, the Royal Shepherds play'd,
Or sung sweet Numbers in the flow'ry Shade:
Of Nature's Laws, and Nature's Charms they sung,
And ev'ry Grove with its own Praises rung.
Each Swain made his own Happiness his Theme,
Inspir'd by ev'ry Wood and ev'ry Stream.
In ev'ry Shade he found his Bosom warm,
For Shades could rapture, Woods and Streams could charm;
Then did the Muse all beautiful appear,
Won ev'ry Heart, and ravish'd ev'ry Ear;
No Points of Wit she sought, but nat'ral ease,
And unaffected, lively Images.
'Twas strength of Genius on the Passions stole,
Smit the rapt Mind, and glow'd upon the Soul.
Ev'n yet, in spite of this degen'rate Age,
True Genius still maintains its sacred rage:
Down from far distant Times, to present Days,
The Muse has born her never-dying Lays;
Her Fire still pure, eternal lives her Flame,
And what she was, forever is the same.
Her Genius soars, despising to submit
To little gothick Ornaments of Wit:
Who feels the Touch of her inspiring Ray,
Sees the mean Track, and scorns to tread the Way.
And as of old, she yet delights on Plains,
In rural Solitudes, and bow'ry Scenes:
There leads her Sons, and makes her Numbers heard,
And shows how once the beauteous World appear'd,
Back, thro' devouring Time their Thoughts are cast,
And live in Years an hundred Ages past.
With easy Labour and successive Rest;
154
Or wretch'd amidst dissembling Flatt'rers sat;
When happy Courts were held on smiling Plains,
And Kings were Shepherds, and their Princes Swains.
When trains of Nobles haunted Groves and Springs,
And Hearts were plain, and Crowns were easy Things.
Then Nature charm'd in all her various Dress,
And Time fled on in golden Years of Peace:
Then first the Muse essay'd her tender Voice,
And Rocks reply'd, and Hills return'd the Noise:
On Pipes of Reeds, the Royal Shepherds play'd,
Or sung sweet Numbers in the flow'ry Shade:
Of Nature's Laws, and Nature's Charms they sung,
And ev'ry Grove with its own Praises rung.
Each Swain made his own Happiness his Theme,
Inspir'd by ev'ry Wood and ev'ry Stream.
155
For Shades could rapture, Woods and Streams could charm;
Then did the Muse all beautiful appear,
Won ev'ry Heart, and ravish'd ev'ry Ear;
No Points of Wit she sought, but nat'ral ease,
And unaffected, lively Images.
'Twas strength of Genius on the Passions stole,
Smit the rapt Mind, and glow'd upon the Soul.
Ev'n yet, in spite of this degen'rate Age,
True Genius still maintains its sacred rage:
Down from far distant Times, to present Days,
The Muse has born her never-dying Lays;
Her Fire still pure, eternal lives her Flame,
And what she was, forever is the same.
Her Genius soars, despising to submit
To little gothick Ornaments of Wit:
Who feels the Touch of her inspiring Ray,
Sees the mean Track, and scorns to tread the Way.
And as of old, she yet delights on Plains,
In rural Solitudes, and bow'ry Scenes:
156
And shows how once the beauteous World appear'd,
Back, thro' devouring Time their Thoughts are cast,
And live in Years an hundred Ages past.
Hence the best Poets first the Muse assail,
In rural Shades, and easy Pastoral;
But gath'ring Strength, by just Degrees arise,
And with the Lark, exchange the Plains for Skies.
Immortal Maro thus begins with Swains,
In Tityrus' and Melibæus' strains;
First his young Muse appears a Silvan Maid,
And sings two Shepherds in a beechen Shade;
But leaving these, she rides thro' Storms and Floods,
With Heroes fights, and thunders with the Gods.
And thus, a Bard, in later Times inspir'd,
(To Windsor's blissful Plains and Shades retir'd;)
On Thames' delightful Banks, his Numbers try'd,
Now Daphnis spoke, and Strephon then reply'd:
But soon in higher Flights his Muse was known,
And all the mighty Iliad made his own:
For him, had Fate th' Odyssey kept so long,
For him Ulysses rang'd, and Homer sung.
Let this be then your unambitious Aim,
First to make Woods, and Hills, and Springs, your Theme:
From wild Conceits these Subjects are most free,
And teach you best, the old Simplicity;
There, learn to flow in Verse, from ev'ry Stream,
And Plains, draw sweet variety from them,
Vales will teach lowliness, and Mountains, height;
Those to depress, and these to raise your Flight;
What's soft and mild, kind Breezes will inform;
And what is fierce and rough, the raging Storm.
Hence true Distinction you'll attain to know,
What hurries on too fast, or laggs too slow;
What to deny the Muse, and what to grant,
And how to curb her Rage by just restraint;
She, of her self, will keep no Bounds entire,
Your Art must be to regulate her Fire.
Now to indulge her Flights, and now to tame,
To soften gently, but not quench her Flame:
On either Hand a fatal Errour lies,
This gives too much, and that too much denies.
Here Nature's dwarft, and in a Pigmy ends,
And swelling there, a Giant's Bulk ascends.
In rural Shades, and easy Pastoral;
But gath'ring Strength, by just Degrees arise,
And with the Lark, exchange the Plains for Skies.
Immortal Maro thus begins with Swains,
In Tityrus' and Melibæus' strains;
First his young Muse appears a Silvan Maid,
And sings two Shepherds in a beechen Shade;
But leaving these, she rides thro' Storms and Floods,
With Heroes fights, and thunders with the Gods.
And thus, a Bard, in later Times inspir'd,
(To Windsor's blissful Plains and Shades retir'd;)
On Thames' delightful Banks, his Numbers try'd,
Now Daphnis spoke, and Strephon then reply'd:
157
And all the mighty Iliad made his own:
For him, had Fate th' Odyssey kept so long,
For him Ulysses rang'd, and Homer sung.
Let this be then your unambitious Aim,
First to make Woods, and Hills, and Springs, your Theme:
From wild Conceits these Subjects are most free,
And teach you best, the old Simplicity;
There, learn to flow in Verse, from ev'ry Stream,
And Plains, draw sweet variety from them,
Vales will teach lowliness, and Mountains, height;
Those to depress, and these to raise your Flight;
What's soft and mild, kind Breezes will inform;
And what is fierce and rough, the raging Storm.
Hence true Distinction you'll attain to know,
What hurries on too fast, or laggs too slow;
What to deny the Muse, and what to grant,
And how to curb her Rage by just restraint;
She, of her self, will keep no Bounds entire,
Your Art must be to regulate her Fire.
Now to indulge her Flights, and now to tame,
To soften gently, but not quench her Flame:
158
This gives too much, and that too much denies.
Here Nature's dwarft, and in a Pigmy ends,
And swelling there, a Giant's Bulk ascends.
The Muses, like the Horses of the Sun,
Demand a Phœbus, not a Phaeton;
A steady Judgment guides the sacred Glow,
Nor lets it blaze too high, nor burn too low:
Shun all Extreams, the middle Path-way chuse,
'Tis safe, and there Success attends the Muse.
Not that in one dull Line you still must run,
And in the same poor Strain still grovel on;
Observe what Images you are to draw,
For these must steer your Course and be your Law:
Your Images must be precisely known,
Before a true Description can be drawn:
When once the Mind has just Ideas gain'd,
They're then, and not 'till then, with ease explain'd.
When these are humble, sink in lowly Rhyme,
When these are high, ascend the great Sublime:
But in the last, with Care avoid that Vice,
Of swelling, unintelligible Noise.
'Tis not vain Pomp of Words, or blust'ring sound,
Where great and true Sublimity is found:
It is a Majesty of Genius charms,
Shines without glaring, without burning warms:
A secret Spirit breathing thro' the whole,
That dawns in ev'ry Part, a vig'rous Soul.
Demand a Phœbus, not a Phaeton;
A steady Judgment guides the sacred Glow,
Nor lets it blaze too high, nor burn too low:
Shun all Extreams, the middle Path-way chuse,
'Tis safe, and there Success attends the Muse.
Not that in one dull Line you still must run,
And in the same poor Strain still grovel on;
Observe what Images you are to draw,
For these must steer your Course and be your Law:
Your Images must be precisely known,
Before a true Description can be drawn:
When once the Mind has just Ideas gain'd,
They're then, and not 'till then, with ease explain'd.
159
When these are high, ascend the great Sublime:
But in the last, with Care avoid that Vice,
Of swelling, unintelligible Noise.
'Tis not vain Pomp of Words, or blust'ring sound,
Where great and true Sublimity is found:
It is a Majesty of Genius charms,
Shines without glaring, without burning warms:
A secret Spirit breathing thro' the whole,
That dawns in ev'ry Part, a vig'rous Soul.
Some Authors fill'd with greater Heat than Sense,
Mistake gross Fustian for true Eloquence;
On ev'ry Subject, they begin to write,
They still are wrapt in Clouds and out of Sight:
On ev'ry Trifle they their Pomp discharge,
As if all Beauty were in being large;
Or no Distinction could be made between
A Pigmy's squeak, and bell'wing Polypheme.
But tho' with this no Reader can dispense,
To find your Words too mighty for your Sense:
Yet some Descriptions to be drawn aright,
Require the loftiest Strains, and boldest Flight;
The Muse may then her strongest Pinions try,
Nor can she be too great, nor soar too high.
Yet still 'tis fit, whatever Heights she climb,
To mount with ease, or false is her sublime;
She must not seem with mighty Ragings strain'd,
Or that her Greatness is with Labour gain'd;
But in her high Career, she sits supream,
Match for her Height, and equal to her Theme.
Thus Homer's Muse, when angry Jove descends,
And on Mount Ida's Top his Terrour bends;
She rises in the Vengeance of his Ire,
And cloaths her self with Thunder and with Fire;
The Verse, in Flames and dreadful Lightnings shines,
And ev'ry Grecian trembles in his Lines.
Such Flights, our Dread and Admiration move,
But ev'ry Subject is not angry Jove;
A diff'rent Theme, will diff'rent Lights require,
A milder Fury, and a gentler Fire.
Mistake gross Fustian for true Eloquence;
On ev'ry Subject, they begin to write,
They still are wrapt in Clouds and out of Sight:
On ev'ry Trifle they their Pomp discharge,
As if all Beauty were in being large;
Or no Distinction could be made between
A Pigmy's squeak, and bell'wing Polypheme.
But tho' with this no Reader can dispense,
To find your Words too mighty for your Sense:
160
Require the loftiest Strains, and boldest Flight;
The Muse may then her strongest Pinions try,
Nor can she be too great, nor soar too high.
Yet still 'tis fit, whatever Heights she climb,
To mount with ease, or false is her sublime;
She must not seem with mighty Ragings strain'd,
Or that her Greatness is with Labour gain'd;
But in her high Career, she sits supream,
Match for her Height, and equal to her Theme.
Thus Homer's Muse, when angry Jove descends,
And on Mount Ida's Top his Terrour bends;
She rises in the Vengeance of his Ire,
And cloaths her self with Thunder and with Fire;
The Verse, in Flames and dreadful Lightnings shines,
And ev'ry Grecian trembles in his Lines.
Such Flights, our Dread and Admiration move,
But ev'ry Subject is not angry Jove;
A diff'rent Theme, will diff'rent Lights require,
A milder Fury, and a gentler Fire.
161
Observe how Phœbus rules the various Year,
And turns the Seasons, as he turns his Sphere:
How regular he keeps the heav'nly Way,
The God of Poetry as well as Day.
Make him your Rule, who over Verse presides,
And guide your Muse as he his Chariot guides.
And turns the Seasons, as he turns his Sphere:
How regular he keeps the heav'nly Way,
The God of Poetry as well as Day.
Make him your Rule, who over Verse presides,
And guide your Muse as he his Chariot guides.
When he designs to give the World the Spring,
The Flow'rs to blossom, and the Birds to sing;
Thro' the warm Equinox he sweetly gleams,
And mellows the hard Glebe with gentle Beams:
By soft Degrees he gives the Buds to blow,
And Streams refine, more limpid as they flow;
Dense blasts of Wind wax unperceiv'd more rare,
And Zephyrs melt to milder Breathes of Air.
The Flow'rs to blossom, and the Birds to sing;
Thro' the warm Equinox he sweetly gleams,
And mellows the hard Glebe with gentle Beams:
By soft Degrees he gives the Buds to blow,
And Streams refine, more limpid as they flow;
Dense blasts of Wind wax unperceiv'd more rare,
And Zephyrs melt to milder Breathes of Air.
But when the Summer Season he bestows,
He mounts, and more magestically glows;
No more, mild Rays, his fierce Effusion pours,
Nor melts the rolling Cloud in vernal Show'rs:
His fiery Beams surprize the thirsty Plain,
And gentle Morning Dews descend in vain.
He mounts, and more magestically glows;
No more, mild Rays, his fierce Effusion pours,
Nor melts the rolling Cloud in vernal Show'rs:
His fiery Beams surprize the thirsty Plain,
And gentle Morning Dews descend in vain.
But when the Winter's bleak approach draws near,
He then retires, and leaves the hoary Year;
His Beams oblique, with fainting languor shine,
In distant Skies, far Southward of the Line.
On Rocks of Ice his feeble light'ning plays,
Nor melt they down, but gather in his Rays.
He then retires, and leaves the hoary Year;
162
In distant Skies, far Southward of the Line.
On Rocks of Ice his feeble light'ning plays,
Nor melt they down, but gather in his Rays.
Such is the various Course your Muse must steer,
And always just, and natural appear.
Soft be the Verse, when gentle Spring's the Theme,
But hoary Winter asks a hoarser Strain;
Impetuous Floods and headlong Rivers, call
The hasty Verse to hurry down their fall;
But the calm Stream that scarce appears to Flow,
Glides on in Words, smooth, easy, still, and slow.
Not thus describe the stretching Courser's Flight,
That scours the Plain, and slips beyond the Sight.
And always just, and natural appear.
Soft be the Verse, when gentle Spring's the Theme,
But hoary Winter asks a hoarser Strain;
Impetuous Floods and headlong Rivers, call
The hasty Verse to hurry down their fall;
But the calm Stream that scarce appears to Flow,
Glides on in Words, smooth, easy, still, and slow.
Not thus describe the stretching Courser's Flight,
That scours the Plain, and slips beyond the Sight.
Nor only Things, in proper Words express,
But ev'ry Passion has its nat'ral Dress.
If smiling Love's the Subject, let the Muse,
The softest Words, and melting Accents chuse;
Mix a kind Languor in each easy Line,
And teach her Fires with gentle glow to shine:
In tender Thoughts let ev'ry Verse appear,
Warm in the Strain as in the Heart they were.
The fair Delight not in a Stile that's fierce,
And melting Love retires from pompous Verse.
No boist'rous Storms invade the Cyprian Isle,
But blissful Calms and balmy Seasons smile;
Indulgent Gales in sighing Zephirs blow,
Flow'rs never fade, and Blooms eternal glow.
But ev'ry Passion has its nat'ral Dress.
If smiling Love's the Subject, let the Muse,
The softest Words, and melting Accents chuse;
Mix a kind Languor in each easy Line,
And teach her Fires with gentle glow to shine:
163
Warm in the Strain as in the Heart they were.
The fair Delight not in a Stile that's fierce,
And melting Love retires from pompous Verse.
No boist'rous Storms invade the Cyprian Isle,
But blissful Calms and balmy Seasons smile;
Indulgent Gales in sighing Zephirs blow,
Flow'rs never fade, and Blooms eternal glow.
And next to this, dejected Grief appears,
Mourns in deep Wailings, and dissolves in Tears;
Soft as the Strains of Love, but glides more slow,
In solemn Gloom, and sad consuming woe;
The Numbers in low Lamentations moan,
With Thoughts to move, and Words to melt a Stone.
But when mad Rage its dire Resentments speaks,
In sudden Fire, the Muse her Numbers breaks;
In haste she looses out the flying Rein,
Destruction rouls, and Ruin swells the Strain:
A thousand Ways of Death are view'd by turns,
And all the Fury maddens as it burns:
In ev'ry Verse the Vengeance mounts up higher,
'Till all the Line's one blaze of raging Fire.
Mourns in deep Wailings, and dissolves in Tears;
Soft as the Strains of Love, but glides more slow,
In solemn Gloom, and sad consuming woe;
The Numbers in low Lamentations moan,
With Thoughts to move, and Words to melt a Stone.
But when mad Rage its dire Resentments speaks,
In sudden Fire, the Muse her Numbers breaks;
In haste she looses out the flying Rein,
Destruction rouls, and Ruin swells the Strain:
164
And all the Fury maddens as it burns:
In ev'ry Verse the Vengeance mounts up higher,
'Till all the Line's one blaze of raging Fire.
Thus ev'ry Subject like it self is drest,
As each Man's Cloaths suit his own Person best;
Each Action, and each Passion, just appears;
Things Attitudes, Mankind have Characters.
Some Men not knowing what to what belong,
Run into Faults, they cannot see are wrong;
Or ventring out on Themes above their Strength,
Fall into gross Absurdities at length.
And others are in so much haste to write,
They hardly know one Thing they ought, aright;
But rambling on confus'd, now here, now there,
They say they know not what, they know not where:
These, that their Errours may be undescry'd,
In Clouds of Words their fluent Nonsence hide;
As weak Philosophers recourse to chance,
Which both explains and covers Ignorance.
Be warn'd from hence, and often scan your Theme,
Things are not still exactly what they seem:
Your Thought must be most studiously confin'd,
Ere you begin the Structure that's design'd;
When once set out, the Labour all must cease,
And the Verse flow with a delightful ease:
The Temple thus of old began to rise,
Not, 'till each Stone was hewn to proper size.
As each Man's Cloaths suit his own Person best;
Each Action, and each Passion, just appears;
Things Attitudes, Mankind have Characters.
Some Men not knowing what to what belong,
Run into Faults, they cannot see are wrong;
Or ventring out on Themes above their Strength,
Fall into gross Absurdities at length.
And others are in so much haste to write,
They hardly know one Thing they ought, aright;
But rambling on confus'd, now here, now there,
They say they know not what, they know not where:
These, that their Errours may be undescry'd,
In Clouds of Words their fluent Nonsence hide;
165
Which both explains and covers Ignorance.
Be warn'd from hence, and often scan your Theme,
Things are not still exactly what they seem:
Your Thought must be most studiously confin'd,
Ere you begin the Structure that's design'd;
When once set out, the Labour all must cease,
And the Verse flow with a delightful ease:
The Temple thus of old began to rise,
Not, 'till each Stone was hewn to proper size.
If some new Thought your ravish'd Fancy fire,
And Truth and Judgment warrant your Desire;
Pursue while fancy's warm, but then beware,
You do not spin the tender Thread too far;
Least both your Thought and Labour prove in Vain,
And lose in Spirit what in Words they gain.
Beyond just Bounds be never known to stretch,
But rather say too little than too much;
The Fault of this is less than that extream,
The Reader pall'd, the Rest provokes his phlegm;
'Tis better he depart unsatisfy'd,
Desiring more, than overcharg'd and cloy'd.
And Truth and Judgment warrant your Desire;
Pursue while fancy's warm, but then beware,
You do not spin the tender Thread too far;
Least both your Thought and Labour prove in Vain,
And lose in Spirit what in Words they gain.
Beyond just Bounds be never known to stretch,
But rather say too little than too much;
166
The Reader pall'd, the Rest provokes his phlegm;
'Tis better he depart unsatisfy'd,
Desiring more, than overcharg'd and cloy'd.
Tho' to begin will Skill and Judgment crave,
As much is ask'd in knowing where to leave;
'Tis not sufficient that the Thing be said,
But in what range the Images are laid;
How well they suit the compass where they lie,
How those with these, and with the whole comply.
As much is ask'd in knowing where to leave;
'Tis not sufficient that the Thing be said,
But in what range the Images are laid;
How well they suit the compass where they lie,
How those with these, and with the whole comply.
Tho' these are needful Rules, yet still their use,
Without Discretion is a mere abuse.
Beware no Precept bind you up too close,
Least while you gain the Rule, the Fire you lose.
Too strict pursuit of any human Rule,
Grows flat and dry, pedantical and dull.
T' avoid this Fault, besure to bear in Mind,
That Nature's free, and hates to be confin'd;
Where e'er she Works beneath too great constraint;
A Monster breeds, too bulky or too scant.
In vain you Labour on the heavy Verse,
When she lags Backwards and moves up by Force.
How odd it looks to see the Mistress led,
And drag'd up ungenteely by the Maid!
Let Nature still the foremost Glory gain,
And Art behind, adjust her Lady's train;
Unseen, dispose each Ornament she wears,
Art wins most Praises, when it least appears.
Without Discretion is a mere abuse.
Beware no Precept bind you up too close,
Least while you gain the Rule, the Fire you lose.
Too strict pursuit of any human Rule,
Grows flat and dry, pedantical and dull.
T' avoid this Fault, besure to bear in Mind,
That Nature's free, and hates to be confin'd;
Where e'er she Works beneath too great constraint;
A Monster breeds, too bulky or too scant.
167
When she lags Backwards and moves up by Force.
How odd it looks to see the Mistress led,
And drag'd up ungenteely by the Maid!
Let Nature still the foremost Glory gain,
And Art behind, adjust her Lady's train;
Unseen, dispose each Ornament she wears,
Art wins most Praises, when it least appears.
Rules thus conducted will not fail to please,
We like good Method, when 'tis kept with ease;
For when the Poet writes without design,
Long wilds of Verse, and rhapsodies of Rhyme:
The Reader vext at his perplexing maze,
Returns him Curses, while he pants for praise.
Propose some End, and still that end pursue,
Be That your Means and That your Conduct too:
Dispose each Word and order ev'ry Line,
So, that Each point and move to the Design:
If thus you steer, your end you will attain,
And find at last, your Labour not in vain.
And tho' some Places, to a scanty Thought,
May seem imperfect, or contain a Fault;
Such seeming Slips, if they promote the End,
Are Slips of Moment which you must not mend;
They add more Beauty than they take away,
As Clouds reflect new Glories on the Day;
Some Foils are needful to advance a Grace,
As artful Patches on a beauteous Face.
If only there, the Critic's spite assails,
He damns in vain, and impotently rails;
Like modern Athiests wanting Strength of Mind,
The mystick Ways of Providence to find,
Would mend all Nature that they can't discern,
And find out Faults in Laws they want to learn;
But this is all they teach Mankind from thence,
Their own Impiety and want of Sense.
We like good Method, when 'tis kept with ease;
For when the Poet writes without design,
Long wilds of Verse, and rhapsodies of Rhyme:
The Reader vext at his perplexing maze,
Returns him Curses, while he pants for praise.
Propose some End, and still that end pursue,
Be That your Means and That your Conduct too:
Dispose each Word and order ev'ry Line,
So, that Each point and move to the Design:
168
And find at last, your Labour not in vain.
And tho' some Places, to a scanty Thought,
May seem imperfect, or contain a Fault;
Such seeming Slips, if they promote the End,
Are Slips of Moment which you must not mend;
They add more Beauty than they take away,
As Clouds reflect new Glories on the Day;
Some Foils are needful to advance a Grace,
As artful Patches on a beauteous Face.
If only there, the Critic's spite assails,
He damns in vain, and impotently rails;
Like modern Athiests wanting Strength of Mind,
The mystick Ways of Providence to find,
Would mend all Nature that they can't discern,
And find out Faults in Laws they want to learn;
But this is all they teach Mankind from thence,
Their own Impiety and want of Sense.
Ne'er shun that Malice which can do no wrong,
Nor dread the Clamours of an envious Tongue:
Sometimes when these design the greatest ill,
They raving find th'effect reverse their Will.
Perhaps some beauteous Lights might 'scape Mankind,
If no sour Critic cast his Shade behind;
As Iris could not make her Colours known,
If no dark Vapour should oppose the Sun.
Be ne'er affraid of what the Critics dare,
Let them rail freely, nor expect they'll spare;
Truth will survive, when all their Rage is by,
And all beside (tho' they were mute) shall die.
'Tis in your Pow'r to make them to your Sense,
If not the kindest, yet it's useful Friends.
'Tis possible some Blemish miss'd your Eye,
And too, so small, that Friendship passes by;
But the malicious Sight observes the Stain,
And lets you know your Oversight with Pain;
That Wisdom is the best, that comes by Cost,
Shall last you longest and shall serve you most.
Would you desire to please an Ear that's fine,
Be never constant to one Pause or Rhyme:
New change of Rhyme with Pleasure entertains,
And varied Pauses will adorn your Strains;
Verse, Juglar-like, when once the Secret's known,
The Charm expires and all the Show is done;
'Tis necessary you should steer with Skill,
To keep your Reader your dependent still;
And sometimes this, as often that, prefer;
Prompt him to guess, but leave him room to err;
For if you still the same dull Method keep,
He lies you down, and Yawns, or falls asleep.
Nor dread the Clamours of an envious Tongue:
Sometimes when these design the greatest ill,
They raving find th'effect reverse their Will.
169
If no sour Critic cast his Shade behind;
As Iris could not make her Colours known,
If no dark Vapour should oppose the Sun.
Be ne'er affraid of what the Critics dare,
Let them rail freely, nor expect they'll spare;
Truth will survive, when all their Rage is by,
And all beside (tho' they were mute) shall die.
'Tis in your Pow'r to make them to your Sense,
If not the kindest, yet it's useful Friends.
'Tis possible some Blemish miss'd your Eye,
And too, so small, that Friendship passes by;
But the malicious Sight observes the Stain,
And lets you know your Oversight with Pain;
That Wisdom is the best, that comes by Cost,
Shall last you longest and shall serve you most.
Would you desire to please an Ear that's fine,
Be never constant to one Pause or Rhyme:
New change of Rhyme with Pleasure entertains,
And varied Pauses will adorn your Strains;
170
The Charm expires and all the Show is done;
'Tis necessary you should steer with Skill,
To keep your Reader your dependent still;
And sometimes this, as often that, prefer;
Prompt him to guess, but leave him room to err;
For if you still the same dull Method keep,
He lies you down, and Yawns, or falls asleep.
Be this your Care, Attention first to gain,
This got, your Art must be to entertain.
First win the Passions by a smooth Address,
Gain Reason next, then keep what you possess.
This Art once understood, and practis'd well,
You'll miss the Fate a thousand Authors feel.
The human Mind's a slip'ry Thing to seize,
'Tis soon disgusted, and 'tis hard to please;
This Moment, Reason seems to hold the Sway,
The next, the Passions bear it all away;
And oft, whilst naked Justice it denies,
A Fraud well cover'd, takes it by Surprize.
Wise Stratagems will often please no less,
Than Truth itself, tho' in the neatest Dress;
To be deceiv'd, no Man e'er murmur'd yet,
When his own Int'rest prosper'd by the Cheat.
Sometimes to rise aloft you must a-light,
Be dull on Purpose, that you may be bright;
Lights joyn'd with Shades, in painting thus deceive,
And each to each a just Relievo give;
Light by it self, or shade, without this Rule,
Would seem all Flatness, one and one all dull.
What e'er you mount to, or where e'er you fall,
There's Symmetry to be observ'd in all;
Propriety to suit with ev'ry Grace,
And Ornaments proportion'd to each Place.
This got, your Art must be to entertain.
First win the Passions by a smooth Address,
Gain Reason next, then keep what you possess.
This Art once understood, and practis'd well,
You'll miss the Fate a thousand Authors feel.
The human Mind's a slip'ry Thing to seize,
'Tis soon disgusted, and 'tis hard to please;
This Moment, Reason seems to hold the Sway,
The next, the Passions bear it all away;
And oft, whilst naked Justice it denies,
A Fraud well cover'd, takes it by Surprize.
171
Than Truth itself, tho' in the neatest Dress;
To be deceiv'd, no Man e'er murmur'd yet,
When his own Int'rest prosper'd by the Cheat.
Sometimes to rise aloft you must a-light,
Be dull on Purpose, that you may be bright;
Lights joyn'd with Shades, in painting thus deceive,
And each to each a just Relievo give;
Light by it self, or shade, without this Rule,
Would seem all Flatness, one and one all dull.
What e'er you mount to, or where e'er you fall,
There's Symmetry to be observ'd in all;
Propriety to suit with ev'ry Grace,
And Ornaments proportion'd to each Place.
Beware (of all Things) how your Muse obeys
The Charms of Wit, the vice of Modern Lays:
As Brutes advert by Moments, so it lives,
And no true Excellence or Pleasure gives;
'Tis hard to rule, and easily goes wrong,
The Praise is short, but O the Scandal's long!
Correct it's turns, and oft restrain it's Pride,
Let Caution use it, and let Judgment guide;
To just Decorum, all it's Wildness bring,
For Wit ill tim'd's an execrable Thing:
'Tis of it self but like a falling Star,
That shines a Moment e're it disappear,
Let such admire it's Points whose Genius lies
In narrow Bounds, and wants the Strength to rise.
But nobler Minds Pursue at nobler Flights,
And warm at Beauties in sublimer Heights;
Such as the great majestick Iliad wears,
Still fresh and young, and undecay'd by Years;
Where Boldness, Ease, and Strength, and Sweetness join,
And bright, and never fading Glories Shine.
Charm'd with those Beauties of exalted Size,
Your Taste will nauseate, meaner Relishes;
Dispise those base polluted Springs below,
And drink where pure Castalian Streamlets flow:
There learn to imitate immortal Strains,
Rapt and shut up in bright celestial Scenes.
The Charms of Wit, the vice of Modern Lays:
As Brutes advert by Moments, so it lives,
And no true Excellence or Pleasure gives;
'Tis hard to rule, and easily goes wrong,
The Praise is short, but O the Scandal's long!
Correct it's turns, and oft restrain it's Pride,
Let Caution use it, and let Judgment guide;
172
For Wit ill tim'd's an execrable Thing:
'Tis of it self but like a falling Star,
That shines a Moment e're it disappear,
Let such admire it's Points whose Genius lies
In narrow Bounds, and wants the Strength to rise.
But nobler Minds Pursue at nobler Flights,
And warm at Beauties in sublimer Heights;
Such as the great majestick Iliad wears,
Still fresh and young, and undecay'd by Years;
Where Boldness, Ease, and Strength, and Sweetness join,
And bright, and never fading Glories Shine.
Charm'd with those Beauties of exalted Size,
Your Taste will nauseate, meaner Relishes;
Dispise those base polluted Springs below,
And drink where pure Castalian Streamlets flow:
There learn to imitate immortal Strains,
Rapt and shut up in bright celestial Scenes.
You, who are born to feel the heav'nly Fire,
Whose bosoms glow, as sacred Heats inspire;
Begin the Flight, for what deters your Voice,
When Liberty invites the Muse's Choice?
Rise into Verse; and sing th' auspicious LORD,
By whom the Blessing's given, and secur'd.
See mighty George! by gracious Heav'n design'd
The Minister of Blessings to Mankind;
Born with a Soul proportion'd to his Pow'r,
To awe the World, and bid it's Broils be o'er:
To calm the Tumults of the troubled Seas,
And teach contending Nations social Peace.
And see the shining Partner of his Crown,
Bestows augmented Glories on the Throne!
And as the first of all her Sex in Place,
The first in Virtue, and the first in Face.
O might I see the Glories of their Reign!
Sung by some Muse, and in an equal Strain!
That might to late Posterity prolong
Blest Britain's Joys in celebrated Song:
That when far distant Kings in Pow'r shall shine,
Descended long from GEORGE and CAROLINE,
And Nations yet unborn shall lift their Head,
To them their Fathers Glories may be read.
Whose bosoms glow, as sacred Heats inspire;
Begin the Flight, for what deters your Voice,
When Liberty invites the Muse's Choice?
173
By whom the Blessing's given, and secur'd.
See mighty George! by gracious Heav'n design'd
The Minister of Blessings to Mankind;
Born with a Soul proportion'd to his Pow'r,
To awe the World, and bid it's Broils be o'er:
To calm the Tumults of the troubled Seas,
And teach contending Nations social Peace.
And see the shining Partner of his Crown,
Bestows augmented Glories on the Throne!
And as the first of all her Sex in Place,
The first in Virtue, and the first in Face.
O might I see the Glories of their Reign!
Sung by some Muse, and in an equal Strain!
That might to late Posterity prolong
Blest Britain's Joys in celebrated Song:
That when far distant Kings in Pow'r shall shine,
Descended long from GEORGE and CAROLINE,
And Nations yet unborn shall lift their Head,
To them their Fathers Glories may be read.
But cease my Muse, the Theme not Suits with thee,
Content thee, thus to sing fair Liberty.
Hail sacred Liberty, divinest Pow'r!
O never leave thy fav'rite Albion's Shore!
Still guard this Isle, while ev'ry Art by thee
Exults, from arbitrary Sway set free;
But most the Muse, that owes to thee her Lays,
Shall sing thy Glories, and shall hymn thy Praise;
In foreign Lands opprest, her Genius groans,
Cramp'd under Tyrants, and despotic Thrones;
Cold Damps of Fear invade her as she warms,
And she no more appears in ancient Charms;
But blest in Britain's more indulgent Isle,
She opens out, and all her Graces smile:
Her native Vigour, native Charms assumes,
And ev'ry heav'nly Feature dawns and blooms;
She soars again, and Britain is become,
A new Augustan Reign, a brighter ROME.
Content thee, thus to sing fair Liberty.
174
O never leave thy fav'rite Albion's Shore!
Still guard this Isle, while ev'ry Art by thee
Exults, from arbitrary Sway set free;
But most the Muse, that owes to thee her Lays,
Shall sing thy Glories, and shall hymn thy Praise;
In foreign Lands opprest, her Genius groans,
Cramp'd under Tyrants, and despotic Thrones;
Cold Damps of Fear invade her as she warms,
And she no more appears in ancient Charms;
But blest in Britain's more indulgent Isle,
She opens out, and all her Graces smile:
Her native Vigour, native Charms assumes,
And ev'ry heav'nly Feature dawns and blooms;
She soars again, and Britain is become,
A new Augustan Reign, a brighter ROME.
------ Mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non dii, non concessere columnæ.
Si paulùm à summo discessit, vergit ad imum.
Non homines, non dii, non concessere columnæ.
Si paulùm à summo discessit, vergit ad imum.
Hor.
------ Fuit hæc sapientia quondam,
Publica privatis secernere, sacra prosanis;
Concubitu prohibere vago, dare jura maritis;
Oppida moliri, leges incedere ligno.
Sic honor & nomen divinis vatibus atque
Carmmibus venit. ------
Publica privatis secernere, sacra prosanis;
Concubitu prohibere vago, dare jura maritis;
Oppida moliri, leges incedere ligno.
Sic honor & nomen divinis vatibus atque
Carmmibus venit. ------
Hor.
Si defendere delictum, quàm vertere, malles;
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque & tua solus amares.
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
Quin sine rivali teque & tua solus amares.
Hor.
Mille hominum Species & rerum discolor usus.
Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.
Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.
Pers. Sat. 5.
Aurea prima sata est ætas. Sine militis usu
Mollia securæ peragebant otia gentes.
Mollia securæ peragebant otia gentes.
Ovid.
Hanc olim veteres vitam coluere sabini,
Hanc Remus & frater. ------
Hanc Remus & frater. ------
Virg.
“The original of Poetry is ascribed to that Age which succeeded the Creation of the World; and as the Keeping of Flocks seems to have been the first Employment of Mankind, the most ancient sort of Poetry was probably Pastoral. 'Tis natural to imagin, that the leisure of those ancient Shepherds requiring some Diversion, none was so proper to that solitary Life as Singing; and that in their Songs they took Occasion to celebrate their own Felicity, from hence a Poem was invented. Pope's Disc. on Past. Poetry.
Scriptorum chorus omnis amat nemus, & fugit urbes,
Rite cliens Bacchi somno gaudentes & umbrâ.
Rite cliens Bacchi somno gaudentes & umbrâ.
Hor. Ep. 2. Lib. 2.
Omnia quæ mogna sunt atque admirabilia, tempus aliquod quo primum efficerentur, habuerint, Quintil. lib. 12. c. 11.
Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis aquam
Viribus; & versata diu, quid ferre recusent
Quid valeant humeri: cui lecta potenter erit res,
Nec facundia deseret hunc, nec lucidus ordo.
Viribus; & versata diu, quid ferre recusent
Quid valeant humeri: cui lecta potenter erit res,
Nec facundia deseret hunc, nec lucidus ordo.
Hor.
Multo labore, assiduo studio, varia exercitatione, pluribus experimentis, ahissi ma prudentia, præsentissimo consilio constat ars dicendi.
Quintil. lib. 2. c. 13.
Natura etiam sine doctrina multum valebit, doctrina nulla esse sine natura poterit. Quintil. lib. 2. c. 19.
Denique natura materiæ, ars doctrinæ est. Hæc fingit, illa fingitur. Nihil ars sinâ materia: materiæ etiam sinâ arte pretium est. Ars summa, materia optima melior. Idem.
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