University of Virginia Library

The Epic.

But the Heroic claims a Loftier Strain.
In the Narration of some great Design,
Invention, Art, and Fable all must joyn :
Here Fiction must employ its utmost grace ;
All must assume a Body, Mind, and Face :
Each Virtue a Divinity is seen ;
Prudence is Pallas, Beauty Paphos Queen.
'Tis not a Cloud from whence swift Lightnings fly;
But Jupiter, that thunders from the Sky :
Nor a rough Storm, that gives the Sailor pain ;
But angry Neptune, plowing up the Main :
Echo's no more an empty Airy Sound ;
But a fair Nymph that weeps, her Lover drown'd.
Thus in the endless Treasure of his mind,
The Poet does a thousand Figures find,
Around the work his Ornaments he pours,
And Strows with lavish hand his op'ning Flow'rs.
'Tis not a wonder if a Tempest bore
The Trojan Fleet against the Libyan Shore ;
From faithless Fortune this is no surprise,
For every day 'tis common to our eyes ;
But angry Juno, that she might destroy,
And overwhelm the rest of ruin'd Troy :
That Æolus with the fierce Goddess joyn'd,
Op'ned the hollow Prisons of the Wind ;
Till angry Neptune, looking o're the Main,
Rebukes the Tempest, calms the Waves again,
Their Vessels from the dang'rous rous quick-sands steers;
These are the Springs that move our hopes and fears
Without these Ornaments before our Eyes,
Th' unsinew'd Poem languishes, and dyes :
Your Poet in his art will always fail,
And tell you but a dull insipid Tale.
In vain have our mistaken Authors try'd
These ancient Ornaments to lay aside,
Thinking our God, and Prophets that he sent,
Might Act like those the Poets did invent,
To fright poor Readers in each Line with Hell,
And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth, and Bel ;
The Mysteries which Christians must believe,
Disdain such shifting Pageants to receive :
The Gospel offers nothing to our thoughts
But penitence, or punishment for faults ;
And mingling falshoods with those Mysteries,
Would make our Sacred Truths appear like Lyes.
Besides, what pleasure can it be to hear,
The howlings of repining Lucifer,
Whose rage at your imagin'd Hero flyes,
And oft with God himself disputes the prize ?
Tasso, you'l say, has done it with applause ;
It is not here I mean to Judge his Cause :
Yet, tho our Age has so extoll'd his name,
His Works had never gain'd immortal Fame,
If holy Godfrey in his Ecstasies
Had only Conquer'd Satan on his knees ;
If Tancred, and Armida's pleasing form,
Did not his melancholy Theme adorn.
'Tis not, that Christian Poems ought to be
Fill'd with the Fictions of Idolatry ;
But in a common Subject to reject
The Gods, and Heathen Ornaments neglect ;
To banish Tritons who the Seas invade,
To take Pan's Whistle, or the Fates degrade,
To hinder Charon in his leaky Boat
To pass the Shepherd with the Man of Note,
Is with vain Scruples to disturb your mind,
And search Perfection you can never find :
As well they may forbid us to present
Prudence or Justice for an Ornament,
To paint old Janus with his front of Brass,
And take from Time his Scythe, his Wings and Glass,
And every where, as't were Idolatry,
Banish Descriptions from our Poetry.
Leave 'em their pious Follys to pursue ;
But let our Reason such vain fears subdue :
And let us not, amongst our Vanities,
Of the true God create a God of Lyes.
In Fable we a thousand pleasure see,
And the smooth names seem made for Poetry ;
As Hector, Alexander, Helen, Phillis,
Ulysses, Agamemnon, and Achilles :
In such a Crowd, the Poet were to blame
To chuse King Chilperic for his Hero's name.
Sometimes, the name being well or ill apply'd,
Will the whole Fortune of your Work decide.
Would you your Reader never should be tir'd ?
Choose some great Hero, fit to be admir'd,
In Courage signal, and in Virtue bright,
Let ev'n his very failings give delight ;
Let his great Actions our attention bind,
Like Cæsar, or like Scipio, frame his mind,
And not like Oedipus his perjur'd Race ;
A common Conqueror is a Theme too base.
Chuse not your Tale of Accidents too full ;
Too much variety may make it dull :
Achilles rage alone, when wrought with skill,
Abundantly does a whole Iliad fill,
Be your Narrations lively, short, and smart ;
In your Descriptions show your noblest Art :
There 'tis your Poetry may be employ'd ;
Yet you must trivial Accidents avoid.
Nor imitate that * Fool, who, to describe
The wondrous Marches of the Chosen Tribe,
Plac'd on the sides, to see their Armyes pass,
The Fishes staring through the liquid Glass ;
Describ'd a Child, who with his little hand,
Pick'd up the shining Pebbles from the sand.
Such objects are too mean to stay our fight ;
Allow your Work a just and nobler flight.
Be your beginning plain ; and take good heed
Too soon you mount not on the Airy Steed :
Nor tell your Reader, in a Thundr'ing Verse,
† I sing the Conqueror of the Universe.
What can an Author after this produce ?
The lab'ring Mountain must bring forth a Mouse.

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Much better are we pleas'd with his * Address
Who, without making such vast promises,
Sayes, in an easier Stile and plainer Sence,
“ I Sing the Combats of that pious Prince
“ Who from the Phrygian Coast his Armies bore,
“ And landed first on the Lavinian shore.
His op'ning Muse sets not the World on fire,
And yet performs more than we can require :
Quickly you'l hear him celebrate the same,
And future glory of the Roman Name ;
Of Styx and Acheron describe the Floods,
And Cæsars wandring in th' Elysian Woods :
With Figures numberless his Story grace,
And every thing in beauteous Colours trace.
At once you may be pleasing, and sublime ;
I hate a heavy melancholy Rhyme :
I'de rather read Orlando's Comic Tale,
Than a dull Author always stiff and stale,
Who thinks himself dishonour'd in his stile,
If on his Works the Graces do but smile.
'Tis said, that Homer, Matchless in his Art,
Stole Venus Girdle, to ingage the Heart :
His Works indeed vast Treasures do unfold,
And whatsoe're he touches, turns to Gold :
All in his hands new beauty does acquire ;
He always pleases, and can never tire.
A happy Warmth he every where may boast ;
Nor is he in too long Digressions lost :
His Verses without Rule a method find,
And of themselves appear in order joyn'd :
All without trouble answers his intent ;
Each Syllable is tending to th' Event.
Let his example your indeavours raise :
To love his Writings, is a kind of praise.
A Poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a Fantastick mind :
There must be Care, and Time, and Skill, and Pains ;
Not the first heat of unexperienc'd Brains.
Yet sometimes Artless Poets, when the rage
Of a warm Fancy does their minds ingage,
Puff'd with vain pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the Trumpet in their hand;
Their Fustian Muse each Accident confounds ;
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till their small stock of Learning quickly spent,
Their Poem dyes for want of nourishment :
In vain Mankind the hot-brain'd fools decryes,
No branding Censures can unveil his eyes ;
With Impudence the Laurel they invade;
Resolv'd to like the Monsters they have made.
Virgil, compar'd to them, is flat and dry ;
And Homer understood not Poetry :
Against their merit if this Age Rebel,
To future times for Justice they appeal.
But waiting till Mankind shall do'em right,
And bring their Works Triumphantly to Light ;
Neglected heaps we in by-corners lay,
Where they become to Worms and Moths a prey;
Forgot, in Dust and Cobwebs let 'em rest,
Whilst we return from whence we first digrest.
The great Success which Tragic Writers found,
In Athens first the Comedy renown'd,
Th' abusive Grecian there, by pleasing wayes,
Dispers'd his natu'ral malice in his Playes :
Wisdom, and Virtue, Honor, Wit, and Sence,
Were Subject to Buffooning insolence :
Poets were publickly approv'd, and sought,
That Vice extol'd, and Virtue set at naught ;
And Socrates himself, in that loose Age,
Was made the Pastime of a Scoffing Stage.
At last the Public took in hand the Cause,
And cur'd this Madness by the pow'r of Laws ;
Forbad at any time, or any place,
To name the Person, or describe the Face.
The Stage its ancient Fury thus let fall,
And Comedy diverted without Gall :
By mild reproofs, recover'd minds diseas'd,
And, sparing Persons, innocently pleas'd.
Each one was nicely shown in this new Glass,
And smil'd to think He was not meant the Ass :
Miser oft would laugh the first, to find
A faithful Draught of his own sordid mind ;
And Fops were with such care and cunning writ,
They lik'd the Piece for which themselves did sit.
You then, that would the Comic Lawrels wear,
To study Nature be your only care :
Who e're knows man, and by a curious art
Discerns the hidden secrets of the heart ;
He who observes, and naturally can Paint
The Jealous Fool, the fawning Sycophant,
A Sober Wit, an enterprising Ass,
A humorous Otter, or a Hudibras ;
May safely in these noble Lists ingage,
And make 'em Act and Speak upon the Stage :
Strive to be natural in all you Write,
And paint with Colours that may please the Sight.
Nature in various Figures does abound ;
And in each mind are diff'rent Humors found :
A glance, a touch, discovers to the wise ;
But every man has not discerning eyes.
All-changing Time does also change the mind ;
And diff'rent Ages, diff'rent pleasures find :
Youth, hot and furious, cannot brook delay,
By flattering Vice is eas'ly led away ;
Vain in discourse, inconstant in desire,
In Censure, rash ; in pleasures, all on fire.
The Manly age does steadier thoughts enjoy ;
Pow'r, and Ambition do his Soul employ :
Against the turns of Fate he sets his mind ;
And by the past the future hopes to find.
Decrepit Age, still adding to his Stores,
For others heaps the Treasure he adores.
In all his actions keeps a frozen pace ;
Past Times extols, the present to debase :
Incapable of pleasures Youth abuse,
In others blames, what age does him refuse.
Your Actors must by Reason be control'd ;
Let young men speak like young, old men like old :
Observe the Town, and study well the Court ;
For thither various Characters resort :
Thus 'twas great Johnson purchas'd his renown,
And in his Art had born away the Crown ;
If less desirous of the Peoples praise,
He had not with low Farce debas'd his Playes ;
Mixing dull Buffoonry with Wit refin'd,
And Harlequin with noble Terence joyn'd.
When in the Fox I see the Tortois hist,
I lose the Author of the Alchymist.
The Comic Wit, born with a smiling Air,
Must Tragic grief, and pompous Verse forbear ;
Yet may he not, as on a Market-place,
With Baudy jests amuse the Populace :
With well-bred Conversation you must please,
And your Intrigue unravel'd be with ease :
Your Action still should Reason's Rules obey,
Nor in an empty Scene may lose its way.
Your humble Stile must sometimes gently rise ;
And your Discourse Sententious be, and Wise :
The Passions must to Nature be confin'd,
And Scenes to Scenes with Artful weaving joyn'd
Your Wit must not unseasonably play ;
But follow Bus'ness, never lead the way.
Observe how Terence does this error shun;
A careful Father chides his Am'orous Son :
Then see that Son, whom no advice can move,
Forget those Orders, and pursue his Love :
'Tis not a well-drawn Picture we discover ;
Tis a true son, a Father, and a Lover.
I like an Author that Reforms the Age ;
And keeps the right Decorum of the Stage,
That alwayes pleases by just Reason's Rule :
But for a tedious Droll, a Quibling Fool,
Who with low nauseous Baudry fills his Plays ;
Let him begon and on two Tressels raise
Some Smithfield Stage, where he may act his Pranks
And make Jack Puddings speak to Mountebanks.