University of Virginia Library

Canto II.

Pastoral.

As a fair Nymph, when Rising from her bed,
With sparkling Diamonds dresses not her head ;
But, without Gold, or Pearl, or costly Scents,
Gathers from neighb'ring Fields her Ornaments :
Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal,
Ought to appear a Perfect Pastoral :
Its humble method nothing has of fierce,
But hates the ratling of a lofty Verse :
There, Native beauty pleases, and excites,
And never with harsh Sounds the Ear affrights.
But in this stile a Poet often spent,
In rage throws by his * Rural Instrument,
And vainly, when disorder'd thoughts abound,
Amid'st the Eclogue makes the Trumpet Sound :
Pan flyes, Alarm'd, into the neighb'ring Woods,
And frighted Nymphs dive down into the Floods.
Oppos'd to this another, low in stile,
Makes Shepherds speak a Language base and vile :
His Writings, flat and heavy, without Sound,
Kissing the Earth, and creeping on the ground ;
You'd swear that Randal, in his Rustick Strains,
Again was quav'ring to the Country Swains,
And changing, without care of Sound or Dress,
Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess.
Twixt these extreams 'tis hard to keep the right ;
For Guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite :
Be their just Writings, by the Gods inspir'd ;
Your constant Pattern, practis'd and admir'd.
By them alone you'l easily comprehend
How Poets, without shame, may condescend
To sing of Gardens, Fields, of Flow'rs, and Fruit,
To stir up Shepherds, and to tune the Flute,
Of Love's rewards to tell the happy hour,
Daphne a Tree, Narcissus made a Flower,
And by what means the Eclogue yet has pow'r
* To make the Woods worthy a Conqueror :
This of their Writings is the grace and flight ;
Their risings lofty, yet not out of Sight.

Elegy.

The Elegy, that loves a mournful stile,
With unbound hair weeps at a Funeral Pile,
It paints the Lovers Torments, and Delights,
A Mistress Flatters, Threatens, and Invites :
But well these Raptures if you'l make us see,
You must know Love, as well as Poetry.
I hate those Lukewarm Authors, whose for'cd Fire
In a cold stile describes a hot Desire,
That sigh by Rule, and raging in cold blood
Their sluggish Muse whip to an Amorous mood :
Their feign'd Transports appear but flat and vain ;
They always sigh, and alwayes hug their Chain,
Adore their Prison, and their Suff'rings bless,
Make Sence and Reason quarrel as they please.
'Twas not of old in this affected Tone
That Smooth Tibullus made his Amorous moan ;
Nor Ovid, when, Instructed from above,
By Nature's Rules he, taught the Art of Love.
The Heart in Elegies forms the Discourse.

Ode.

The Ode is bolder, and has greater force.
Mounting to Heav'n in her Ambitious flight,
Amongst the Gods and Heroes takes delight ;
Off Pisa's,Wrestlers tells the Sin'ewy force,
And sings the dusty Conqueror's glorious Course :
To Simois streams does fierce Achilles bring,
And makes the Ganges bow to Britan's King.
Sometimes she flies, like an Industrious Bee,
And robs the Flow'rs by Nature's Chymistry,
Describes the Shepherds Dances, Feasts, and Bliss,
And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a Kiss,
When gently she resists with feign'd remorse,
That what she grants may seem to be by force :
Her generous stile at random oft will part,
And by a brave disorder shows her Art.
Unlike those fearful Poets, whose cold Rhyme
In all their Raptures keep exactest time,
That sing th'Illustrious Hero's mighty praise
(Lean Writers !) by the terms of Weeks and Dayes;
And dare not from least Circumstances part,
But take all Towns by strictest Rules of Art :
Apollo drives those Fops from his abode ;
And some have said, that once the humorous God
Resolving all such Scriblers to confound
For the short Sonnet order'd this strict bound :
Set Rules for the just Measure, and the Time,
The easy running, and alternate Rhyme;
But, above all, those Licenses deny'd
Which in these Writings the lame Sence Supply'd ;
Forbad an useless Line should find a place,
Or a repeated Word appear with grace.
A faultless Sonnet, finish'd thus, would be
Worth tedious Volumes of loose Poetry.
A hundred Scribling Authors, without ground
Believe they have this only Phoenix found :
When yet th' exactest scarce have two or three
Among whole Tomes, from Faults and Censure free.
The rest, but little read, regarded less,
Are shovel'd to the Pastry from the Press.
Closing the Sence within the measur'd time,
'Tis hard to fit the Reason to the Rhyme.

Epigram.

The Epigram, with little art compos'd,
Is one good sentence in a Distich clos'd.
These points, that by Italians first were priz'd,
Our ancient Authors knew not, or despis'd :
The Vulgar, dazled with their glaring Light,
To their false pleasures quickly they invite ;
But publick Favor so increas'd their pride,
They overwhelm'd Parnassus with their Tide .
The Madrigal at first was overcome,
And the proud Sonnet fell by the same Doom ;
With these grave Tragedy adorn'd her flights,
And mournful Elegy her Funeral Rites :
A Hero never fail'd 'em on the Stage,
Without this point a Lover durst not rage ;
The Amorous Shepherds took more care to prove
True to their Point, than Faithful to their Love.
Each word, like Janus, had a double face :
And Prose, as well as Verse allow'd it place :
The Lawyer with Conceits adorn'd his Speech,
The Parson without Quibling could not Preach,
At last affronted Reason look'd about,
And from all serious matters shut 'em out :
Declar'd that none should use 'em without Shame,
Except a scattering in the Epigram ;
Provided that, by Art, and in due time
They turn'd upon the Thought, and not the Rhime.
Thus in all parts disorders did abate ;
Yet Quiblers in the Court had leave to prate :
Insipid Jesters, and unpleasant Fools,
A Corporation of dull Punning Drolls.
'Tis not, but that sometimes a dextrous Muse
May with advantage a turn'd Sence abuse,
And, on a word, may trifle with address ;
But above all avoid the fond excess,
And think not, when your Verse and Sence are lame,
With a dull Point to Tag your Epigram.
Each Poem his Perfection has apart ;
The Brittish Round in plainness shows his Art ;
The Ballad, tho the pride of Ancient time,
Has often nothing but his humorous Rhyme ;
The † Madrigal may softer Passions move,
And breath the tender Ecstasies of Love :
Desire to show it self, and not to wrong
Arm'd Virtue first with Satyr in its Tongue.

Satyr.

Lucilius was the man who bravely bold,
To Roman Vices did this Mirror hold,
Protected humble Goodness from reproach,
Show'd Worth on foot and Rascals in the Coach :
Horace his pleasing Wit to this did add,
And none uncensur'd could be Fool, or mad ;
Unhappy was that Wretch, whose name might be
Squar'd to the Rules of their Sharp Poetry.
Persius, obscure, but full of Sence and Wit,
Affected brevity in all he writ !
And Juvenal, Learn'd as those times could be,
Too far did stretch his sharp Hyperbole ;
Tho horrid Truths through all his labors shine,
In what he writes there's something of Divine :
Whether he blames the Caprean Debauch,
Or of Sejanus Fall tells the approach,
Or that he makes the trembling Senate come
To the stern Tyrant, to receive their Doom ;
Or Roman Vice in coursest Habits shews,
And paints an Empress reeking from the Stews :
In all he Writes appears a noble Fire ;
To follow such a Master then desire,
Chaucer alone fix'd on this solid Base ;
In his old Stile, conserves a modern grace :
Too happy, if the freedom of his Rhymes
Offended not the method of our Times.
The Latin Writers, Decency neglect ;
But modern Readers challenge our respect,
And at immodest Writings take offence,
If clean Expression cover not the Sence.
I love sharp Satyr, from obsceneness free ;
Not Impudence, that poaches Modesty :
Our English, who in Malice never fail,
Hence, in Lampoons and Libels, learnt to Rail ;
Pleasant Detraction, that by Singing goes
From mouth to mouth, and as it marches grows !
Our freedom in our Poetry we see,
That Child of Joy, begot by Liberty.
But, vain Blasphemer, tremble, when you chuse
God for the Subject of your Impious Muse :
At last, those Jeasts which Libertines invent
Bring the lewd Author to just punishment,
Ev'n in a Song there must be Art, and Sence ;
Yet sometimes we have seen, that Wine, or Chance
Have warm'd cold Brains, and given dull Writers
And furnish'd out a Scene for Mr. S— : (Mettle,
But for one lucky Hit, that made thee please,
Let not thy Folly grow to a Disease,
Nor think thy self a Wit ; for in our Age
If a warm Fancy does some Fop ingage ;
He neither eats or sleeps, till he has Writ,
But plagues the World with his Adulterate Wit.
Nay, 'tis a wonder, if, in his dire rage,
He Prints not his dull Follies for the Stage ;
And, in the Front of all his Senceless Plays,
Makes * David Logan Crown his head with Bayes.