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See Ats her favage fons controul,
And Athens rifing near the pole!
me new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
A civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods! what juftice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves;
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oars'd effects of civil hate,
hery age, in ev'ry state!
V the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMICHORUS.

yant Love! haft thou poffefs'd prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast ? W and Wit in vain reclaim, Lats but foften us to feel thy flame. Love, foft intruder, enters here;

tent ring learns to be fincere. cs, with blushes, owns he loves; And Brutus tenderly reproves. Why, Virtue, doft thou blame desire, Which Nature has imprefs'd? Why, Nature, doft thou soonest fire The mild and gen'rous breast?

CHORUS.

Love's purer flames the gods approve;
The gas and Brutus bend to love;
Is for abfent Portia fighs,

Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.
oofe love? a tranfient gult,
11 fudden ftorm of luft,
A fed from wild defire,
Amering, felf-confuming fire,

Avmen's kindred flames unite,
And burn for ever one;

Cute as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.

SEMICHORUS.

e of ev'ry focial tie,
with, and mutual joy!

us joys on one attend,
ather, brother, husband, friend!

This hoary fire he fpies,

ouand grateful thoughts arise; this fpoufe's fonder eye, s his fmiling progeny; tender paffions take their turns, What home-felt raptures move! Ebart now melts, now leaps, now burns, Wza rev'rence, hope, and love.

CHORUS.

alty joys, diftaftes, furmifes; tars, deceit, difguifes, dats, delays, furprises;

Fires the forch, yet dare not shine!

unwafting treasure,

Conftant faith, fair hope, long leifure,
Days of ease and nights of pleafure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

Pope.

7. Ode on Solitude*.
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound;
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire;
Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, flide soft away:
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day:

Sound fleep by night, ftudy and ease
Together mix'd; fweet recreation!
And innocence which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a ftone
Tell where I lie.

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VITAL fpark of heavenly flame!

Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels fay,
Sifter fpirit, come away!
What is this abforbs me quite,
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it difappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting!

Pope.

9. An Effay on Criticism.
'Tis hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing, or in judging ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs.
A fool might once himself alone expofe;
Now one in verfe makes many more in profe.

'Tis without judgments, as our watches; none Go juft alike, yet each believes his own.

*This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old.

In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare;
Both muft alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as thofe to write.
Let fuch teach others who themselves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find
Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn
right.

But as the flightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill-colouring but the more difgrac'd;
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
Andfomemade coxcombs Nature meant butfools.
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fenfe,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's fpite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpite,
There are whojudge ftill worfe than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pafs'd,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fool at laft,
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pafs;
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor afs.
Thofe half-learn'dwritings,num'rous in our ifle,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
'Their generation's fo equivocal:

To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require;
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.
But you, who seek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a Critic's noble name,
Be fure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, talte, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where fenfe and dullness
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, [meet.
And wifely curb'd proud man's pretending wit:
'As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide fandy plains;
Thus in the foul while memory prevails,
The folid pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's foft figures melt away,
One fcience only will one genius fit;
So vaft is art, fo narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts.
Like Kings, we lose the conquelt gain'd before,
By vain ambition ftill to make them more:
Each might his fervile province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is ftill the fame;
Unerring Nature, ftill divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light,
Life, force, and heauty, must to all impart;
At once the fource, and end, and teft of Art.

Art from that fund each just fapply provid
Works without show,and without pomp pret
In fome fair body thus th' informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the wh
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftai
Itfelf unfeen, but in th' effect remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been pro
Want as much more, to turn it to its ufe;
For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and
'Tis more to guide, than fpur the Mufe's it
Restrain his fury, than provoke his fpeed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horte
Shewsmuch true mettle whenyoucheckhisco

Thofe rules of old discover'd, not devis
Are Nature ftill, but Nature methodiz'd.
Nature, like monarchy, is but reftrain'd
By the fame laws which firft herself ordain'
Hear how learn'd Greece her ufeful r

indites,

When to reprefs, and when indulge our fli
High on Parnaffus' top her fons the fhew'
And pointed out thofe arduous paths they t
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rile.
Juft precepts thus from great examples give
She drew from them what they deriv'd
heaven,

The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reafon to admi
Then Criticism the Mufe's handmaid prov
Todrefs her charms, and make her more belo
But following wits from that intention ftr..
Who could not win the miftrefs,woo'd the m
Against the Poets their own arms they turn
Sure to hate moft the men from whom
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art [le
By Doctor's bills to play the Doctor's part
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prefcribe, apply, and call their masters foo
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey
Nor time nor moths e'er fpoil'd fo much as t
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poets may be made
Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to dip
And thofe explain the meaning quite away.

You then whofe judgment the right co
would fteer,

Know well each Ancient's proper characte
His fable, fubject, fcope, in ev'ry page:
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your cyes;
Cavil you may, but never criticize.
Be Homer's works your ftudy and delight
Read them by day, and meditate by night
Thence form your judgment, thence

maxims bring,

And trace the Mufes upwards to their fprin
Still with itself compar'd his text perules
Or let your comment be the Mantua's Mu

When firft young Maro in his boundles
A work t'outlaft immortal Rome defign'd
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critics law,
And but fromNature's fountains scorn'd tod

But went examine ev'ry part he came,

Honer were, he found, the fame. namaz'd, he checks the bold defign;) Arte frict his labour'd work confine, At Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line. La bence for ancient rules a just esteem; nure is to copy them.

A

beauties yet no precepts can declare;
happiness as well as care:
les Poetry; in each

graces which no methods teach,
And hd:matter-hand alone can teach.
I, vtiles not far enough extend
e made but to promote their end)
S Licence answer to the full

propos'd, that Licence is a rule. Ps, a nearer way to take,

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Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To teach vain Wits a science little known;
T'admire fuperior fenfe, and doubt their own!

Of all the caufes which confpire to blind
Man's érring judgment, and mifguide the mind,
What the weak head with ftrongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth denied,
She gives in large recruits of needful Pride;
For as in bodies, thus in souls we find [wind:
What wants in blood and fpirits, fwell'd with
Pride, where Wit fails, fteps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with refiftlefs day.
adly deviate from the common track. Truft not yourfelf; but, your defects to know,
W kmetimes may gloriously offend, Make ufe of ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe.
Bolts true Critics dare not mend; A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
bounds with brave diforder part, Drink deep, or tafte not the Pierian fpring:
grace beyond the reach of art; There fhallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
Sot paffing through the judgment, And drinking largely fobers us again.
dall its end at once attains. [gains Fir'd at firft fight, with what the Mufe imparts,
thus, fome objects please our eyes
In fearlefs youth we tempt the heights of Arts,
cinature's common order rife, While from the bounded level of our mind
s rock or common precipice.
Short views we take, nor fee the lengths behind;
Ancients thus their rules invade, But, more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
eafewithlawsthemselveshavemade, New diftant fcenes of endless science rife!
So pleas'd at firft the tow'ring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and feem to tread the fky;
Th' eternal fnows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the lafta
But, thofe attain'd, we tremble to furvey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increafing profpect tires our wand'ring eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arife!

beware! or, if you must offend precept, ne'er tranfgefs its end; Leto, and compell'd by need; : atlant, their precedent to plead. Talcproceeds without remorse,

, and puts his laws in force.
are, to whofe prefumptuous

es, ev'n in them, feem faults.
rous and mis-fhap'd appear,
or beheld too near;

tion'd to their light, or place,
nciles to form and grace.
always muft difplay
equal ranks, and fair array;
tion and the place coinply,
force, nay feem fometimes to fly.
fratagems which errors feem;
ter nods, but we that dream.
with bays each ancient altar ftands,
each of facrilegious hands;
Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,
War, and all-involving Age.
dime thelearn'dtheir incenfebring!
tongues confenting Peans ring!
at let ev'ry voice be join'd,
gen'ral chorus of mankind.
triumphant! born in happier days;
hein of univerfal praife!

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with increase of ages grow,
fo down, enlarging as they flow;
your mighty names fhall found,
pud that must not yet be found!
Park of your celeftial fire
maneft, of your fons infpire

A perfect judge will read each work of Wit
With the fame fpirit that its author writ;
Survey the whole, nor feek flight faults to find,
Where nature moves, & rapture warms the mind;
Nor lofe, for that malignant dull delight,
The gen'rous pleafure to be charm'd with wit.
But in fuch lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low;
That fhunning faults, one quiet tenor keep;
We cannot blame indeed-but we may fleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts
Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full refult of all.
Thuswhenweview fome well-proportion'd dome,
The world's just wonder,and e'en thine,O Rome;
No fingle parts unequally furprife;

All comes united to th' admiring eyes:
No monftrous height, or breadth, or length
appear;

The whole at once is bold and regular.

Whoever thinks a faultlefs piece to fee,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er fhall be.
In ev'ry work regard the writer's end,
Since none can compafs more than they intend;
And if the means be juft, the conduct true,
Applaufe, in fpite of trivial faults, is due.

As

As

as men of breeding, fometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, muft the lefs commit; Neg the rules each verbal Critic lays, For not to know fome trifles is a praife. Moft Critics, fond of fome fubfervient art, Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: They talk of principles, but notions prize; And all to one lov'd folly facrifice.

Once on a time, La Mancha's Kaight, they fay, A cert in Bard encount'ring on the way,

A vile conceit, in pompous words exp Is like a clown in regal purple dreit: For diff'rent styles with diff'rent fubje As fev'ral garbs with country, town, a Some, by old words, to fame have made Ancients in phrafe, mere moderns in the Such labour'd nothings, in fo ftrange a Amaze th' unlearn'd,and make the learn Unlucky as Fungofo in the play, Thefe fparks, with awkward vanity, di

Difcours'd in terms as juft, with looks as fage,What the fine gentleman wore yeitere.

As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian ftage;
Concluding all were defpirate fot, and fools
Who durit depart from Amtotle's rules.
Our Author, happy in a judge fo nice,
Produc display,andberg'd theKnight'sadvice,
Made him obferve the fubje&t and the plot,
The manners, paffions, unities: what not?
All which, exact to rule, we' e brought about,
Were but a Combat in the lifts left out.

And but fo mimic ancient wits at bet
As apes our grandfires, in their double
In words, as thions, the fame rule wi
Alike fantastic, if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tr
Nor yet the last to lay the old afide.

But most by numbers judge a poet's And finooth or roughwith them is righto In thebright Mule tho'thoufandcharms c

What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Her voice is all thefe tuneful fools adm

Knight;

Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. "Not fo, by heaven!" he anfwers in a rage; "Knights, fquires, and steeds, muft enter on the "ftage."

So vaft a throng the ftage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain." Thus Critics of lefs judgment than coprice, Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice, Form thort ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to Conceit alone their tafte confine, And glittring thoughts ftruck out at ev'ry line; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft or fit; One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus, unfkill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is Nature to advantage drefs'd; What oft was thought, but ne'er fo wellexprefs'd; Something,whofe truth convinc'datfight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As flades more fweetly recommend the light, So modeft plainnefs fets off fprightly wit. For works may have more wit thandoes 'emgood, As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.

Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praife is ftill-The Style is excellent; The Senfe they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and, where they moft abound,

Much fruit of fenfe beneath is rarely found.
Falfe eloquence, like the prifmatic glafs,
Its gaudy colours ipreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more furvey;
All glares alike, without diftinétion gay:
But true expreffion, like th' unchanging Sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it fhines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Exprettion is the drefs of thought, and fill
Appears more decent as more fuitable;

Who haunt Parnaffus but to please the Not mend their minds; as fomne to church Not for the doctrine, but the mufic the Thefe equal fyllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do je And ten low words oft creep in one dul While they ring round the fame unvarie With fure returns of ftill expected rhy Where'er you find "the cooling western In the next line, "it whispers thro' the If cryftal ftreams "with pleafingmurmur Thereader'sthreaten'd(notinvain) with Then, at the laft and only couplet frav With fome unmeaning thing hey call a A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong, That, like a wounded fnake,drags its lic Leave fuch to tune their own dull thyn know

What's roundly fmooth, or languifhing! And praise the eafy vigour of a line Where Denham's ftrength and Waller'ssv join.

True eafe in writing comes from art, not As thofe move eaficft who have learn'd t Tis not enough no harthnefs gives offe The found muft feem an echo to the fer Soft is the ftrain when zephyr gently bl Andthefimoothftreaminfmoother numbe But when loud furges lath the founding The hoarie, rough verfe fhould like the

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Pic and Greeks like turns of nature found,
Award's victor stood fubdued by found!
Tew of mufic all our hearts allow;
Adi Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
drd extremes, and thun the fault of fuch
il are pleas'd too little or too much.
Atv's tide scorn to take offence;
Tays fhews great pride, or little sense:
Testheds, as ftomachs, are not fure the best,
Wate all, and nothing can digest.

arach gay turn thy rapture move;
Fire, but men of fenfe approve:
Anlarge which we thro'miftsdefcry;
Dever apt to magnify.

reign writers, fome our own, defpife; ents only, or the moderns, prize. uke faith, by each man is applied tallet, and all are damn'd befide. they seek the bleffing to confine, force that fun but on a part to shine, ct alone the fouthern wit fublimes, Les fpirits in cold northern climes; from the first has shone on ages paft, the prefent, and fhall warm the last; may feel increases and decays, tow clearer and now darker days. Athen if wit be old or new,

the falfe, and value ftill the true. eer advance a judgment of their own, catch the fpreading notion of the town; on and conclude by precedent, lenonfenfe which they ne'er invent. authors' names,notworks; and then rbiame the writings, but the men. vile herd, the worst is he dulnefs joins with quality:

at the great man's board, arry nonienfe for my lord: Wwtaff this madrigal would be, hackney fonnetteer, or me! cart once own the happy lines,

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Scotifts and Thomifts now in peace remain
Amidft their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If faith itself has diff'rent dreffes worn,
What wonder modes in witshouldtaketheirturn!
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think the reputation fafe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd tolaugh.

Some valuing those of their own fide or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind!
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praife ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rofe,
In various fhapes of parfons, critics, beaux:
But fenfe furviv'd when merry jefts were past,
For rifing merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns muft arife:
Nay, fhould great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its fhade, pursue;
But, like a fhadow, proves the fubftance true:
For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' oppofing body's groffnefs, not its own.
When first that fun too pow'rful beams difplays,
It draws up vapours which obfcure its rays;
But ev'n thofe clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
His praife is loft who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but juft to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch wits furviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of fame (our fecond life) is loft,
And bare threefcore is all e'en that can boaft;
Our fons their fathers' falling language fee,
And fuch as Chaucer is fhall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has defign'd

brightens! how the ftyle refines ! Some bright idea of the master's mind,

cred name flies ev'ry fault, exalted ftanza teems with thought! g thus thro' imitation err; the earn'd by being fingular: they fcorn the crowd, that if the throng go right, they purposely go wrong: rates the plain believers quit, but damned for having too much wit. ale at morning what they blame atnight; ys think the last opinion right. by thete is like a miftrefs tis'd; ethe's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; their weak heads, like towns unfortified, enfe and nonfenfe daily changetheirfide. the caufe; they're wifer ftill, they fay; 4 to-morrow's wifer than to day. * our fathers fools, fo wife we grow ; was, no doubt, will think us fo. -divines this zealous ifle o'erfpread; molt fentences was deepest read : i, all feem'd made to be difputed, e had fenfe enough to be confuted:

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Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
When the ripe colours foften and unite,
And fweetly melt into juft fhade and light;
When mellowing years theirfull perfection give,
And each bold figure just begins to live;
The treach'rous colours the fair art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things,
Atones not for that envy which it brings.
In youth alone its empty praife we boalt;
But foon the fhort-liv'd vanity is loft:
Like fome fair flow'r the early fpring fupplies
That gaily blooms, but ev`n in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which muft our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that other men enjoy :
Then most our trouble ftill when moft admir'd,
And ftill the more we give, the more requir'd;
Whofe fame with pains we guard, but lole with
Sure fome to vex, but never all to pleafe: [eate,
Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous fhun;
By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

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