(That, on weak wings, from far pursues your
flights;
197
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain wits a science little known,
T" admire superior sense, and doubt their own!
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth deny'd,
She gives in large recruits of needful Pride!
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind:
Pride where Wit fails, steps 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 resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know,
Make use of every friend-and every foe.
A little learning is a dangerous thing!
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.

Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts, 219
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,
While, from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal snows appear already past,

225

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last:
But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

A perfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that its author writ:
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
The generous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
But, in such lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low,

That, shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed-but we may sleep.
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 result of all.
Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
(The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!)
No single parts unequally surprise,
All comes united to th' admiring eyes;

No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
The whole at once is bold and regular.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 197. Ed. 1. That with weak wings, &c.
Ver. 219.

Fird with the charms fair Science does impart, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Art. Ver. 223. Ed. 1. But more advanc'd, survey, &c. Ver. 225.

So pleas'd at first the towering Alps to try,
Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy,

The traveller beholds with chearful eyes
The lessening vales, and seems to tread the skies.

259

265

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T" avoid great errours must the less commit; Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles, is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice. Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encountering on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice s Made him observe the subject, and the plot, The manners, passions, unities; what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. [Knight. "Not so by Heaven !" (he answers in a rage) "Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage."

So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain:
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice,
Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
Form short ideas; and offend in arts
(As most in manners) by a love to parts.

270

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature, and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well* express'd; 298 Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit; For works may have more wit than does them good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.

Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still,the style is excellent: The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;

The face of Nature we no more survey,
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true expression, like th' unchanging Sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more suitable:
A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,
Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the

main.

For different styles with different subjects sort,
As several garbs, with country, town, and court.
Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.
Unlucky, as Fungosa in the play,
These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday,
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandsires in their doublets drest.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old:

Be not the first by whom the new are try'd,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

But most by numbers judge a poet's song; [338 And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These, equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes;
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,”
In the next line it "whispers through the trees:"
If chrystal streams with pleasing murmurs
Creep,"

The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep:"
Then at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, [along.
That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes and know
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
[join.
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,[363
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 368
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
throw,

The line too labours, and the words move slow:

Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleased too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; For Fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

[394

Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
The ancients only, or the moderns prize:
Thus wit, like faith, by each mau is apply'd
To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that sun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
Though each may feel increases and decays,
And see now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors names, not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 413
Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
That in proud dulness joins with quality;
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney-sonneteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style reines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!
The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the learn'd by being singular;
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong:
So schismatics the plain believers quit,
423
And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night,
But always think the last opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 394. Ed. 1. Some the French writers, &c.
Ver. 413. Ed. 1. Nor praise nor damn, &c.
Ver. 428. So schismatics the dull, &c.
M

[447

Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
And still tomorrow's wiser than to day.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread;
Who knew most sentences was deepest read:
Faith, gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists, now in peace remain,
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.
If Faith itself has different dresses worn,
What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
Some, valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honour merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men,
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux:
But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;
For rising merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackinores and new Milbourns must arise:
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead.
Envy will Merit, as its shade, pursue;
But, like a shadow, proves the substance true:
For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first, true merit to befriend;
His praise is lost, who stays till all commend.
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
No longer now that golden age appears,
When patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of fame (our second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is all cv'n that can boast;
Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
So when the faithful pencil has design'd
Some bright idea of the master's mind,
Where a new world leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his hand:
When the ripe colours soften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just shade and light;

VARIATIONS.

485

Ver. 447, Between this and ver. 448. The rhyming clowns that gladded Shakespeare's age,

No more with crambo entertain the stage. Who now in anagrams their patron praise, Or sing their mistress in acrostic lays? Ev'n pulpits pleas'd with merry puns of yore; Now all are banish'd to th' Hibernian shore ! Thus leaving what was natural and fit, The current folly prov'd their ready wit; And anthors thought their reputation safe, Which liv'd as long as fools were pleas'd to laugh. Ver. 495. Ed. 1. Some fair idea, &

495

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings; In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the shortliv'd vanity is lost; Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, That gayly blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy ; The most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd: Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; "Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

[500

509

If Wit so much from Ignorance undergo, Ah, let not Learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards, who could excel, And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well; Though triumphs were to generals only due, Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. Now they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, 514 Employ their pains to spurn some others down; And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools : But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill author is as bad a friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise! Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost. Good-nature and good sense must ever join; To err, is human; to forgive, divine.

519

But if in noble minds some dregs remain, Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdains Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, Though wit and art conspire to move your mind But duiness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love.

In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease,
Sprang the rank weed, and thriv'd with large in-
When love was all an easy monarch's care; [crease?
Seldom at council, never in a war:

Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;
Nay wits had pensions, and young lords had wite
The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went uniniprov'd away:

Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Generous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?

[646

Such once were critics; such the happy few Athens and Rome in better ages knew: The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore, Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore: He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, Led by the light of the Mæonian star. Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 'twas fit, Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit. Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense, Will like a friend, familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way. He who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judg'd with coolness, though he sung with fire; His precepts teach but what his works inspire. Our critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations. See Dionysius Homer's thoughts retine, And call new beauties forth from every line! Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease. In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find The justest rules and clearest method join'd: Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, 673 Still fit for use, and ready at command.

689

[668

Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, And bless their critic with a poet's fire. An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great Sublime he draws.

VARIATIONS.

Between ver. 646 and 649, I found the following lines, since suppressed by the author:

That bold Columbus of the realms of wit,
Whose first discovery's not exceeded yet,
Led by the light of the Mæonian star,
He steer'd securely and discover'd far.
He, when all Nature was subdued before,
Like his great pupil, sigh'd, and long'd for more:
Fancy's wild regions yet unvanquish'd lay,
A boundless empire, and that own'd no sway.
Poets, &c.

After ver. 648. the first edition reads,

Not only Nature did his laws obey,
But Fancy's boundless empire own'd his sway.
Ver. 655. Docs, like a friend, &c.

Ver. 655, 656. These lines are not in Ed. 1.
Ver. 668. The scholar's learning and the courtier's
Ver. 673, &c.

But soon, by impious arms from Latium chas'a Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd: Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, But critic-learning flourish'd most in France: The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd, And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd; Fierce for the liberties of Wit, and bold, We still defy'd the Romans, as of old. Yet some there were among the sounder few Of those who less presum'd, and better knew, Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws. [723 Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell, "Nature's chief master-piece is writing well." Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good, With manners generous as his noble blood; To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And every author's merit but his own. Such late was Walsh the Muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend; To failings mild, but zealous for desert; The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful Muse may give : The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries: [view, Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:

Nor thus alone the curious eye to please,
But to be found, when need requires, with ease.
The Muses sure Longinus did inspire,
And bless'd their critic with a poet's fire.
An-ardent judge, that zealous, &c.

VARIATIONS.

All was believed, but nothing under

stood. Between ver. 690 and 691, the author omitted these Vain wits and critics were no more allow'd, [two: When none but saints had license to be proud, Ver. 723, 724 These lines are not in Ed. 1.