In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write;
And must no Egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the Deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Pastor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a staring Reason on his brows?
And each Blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on Man, but God?
Ask you what Provocation I have had?
The strong Antipathy of Good to Bad.
When Truth or Virtue an Affront endures,

190

195

Th' Affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. 200 Mine, as a Foe profess'd to false Pretence,

Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Sense;

Mine, as a Friend to ev'ry worthy mind;

And mine as Man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave: 205

So impudent, I own myself no Knave:

So odd, my Country's Ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.

O sacred weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole Dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence!
To all but Heav'n-directed hands deny'd,

The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide:
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal;
To rouse the Watchmen of the public Weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the Prelate slumb'ring in his Stall.

ΔΙΟ

Ye tinsel Insects! whom a Court maintains,
That counts your Beauties only by your Stains,
Spin all your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings,

220

All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of
Kings.

All, all but Truth, drop dead-born from the Press,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.

When black Ambition stains a public Cause,
A monarch's sword when mad Vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's Wreath can hide the Nation's Scar,
Not Boileau turn the Feather to a Star.

Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine,

225

230

Touch'd with the Flame that breaks from Virtue's Shrine,

Her Priestess Muse forbids the Good to die,

And opes the Temple of Eternity.

235

There, other Trophies deck the truly brave,

Than such as Anstis casts into the Grave;

Far other Stars than * and ** wear,

And may descend to Mordington from STAIR
(Such as on HOUGH's unsully'd Mitre shine,
Or beam, good DIGBY, from a heart like thine):
Let Envy howl, while Heav'n's whole Chorus sings,
And bark at Honour not conferr'd by Kings;
Let Flatt'ry sickening see the Incense rise,
Sweet to the World, and grateful to the Skies:
Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, Verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last Pen for Freedom let me draw,
When Truth stands trembling on the edge of Law;
Here, Last of Britons! let your Names be read;

Are none, none living? let me praise the Dead,

240

245

250

And for that Cause which made your Fathers shine, Fall by the Votes of their degen'rate Line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.

CONCLUSION OF THE DUNCIAD

In vain, in vain-the all-composing Hour
Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r.
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
Of Night primeval and of Chaos old!
Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying Rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain;
As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,
Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is Night.
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,

255

630

635

640

645

And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!
See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
Religion blushing veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.

For Public Flame, nor Private, dares to shine;
Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse Divine!

650

Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor❜d;
Light dies before thy uncreating word;

Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal Darkness buries All.

655

NOTES TO THE POEMS

ODE ON SOLITUDE

"This was a very early production of our author, written at about twelve years old."-Pope.

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM

"The Essay on Criticism is a poem of that species for which our author's genius was particularly turned,—the didactic and moral. . . . We are, indeed, amazed to find such a knowledge of the world, such a maturity of judgment, and such a penetration into human nature, as are here displayed, in so very young a writer as was Pope when he produced this Essay, for he was not twenty years old. . . . When we consider the just taste, the strong sense, the knowledge of men, books, and opinions that are so predominant in the Essay on Criticism, we must readily agree to place the author among the first critics, though not, as Dr. Johnson says, 'among the first poets,' on this account alone. As a poet he must rank much higher for his Eloisa and Rape of the Lock."-Warton.

Essays on the art of poetry had been written in verse, in antiquity by Horace, in the Renaissance by Vida, in the seventeenth century by Boileau and others. Pope, however, discussed the art of poetry from the point of view, not of the artist, but of the reading public. He lived in an age when every gentleman desired to be, and was expected to be, a discriminating judge of literature. Ability to discuss poetry, with wit and sense, was a valuable social accomplishment.

328. Fungoso. A character in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour.

374. Timotheus' varied lays. See Alexander's Feast, Dryden's ode in celebration of the power of music.