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Not Neptune's felf from all her ftreams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas lo rich, fo gay no banks appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no fpring fo clear;
Nor Po fo fwells the fabling Poet's lays,
While led along the fkies his current strays,
As thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the manfion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars above a luftre fhew
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, fubdued by mortal paflion ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright Court ap-
His fov reign favours, and his country loves:
Happy, next him, who to thefe fhades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Mufe
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quict pleafe,
Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and cafe.
He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragrant phyfic fpoils the fields;
With chemic arts exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic fouls of flow'rs:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;,
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Confults the dead, and lives paft ages o'er:
Or, wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood,
Attends the duties of the wife and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred ftars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confefs her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd;
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus, retir'd.
Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs, Whofe raptures file me, and whofe vifions blefs, Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd scenes, The bow'ry mazes, and furrounding greens; To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill, Or where y■ Muses sport on Cooper's Hill (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths fhall grow, While lalts the mountain, or while Thames fhali I feem thro' confecrated walks to rove, [How). I hear foft mufic die along the grove: Led by the found, I roam from hade to fhade, By godlike poets venerable made : Here his first lays majestic Denham fung; There the laft numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.
O early lot what tears the river fhed,
When the fad pomp along his banks were led !
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley
His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the foreft rings!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville fings?
'Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs our foft retreats,
And call the Mufes to their ancient feats;
To paint anew the flow'ry fylvan scenes,
To crown the forefts with immortal greens,
Make Windfor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing thofe honours you deferve to wear,
And add new luftre to her filver ftar.
Here noble Surrey felt the facred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchlefs his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lifts, and graceful in the dance :
In the fame fhades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the fame notes, of love, and foft defire :
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh wouldst thou fing what heroes Windfor
What kings firft breath'd upon her winding fhore;
Or raife old warriors, whofe ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains ;
With Edward's acts adorn the thining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age;
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal fhield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy fong thould vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.
Let fofter ftrains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the Martyr King the marble weeps,
And, faft befide him, once-fear'd Edward fleeps:
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find reft,
And blended lie th' oppreffor and th' oppreft!
Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obfcure the place, and uninfcrib'd the fione). Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion fhed Heavens! what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She faw her fous with purple deaths expire,
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful ferics of inteftine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and difhoneft fears.
At length great Anna faid-Let difcord ceafe!'
She faid, the world obey'd, and all was peace!
In that bleft moment from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head,
His treffes dropp'd with dews, and o'er the fiream
His thining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His fwelling waters and alternate tides;
The figur'd ftreams in waves of filver roll'd,
And on their banks Augufta rofe in gold;
Around his throne the fea-born brothers food,
Who fwell with tributary urns his flood;
Fift, the fam'd authors of his ancient name,
The winding Ifis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet fwift, for filver eels renown'd;
The Loddon flow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whofe clear ftreams his flow'ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, tranfparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his fedgy treffes rears;
And fullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And filent Darent, ftain'd with Danish blood,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our fpeech, our colour, and our ftrange attire !
Oh ftretch thy reign, fair Peace! from fhore to
Till Conqueft ceafe, and Slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their fable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exil'd by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb'rous Difcord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pałe Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition fhall attend her there;
There purple Vengeance bath'd in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hateful Envy her own fnakes fhall feel,
And Perfecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gafping furies thirst for blood in vain.
Here ceafe thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of Gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the fcenes of op'ning fate to light:
My humble Mufe, in unambitious ftrains,
Paints the green forefts and the flow'ry plains,
Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
And fcatters bleffings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more fweetly pafs my careless days,
Pleas'd in the filent fhade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the lift'ning fwains
First in thefe fields I fung the fylvan strains.
High in the midft, upon his urn reclin'd, His fea-green mantle waving with the wind, The God appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windfor domes and pompous turrets rife! Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hufh'd waves glide foftly to the fhore. Hail, facred Peace! hail, long expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars fhall raise! Tho' Tyber's ftreams immortal Rome behold, Tho' foaming Hermus fwells with tides of gold, From Heaven itself tho' seven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; Thefe now no more fhall be the Mufes' themes, Loft in my fame, as in the fea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron fquadrons fhine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barb'rous Ganges arm a fervile train; Be mine the bleffings of a peaceful reign! No more my fons fhall dye with British blood Red Iber's fands, or Ifter's foaming flood: Safe on my fhore each unmolefted fwain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; The fhady empire fhall retain no trace Of war or blood but in the fylvan chace; The trumpet fleep while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employed on birds and beafts alone. Behold! th' afcending villas on my fide Project long fhadows o'er the cryftal tide. Behold! Augufta's glitt'ring fpires increase, And temples rife, the beauteous works of peace. I fee, I fee, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall afcend! There mighty nations fhall enquire their doom, The world's great oracle in times to come; There kings fhall fue, and fuppliant ftates be feen Once more to bend before a British queen.
Thy trees, fair Windfor! now shall leave their woods,
And half thy forefts rush into my floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her crofs difplay,
To the bright regions of the rifing day :
Tempt icy feas, where fcarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole
Or under fouthern fkies exalt their fails,
Led by new ftars, and borne by spicy gales:
For me the balm fhall bleed, the amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow:
The pearly fhell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the rip'ning ore to gold.
The time fhall come when, free as feas or wind,
Unbounded Thames fhall flow for all mankind;
Whole nations enter with each fwelling tide,
And feas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's diftant ends our glory fhall behold,
And the new world launch forth to feek the old.
Then fhips of uncouth form fhall ftem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy fide;
§ 6. Two Chorufes to the Tragedy of Brutus POFE.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
YE fhades, where facred truth is fought
Groves, where immortal Sages taught,
Where heavenly vifions Plato fir`d,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!
In vain your guiltlefs laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtless walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Mufes' fhades.
ANTIS TROPHE 1.
Oh heaven-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song!
To what new clime, what diftant sky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic thore
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft shore
Shall ceafe to bluth with strangers' gare;
* Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whofe defire thefe two Chorufes were compofed, to fupply as many wanting in his play. They were fet many years afterwards by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.
§ 9. An Efay on Criticifm. POPE.
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 fenie,
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 with our judgments as our watches; none Go just 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,
Art from that fund each just supply provides;
Works without show, and without pomp prefides:
True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare;
Both muft alike from Heaven derive their light,In fome fair body thus th' informing foul
Thefe 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 ton?
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itfelf unfeen, but in th' effects remains.
Yet, if we look more clofely, we fhall 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
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,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
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 who judge ftill worfe than he can write.
Some have at firft for Wits, then Poets pafs'd,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at laft.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pafs;
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor afs.
Thofe half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle,
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 feck 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, tafte, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet, And mark that point where fenfe and dulnefs meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, 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 nariow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confin'd to fingle parts. Like Kings, we tofe the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more : Each might his fervile province well command, Would all but ftoup to what they understand.
Firft follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the fame : Unerring Nature, ftill divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and univerfal light, Life, force, and beauty, muft to all impart ; At once the fource, and end, and test of Art.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profufe,
Want as much more, to turn it to its ufe;
For wit and judgment often are at ftrife,
Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
'Tis more to guide, than fpur the Mufe's steed;
Reftrain his fury, than provoke his speed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horfe,
Shews moft true mettle when you check his courfe.
Thofe rules of old difcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature ftill, but Nature methodiz'd.
Nature, like monarchy, is but reftrain'd
By the fame laws which first herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,
When to reprefs, and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnaffus' top her fons the fhew'd,
And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod;
Field from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the reft by equal steps to rife.
Juft precepts thus from great examples given,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from
The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,
And taught the world with reafon to admire.
Then Criticism the Mufe's hand-maid prov'd,
To dref's her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention ftray'd;
Who could not win the miftrefs, woo'd the maid;
Against the Poets their own arms they turn'd,
Sure to hate moft the men from whom they
So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art [learn'd.
By Doctors' bills to play the Doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of iniftaken rules,
Prefcribe, apply, and call their mafters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths c'er spoil'd fo much as they
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how pocts may be made.
Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to difplay;
And thofe explain the meaning quite away.
You then whofe judgment the right courfe would fteer,
Know well each Ancient's proper character:
His fable, fubject, fcope in ev'ry page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all thefe at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticize.
Be Homer's works your study and delight;
Read them by day, and meditate by night:
Thence form your judgment, thence your max-
And trace the Mufes upward to their spring.
Still with itself compar'd his text perufe;
Or let your comment be the Mantuan Mufe.
When first young Maro in his boundless mind
A work t'outlaft immortal Rome defign'd,
Perhaps he feem'd above the Critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains fcorn'd to draw:
(That on weak wings, from far, purfues your
But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the fame.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold defign;
And rules as ftrict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'erlock'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare ;
For there's a happinefs as well as care:
Mufic resembles Poetry; in each
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a mafter-hand alone can reach.
If, where the rules not far enough extend
(Since rules were made but to promote their end),
Some lucky Licence anfwer to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.
Thus Pegafus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great Wits fometimes may gloriously offend,
And rife to faults true Critics dare not mend ;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And fnatch a grace beyond the reach of art;
Which, without paffing through the judgment,
The heart, and all its end at once attains. [gains
In profpects thus, fome objects please our eyes
Which out of nature's common order rife,
The fhapelefs rock, or hanging precipice.
But tho' the Ancients thus their rules invade,
As Kings difpenfe with laws themselves have made,
Moderns, beware! or, if you must offend
Against the precept, ne'er tranfgrefs its end;
Let it be feldom, and compell'd by need;
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
The Critic elfe proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whofe prefumptuous
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To teach vain Wits a fcience little known;
T'admire fuperior sense, and doubt their own!
Of all the caufes which confpire to blind
Man's erring 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 fouls 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 reafon drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with refiftlefs day.
Truft not yourself; but, your defects to know,
Make ufe of ev'ry friend and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or tafte not the Pierian spring:
There fhallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely fobers us again.
Fir'd at first fight with what the Mufe imparts,
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 ftrange furprise
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 sky;
Th' eternal fnows appear already paft,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the last:
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!
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, and rapture warms the mind;
Nor lofe, for that malignant dull delight,
The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit.
But in fuch lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low;
That, thunning 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.
Thus when we view fome well-proportion'd dome,
The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!
No fingle parts unequally furprise;
All comes united to th' admiring cyes:
No monftrous height, or breadth, or length ap-
The whole at once is hold and regular.
Whoever thinks a faultless 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 spite of trivial faults, is due.
Still green with bays each ancient altar ftands,
Above the reach of facrilegious hands;
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,
- Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
See from each clime the learn'd their incenfe bring!
Hear, in all tongues confenting Peans ring!
In praise fo just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.
Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of univerfal praife!
Whofe honours with increase of ages grow,
As ftreams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
Nations unborn your mighty names fhall found,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found
O may fome fpark of your celeftial fire
The laft, the meaneft, of your fons infpire
Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults.
Some figures monstrous and mif-shap'd appear,
Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near;
Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due diftance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always muft difplay
His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array;
But with th' occafion and the place comply,
-Conceal his force, nay feem fometimes to fly.
Thefe oft are stratagems which errors feem;
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.