Page images
PDF
EPUB

(Beafts, urg'd by us, their fellow beafts purfue,
And learn of man cach other to undo) [roves,
With flaught'ring guns th'unwearied fowler
When frofts have whiten'd all the naked groves,
Where doves in flocks the leaflefs trees o'erfhade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat’ry glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a fhort thunder breaks the frozen fky:
Oft, as in airy rings they fkim the heath,
The clam'rous lapwings feel the leaden death:
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
. In genial fpring, beneath the quiv'ring fhade,
Where cooling vapours breath along the mead,
The patient fifher takes his filent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand,
With looks unmov'd, he hopes the fcaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed.
Our plenteous ftrcams a various race fupply,
The bright-ey'd perch, with fins of Tyrian dye,
The filver ecl, in fhining volumes roll'd,
The yellow carp, in fcales bedrop'd with gold,
Swift trouts, diverfify'd with crimson stains,
And pykes, the tyrants of the wat’ry plains.
Now Cancer glows with Phobus' fiery car:
The youth rush eager to the fylvan war,
Swarin o'er the lawns, the forest walks furround,
Roufe the fleet hart, and cheer the op'ning hound.
Th'impatient courfer pants in cv'ry vein,
And, pawing, feems to beat the distant plain :
Hills, vales, and floods appear already croís'd,
And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are loft.
See the bold youth ftrain up the threat'ning fteep,
Rush thro' the thickets, down the valleys fweep,
Hang o'er their courfers heads with cager fpeed;
And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Th'immortal huntrefs, and her virgin-train;
Nor envy, Windfor! fince thy fhades have feen
As bright a Goddefs, and as chafte a Queen;
Whofe care, like her's, protects the fylvan reign;
The Earth's fair light, and Emprefs of the main.
Here too, 'tis fung, of old Diana ftray'd,
And Cynthus' top forfook for Windfor fhade;
Here was the feen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear fpring, or haunt the pathlefs grove;
Here, arm'd with filver bows, in early dawn,
Her bufkin'd virgins trac'd the dewy lawn.

Above the reft a rural nymph was fam'd, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd; (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion caft, laft.) The Mufe fhall fing, and what the fings fhall Scarce could the Goddefs from her Nymph be known,

But by the crefcent, and the golden zone.
She fcorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waift, a fillet binds her hair;
A pointed quiver on her fhoulder founds,
And with her dart the flying deer fhe wounds.
Ir chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the foreft's verdant limits ftray'd,
Pan faw and lov'd; an, burning with defire,
Parfu'd her flight; her flight increas'd his fire.
Nat half fo fwift the trembling doe can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid fky;

[merged small][ocr errors]

As from the God fhe flew with furious pace,
Or as the God, more furious, urg'd the chace.
Now fainting, finking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his founding fteps the hears;
And now his fhadow reach'd her as the run,
His fhadow lengthen'd by the fetting fun;
And now his fhorter breath, with fultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames the calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur❜d maid. [vain;
Faint, breathlefs, thus the pray'd, nor pray'd in
"Ah Cynthia! ah-tho' banish'd from thy train,
"Let me, O let me, to the fhades repair,
"My native thades-there weep, and murmur
She faid, and melting as in tears the lay, [there."
In a foft filver ftream diffolv'd away.

The filver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where the rang'd before. :
In her chafte current oft the Goddefs laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glafs the mufing fhepherd fpies
The headlong mountains and the downward
fkies;

The watry landskip of the pendant woods,
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are feen,
And floating forefts paint the waves with green;
Thro' the fair feene roll flow the ling'ting ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the
Thames.

Thou, too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride furvey'ft our lofty woods;
Where tow'ring oaks their growing honours rear,
And future navies on thy fhores appear,
Not Neptune's felf from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas fo 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 ftars above a luftre fhow,

Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, fubdu'd by mortal paffion ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright court ap

proves,

:

His fov'reign favours, and his country loves ; Happy next him, who to thefe fhades retires, Whom nature charms, and whom the Mufe infpires:

Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and eafe.

He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragrant phyfic spoils the fields:
With chemic arts exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic fouls of flow'rs:
Now marks the courfe of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;

Of

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'obferve a mean, be to himself a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end;

Still in thy fong fhould vanquifh'd France appear, And bleed for ever under Britain's fpear.

Let fofter strains 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:

Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes, Whom not th'extended Albion could contain,

Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars 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 fire 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 with fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's Hill.
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths fhall grow,
While lafts the mountain, or while Thames fhall
I feem thro' confecrated walks to rove, [flow.)
I hear foft mufic die along the grove:
Led by the found, I roam from thade to fhade,
By god-like poets venerable made:
Here his firft lays majestic Denham fung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
O early loft! what tears the river fhed [tongue.
When the fad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since Fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly voice,
No more the forefts ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley
ftrung

His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these reviv’d? or is it Granville fings?
'Tis yours, my Lord, to bless our soft 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 rife,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To fing thofe honours you deserve 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 heav'nly Mira now.
Oh! would't thou fing what heroes Windfor
bore,

What kings first breath'd upon her winding fhore,
Or raife old warriors, whote ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age.
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious
The lilies blazing on the regal fhield: [field,
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,

From old Belerium to the northern main,

The grave unites; where e'en the great find reft, And blended lie ti'oppreffor and th'oppreft!

Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obfcure the place, and uninfcrib'd the stone) : Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion fhed! Heav'ns, what new wounds!-and how her old have bled!

She faw her fons with purple deaths expire,
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of inteftine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
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 ftreain
His fhining 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 her banks Augufta role in gold;
Around his throne the fea-born brothers stood,
Who fwell'd with tributary urns his flood!
First, 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 dark streams his flow'ry iflands lave;
And chalkey 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.
High in the inidft, 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 fpoke; the winds forget to roar, And the hush'd waves glide foftly to the fhore.

Hail, facred Peace! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars fhall raife! Tho' Tyber's ftreams immortal Rome behold, Tho' foaming Hermus fwells with tides of gold, From heav'n itself tho' feven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms beltows; Thefe now no more fhall be the Mufe's themes, Loft in my fame, as in the fea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, 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 unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;

The

The fhady empire fhall retain no trace

Of war or blood, but in the fylvan chace; [blown,
The trumpet fleep, while cheerful horns are
And arms employ'd on birds and beafts alone.
Behold! th'afcending villas on my fide
Project long shadows o'er the cryftal tide.
Behold! Augufta's glitt'ing fpires increase,
And temples rife, the beauteous works of peace.
fee, I fee, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
There mighty nations fhall enquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings thall fue, and fuppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.

Thy trees, fair Windfor! now fhall leave their

woods,

And half thy forefts rush into thy floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
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 fpicy gales!
For me the balm thall bleed, and 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 thall 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 feck the old.
Then thips of uncouth form fhall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy fide,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
Oh ftretch thy reign, fair Peace! from fhore to

fhore,

Til Conquest ceafe, and Slav'ry 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 fhall barb'rous difcord dwell:
Gigantic Pride, pale 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 thall 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 verfe 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 spring,
And featters bleffings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more fweetly pafs my careless days,
Pleas'd in the filent fhade with empty praife;
Enough for me, that to the lift'ning fwains
Firit in thefe fields I fung the fylvan ftrains.

§ 3. Two Charuffes to the Tragedy of Brutus. POPE.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

YE fhades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught:
Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay infpir'd!

In vain your guiltlefs laurels ftood
Unfpotted long with human blood.

And fteel now glitters in the Mufes fhades.
War, horrid war, your thoughtlefs walks invades,

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth and myftic Song !

To what new clime, what diftant sky,
Forfaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?

Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens finks by fates unjuft, When wild Barbarians fpurn her duft; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmoft fhore Shall ceafe to blush with stranger's gore; See Arts her favage fons controul, And Athens rifing near the pole ! Till fome new Tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madnefs tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE 11.

Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!
Still, when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMICHORUS.

OH, Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wifdom and Wit in vain reclaim,

And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.

* Altered from Shakespear by the Duke of Buckingham, at whofe defire these two Choruffes were com pofed, to fupply as many wanting in his play. They were fet, many years afterwards, by the famous Bononcini, and performed at Buckingham-houfe.

[ocr errors]

Love, foft intruder, enters here;
But ent'ring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves;
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,~
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

[blocks in formation]

Sound fleep by night; ftudy and eafe,

Together mix'd; fweet recreation! And innocence, which moft does please With meditation.

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

$5. The Dying Chriftian to his Soul. POPE. ODE.

VITAL fpark of heav'nly 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 Spirit 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 fting?

'TIS

1

§ 6. An Essay on Criticism. POPE.
IS 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 fenfe.
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 juft alike, yet each believes his own.
In Pocts, as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as feldom is the Critic's fhare
Both inuft alike from Heav'n derive their light,
Thefe born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let fuch teach others who themfelves excel,
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too? *

Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind.
Yet, if we look more clofely, we shall find
Nature affords at leaft a glimm'ring light;
The lines,tho'touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the flighteft sketch, if justly trac❜d,
Is by ill colouring but the more difgrac'd,
So by falfe learning is good fente defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And fome made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.

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

}

In

In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common sense,
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 fill an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing fide.
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpight,
There are who judge ftill worfe than he can write.
Some have first for Wits, then Pocts past,
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.
Thole 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 feek 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 narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in thofe confin'd to fingle parts.
Like kings, we lofe the conquefts 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 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 teft of Art.
Art from that fund each just supply provides;
Works without fhow, and without pomp prefides:
In fome fair body thus th'informing foul
With fpirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve fuftains;
Itfelf unfeen, but in th'effects remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n 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 spur the Mufe's fteed;
Reftrain his fury, than provoke his speed:
The winged courfer, like a gen'rous horse,
Shows 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 liberty, 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 fhow'd, And pointed out thofe arduous paths they trod ; Held from afar, aloft, th'immortal prize, And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rife. Juft precepts thus from great examples giv❜n, She drew from them what they deriv'd from The gen'rousCritic fann'd the Poet's fire, [Heav'n. And taught the world with reafon to admire. Then Critici in the Mufe's hand-maid prov❜d, Todrefs 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 learn'd. So modern 'Pothecaries taught the art, By Doctors bills, to play the Doctor's part; Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prefcribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey; Nor time nor months e'er spoil'd fo much as they : Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. Thefe leave the fenfe, their learning to display; Ard thofe explain the meaning quite away.

You then whofe judgment the right courfe would fteer,

Know well each Antient's proper character:
His Fable, Subject, 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
ims bring,

And trace the Mufes upward to their fpring.
Still with itfelf compar'd his text perufe;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Mufe.

When firft 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:
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 design;
And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'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 refembles 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 antwer 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

« PreviousContinue »