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Comes from afar, in gratitude, to own

Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright, The great supporter of his father's throne: And proudly shine in their own native light; What tides of glory to his bosom ran,

Rais'd of themtelves, their genuine charms they Claip'd in th’embraces of the yodlike man!

boast, How were his cyes with pleasing wonder fixt, And those who paint them truest praise them most. To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt, Such easy greatness, such a graceful port, So turn'd and finish'd for the camp or court !

§ 34. An Allegory on Man. PARNELL. Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace,


THOUGHTFUL being, long and spare, And Nireus Thone but in the second place;

Our race of mortals call hin Care Thus the great father of almighty Rome (Were Homer living, well he knew (Divinely Autht with an immortal bloom What name the gods have call'd him too);

That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow’d) With fine mechanic genius wrought,
In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd. And lov'd to work, tho' no one bought.
The royal youth by Marlborough's presence This being, by a model bred

In Jove's eternal sable head,
Taught by his counsels, by his actions warın'd, Contriv'd a Nape impower'd to breathe,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,

And be the worldling here bencath.
Discharges all his thunder on its watls;

The man rose staring, like a stake,
O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight, Wond'ring to see himself awake!
And learns to conquer in the hero's light. Then look'd so wise, before he knew

The British chicf, for mighty toils renown'd, The business he was made to do;
Increas'd in titles, and with conquests crown'd, That, pleas'd to fee with what a grace
To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews, He gravely shew'd his forward face,
And the long windings of the Rhinc pursues, Jore talk'd of breeding him on higli,
Clearing its borders from uturping focs, An under-something of the sky.
And bleft by refcu'd nations as he goes.

But cre he gave the inighty nod,
Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms; Which ever binds a Poci's God
And Tracrbach feels the terror of his arms : (For which his curls ambrosial shake,
Scated on rocks her proud foundations thakc, And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake)
While Marlborough presses to the bold attack, Hc faw old mother Earth arife;
Plants all his batteries, bids his cannon roar, She stood confess'd before his eyes;
And thews how Landau might have fall’n before. But not with what we read the wore,
Scard at his near approach, great Louis fears A castle for a crown before,
Vengeance reserv'd for his declining years ; Nor with long streets and longer roads
Forgets his thirst of universal fway,

Dangling behind her, like commodes :
And scarce can teach his subjects to obey ; As yet with wreaths alone she drest,
His arms he finds on vain attempts ernploy'd, And trail'd a landskip-painted veft.

Th’ambitious projects for his race destroy’d, Then thrice the rais'd, as Ovid said,
The works of ages funk in one campaign, And thrice The bow'd her weighty head.
And lives of millions facrific'd in vain.

Her honors made, Great Jove, the cry'd,
Such are th'effects of Anna's royal carcs : This thing was fashion'd from my side:
By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars, His hands, his heart, his head, are mine ;
Ranges thro' nations, wherefoe'er disjoin'd, Then what haft thou to call him thine?
Without the wonted aid of tea and wind.

Nay, rather ask, the Monarch said,
By her th’unfetter'd Ister's states are frec, What boots his hand, his heart, his head?
And taste the sweets of English liberty: Were what I gave remov'd away,
But who can tell the joys of those that lie Thy part's an idle thare of clay.
Beneath the constant influence of her eye? Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care
Whilft in diffusive showers her bounties fall, Your pleas would make your titles fair,
Like Heaven's indulgence, and descend on all, You clain the body, vou the foul;
Secure the happy, succour the difreit,

But I who join'd them, claim the whole. Make ev'ry subject glad, and a whole people Thus with the Gods debate began, blest.

On such a trivial cause as Van.
Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse And can cclestial tompers rage ?
In the finooth records of a faithful verse; Quoth Virgil, in a latter age.
That, if such numbers can o'er tinc prevail, As thus they wrangled, Time came by
May tell pofterity the wond'rous tale.

(There's none that paint him such as I;
When actions, unadorn'd, are faint and weak, For what the fabling ancients sung
Cities and countries must be taught to speak; Makes Saturn old when Time was young);
Gods may descend in tactions from the skies, As yet his winters had not shed
And rivers from their oozy beds arise;

Their filver honors on his head; Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays, He just had got his pinions free And round thic hero calt a borrow'd blaze. Froin his old Gire, Eternity.


A for

A ferpent girdled round he wore,
The tally win the mouth, before;
By which our almanacs are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A ftaff he carry'd, where on high
A glafs was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a fhow
For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day and night, was py'd;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;

And fpring's new months his train adorn!
The other Seafons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause.

O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where fince his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate: Since body from the parent Earth, And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began; But fince their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth fhall part thefe two, To Care who join'd them, man is due,

He said, and iprung with swift carcer To trace a circle for the year; Where ever fince the Seafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove; and for confent, Thund'ring, he fhook the firmament. Our umpire Time fhall have his way; With Care I let the creature ftay: Let bus'nefs vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion fpeak, And want afflict, and ficknefs break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy diftract, and forrow kill;. Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long deftructive blow; And wafted man, whofe quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The foul flies fooner back to me.

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COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day;
The Book-worin, rav'ning beaft of prey,
Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,
As fame reports it with the Gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thoufand authors lives:
Thro' all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his wit with cluft'ring eyes,
With horns without, and tufks within,.
And feales to ferve him for a skin.
Obferve him nearly, left he climb
To wound the Bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear fome modern wretch below..
On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he flips thee by.

See where his teeth a paffage eat t
We'll route him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's forc'd to give?
'Tis facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along,
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he feuds the cover o'er ;
He turns, he doubles, there he paft;
And here we have him, caught at laft.

Infatiate brute! whofe teeth abufe
The fweeteft fervants of the Muse.
(Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His rofes nipt in ev'ry page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lefbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half deftroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,
They rend Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentless Juftice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myfelf the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here.
Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' ruftic ftrain;
Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,-there he lies,
And here between his num'rous eyes
This venerable duft I lay,
From manufcripts juft fwept away.

The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation's yet to make)
A health to poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praife;
Senfe may they feek, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party-rage.
But if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again!

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye Gods! what fonnets on a wench!
What lean tranflations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,
Sprints before the months go round.

But hold, before I clofe the fcene,
The facred aitar thould be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never mis'd your works till now)

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I'd rear the leaves to wipe the shrine

My manhood felt a vig'rous fire, (That only way you please the Nine);

By love increas’d the more; But since I chance to want these two,

But years with coining ycars confpire I'll make the 10 gs of Duricy do.

To break the chains I wore. Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,

In weakness safe, the sex I see I hang the scales that brac'd it in;

With idle luftre fhine; I hang my ftudious morning gown,

For what are all their joys to me, And ivrite my own intcription down.

Which cannot now be mine? • This trophy from the Python won, This rohe in which the deed was done,

But hold I feel my gout decrcase, • Thcie, Parnell, glorying in the feat,

My troubics laid to reit, • Hung on these shelves, the Muses' feat.

And truths which would disturb my peace • Here ignorance and hunger found

Are painful truths at best. • Lirge realms of wit to ravage round:

Vainly the time I have to roll • Here ignorance and hunger fell :

In sad reflection fies; • Two foes in one I fent to hell.

Ye fondling patlions of my soul ! • Ye poets, who my labours fee,

Ye fiveei deceits! arili. • Come share the triumph all ivith me!

I wisely change the scene within, • Ye Critics! born to vex the Musc,

To things that us’d to please; •Go mourn the grand ally you lose.'

In pain, philofophy is fpleen;

In health, 'tis only ease. 36. An Imitation of some French Perfes.

PARNELL, RELENTLESS Time! deft: oving pow'r,

§ 37. An Ejily on Poetry. * BUCKINGHAM, Whoin stone and brass ovey, Who giv'it to ev'ry flying hour

of all those arts in which the wife excel,

Nature's chief master-piece is writing well : To work fome new decay;

No wrong lifts exnited man to high Unheard, unheeded, and unfeen,

is tacted and foul-moving Poly: Thy secret laps prevail,

No kind of walk requires to nice a touch; And ruin man, a nice machine,

And, if well finish d, nothing shines so much, By nature form’d to fail.

But Hcav'n forbid we thould be so profane, My change arrives; the change I meet, To grace the vulgar with that noble name. Before I thought it nigh.

'Tis not a Hath of fancy, which, fumetiines My spring, my years of pleasure flicet,

Dazzling our minds, set off the flightest rhymes: And all their beauties die.

Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done :
age I search, and only find

True wnt is everlasting, like the fin,
A poor unfruitful gain,

Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd, Grave Wisdom stalking slow behind,

Breaks out a ai!, and is by all admir'i. Oppress’d with loads of pain.

Number and rhyme, and that ha'zonious sound, My ignorance could once beguile,

Which not the nicest ear with harthness wound And fancy'd joys inspire ;

Are neceflary, yet but vulgar arts ;

And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts My errors cherish'd Hope to smile

Contribute to the structure of the whole,
On ncwly-born delire.

Without a genius too; for that's the soul:
But now experience shews the bliss
For which I fondly fought,

A spirit which infpires the work throughout,

As that of nature moves the world about; Not worth the long impatient with,

A Aame that glows amid conceptions fit: And ardour of the thought.

Ev'n something of divine, and incre than wit; My youth met Fortune fair array'd,

Itself unleen, vet ail things by it shown, Io all her pomp she thone,

Describing all men, but defcribed by none! And might perhaps have well estay'd,

Where doit thoudwell? what caverns of the brain To make her gifts my own;

Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ! But when I saw the blessings show'r

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abience On some unworthy mind,

mburn, I left the chace, and ownd the Pow'r.

Oh! where dost thou retire? and why doit thou Was justly painted blind.


away I pass’d the glories which adorn

Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry ine The splendid courts of kings,

From pleasures of the night and bus'nels of the And while the persons mov'd my scorn, Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain [day? I rose to scorn the things.

To check thy course and use the needful rein,

* The “ Eslay on Satire,” which was written by shis noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.


As all is dulness when the fancy's bad, But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad; Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
And judgment has a boundlets influence This to the praise of those who better knew ;
Not only in the choice of words, or fense, The many raise the value of the few.
But on the world, on manncrs, and on men : But here (as all our lux too oft have try'd)
Fancy is but the feather of the pen ;

Women have drawnmy wand'ring thoughts aside,
Reason is that fubitantial useful part, [heart. Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Which gains the head, while i'other wins the Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
Here I thall all the various forts of versc, But thould this Muse harmonious numbers yield,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse ;

And ev'ry couplst be with fancy fillid; But who that task would after Horace do ? If yet a just coherence lx not made Thc bett af matters, and cxampics too ! Between each thought ; and the whole model Echocs at bett, all we can say is vain ;

laid Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain. So right, that every line might higher rise, "Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease ! Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies, But who with that mcan thift himself can plcase, Such trifles may perhaps of late have past, Without an actor's pride? A player's art And inay be lik'd awhile, but never last; Is above his who writes a borrow'd part. 'Tis cpigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will, Yet modern laws are made for latter faults, But not an elegy, nor writ with fkill, And now absurdities inspire new thoughts; No * Panegyric, nor a + Cooper's Hill. What need has Satire then to live on theft, A higher fight, and of a happier force, Wien 10 much fresh occafion ftill is left? Are Odes: the Mufcs most unruly hortc, Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds, Thai Bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest, And montters worse than ever Nilus brecds. Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poliest. But hold, the fool thall have no caule to fear; The poet here muti be indeed inspir'd 'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here : With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd. Defects of witty men deserve a cure;

Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part, And thote who are so, will ev’n this endure. Had he with nature join'd the rules of art; First then, of songs, which now so inuch abound; But sometimes di&tion mean, or verle ill-wroughts Without his song no fop is to be found ; Deadens or clouds his noble frame of thought. A most offensive weapon, which he draivs Though all appear in heat and fury done, On all he meets againit Apollo's laws.

The language still must foft and cafy run. Tho' nothing seems more easy, yet no part

These laws


found a little too leverc; Of poetry requires a nicer ait;

But judgment yields, and fancy governs here; For as in rows of richest pearl there lies Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows, Niany a blenish that escapes our cyes,

And makes the work much easier than it shows The least of which defects is plainiy thown Of all the ways that wiselt men could find In one finall ring, and brings the value davn. To inend the age, and inortify mankind, So fongs should be to just perfection wrought; Satire well writ has most fuccessful provid, Yet where can one be icen without a fault? And cures, because the remcdy is lov'd. Exact propricty of words and thought;

'Tis hard to write on such a subjcēt more, Exprcision caly, and the fancy high;

Without repeating things said oft before : Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly; Some vulgar errors only we'll remove, No words transpos’d; but in fuch order all, That Itain a beauty which we so much love. As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall. Of choten words fóme take not care enough, Here, as in all things elle, is most unfit, And think they should be as the fubject, rough; Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit ; This pocm must be more exactly made, Such nauseous fongs by a late author fi made, And sharpelt thoughts in smoothcft words conCall an unwilling cenfure on his ihade.

vey'd. Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail, Can shock the chaficít, or the niceft cloy : As if their only business was to rail : But words obscene, too grofs to move desire, But human frailty nicely to unfold, Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire. Distinguishes a satyr from a scold. On other theines he well deferves our praise ; Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down; But palls that appetite he meant to raise. A latyr's simile is tharper than his frown;

Next, Elegy, of sweet, but folemn voice, So while you seem to flight fome rival youth, And of a subject grave, exacts the choice; Malice itlelf riay pafs fometiines for truth. The praife of beauty, valour, wit contains ; The Laureart here may justly claim our praise, And there too oft despairing love complains : Crown’d by Mac Flecknoes with immortal bays; In vain, alas ! for who by wit is mov'd ? Yet once his Pegasus $ has bornc dead weight, That Phænix-she deserves to be belov'd; Rid by some lumpish minister of state.

+!The Farl cf Rochefter. It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascribed to this aobleman were fpurious: * Waller's. + Denham's. | Mr. Dryden. | A fainous Satirical Puem of hiso § A pocin call’d The Hind and Panther:


Here reft, my Mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile, | Plato and Lucian are the best remains

A more important task attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the fkv,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprize before,
Y'er what wide lands and feas the is to foar;
Youbts her own ftrength fo far, and juftly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet, incited by fome bold defign,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Pruncs ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At latt, refolv'd, the cleaves the yielding air;
Away the flies, fo ftrong, to high, so fast,
he leffens to us, and is loft at laft;
o (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Mufe infpires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
fo guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my Mufe, advent'roufly engage
To give inftructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obferv'd, give plays to great a grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the prefent age,
Lefs obvious errors of the English stage.

First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely fhort, and spoke in paffion too.
Our lovers talking to themfelves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet if thus
They truft a friend, only to tell it us;
Th'occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when Beilario + confefles all,

Figures of fpeech, that poets think fo fine
(Art's needlefs varnish to make nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in defcriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief difcourfe,
From lovers in defpair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed; for who can chufe but pity
A dying hero miferably witty?

But oh the Dialogues, where jeft and mock
Is held up like a reft at fhittle-cock;
Or elfe, like bells, cternally they chime;
They figh in Simile, and dye in Rhyme.
What things are thefe who would be poets

By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better courfe than this by which they ftarve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay, more; for they must look within, to find
Thofe fecret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a foul.
All this united yet, but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almoft loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince but by a few.

Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we juftice must allow,
Shakefpcare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Confider then, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grofsly fail,
Over our paflions ftill they to prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Thur beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
Firit on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand fev'ral ways;
This oft, alone, has given fuccefs to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no fuch thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs monfter which the world ne'er

Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew;
But fuch as may deferve compation too.
Befides the main defign, compos'd with art,
Each moving fcene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mar ev'ry place,
As painters firft chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amils. [place,
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to
As what a man would say in fuch a cafe:
Neither in comedy will this fuffice;
The player too must be before your eyes;
And tho' 'tis drudgery to ftoop fo low,
To him you muft your fecret meaning fhow
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
Morc equally, and fpread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he :
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very ow! may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r
Ingredients to compose that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleafure and for ufe;
In fpite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff ftands inimitable yet.

Another fault, which often may befal,
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow; that is, be none at all-
That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe, as if poff.ft,
And each by infpiration breaks his jeft.
If once the juftnefs of each part be lost,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's coft.
That filly thing men call fheer-wit, avoid,
With which our rage fo naufeoufly is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit thould be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper thought.

But fince the poets we of late have known,
Shine in no drefs fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fet f.
Firft a foliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reafon is exactly weig'i'd;

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