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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 Cate,
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 snakes shall 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 strains,
Paints the green forefts and the flow'ry plains,
Where Peace defcending bids her olives fpring,
And scatters 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 these fields I fung the fylvan ftrains.

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Ye Gods! what justice 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 state!
Still when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perifhes, fome Tully bleeds.


OH, Tyrant Love! haft thou poffefs'd

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast
Wifdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
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 imprefs'd?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?


Love's purer flames the Gods approve ; The Gods and Brutus bend to love; Brutus for abfent Portia fighs, And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes. What is loofe love? a tranfient guft, Spent in a fudden storm of luft, A vapour fed from wild defire, A wand'ring, felf-confuming fire. But Hymen's kinder flames unite, And burn for ever one; Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light Productive as the Sun.


Oh, fource of ev'ry focial tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, hufband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his fpoufe's fonder eye,
Or views his fmiling progeny;

What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.


Hence guilty joys, diftaftes, furmifes;
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprifes;

Fires that fcorch, yet dare not fhine!
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leifure,
Days of eafe and nights of pleafure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

Altered from Shakespeare by the Duke of Buckingham, at whose defire thefe two Chorufes were com pofed, to fupply as many wanting in his play. They were fet many years afterwards by the famous Bonon◄ sini, and performed at Buckinghm-house.

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§ 5. Ode on Solitude*. POPE. HAPPY the man, whose with and care A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire;
Whofe trees in fummer yield him fhade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years flide foft away;
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day.

Sound fleep by night, study and ease

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 ftone
Tell where I lie.

$6. The dying Chriftian to bis Soul. PorE. O D E.

VITAL fpark of heavenly flame!

Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whifper; 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 cars
With founds feraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?

§ 7. An Efay on Criticifm. POPE.
IS hard to fay, if greater want of kill
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 himfelf 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 Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare;
Both muft alike from Heaven derive their light,
Let fich teach others who themselves excel,
Thefe born to judge, as well as thofe to write.
And cenfure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not Critics to their judgment too?


Yet, if we look more clofely, we fhall find
Moft have the feeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at leaft a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly,are drawn right.
But as the flighteft fketch, 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 fchools,+
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 ftill 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 ifle,
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 discreet,
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 still to make them more:

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


Many are fpoil'd by that pedantic throng,
Who with great pains teach youth to reafon wrong.
Tutors, like virtuofos, oft inclin'd
By ftrange transfufion to improve the mind,

Draw off the fenfe we have, to pour in new;
Which yet, with all their skill, they ne'er could



Each might his fervile province well command, Would all but ftoop to what they understand.

First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her juft ftandard, which is ftill 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 fupply 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 sustains;
Itself unfeen, but in th' effects remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse*,
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 most true mettle when you check his courfe.
Those rules of old difcover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature ftill, but Nature methodiz'd.
Nature, like monarchy, is but restrain'd
By the fame laws which first herself ordain'd.
Hear how learn'd Greece her ufeful rules in-

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;
Held 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'rousCritic fann'd the Poet's fire,[heaven.
And taught the world with reafon to admire.
Then Criticifm the Mufe's hand-maid prov'd,
To drefs her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention stray'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 mistaken rules,
Prefcribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths c'er fpoil'd fomuch as they:
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems 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, 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 t.

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 spring.
Still with itfelf compar'd his text perufe;
Or 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 defign;
And rules as ftrict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a juft efteem;
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 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 diforder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art;
Which, without paffing through the judgment,

The heart, and all its end at once attains.
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,
AsKings difpenfe with laws themfelves 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 leaft, their precedent to plead.
The Critic elfe proceeds without remorfe,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whofe prefumptuous

Thofe freer beauties, ev'n in them, feem faults.
Some figures monftrous and mif-fhap'd appear,
Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near;

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Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always must display
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.
Thofe oft are ftratagems which errors feem;
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.

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 Paans ring!
In praise so 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 universal praise !
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 spark of your celeftial fire
The laft, the meaneft, of your fons inspire[ flights;
(That on weak wings, from far, purfues your
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To teach vain Wits a fcience little known;
T'admire fuperior fenfe, 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 fenfe.
If once right reafon drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with refiftlefs day.
Truft not yourfelf; 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 fpring:
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 fee the lengths behind;
But, more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
New diftant fcenes of endless science rite!
So pleas'd at firft the tow ring Alps we try
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
Th'eternal fnows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains feem the laft:
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!

So pleas'd at fift the tow'ring Alps to try, F'd with ideas of fair Italy,

A perfect judge will read each work of Wit
With the fame spirit that its author writ:
Survey the whole, nor feck 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, fhunning faults, one quict tenor keep;
We cannot blame indeed-but we may sleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts
Is not th' exactnefs 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 surprise;

All comes united to th' admiring eyes:
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length ap-


The whole at once is bold and regular.

Whoever thinks a faultlefs piece to fee, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall 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 fpite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, fometimes men of wit, T'avoid great errors, muft the lefs commit; Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, For not to know fome trifles is a praise. Moft Critics, fond of fome fubfervient art, Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: They talk of principles, but notions prize; And all to one lov'd folly facrifice.

Once on a time, LaMancha's Knight, they say, A certain Bard encount'ring on the way, Difcours'd in terms as juft, with looks as fage, As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian ftage; Concluding all were defp rate fots and fools Who durft depart from Ariftotle's rules. Our Author, happy in a judge fo nice, Produc'd his play, and begg'd the Knight's advice; Made him obferve the fubject and the plot, The manners, paffions, unities; what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a Combat in the lifts left out. "What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. [Knight; "Not fo, by heaven !" he anfwers in a rage; "Knights, 'fquires, and steeds, muft enter on the ftage."


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

Thus Critics of lefs judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing; not exact, but nice, Form fhort ideas; and offend in arts (As moft in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to Conceit alone their tafte confine, And glitt'ring thoughts ftruck out at ev'ry line;


The traveller beholds, with cheerful eyes,
The lefs'ning vales, and feems to tread the skies.


Pleas'd with a work where nothing's juft or fit; | Then, at the laft and only couplet fraught

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 ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is Nature to advantage drefs'd;
What oft was thought, but ne'er fo well exprefs'd;
Something, whofe truth convinc'd at fight we find,
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As fhades more fweetly recommend the light,
So modeft plainnefs fets off fprightly wit.
For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
As bodies perifh thro' excess of blood.

Others for language all their care exprefs,
And value books, as women men, for drefs:
Their praife is ftill-The Style is excellent;
The Senfe they humbly take upon content.
Words are like leaves; and, where they most

Much fruit of fenfe beneath is rarely found.
Falfe eloquence, like the prifmatic glafs,
Its gaudy colours fpreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no more furvey;
All glares ålike, without distinction gay:
But true Expreffion, like th' unchanging Sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it fhings upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expreffion is the drefs of thought, and still
Appears more decent as more fuitable;
A vile conceit, in pompous words exprefs'd,
Is like a clown in regal purple drefs'd:
For diffrent ftyles with different fubjects fort,
As fev'ral garbs with country, town, and court.
Some, by old words, to fame have made pretence;
Ancients in phrafe, mere moderns in their fenfe:
Such labour'd nothings, in fo ftrange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned fmile.
Unlucky as Fungofo in the play,


Thefe fparks, with aukward vanity, display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
And but fo mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandfires, in their doublets dreft.
In words, as fashions, the fame rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the laft to lay the old afide.

But moft by numbers judge a poet's fong;
And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong:
In the bright Mufe tho' thoufand charms confpire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
Thefe equal fyllables alone require,
Tho' 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 fame unvaried chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes;
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line, "it whifpers thro' the trees:'
If crystal ftreams "with pleafing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "fleep."

With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong, [along.
That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and

What's roundly smooth, or languishingly flow;
And praise the eafy vigour of a line
Where Denham's ftrength and Waller's sweetness

True cafe in writing comes from art, not chance;
As thofe move eaficft who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The found muft feem an echo to the fenfe:
Soft is the ftrain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in fmoother numbers flows;
But when loud furges lafh the founding shore,
The hoarfe, rough verfe fhould like the torrent


When Ajaxstrives fome rock's vaftweight tothrow,
The line too labours, and the words move flow:
Not fo, when swift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays furprise
And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love:
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood fubdued by found!
The pow'r of mufic all our hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Avoid extremes, and thun the fault of fuch
Who ftill are pleas'd too little or too much.
At ev'ry trifle fcorn to take offence;
That always fhews great pride, or little sense:
Thofe heads, as ftomachs, are not fure the best,
Which naufeate all, and nothing can digeft.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of fenfe, approve :
As things feem large which we thro' mifts defcry;
Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, fome our own, despise;
The ancients only, or the moderns, prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one fmall fect, and all are damn'd befide.
Meanly they feek the bleffing to confine,
And force that fun but on a part to fhine,
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens fpirits in cold northern climes;
Which from the first has fhone on ages paft,
Enlights the prefent, and fhall warm the last;
Tho' each may feel increafes and decays,
And fee now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the falfe, and value ftill the true.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town;
They reafon and conclude by precedent,
And own ftale nonfenfe which they ne'erinvent
Some judge of authors names, not works; ; nd then
Nor praife nor blame the writings, but t emen.

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