In these more dull, as more censorious days,When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,A muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew,Pays what to friendship and desert is due.Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found5Art strength'ning nature, sense improved by sound.Unlike those wits whose numbers glide alongSo smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song:[5]Laboriously enervate they appear,And write not to the head, but to the ear:10Our minds unmoved and unconcerned they lull,And are at best most musically dull:So purling streams with even murmurs creep,And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.As smoothest speech is most deceitful found,}15The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound,}And leave our lab'ring fancy quite aground.[6]}But wit and judgment join at once in you,Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too:Your strains are regularly bold, and please}20With unforced care, and unaffected ease,}With proper thoughts, and lively images:}Such as by nature to the ancients shown,Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:For great men's fashions to be followed are,25Although disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.Some in a polished style write pastoral,Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan muse,[7]Decked in those flow'rs her native fields produce,30With modest charms would in plain neatness please,}But seems a dowdy in the courtly dress,}Whose awkward finery allures us less.[8]}But the true measure of the shepherd's witShould, like his garb, be for the country fit:35Yet must his pure and unaffected thoughtMore nicely than the common swain's be wrought.So, with becoming art, the players dressIn silks the shepherd and the shepherdess;Yet still unchanged the form and mode remain,40Shaped like the homely russet of the swain.Your rural muse appears to justifyThe long lost graces of simplicity:So rural beauties captivate our senseWith virgin charms, and native excellence.45Yet long her modesty those charms concealed,'Till by men's envy to the world revealed;For wits industrious to their trouble seem,And needs will envy what they must esteem.Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,50Which would, if Virgil lived, on Virgil wait;Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight;Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight;So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.55
In these more dull, as more censorious days,When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,A muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew,Pays what to friendship and desert is due.Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found5Art strength'ning nature, sense improved by sound.Unlike those wits whose numbers glide alongSo smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song:[5]Laboriously enervate they appear,And write not to the head, but to the ear:10Our minds unmoved and unconcerned they lull,And are at best most musically dull:So purling streams with even murmurs creep,And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.As smoothest speech is most deceitful found,}15The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound,}And leave our lab'ring fancy quite aground.[6]}But wit and judgment join at once in you,Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too:Your strains are regularly bold, and please}20With unforced care, and unaffected ease,}With proper thoughts, and lively images:}Such as by nature to the ancients shown,Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:For great men's fashions to be followed are,25Although disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.Some in a polished style write pastoral,Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan muse,[7]Decked in those flow'rs her native fields produce,30With modest charms would in plain neatness please,}But seems a dowdy in the courtly dress,}Whose awkward finery allures us less.[8]}But the true measure of the shepherd's witShould, like his garb, be for the country fit:35Yet must his pure and unaffected thoughtMore nicely than the common swain's be wrought.So, with becoming art, the players dressIn silks the shepherd and the shepherdess;Yet still unchanged the form and mode remain,40Shaped like the homely russet of the swain.Your rural muse appears to justifyThe long lost graces of simplicity:So rural beauties captivate our senseWith virgin charms, and native excellence.45Yet long her modesty those charms concealed,'Till by men's envy to the world revealed;For wits industrious to their trouble seem,And needs will envy what they must esteem.Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,50Which would, if Virgil lived, on Virgil wait;Whose muse did once, like thine, in plains delight;Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight;So larks, which first from lowly fields arise,Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.55
Hail, sacred bard! a muse unknown beforeSalutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.To our dark world thy shining page is shown,And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own.The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,5And India poured her gaudy treasures here:A various spoil adorned our naked land,}The pride of Persia glittered on our strand,}And China's earth was cast on common sand:}Tossed up and down the glossy fragments lay,10And dressed the rocky shelves, and paved the painted bay.Thy treasures next arrived: and now we boastA nobler cargo on our barren coast:From thy luxuriant Forest we receiveMore lasting glories than the East can give.15Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage!The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were;Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows20The sylvan state that on her border grows,While she the wond'ring shepherd entertainsWith a new Windsor in her wat'ry plains;Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,The living scene is in the muse's glass.25Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,When Philomela sits and warbles there,Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades,And give us harmony as well as shades:A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you30Can paint the grove, and add the music too.With vast variety thy pages shine;A new creation starts in ev'ry line.How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,}And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,}35And give at once the day, at once the night!}And here again what sweet confusion reigns,In dreary deserts mixed with painted plains!And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:40Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,And bearded groves display their annual pride.Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre,Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell45Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.I in a cold, and in a barren clime,}Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,}Here on the western beach attempt to chime.}O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!50Bordered with weeds, and solitudes obscene![11]Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy streamMy sad example, or my wretched theme.Like bombast now thy raging billows roar,And vainly dash themselves against the shore;55About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown,And all extremes are in a moment shown.Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores,And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;Or to my much loved Isis' walks convey,60And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.Thence let me view the venerable scene,The awful dome, the groves' eternal green:Where sacred Hough[12]long found his famed retreat,And brought the muses to the sylvan seat,65Reformed the wits, unlocked the classic store,And made that music which was noise before.There with illustrious bards I spent my daysNor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,Enjoyed the blessings that his reign bestowed,70Nor envied Windsor in the soft abode.The golden minutes smoothly danced away,And tuneful bards beguiled the tedious day:They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers firedThat Maro taught, or Addison inspired.75Ev'n I essayed to touch the trembling string:Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?Roused from these dreams by thy commanding strain,I rise and wander through the field or plain;Led by thy muse, from sport to sport I run,80Mark the stretched line, or hear the thund'ring gun.Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spyOn the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie;His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,And ev'ry feather shines and varies there.85Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by,}But while the prancing steed allures my eye,}He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly}O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.90O could thy Virgil from his orb look down,He'd view a courser that might match his own!Fired with the sport, and eager for the chase,Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?95The soft complaint shall over time prevail;The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,At once the subject and the song divine;100Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons moreThan all their shouts for victory before.Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,The world should tremble at her awful name:From various springs divided waters glide,105In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,At once they murmur and enrich the isle;A while distinct through many channels run,But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;110There joy to lose their long-distinguished names,And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
Hail, sacred bard! a muse unknown beforeSalutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.To our dark world thy shining page is shown,And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own.The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,5And India poured her gaudy treasures here:A various spoil adorned our naked land,}The pride of Persia glittered on our strand,}And China's earth was cast on common sand:}Tossed up and down the glossy fragments lay,10And dressed the rocky shelves, and paved the painted bay.Thy treasures next arrived: and now we boastA nobler cargo on our barren coast:From thy luxuriant Forest we receiveMore lasting glories than the East can give.15Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage!The pompous scenes in all their pride appear,Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were;Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows20The sylvan state that on her border grows,While she the wond'ring shepherd entertainsWith a new Windsor in her wat'ry plains;Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass,The living scene is in the muse's glass.25Nor sweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,When Philomela sits and warbles there,Than when you sing the greens and op'ning glades,And give us harmony as well as shades:A Titian's hand might draw the grove, but you30Can paint the grove, and add the music too.With vast variety thy pages shine;A new creation starts in ev'ry line.How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight,}And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,}35And give at once the day, at once the night!}And here again what sweet confusion reigns,In dreary deserts mixed with painted plains!And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom,And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom:40Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side,And bearded groves display their annual pride.Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre,Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell45Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.I in a cold, and in a barren clime,}Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme,}Here on the western beach attempt to chime.}O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main!50Bordered with weeds, and solitudes obscene![11]Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy streamMy sad example, or my wretched theme.Like bombast now thy raging billows roar,And vainly dash themselves against the shore;55About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown,And all extremes are in a moment shown.Snatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic shores,And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs;Or to my much loved Isis' walks convey,60And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.Thence let me view the venerable scene,The awful dome, the groves' eternal green:Where sacred Hough[12]long found his famed retreat,And brought the muses to the sylvan seat,65Reformed the wits, unlocked the classic store,And made that music which was noise before.There with illustrious bards I spent my daysNor free from censure, nor unknown to praise,Enjoyed the blessings that his reign bestowed,70Nor envied Windsor in the soft abode.The golden minutes smoothly danced away,And tuneful bards beguiled the tedious day:They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers firedThat Maro taught, or Addison inspired.75Ev'n I essayed to touch the trembling string:Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?Roused from these dreams by thy commanding strain,I rise and wander through the field or plain;Led by thy muse, from sport to sport I run,80Mark the stretched line, or hear the thund'ring gun.Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spyOn the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie;His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,And ev'ry feather shines and varies there.85Nor can I pass the gen'rous courser by,}But while the prancing steed allures my eye,}He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly}O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course,Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse.90O could thy Virgil from his orb look down,He'd view a courser that might match his own!Fired with the sport, and eager for the chase,Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale?95The soft complaint shall over time prevail;The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore,The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine,At once the subject and the song divine;100Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons moreThan all their shouts for victory before.Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,The world should tremble at her awful name:From various springs divided waters glide,105In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide,Murmur along their crooked banks awhile,At once they murmur and enrich the isle;A while distinct through many channels run,But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one;110There joy to lose their long-distinguished names,And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
When Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids,Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;What theme, they cried, what high immortal air,Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?Replied the god: "Your loftiest notes employ,5To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."The wond'rous song with rapture they rehearse;Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?He answered with a frown: "I now revealA truth, that envy bids me not conceal:10Retiring frequent to this laureat vale,I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,Which, unobserved, a wand'ring Greek and blind,Heard me repeat, and treasured in his mind;And fired with thirst of more than mortal praise,15From me, the god of wit, usurped the bays.But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;Yet when my arts shall triumph in the west,And the white isle with female pow'r is blest;20Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,And the translator's palm to me transfer.With less regret my claim I now decline,The world will think his English Iliad mine."
When Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids,Of old assembled in the Thespian shades;What theme, they cried, what high immortal air,Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?Replied the god: "Your loftiest notes employ,5To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."The wond'rous song with rapture they rehearse;Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?He answered with a frown: "I now revealA truth, that envy bids me not conceal:10Retiring frequent to this laureat vale,I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,Which, unobserved, a wand'ring Greek and blind,Heard me repeat, and treasured in his mind;And fired with thirst of more than mortal praise,15From me, the god of wit, usurped the bays.But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;Yet when my arts shall triumph in the west,And the white isle with female pow'r is blest;20Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,And the translator's palm to me transfer.With less regret my claim I now decline,The world will think his English Iliad mine."
To praise, and still with just respect to praiseA bard triumphant in immortal bays,The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,Yet still preserve the province of the friend;What life, what vigour must the lines require?5What music tune them, what affection fire?O might thy genius in my bosom shine,Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine:The brightest ancients might at once agreeTo sing within my lays, and sing of thee.10Horace himself would own thou dost excelIn candid arts to play the critic well.Ovid himself might wish to sing the dameWhom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;On silver feet, with annual osier crowned,15She runs for ever through poetic ground.How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,Made by thy muse the envy of the fair!Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.20Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods.The new machines, in names of ridicule,Mock the grave phrenzy of the chomic fool.But know, ye fair, a point concealed with art,25The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.The graces stand in sight; a satire-trainPeeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest witsInshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits,30And sits in measures such as Virgil's museTo place thee near him might be fond to choose.How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,35Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail!40Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze!Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,45Be hushed, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.In English lays, and all sublimely great,Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;He shines in council, thunders in the fight,And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.50Long has that poet reigned, and long unknown,Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;In all the majesty of Greek retired;Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;His language failing wrapt him round with night;55Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.So wealthy mines, that ages long beforeFed the large realms around with golden ore,When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:"60Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,And all his projects stand informed with art)Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;The mines detected flame with gold again.How vast, how copious, are thy new designs!65How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,And rise in raptures by another's heat.Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days,While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease,70Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:The shades resound with song—O softly tread,While a whole season warbles round my head.This to my friend—and when a friend inspires,75My silent harp its master's hand requires;Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;Far from the joys that with my soul agree,From wit, from learning—very far from thee.80Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;[14]Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet;Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,85Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud.Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,A friend delight me, and an author please;Ev'n here I sing, whenPopesupplies the theme,Show my own love, though not increase his fame.90
To praise, and still with just respect to praiseA bard triumphant in immortal bays,The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,Yet still preserve the province of the friend;What life, what vigour must the lines require?5What music tune them, what affection fire?O might thy genius in my bosom shine,Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine:The brightest ancients might at once agreeTo sing within my lays, and sing of thee.10Horace himself would own thou dost excelIn candid arts to play the critic well.Ovid himself might wish to sing the dameWhom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;On silver feet, with annual osier crowned,15She runs for ever through poetic ground.How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,Made by thy muse the envy of the fair!Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.20Here courtly trifles set the world at odds;Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for gods.The new machines, in names of ridicule,Mock the grave phrenzy of the chomic fool.But know, ye fair, a point concealed with art,25The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.The graces stand in sight; a satire-trainPeeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest witsInshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits,30And sits in measures such as Virgil's museTo place thee near him might be fond to choose.How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee,Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he;While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,35Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale,Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail!40Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head:Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze!Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring,45Be hushed, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.In English lays, and all sublimely great,Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;He shines in council, thunders in the fight,And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight.50Long has that poet reigned, and long unknown,Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;In all the majesty of Greek retired;Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;His language failing wrapt him round with night;55Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.So wealthy mines, that ages long beforeFed the large realms around with golden ore,When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:"60Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart,And all his projects stand informed with art)Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;The mines detected flame with gold again.How vast, how copious, are thy new designs!65How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat,And rise in raptures by another's heat.Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days,While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease,70Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:The shades resound with song—O softly tread,While a whole season warbles round my head.This to my friend—and when a friend inspires,75My silent harp its master's hand requires;Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;Far from the joys that with my soul agree,From wit, from learning—very far from thee.80Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf;Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;[14]Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet;Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood,85Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud.Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,A friend delight me, and an author please;Ev'n here I sing, whenPopesupplies the theme,Show my own love, though not increase his fame.90
He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepareThe song of triumph, and attend his car.Great Sheffield's[16]muse the long procession heads,And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads;First gives the palm she fired him to obtain,5Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign.Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,Was formed for all the miracles he wrought:Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,Pleased to behold the earnest of a god.10But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crowds rejoice!Unstained their praise by any venal voice,Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,When prostitutes, or needy flatt'rers sue.And see the chief! before him laurels borne;15Trophies from undeserving temples torn;Here Rage enchained reluctant raves, and therePale Envy dumb, and sick'ning with despair;Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye,Weak to support the blaze of majesty.20But what are they that turn the sacred page?Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;Intent they read, and all enamoured seem,As he that met his likeness in the stream:[17]The Graces these; and see how they contend,25Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.The chariot now the painful steep ascends,The pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends.Here fixed, the bright eternal temple stands,[18]Its prospect an unbounded view commands:30Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou choose,What laurelled arch for thy triumphant muse?Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine,Though ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine,(From the proud epic,[19]down to those that shade35The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid)Go to the good and just, an awful train,[20]Thy soul's delight, and glory of the fane:While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies."40
He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepareThe song of triumph, and attend his car.Great Sheffield's[16]muse the long procession heads,And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads;First gives the palm she fired him to obtain,5Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign.Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,Was formed for all the miracles he wrought:Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,Pleased to behold the earnest of a god.10But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crowds rejoice!Unstained their praise by any venal voice,Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,When prostitutes, or needy flatt'rers sue.And see the chief! before him laurels borne;15Trophies from undeserving temples torn;Here Rage enchained reluctant raves, and therePale Envy dumb, and sick'ning with despair;Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye,Weak to support the blaze of majesty.20But what are they that turn the sacred page?Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;Intent they read, and all enamoured seem,As he that met his likeness in the stream:[17]The Graces these; and see how they contend,25Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.The chariot now the painful steep ascends,The pæans cease; thy glorious labour ends.Here fixed, the bright eternal temple stands,[18]Its prospect an unbounded view commands:30Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou choose,What laurelled arch for thy triumphant muse?Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine,Though ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine,(From the proud epic,[19]down to those that shade35The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid)Go to the good and just, an awful train,[20]Thy soul's delight, and glory of the fane:While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies."40
Let vulgar souls triumphal arches raise,Or speaking marbles, to record their praise,And picture (to the voice of fame unknown)The mimic feature on the breathing stone;Mere mortals! subject to death's total sway,5Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,A monument which worth alone can raise:Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dustThe arch, the marble, and the mimic bust:10Nor till the volumes of th' expanded skyBlaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die:Then sink together in the world's last fires,What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled,15With human transport touch the mighty dead,Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines;Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;[22]Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;So Tully published what Lucretius wrote;20Pruned by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades,And the bold figure from the canvas fades,A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part25Some latent grace, and equals art with art;Transported we survey the dubious strife,While each fair image starts again to life.[23]How long, untuned, had Homer's sacred lyreJarred grating discord, all extinct his fire!30This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to sing,Called the loud music from the sounding string.Now waked from slumbers of three thousand years,Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,35Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns;With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,He strides along, and meets the gods in fight:Then the pale Titans, chained on burning floors,Start at the din that rends th' infernal shores,40Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coasts,And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay;Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play;Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise,45Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies;Or softer than a yielding virgin's sigh,The gentle breezes breathe away and die.Thus, like the radiant god who sheds the day,You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;50And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies,Sink without grov'ling, without rashness rise.Proceed, great bard! awake th' harmonious string,Be ours all Homer; still Ulysses sing.How long[24]that hero, by unskilful hands,55Stripped of his robes, a beggar trod our lands!Such as he wandered o'er his native coast,Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost;O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread;Old age disgraced the honours of his head;60Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shinedThe glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infoldWith royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;Touched by your hand his manly frame improves65With grace divine, and like a god he moves.Ev'n I, the meanest of the muses' train,Inflamed by thee, attempt a nobler strain;Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,Tuned by your hand, and sing as you inspire:70So armed by great Achilles for the fight,Patroclus conquered in Achilles' right:Like theirs, our friendship! and I boast my nameTo thine united—for thy friendship's fame.This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing,75While hov'ring angels listen on the wing,To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise,As, when they sing, suspended hold the skies:Or nobly rising in fair virtue's cause,From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws:80Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend:To verse like thine fierce savages attend,And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
Let vulgar souls triumphal arches raise,Or speaking marbles, to record their praise,And picture (to the voice of fame unknown)The mimic feature on the breathing stone;Mere mortals! subject to death's total sway,5Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise,A monument which worth alone can raise:Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dustThe arch, the marble, and the mimic bust:10Nor till the volumes of th' expanded skyBlaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die:Then sink together in the world's last fires,What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled,15With human transport touch the mighty dead,Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines;Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;[22]Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought;So Tully published what Lucretius wrote;20Pruned by his care, thy laurels loftier grow,And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades,And the bold figure from the canvas fades,A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part25Some latent grace, and equals art with art;Transported we survey the dubious strife,While each fair image starts again to life.[23]How long, untuned, had Homer's sacred lyreJarred grating discord, all extinct his fire!30This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to sing,Called the loud music from the sounding string.Now waked from slumbers of three thousand years,Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears,Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns,35Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns;With martial stalk, and more than mortal might,He strides along, and meets the gods in fight:Then the pale Titans, chained on burning floors,Start at the din that rends th' infernal shores,40Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coasts,And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay;Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play;Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise,45Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies;Or softer than a yielding virgin's sigh,The gentle breezes breathe away and die.Thus, like the radiant god who sheds the day,You paint the vale, or gild the azure way;50And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies,Sink without grov'ling, without rashness rise.Proceed, great bard! awake th' harmonious string,Be ours all Homer; still Ulysses sing.How long[24]that hero, by unskilful hands,55Stripped of his robes, a beggar trod our lands!Such as he wandered o'er his native coast,Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost;O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread;Old age disgraced the honours of his head;60Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball shinedThe glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infoldWith royal robes, and bid him shine in gold;Touched by your hand his manly frame improves65With grace divine, and like a god he moves.Ev'n I, the meanest of the muses' train,Inflamed by thee, attempt a nobler strain;Advent'rous waken the Mæonian lyre,Tuned by your hand, and sing as you inspire:70So armed by great Achilles for the fight,Patroclus conquered in Achilles' right:Like theirs, our friendship! and I boast my nameTo thine united—for thy friendship's fame.This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing,75While hov'ring angels listen on the wing,To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise,As, when they sing, suspended hold the skies:Or nobly rising in fair virtue's cause,From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws:80Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend:To verse like thine fierce savages attend,And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay,Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.
From Rome, 1730.
Immortal bard! for whom each muse has woveThe fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;Preserved, our drooping genius to restore,When Addison and Congreve are no more;After so many stars extinct in night,5The darkened age's last remaining light!To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,Inspired by memory of ancient wit:For now no more these climes their influence boast,Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost:10From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly,Daughters of reason and of liberty.Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,15And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.So in the shades, where cheered with summer raysMelodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,Soon as the faded, falling leaves complainOf gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,20No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,But mournful silence saddens all the grove.Unhappy Italy! whose altered stateHas felt the worst severity of fate:Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke25And bowed her haughty neck beneath their yoke;Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;But that her ancient spirit is decayed,That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,30That there the source of science flows no more,Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.Illustrious names! that once in Latium shined,Born to instruct, and to command mankind;Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was raised,35And poets, who those chiefs sublimely praised!Oft I the traces you have left explore,Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;40Those hallowed ruins better pleased to seeThan all the pomp of modern luxury.As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strowed,While with th' inspiring muse my bosom glowed,Crowned with eternal bays my ravished eyes45Beheld the poet's awful form arise:Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paidThese grateful rites to my attentive shade,When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,To Pope this message from his master bear:50"Great bard! whose numbers I myself inspire,To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,If high exalted on the throne of wit,Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,No more let meaner satire dim the rays,55That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine,Address the least attractive of the nine.60"Of thee more worthy were the task to raiseA lasting column to thy country's praise,To sing the land, which yet alone can boastThat liberty corrupted Rome has lost,Where science in the arms of peace is laid,65And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,Such was the people whose exploits I sung;Brave, yet refined, for arms and arts renowned,With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phœbus crowned,70Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,But pleased, a mildAugustusto obey."If these commands submissive thou receive,Immortal and unblamed thy name shall live;Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,75And howl with furies in tormenting fire;Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."
Immortal bard! for whom each muse has woveThe fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;Preserved, our drooping genius to restore,When Addison and Congreve are no more;After so many stars extinct in night,5The darkened age's last remaining light!To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,Inspired by memory of ancient wit:For now no more these climes their influence boast,Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost:10From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly,Daughters of reason and of liberty.Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincio rove;To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,15And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.So in the shades, where cheered with summer raysMelodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,Soon as the faded, falling leaves complainOf gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,20No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,But mournful silence saddens all the grove.Unhappy Italy! whose altered stateHas felt the worst severity of fate:Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke25And bowed her haughty neck beneath their yoke;Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;But that her ancient spirit is decayed,That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled,30That there the source of science flows no more,Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.Illustrious names! that once in Latium shined,Born to instruct, and to command mankind;Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was raised,35And poets, who those chiefs sublimely praised!Oft I the traces you have left explore,Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone,With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;40Those hallowed ruins better pleased to seeThan all the pomp of modern luxury.As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strowed,While with th' inspiring muse my bosom glowed,Crowned with eternal bays my ravished eyes45Beheld the poet's awful form arise:Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paidThese grateful rites to my attentive shade,When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,To Pope this message from his master bear:50"Great bard! whose numbers I myself inspire,To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,If high exalted on the throne of wit,Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,No more let meaner satire dim the rays,55That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray,But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine,Address the least attractive of the nine.60"Of thee more worthy were the task to raiseA lasting column to thy country's praise,To sing the land, which yet alone can boastThat liberty corrupted Rome has lost,Where science in the arms of peace is laid,65And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung,Such was the people whose exploits I sung;Brave, yet refined, for arms and arts renowned,With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phœbus crowned,70Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,But pleased, a mildAugustusto obey."If these commands submissive thou receive,Immortal and unblamed thy name shall live;Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,75And howl with furies in tormenting fire;Approving time shall consecrate thy lays,And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."
FOOTNOTES:[1]The Recommendatory poems addressed to Pope are without exception dull, insipid productions, which never rise above mediocrity, and sometimes fall below it. Only those are reprinted here which he himself prefixed to his works. The first seven appeared in the quarto of 1717, and the remaining two in the octavo of 1736.[2]Legally speaking, of Buckinghamshire; for he would not take the title of Buckingham, under a fear that there was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the Villiers family. He was a pompous grandee, who lived in uneasy splendour, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated: accordingly, he is now forgotten. Such was his vanity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the Princess (afterwards Queen) Anne. Being rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of James II. by the daughter of Sir Charles Sedley. She was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him.—De Quincey.Pope commenced the interchange of praise with the Duke of Buckingham by celebrating him in the Essay on Criticism. The return verses of the Duke are little better than drivelling. His Essay on Satire and Essay on Poetry are his principal works, but though one was retouched by Dryden and the other by Pope, they are very second-rate performances. The Duke died in February, 1721, aged 72.[3]Anne, wife of Heneage, fifth Earl of Winchelsea, and daughter of Sir William Kingsmill. She died on Aug. 5, 1720.—Croker.She wrote a tragedy called Aristomenes, or the Royal Shepherd, to which Pope may be supposed to allude in his letter to Caryll of Dec. 15, 1713, where he says, "I was invited to dinner to my Lady Winchelsea, and after dinner to hear a play read, at both which I sat in great disorder with sickness at my head and stomach." Pope omitted her rugged, bald, prosaic verses in 1736, probably because they were intrinsically worthless, and because the name of the author had ceased to carry any weight. In 1727 and 1732 they were printed with Pope's poems in Lintot's Miscellany, and doubtless with the sanction of Pope himself.[4]These verses, with the heading, "To my friend Mr. Pope, on his Pastorals," originally appeared in 1709, in the same volume of Tonson's Miscellany which contained the Pastorals themselves. In the fifth edition of Lintot's Miscellany, 1727, and in the sixth edition, 1732, the poem of Wycherley, who was then dead, is prefixed to Pope's pieces, and bears the title, "To Mr. Pope at sixteen years old, on occasion of his Pastorals." This was untrue, and seems designed to convey a false idea of Pope's precocity. The lines were not addressed to him till he was twenty, as appears from Wycherley's letter of May 18, 1708, in which he says, "I have made a compliment in verse upon the printing your Pastorals which you shall see when you see me." Dennis, and others, accused Pope of being the author of the flattering tribute. The poet appealed in refutation of the charge to Wycherley's letters, and added that the first draught, and corrected copy of the panegyric, which were still extant in the Harley library in Wycherley's handwriting, would show "that if they received any alteration from Mr. Pope it was in the omission of some of his own praises." Documents to which nobody had access proved nothing. Mr. Croker considered that there was strong internal evidence from the smoothness of the rhythm, the antithetical style, and the nature of the commendation, that Pope must have assisted in reducing the lines to their present shape. The mannerism of both authors can be clearly traced in them. They have the stamp of Wycherley, improved by Pope.[5]If Wycherley had been capable of anything of the kind, this, and the previous couplet, might have been written after the Essay on Criticism, but surely could not have been inspired by a perusal of the manuscript of the Pastorals.—Croker.[6]This line was omitted by Pope in 1736.[7]From Boileau's Art of Poetry, Chant ii. v. 1.—Warton.[8]This triplet was omitted by Pope in the edition of 1736.[9]Francis Knapp, of Chilton, in Berkshire, Gent. He was of St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards demy of Magdalen College.—Cunningham.He graduated M.A. April 30, 1695, and as he could hardly have been an M.A. before he was twenty-five, he would have been forty-five at the date of these verses. There is a rhyming "Epistle to Mr. B——, by Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen College, in Oxford," in Tonson's Fourth Miscellany.—Croker.He died in, or before 1727; for in one of Lintot's advertisements of that year he is described as the "lateRev. Mr. Francis Knapp, Dean of Killala."[10]There are several lines in this copy of verses, which could not be endured in a common magazine. So much is the public ear, and public taste improved.—Warton.[11]The next six lines were left out by Pope in 1736.[12]Hough was chosen president of Magdalen College in April, 1687, in defiance of the mandate sent by James II. to the fellows, requiring them to elect Farmer, a profligate and a papist. The illegal proceedings of the king in dispossessing the protestants, and filling the college with romanists, alarmed and enraged the country, and contributed largely to the Revolution of 1688. In May, 1690, Hough became Bishop of Oxford. He was translated to Lichfield and Coventry in 1699, and to Worcester in 1717, where he remained till his death in May, 1743, at the age of ninety-three.[13]By far the most elegant, and best turned compliment of all addressed to our author, happily borrowed from a fine Greek epigram, and most gracefully applied.—Warton.There is little merit in borrowing a compliment from the Anthology, and the felicity of its application in the present instance may be questioned, notwithstanding the emphatic praise of Warton. The mythological basis of the lines, which is appropriate in the Greek, becomes childish when adopted by an English poet, and the point of the piece, which turns upon the assumption that Pope's translation was vastly superior to the original, is too extravagant to be pleasing. Fenton was a scholar, and could not have thought what he said.[14]"I would add," says Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Parnell, "that the description of barrenness in his verses to Pope was borrowed from Secundus, but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it." The borrowed description is the only tolerable part of the poem, which is in a clumsy strain, unlike the usual easy style of Parnell.[15]He was only son to the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, and died in 1720.—Roscoe.[16]It was paying pitiful homage to rank to call an indifferent versifier, like the Duke of Buckingham, "great Sheffield," and pretend that he was the instructor and model of Pope.[17]The comparison of the three Graces, admiring the reflection of themselves in Pope's works, to Narcissus enamoured of his own face in the stream, is a ludicrous conceit, and the execution is on a par with the idea.[18]This paragraph refers to Pope's Temple of Fame.[19]Pope's genius was not epic, and the only epic poem he composed was his juvenile effort, Alcander, which he burnt because it was too worthless to be preserved.[20]This and the concluding verse are from the Temple of Fame.[21]These lines first appeared in 1726, in the translation of the Odyssey, where they were appended by Broome to the final note. Pope inserted them in the 8vo edition of his works in 1736.[22]This was a compliment our author could not take much pleasure in reading; for he could not value himself on his edition of Shakespeare.—Warton.[23]The comparison on both sides is wanting in truth. The superficial researches, and meagre notes of Pope did not renovate Shakespeare, and no second Raphael has repainted the pictures of Raphael the first. Fitness of praise was a merit which the writers of commendatory verses commonly despised. Their study was to outvie each other in the grossness, and insincerity of their flattery.[24]Odyssey, lib. xvi.—Broome.[25]Pope inserted this tribute among the Recommendatory poems prefixed to the 8vo edition of his works, 1736. Lyttelton was not raised to the peerage till November, 1757, twenty-seven years after the date of his verses.[26]Warton prefers Fenton's verses, but in my opinion these lines of Lord Lyttelton's are much superior to all the other recommendatory verses. They are as elegant and correct in themselves, as the sentiments they convey appear sincere, and worthy an ingenuous, cultivated, and liberal mind. There is a small inaccuracy in one or two expressions, and perhaps it would have been better if Virgil's speech, which forms the conclusion, had been compressed.—Bowles.
[1]The Recommendatory poems addressed to Pope are without exception dull, insipid productions, which never rise above mediocrity, and sometimes fall below it. Only those are reprinted here which he himself prefixed to his works. The first seven appeared in the quarto of 1717, and the remaining two in the octavo of 1736.
[1]The Recommendatory poems addressed to Pope are without exception dull, insipid productions, which never rise above mediocrity, and sometimes fall below it. Only those are reprinted here which he himself prefixed to his works. The first seven appeared in the quarto of 1717, and the remaining two in the octavo of 1736.
[2]Legally speaking, of Buckinghamshire; for he would not take the title of Buckingham, under a fear that there was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the Villiers family. He was a pompous grandee, who lived in uneasy splendour, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated: accordingly, he is now forgotten. Such was his vanity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the Princess (afterwards Queen) Anne. Being rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of James II. by the daughter of Sir Charles Sedley. She was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him.—De Quincey.Pope commenced the interchange of praise with the Duke of Buckingham by celebrating him in the Essay on Criticism. The return verses of the Duke are little better than drivelling. His Essay on Satire and Essay on Poetry are his principal works, but though one was retouched by Dryden and the other by Pope, they are very second-rate performances. The Duke died in February, 1721, aged 72.
[2]Legally speaking, of Buckinghamshire; for he would not take the title of Buckingham, under a fear that there was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the Villiers family. He was a pompous grandee, who lived in uneasy splendour, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated: accordingly, he is now forgotten. Such was his vanity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the Princess (afterwards Queen) Anne. Being rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of James II. by the daughter of Sir Charles Sedley. She was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him.—De Quincey.
Pope commenced the interchange of praise with the Duke of Buckingham by celebrating him in the Essay on Criticism. The return verses of the Duke are little better than drivelling. His Essay on Satire and Essay on Poetry are his principal works, but though one was retouched by Dryden and the other by Pope, they are very second-rate performances. The Duke died in February, 1721, aged 72.
[3]Anne, wife of Heneage, fifth Earl of Winchelsea, and daughter of Sir William Kingsmill. She died on Aug. 5, 1720.—Croker.She wrote a tragedy called Aristomenes, or the Royal Shepherd, to which Pope may be supposed to allude in his letter to Caryll of Dec. 15, 1713, where he says, "I was invited to dinner to my Lady Winchelsea, and after dinner to hear a play read, at both which I sat in great disorder with sickness at my head and stomach." Pope omitted her rugged, bald, prosaic verses in 1736, probably because they were intrinsically worthless, and because the name of the author had ceased to carry any weight. In 1727 and 1732 they were printed with Pope's poems in Lintot's Miscellany, and doubtless with the sanction of Pope himself.
[3]Anne, wife of Heneage, fifth Earl of Winchelsea, and daughter of Sir William Kingsmill. She died on Aug. 5, 1720.—Croker.
She wrote a tragedy called Aristomenes, or the Royal Shepherd, to which Pope may be supposed to allude in his letter to Caryll of Dec. 15, 1713, where he says, "I was invited to dinner to my Lady Winchelsea, and after dinner to hear a play read, at both which I sat in great disorder with sickness at my head and stomach." Pope omitted her rugged, bald, prosaic verses in 1736, probably because they were intrinsically worthless, and because the name of the author had ceased to carry any weight. In 1727 and 1732 they were printed with Pope's poems in Lintot's Miscellany, and doubtless with the sanction of Pope himself.
[4]These verses, with the heading, "To my friend Mr. Pope, on his Pastorals," originally appeared in 1709, in the same volume of Tonson's Miscellany which contained the Pastorals themselves. In the fifth edition of Lintot's Miscellany, 1727, and in the sixth edition, 1732, the poem of Wycherley, who was then dead, is prefixed to Pope's pieces, and bears the title, "To Mr. Pope at sixteen years old, on occasion of his Pastorals." This was untrue, and seems designed to convey a false idea of Pope's precocity. The lines were not addressed to him till he was twenty, as appears from Wycherley's letter of May 18, 1708, in which he says, "I have made a compliment in verse upon the printing your Pastorals which you shall see when you see me." Dennis, and others, accused Pope of being the author of the flattering tribute. The poet appealed in refutation of the charge to Wycherley's letters, and added that the first draught, and corrected copy of the panegyric, which were still extant in the Harley library in Wycherley's handwriting, would show "that if they received any alteration from Mr. Pope it was in the omission of some of his own praises." Documents to which nobody had access proved nothing. Mr. Croker considered that there was strong internal evidence from the smoothness of the rhythm, the antithetical style, and the nature of the commendation, that Pope must have assisted in reducing the lines to their present shape. The mannerism of both authors can be clearly traced in them. They have the stamp of Wycherley, improved by Pope.
[4]These verses, with the heading, "To my friend Mr. Pope, on his Pastorals," originally appeared in 1709, in the same volume of Tonson's Miscellany which contained the Pastorals themselves. In the fifth edition of Lintot's Miscellany, 1727, and in the sixth edition, 1732, the poem of Wycherley, who was then dead, is prefixed to Pope's pieces, and bears the title, "To Mr. Pope at sixteen years old, on occasion of his Pastorals." This was untrue, and seems designed to convey a false idea of Pope's precocity. The lines were not addressed to him till he was twenty, as appears from Wycherley's letter of May 18, 1708, in which he says, "I have made a compliment in verse upon the printing your Pastorals which you shall see when you see me." Dennis, and others, accused Pope of being the author of the flattering tribute. The poet appealed in refutation of the charge to Wycherley's letters, and added that the first draught, and corrected copy of the panegyric, which were still extant in the Harley library in Wycherley's handwriting, would show "that if they received any alteration from Mr. Pope it was in the omission of some of his own praises." Documents to which nobody had access proved nothing. Mr. Croker considered that there was strong internal evidence from the smoothness of the rhythm, the antithetical style, and the nature of the commendation, that Pope must have assisted in reducing the lines to their present shape. The mannerism of both authors can be clearly traced in them. They have the stamp of Wycherley, improved by Pope.
[5]If Wycherley had been capable of anything of the kind, this, and the previous couplet, might have been written after the Essay on Criticism, but surely could not have been inspired by a perusal of the manuscript of the Pastorals.—Croker.
[5]If Wycherley had been capable of anything of the kind, this, and the previous couplet, might have been written after the Essay on Criticism, but surely could not have been inspired by a perusal of the manuscript of the Pastorals.—Croker.
[6]This line was omitted by Pope in 1736.
[6]This line was omitted by Pope in 1736.
[7]From Boileau's Art of Poetry, Chant ii. v. 1.—Warton.
[7]From Boileau's Art of Poetry, Chant ii. v. 1.—Warton.
[8]This triplet was omitted by Pope in the edition of 1736.
[8]This triplet was omitted by Pope in the edition of 1736.
[9]Francis Knapp, of Chilton, in Berkshire, Gent. He was of St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards demy of Magdalen College.—Cunningham.He graduated M.A. April 30, 1695, and as he could hardly have been an M.A. before he was twenty-five, he would have been forty-five at the date of these verses. There is a rhyming "Epistle to Mr. B——, by Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen College, in Oxford," in Tonson's Fourth Miscellany.—Croker.He died in, or before 1727; for in one of Lintot's advertisements of that year he is described as the "lateRev. Mr. Francis Knapp, Dean of Killala."
[9]Francis Knapp, of Chilton, in Berkshire, Gent. He was of St. John's College, Oxford, and afterwards demy of Magdalen College.—Cunningham.
He graduated M.A. April 30, 1695, and as he could hardly have been an M.A. before he was twenty-five, he would have been forty-five at the date of these verses. There is a rhyming "Epistle to Mr. B——, by Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen College, in Oxford," in Tonson's Fourth Miscellany.—Croker.
He died in, or before 1727; for in one of Lintot's advertisements of that year he is described as the "lateRev. Mr. Francis Knapp, Dean of Killala."
[10]There are several lines in this copy of verses, which could not be endured in a common magazine. So much is the public ear, and public taste improved.—Warton.
[10]There are several lines in this copy of verses, which could not be endured in a common magazine. So much is the public ear, and public taste improved.—Warton.
[11]The next six lines were left out by Pope in 1736.
[11]The next six lines were left out by Pope in 1736.
[12]Hough was chosen president of Magdalen College in April, 1687, in defiance of the mandate sent by James II. to the fellows, requiring them to elect Farmer, a profligate and a papist. The illegal proceedings of the king in dispossessing the protestants, and filling the college with romanists, alarmed and enraged the country, and contributed largely to the Revolution of 1688. In May, 1690, Hough became Bishop of Oxford. He was translated to Lichfield and Coventry in 1699, and to Worcester in 1717, where he remained till his death in May, 1743, at the age of ninety-three.
[12]Hough was chosen president of Magdalen College in April, 1687, in defiance of the mandate sent by James II. to the fellows, requiring them to elect Farmer, a profligate and a papist. The illegal proceedings of the king in dispossessing the protestants, and filling the college with romanists, alarmed and enraged the country, and contributed largely to the Revolution of 1688. In May, 1690, Hough became Bishop of Oxford. He was translated to Lichfield and Coventry in 1699, and to Worcester in 1717, where he remained till his death in May, 1743, at the age of ninety-three.
[13]By far the most elegant, and best turned compliment of all addressed to our author, happily borrowed from a fine Greek epigram, and most gracefully applied.—Warton.There is little merit in borrowing a compliment from the Anthology, and the felicity of its application in the present instance may be questioned, notwithstanding the emphatic praise of Warton. The mythological basis of the lines, which is appropriate in the Greek, becomes childish when adopted by an English poet, and the point of the piece, which turns upon the assumption that Pope's translation was vastly superior to the original, is too extravagant to be pleasing. Fenton was a scholar, and could not have thought what he said.
[13]By far the most elegant, and best turned compliment of all addressed to our author, happily borrowed from a fine Greek epigram, and most gracefully applied.—Warton.
There is little merit in borrowing a compliment from the Anthology, and the felicity of its application in the present instance may be questioned, notwithstanding the emphatic praise of Warton. The mythological basis of the lines, which is appropriate in the Greek, becomes childish when adopted by an English poet, and the point of the piece, which turns upon the assumption that Pope's translation was vastly superior to the original, is too extravagant to be pleasing. Fenton was a scholar, and could not have thought what he said.
[14]"I would add," says Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Parnell, "that the description of barrenness in his verses to Pope was borrowed from Secundus, but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it." The borrowed description is the only tolerable part of the poem, which is in a clumsy strain, unlike the usual easy style of Parnell.
[14]"I would add," says Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Parnell, "that the description of barrenness in his verses to Pope was borrowed from Secundus, but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it." The borrowed description is the only tolerable part of the poem, which is in a clumsy strain, unlike the usual easy style of Parnell.
[15]He was only son to the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, and died in 1720.—Roscoe.
[15]He was only son to the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, and died in 1720.—Roscoe.
[16]It was paying pitiful homage to rank to call an indifferent versifier, like the Duke of Buckingham, "great Sheffield," and pretend that he was the instructor and model of Pope.
[16]It was paying pitiful homage to rank to call an indifferent versifier, like the Duke of Buckingham, "great Sheffield," and pretend that he was the instructor and model of Pope.
[17]The comparison of the three Graces, admiring the reflection of themselves in Pope's works, to Narcissus enamoured of his own face in the stream, is a ludicrous conceit, and the execution is on a par with the idea.
[17]The comparison of the three Graces, admiring the reflection of themselves in Pope's works, to Narcissus enamoured of his own face in the stream, is a ludicrous conceit, and the execution is on a par with the idea.
[18]This paragraph refers to Pope's Temple of Fame.
[18]This paragraph refers to Pope's Temple of Fame.
[19]Pope's genius was not epic, and the only epic poem he composed was his juvenile effort, Alcander, which he burnt because it was too worthless to be preserved.
[19]Pope's genius was not epic, and the only epic poem he composed was his juvenile effort, Alcander, which he burnt because it was too worthless to be preserved.
[20]This and the concluding verse are from the Temple of Fame.
[20]This and the concluding verse are from the Temple of Fame.
[21]These lines first appeared in 1726, in the translation of the Odyssey, where they were appended by Broome to the final note. Pope inserted them in the 8vo edition of his works in 1736.
[21]These lines first appeared in 1726, in the translation of the Odyssey, where they were appended by Broome to the final note. Pope inserted them in the 8vo edition of his works in 1736.
[22]This was a compliment our author could not take much pleasure in reading; for he could not value himself on his edition of Shakespeare.—Warton.
[22]This was a compliment our author could not take much pleasure in reading; for he could not value himself on his edition of Shakespeare.—Warton.
[23]The comparison on both sides is wanting in truth. The superficial researches, and meagre notes of Pope did not renovate Shakespeare, and no second Raphael has repainted the pictures of Raphael the first. Fitness of praise was a merit which the writers of commendatory verses commonly despised. Their study was to outvie each other in the grossness, and insincerity of their flattery.
[23]The comparison on both sides is wanting in truth. The superficial researches, and meagre notes of Pope did not renovate Shakespeare, and no second Raphael has repainted the pictures of Raphael the first. Fitness of praise was a merit which the writers of commendatory verses commonly despised. Their study was to outvie each other in the grossness, and insincerity of their flattery.
[24]Odyssey, lib. xvi.—Broome.
[24]Odyssey, lib. xvi.—Broome.
[25]Pope inserted this tribute among the Recommendatory poems prefixed to the 8vo edition of his works, 1736. Lyttelton was not raised to the peerage till November, 1757, twenty-seven years after the date of his verses.
[25]Pope inserted this tribute among the Recommendatory poems prefixed to the 8vo edition of his works, 1736. Lyttelton was not raised to the peerage till November, 1757, twenty-seven years after the date of his verses.
[26]Warton prefers Fenton's verses, but in my opinion these lines of Lord Lyttelton's are much superior to all the other recommendatory verses. They are as elegant and correct in themselves, as the sentiments they convey appear sincere, and worthy an ingenuous, cultivated, and liberal mind. There is a small inaccuracy in one or two expressions, and perhaps it would have been better if Virgil's speech, which forms the conclusion, had been compressed.—Bowles.
[26]Warton prefers Fenton's verses, but in my opinion these lines of Lord Lyttelton's are much superior to all the other recommendatory verses. They are as elegant and correct in themselves, as the sentiments they convey appear sincere, and worthy an ingenuous, cultivated, and liberal mind. There is a small inaccuracy in one or two expressions, and perhaps it would have been better if Virgil's speech, which forms the conclusion, had been compressed.—Bowles.
The following Translations were selected from many others done by the author in his youth; for the most part indeed but a sort of exercises, while he was improving himself in the languages, and carried by his early bent to poetry to perform them rather in verse than prose. Mr. Dryden's Fables came out about that time,[1]which occasioned the translations from Chaucer. They were first separately printed in Miscellanies by J. Tonson and B. Lintot, and afterwards collected in the quarto edition of 1717. The Imitations of English Authors, which are added at the end, were done as early; some of them at fourteen or fifteen years old; but having also got into Miscellanies, we have put them here together to complete this juvenile volume.[2]