220
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Alexander Pope
kindly giv'n, 85
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90
Hope humbly then: with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 95
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: 100
His soul, proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 105
Some happier island in the watry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; 110
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,
Weight thy Opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such, 115
Say, here he gives too little, there too much:
Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.
In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 125
Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.
Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell,
Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel:
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. 130
V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine,
Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for mine:
For me kind Nature wakes her genial Pow'r,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r;
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew 135
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies. " 140
But errs not Nature from his gracious end,
From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
"No, ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause 145
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;
Th' exceptions few; some change since all began:
And what created perfect? "--Why then Man?
If the great end be human Happiness,
Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? 150
As much that end a constant course requires
Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires;
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise.
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, 155
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?
Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms,
Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms;
Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's mind,
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 160
From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs;
Account for moral, as for nat'ral things:
Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit?
In both, to reason right is to submit.
Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, 165
Were there all harmony, all virtue here;
That never air or ocean felt the wind;
That never passion discompos'd the mind.
But ALL subsists by elemental strife;
And Passions are the elements of Life. 170
The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began,
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.
VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar,
And little less than Angel, would be more;
Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 175
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.
Made for his use all creatures if he call,
Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all?
Nature to these, without profusion, kind,
The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; 180
Each seeming want compensated of course,
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;
All in exact proportion to the state;
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 185
Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all?
The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find)
Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190
No pow'rs of body or of soul to share,
But what his nature and his state can bear.
Why has not Man a microscopic eye?
For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.
Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 195
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n?
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er,
To smart and agonize at every pore?
Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain,
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200
If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears,
And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres,
How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still
The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill?
Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 205
Alike in what it gives, and what denies?
VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends,
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends:
Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 210
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green:
Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood, 215
To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood:
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? 220
How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine,
Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine!
'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier,
For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near!
Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; 225
What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide:
And Middle natures, how they long to join,
Yet never pass th' insuperable line!
Without this just gradation, could they be
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230
The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone,
Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?
VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth,
All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
Above, how high, progressive life may go! 235
Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
Vast chain of Being! which from God began,
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee, 240
From thee to Nothing. --On superior pow'rs
Were we to press, inferior might on ours:
Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd:
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 245
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
And, if each system in gradation roll
Alike essential to th' amazing Whole,
The least confusion but in one, not all
That system only, but the Whole must fall. 250
Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly,
Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky;
Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world;
Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, 255
And Nature tremble to the throne of God.
All this dread ORDER break--for whom? for thee?
Vile worm! --Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety!
IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 260
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd
To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?
Just as absurd for any part to claim
To be another, in this gen'ral frame:
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 265
The great directing MIND of ALL ordains.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same;
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 270
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 275
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart:
As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns,
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns:
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 280
X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit. --In this, or any other sphere, 285
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; 290
All Discord, Harmony not understood;
All partial Evil, universal Good:
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,
One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.
* * * * *
EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT
Advertisement to the first publication of this _Epistle_
This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and
drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no
thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and
Fortune (the Authors of _Verses to the Imitator of Horace_, and of an
_Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court_) to
attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which,
being public, the Public is judge), but my P_erson, Morals_, and
_Family_, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be
requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of
_myself_, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought
it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any
thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please,
the _Truth_ and the _Sentiment_; and if any thing offensive, it will be
only to those I am least sorry to offend, _the vicious_ or _the
ungenerous_.
Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance
but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their _Names_,
and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.
I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the
learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as
free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this
advantage, and honour, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding,
any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by
mine, since a nameless character can never be found out, but by its
_truth_ and _likeness_.
P.
P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10
No place is sacred, not the Church is free;
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.
Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, 15
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should _engross_?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What _Drop_ or _Nostrum_ can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years. " 40
"Nine years! " cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before _Term_ ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, 45
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it. "
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace
I want a Patron; ask him for a Place. " 50
"Pitholeon libell'd me,"--"but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,"
"He'll write a _Journal_, or he'll turn Divine. "
Bless me! a packet. --"'Tis a stranger sues, 55
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse. "
If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage! "
If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage. "
There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,
The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends, 60
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
And shame the fools--Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot! "
'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'
"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch. "
All my demurs but double his Attacks; 65
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks. "
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.
'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a king) 70
His very Minister who spy'd them first,
(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;
'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: 80
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie? )
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95
Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?
* * * * *
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho--A. Hold! for God's sake--you 'll offend,
No Names! --be calm! --learn prudence of a friend! 100
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these--P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent: 105
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they _repent_.
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself my friend. 110
This prints my _Letters_, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe. "
There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like _Horace_, and, tho' lean, am short,
_Ammon's_ great son one shoulder had too high, 115
Such _Ovid's_ nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"--
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:" 120
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great _Homer_ died three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd.
The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130
To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.
But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite,
And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise; 135
And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays;
The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read;
Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head,
And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the _Burnets, Oldmixons_, and _Cookes_.
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, 145
While pure Description held the place of Sense?
Like gentle _Fanny's_ was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;--
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150
Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.
Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 160
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_:
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165
Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there. 170
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175
This, who can gratify? for who can _guess? _
The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 180
He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 185
It is not Poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_,
And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190
Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 195
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- 210
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls
Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I sought no homage from the Race that write;
I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight:
Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.
220
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230
Fed with soft Dedication all day long.
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head,)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240
To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
_Dryden_ alone (what wonder? ) came not nigh,
_Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!
So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250
Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Blest be the _Great! _ for those they take away.
And those they left me; for they left me Gay;
Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.
Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do:) 260
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please;
Above a Patron, tho' I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
Can sleep without a Poem in my head;
Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.
Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270
Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave)
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
"I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,'
(Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out. '
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275
'No, such a Genius never can lie still;'
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my _Style_? 280
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, 285
Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame: 290
Who can _your_ merit _selfishly_ approve.
And show the _sense_ of it without the _love_;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, 295
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the _Dean_, and _silver bell_ can swear,
And sees at _Canons_ what was never there;
Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie. 300
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let _Sporus_ tremble--A. What? that thing of silk,
_Sporus_, that mere white curd of Ass's milk?
Satire or sense, alas! can _Sporus_ feel? 305
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: 310
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 315
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of _Eve_, familiar Toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies. 320
His wit all see-saw, between _that_ and _this_, }
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, }
And he himself one vile Antithesis. }
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head or the corrupted heart, 325
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.
_Eve's_ tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest;
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust; 330
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor servile;--be one Poet's praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways: 335
That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame,
And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same.
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, 340
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; 345
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings scape, 350
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father, dead;
The whisper, that to greatness still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:-- 355
Welcome for thee, fair _Virtue_! all the past;
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the _last_!
A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state:
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, 360
_Sporus_ at court, or _Japhet_ in a jail
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own. 365
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
_Sappho_ can tell you how this man was bit;
This dreaded Sat'rist _Dennis_ will confess
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at _Tibbald's_ door, 370
Has drunk with _Cibber_, nay has rhym'd for _Moore_.
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand suns went down on _Welsted's_ lie.
To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life;
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife. 375
Let _Budgel_ charge low _Grubstreet_ on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two _Curlls_ of Town and Court, abuse
His father, mother, body, soul, and muse.
Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, 380
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool:
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and spare his family, _James Moore! _
Unspotted names, and memorable long!
If there be force in Virtue, or in Song. 385
Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause.
While yet in _Britain_ Honour had applause)
Each parent sprung--A. What fortune, pray? --P. Their own,
And better got, than _Bestia's_ from the throne.
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife, 390
Nor marrying Discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age.
Nor Courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie. 395
Un-learn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
No language, but the language of the heart.
By Nature honest, by Experience wise,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;
His life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown, 400
His death was instant, and without a groan.
O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I.
O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine: 405
Me, let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of reposing Age,
With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 410
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like these if length of days attend,
May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend,
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a QUEEN. 415
A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
* * * * *
ODE ON SOLITUDE
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And Innocence, which most does please 15
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie. 20
* * * * *
THE DESCENT OF DULLNESS
[From the 'Dunciad', Book IV]
In vain, in vain--the all-composing Hour
Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r.
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
Of _Night_ primaeval and of _Chaos_ old!
Before her, _Fancy's_ gilded clouds decay, 5
And all its varying Rain-bows die away.
_Wit_ shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain; 10
As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,
Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
_Art_ after _Art_ goes out, and all is Night.
See skulking _Truth_ to her old cavern fled, 15
Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
_Philosophy_, that lean'd on Heav'n before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
_Physic_ of _Metaphysic_ begs defence,
And _Metaphysic_ calls for aid on _Sense_! 20
See _Mystery_ to _Mathematics_ fly!
In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
_Religion_ blushing veils her sacred fires,
And unawares _Morality_ expires.
For _public_ Flame, nor _private_, dares to shine; 25
Nor _human_ Spark is left, nor Glimpse _divine_!
Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor'd;
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal Darkness buries All. 30
* * * * *
ON MR. GAY
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732
Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child:
With native Humour temp'ring virtuous Rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:
Above Temptation, in a low Estate, 5
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great:
A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
Unblam'd thro' Life, lamented in thy End.
These are Thy Honours! not that here thy Bust
Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust; 10
But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms--_Here_ lies GAY.
* * * * *
NOTES
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK
INTRODUCTION
In 1711 Pope, who had just published his 'Essay on Criticism', was
looking about for new worlds to conquer. A fortunate chance threw in his
way a subject exactly suited to his tastes and powers. He seized upon
it, dashed off his first sketch in less than a fortnight, and published
it anonymously in a 'Miscellany' issued by Lintot in 1712. But the theme
had taken firm root in his mind. Dissatisfied with his first treatment
of it, he determined, against the advice of the best critic of the day,
to recast the work, and lift it from a mere society 'jeu d'esprit' into
an elaborate mock-heroic poem. He did so and won a complete success.
Even yet, however, he was not completely satisfied and from time to time
he added a touch to his work until he finally produced the finished
picture which we know as 'The Rape of the Lock'. As it stands, it is an
almost flawless masterpiece, a brilliant picture and light-hearted
mockery of the gay society of Queen Anne's day, on the whole the most
satisfactory creation of Pope's genius, and, perhaps, the best example
of the mock-heroic in any literature.
The occasion which gave rise to 'The Rape of the Lock' has been so often
related that it requires only a brief restatement. Among the Catholic
families of Queen Anne's day, who formed a little society of their own,
Miss Arabella Fermor was a reigning belle. In a youthful frolic which
overstepped the bounds of propriety Lord Petre, a young nobleman of her
acquaintance, cut off a lock of her hair. The lady was offended, the two
families took up the quarrel, a lasting estrangement, possibly even a
duel, was threatened. At this juncture a common friend of the two
families, a Mr. Caryll, nephew of a well-known Jacobite exile for whom
he is sometimes mistaken, suggested to Pope "to write a poem to make a
jest of it," and so kill the quarrel with laughter. Pope consented,
wrote his first draft of 'The Rape of the Lock', and passed it about in
manuscript. Pope says himself that it had its effect in the two
families; certainly nothing more is heard of the feud. How Miss Fermor
received the poem is a little uncertain. Pope complains in a letter
written some months after the poem had appeared in print that "the
celebrated lady is offended. " According to Johnson she liked the verses
well enough to show them to her friends, and a niece of hers said years
afterward that Mr. Pope's praise had made her aunt "very troublesome and
conceited. " It is not improbable that Belinda was both flattered and
offended. Delighted with the praise of her beauty she may none the less
have felt called upon to play the part of the offended lady when the
poem got about and the ribald wits of the day began to read into it
double meanings which reflected upon her reputation. To soothe her
ruffled feelings Pope dedicated the second edition of the poem to her in
a delightful letter in which he thanked her for having permitted the
publication of the first edition to forestall an imperfect copy offered
to a bookseller, declared that the character of Belinda resembled her in
nothing but in beauty, and affirmed that he could never hope that his
poem should pass through the world half so uncensured as she had done.
It would seem that the modern critics who have undertaken to champion
Miss Fermor against what they are pleased to term the revolting behavior
of the poet are fighting a needless battle. A pretty girl who would long
since have been forgotten sat as an unconscious model to a great poet;
he made her the central figure in a brilliant picture and rendered her
name immortal. That is the whole story, and when carping critics begin
to search the poem for the improprieties of conduct to which they say
Pope alluded, one has but to answer in Pope's own words.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
Pope's statement in the dedication that he had been forced into
publishing the first draft of the poem before his design of enlarging it
was half executed is probably to be taken, like many of his statements,
with a sufficient grain of salt. Pope had a curious habit of protesting
that he was forced into publishing his letters, poems, and other
trifles, merely to forestall the appearance of unauthorized editions. It
is more likely that it was the undoubted success of 'The Rape of the
Lock' in its first form which gave him the idea of working up the sketch
into a complete mock-heroic poem.
Examples of such a poem were familiar enough to Pope. Not to go back to
the pseudo-Homeric mock epic which relates the battle of the frogs and
mice, Vida in Italy and Boileau in France, with both of whom Pope, as
the 'Essay on Criticism' shows, was well acquainted, had done work of
this kind. Vida's description of the game of chess in his 'Scacchia
Ludus' certainly gave him the model for the game of ombre in the third
canto of 'The Rape of the Lock'; Boileau's 'Lutrin' probably suggested
to him the idea of using the mock-heroic for the purposes of satire.
Now it was a dogma of the critical creed of the day, which Pope devoutly
accepted, that every epic must have a well-recognized "machinery. "
Machinery, as he kindly explained to Miss Fermor, was a "term invented
by the critics to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons
are made to act in a poem," in short for the whole supernatural element.
Such machinery was quite wanting in the first draft of the Rape; it must
be supplied if the poem was to be a true epic, even of the comic kind.
And the machinery must be of a nature which would lend itself to the
light satiric tone of the poem. What was it to be? The employment of
what we may call Christian machinery, the angels and devils of Tasso and
Milton, was, of course, out of the question. The employment of the
classic machinery was almost as impossible. It would have been hard for
such an admirer of the classics as Pope to have taken the deities of
Olympus otherwise than seriously. And even if he had been able to treat
them humorously, the humor would have been a form of burlesque quite at
variance with what he had set out to accomplish. For Pope's purpose,
springing naturally from the occasion which set him to writing the
'Rape', was not to burlesque what was naturally lofty by exhibiting it
in a degraded light, but to show the true littleness of the trivial by
treating it in a grandiose and mock-heroic fashion, to make the quarrel
over the stolen lock ridiculous by raising it to the plane of the epic
contest before the walls of Troy.
In his perplexity a happy thought, little less in fact than an
inspiration of genius, came to Pope. He had been reading a book by a
clever French abbe treating in a satiric fashion of the doctrines of the
so-called Rosicrucians, in particular of their ideas of elemental
spirits and the influence of these spirits upon human affairs. Here was
the machinery he was looking for made to his hand. There would be no
burlesque in introducing the Rosicrucian sylphs and gnomes into a
mock-heroic poem, for few people, certainly not the author of the 'Comte
de Gabalis', took them seriously. Yet the widespread popularity of this
book, to say nothing of the existence of certain Rosicrucian societies,
had rendered their names familiar to the society for which Pope wrote.
He had but to weave them into the action of his poem, and the brilliant
little sketch of society was transformed into a true mock-epic.
The manner in which this interweaving was accomplished is one of the
most satisfactory evidences of Pope's artistic genius. He was proud of
it himself. "The making the machinery, and what was published before,
hit so well together, is," he told Spencer, "I think, one of the
greatest proofs of judgment of anything I ever did. " And he might well
be proud. Macaulay, in a well-known passage, has pointed out how seldom
in the history of literature such a recasting of a poem has been
successfully accomplished. But Pope's revision of 'The Rape of the Lock'
was so successful that the original form was practically done away with.
No one reads it now but professed students of the literature of Queen
Anne's time. And so artfully has the new matter been woven into the old
that if the recasting of 'The Rape of the Lock' were not a commonplace
even in school histories of English literature, not one reader in a
hundred would suspect that the original sketch had been revised and
enlarged to more than twice its length. It would be an interesting task
for the student to compare the two forms printed in this edition, to
note exactly what has been added, and the reasons for its addition, and
to mark how Pope has smoothed the junctures and blended the old and the
new. Nothing that he could do would admit him more intimately to the
secrets of Pope's mastery of his art.
A word must be said in closing as to the merits of 'The Rape of the
Lock' and its position in English literature. In the first place it is
an inimitable picture of one phase, at least, of the life of the time,
of the gay, witty, heartless society of Queen Anne's day. Slowly
recovering from the licentious excesses of the Restoration, society at
this time was perhaps unmoral rather than immoral. It was quite without
ideals, unless indeed the conventions of "good form" may be dignified by
that name. It lacked the brilliant enthusiasm of Elizabethan times as
well as the religious earnestness of the Puritans and the devotion to
patriotic and social ideals which marked a later age. Nothing, perhaps,
is more characteristic of the age than its attitude toward women. It
affected indeed a tone of high-flown adoration which thinly veiled a
cynical contempt. It styled woman a goddess and really regarded her as
little better than a doll. The passion of love had fallen from the high
estate it once possessed and become the mere relaxation of the idle
moments of a man of fashion.
In the comedies of Congreve, for example, a lover even if honestly in
love thinks it as incumbent upon him to make light of his passion before
his friends as to exaggerate it in all the forms of affected compliment
before his mistress.
In 'The Rape of the Lock' Pope has caught and fixed forever the
atmosphere of this age. It is not the mere outward form and
circumstance, the manners and customs, the patching, powdering, ogling,
gambling, of the day that he has reproduced, though his account of these
would alone suffice to secure the poem immortality as a contribution to
the history of society. The essential spirit of the age breathes from
every line. No great English poem is at once so brilliant and so empty,
so artistic, and yet so devoid of the ideals on which all high art
rests. It is incorrect, I think, to consider Pope in 'The Rape of the
Lock' as the satirist of his age. He was indeed clever enough to
perceive its follies, and witty enough to make sport of them, but it is
much to be doubted whether he was wise enough at this time to raise his
eyes to anything better. In the social satires of Pope's great admirer,
Byron, we are at no loss to perceive the ideal of personal liberty which
the poet opposes to the conventions he tears to shreds. Is it possible
to discover in 'The Rape of the Lock' any substitute for Belinda's
fancies and the Baron's freaks? The speech of Clarissa which Pope
inserted as an afterthought to point the moral of the poem recommends
Belinda to trust to merit rather than to charms. But "merit" is
explicitly identified with good humor, a very amiable quality, but
hardly of the highest rank among the moral virtues. And the avowed end
and purpose of "merit" is merely to preserve what beauty gains, the
flattering attentions of the other sex,--surely the lowest ideal ever
set before womankind. The truth is, I think, that 'The Rape of the Lock'
represents Pope's attitude toward the social life of his time in the
period of his brilliant youth. He was at once dazzled, amused, and
delighted by the gay world in which he found himself. The apples of
pleasure had not yet turned to ashes on his lips, and it is the poet's
sympathy with the world he paints which gives to the poem the air, most
characteristic of the age itself, of easy, idle, unthinking gayety. We
would not have it otherwise. There are sermons and satires in abundance
in English literature, but there is only one 'Rape of the Lock'.
The form of the poem is in perfect correspondence with its spirit. There
is an immense advance over the 'Essay on Criticism' in ease, polish, and
balance of matter and manner. And it is not merely in matters of detail
that the supremacy of the latter poem is apparent. 'The Rape of the
Lock' is remarkable among all Pope's longer poems as the one complete
and perfect whole. It is no mosaic of brilliant epigrams, but an organic
creation. It is impossible to detach any one of its witty paragraphs and
read it with the same pleasure it arouses when read in its proper
connection. Thalestris' call to arms and Clarissa's moral reproof are
integral parts of the poem. And as a result, perhaps, of its essential
unity 'The Rape of the Lock' bears witness to the presence of a power in
Pope that we should hardly have suspected from his other works, the
power of dramatic characterization. Elsewhere he has shown himself a
master of brilliant portraiture, but Belinda, the Baron, and Thalestris
are something more than portraits. They are living people, acting and
speaking with admirable consistency. Even the little sketch of Sir Plume
is instinct with life.
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90
Hope humbly then: with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: 95
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: 100
His soul, proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 105
Some happier island in the watry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; 110
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,
Weight thy Opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such, 115
Say, here he gives too little, there too much:
Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there: 120
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.
In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 125
Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.
Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell,
Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel:
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. 130
V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine,
Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for mine:
For me kind Nature wakes her genial Pow'r,
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r;
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew 135
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies. " 140
But errs not Nature from his gracious end,
From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
"No, ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause 145
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;
Th' exceptions few; some change since all began:
And what created perfect? "--Why then Man?
If the great end be human Happiness,
Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? 150
As much that end a constant course requires
Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires;
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise.
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, 155
Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?
Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms,
Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms;
Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's mind,
Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 160
From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs;
Account for moral, as for nat'ral things:
Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit?
In both, to reason right is to submit.
Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, 165
Were there all harmony, all virtue here;
That never air or ocean felt the wind;
That never passion discompos'd the mind.
But ALL subsists by elemental strife;
And Passions are the elements of Life. 170
The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began,
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.
VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar,
And little less than Angel, would be more;
Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 175
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.
Made for his use all creatures if he call,
Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all?
Nature to these, without profusion, kind,
The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; 180
Each seeming want compensated of course,
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;
All in exact proportion to the state;
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: 185
Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone?
Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all?
The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find)
Is not to act or think beyond mankind; 190
No pow'rs of body or of soul to share,
But what his nature and his state can bear.
Why has not Man a microscopic eye?
For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.
Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 195
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n?
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er,
To smart and agonize at every pore?
Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain,
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 200
If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears,
And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres,
How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still
The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill?
Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 205
Alike in what it gives, and what denies?
VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends,
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends:
Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass: 210
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green:
Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood, 215
To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood:
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? 220
How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine,
Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine!
'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier,
For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near!
Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; 225
What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide:
And Middle natures, how they long to join,
Yet never pass th' insuperable line!
Without this just gradation, could they be
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 230
The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone,
Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?
VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth,
All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
Above, how high, progressive life may go! 235
Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
Vast chain of Being! which from God began,
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee, 240
From thee to Nothing. --On superior pow'rs
Were we to press, inferior might on ours:
Or in the full creation leave a void,
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd:
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 245
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
And, if each system in gradation roll
Alike essential to th' amazing Whole,
The least confusion but in one, not all
That system only, but the Whole must fall. 250
Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly,
Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky;
Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world;
Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, 255
And Nature tremble to the throne of God.
All this dread ORDER break--for whom? for thee?
Vile worm! --Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety!
IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 260
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd
To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?
Just as absurd for any part to claim
To be another, in this gen'ral frame:
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 265
The great directing MIND of ALL ordains.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same;
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 270
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 275
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart:
As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns,
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns:
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 280
X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit. --In this, or any other sphere, 285
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; 290
All Discord, Harmony not understood;
All partial Evil, universal Good:
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,
One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.
* * * * *
EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT
Advertisement to the first publication of this _Epistle_
This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and
drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no
thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and
Fortune (the Authors of _Verses to the Imitator of Horace_, and of an
_Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court_) to
attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which,
being public, the Public is judge), but my P_erson, Morals_, and
_Family_, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be
requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of
_myself_, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought
it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any
thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please,
the _Truth_ and the _Sentiment_; and if any thing offensive, it will be
only to those I am least sorry to offend, _the vicious_ or _the
ungenerous_.
Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance
but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their _Names_,
and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.
I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the
learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as
free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this
advantage, and honour, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding,
any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by
mine, since a nameless character can never be found out, but by its
_truth_ and _likeness_.
P.
P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10
No place is sacred, not the Church is free;
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.
Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, 15
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should _engross_?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What _Drop_ or _Nostrum_ can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years. " 40
"Nine years! " cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before _Term_ ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, 45
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it. "
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace
I want a Patron; ask him for a Place. " 50
"Pitholeon libell'd me,"--"but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,"
"He'll write a _Journal_, or he'll turn Divine. "
Bless me! a packet. --"'Tis a stranger sues, 55
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse. "
If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage! "
If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage. "
There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,
The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends, 60
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
And shame the fools--Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot! "
'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'
"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch. "
All my demurs but double his Attacks; 65
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks. "
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.
'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a king) 70
His very Minister who spy'd them first,
(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;
'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: 80
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie? )
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95
Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?
* * * * *
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho--A. Hold! for God's sake--you 'll offend,
No Names! --be calm! --learn prudence of a friend! 100
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these--P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent: 105
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they _repent_.
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself my friend. 110
This prints my _Letters_, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe. "
There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like _Horace_, and, tho' lean, am short,
_Ammon's_ great son one shoulder had too high, 115
Such _Ovid's_ nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"--
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:" 120
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great _Homer_ died three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd.
The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130
To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.
But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite,
And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise; 135
And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays;
The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read;
Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head,
And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the _Burnets, Oldmixons_, and _Cookes_.
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, 145
While pure Description held the place of Sense?
Like gentle _Fanny's_ was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;--
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150
Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.
Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 160
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_:
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165
Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there. 170
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175
This, who can gratify? for who can _guess? _
The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 180
He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 185
It is not Poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_,
And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190
Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 195
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- 210
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls
Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I sought no homage from the Race that write;
I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight:
Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.
220
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225
With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; 230
Fed with soft Dedication all day long.
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head,)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 235
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; 240
To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
_Dryden_ alone (what wonder? ) came not nigh,
_Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve, 245
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!
So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, 250
Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Blest be the _Great! _ for those they take away.
And those they left me; for they left me Gay;
Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, 255
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.
Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do:) 260
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please;
Above a Patron, tho' I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs; 265
I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
Can sleep without a Poem in my head;
Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.
Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? 270
Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave)
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
"I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,'
(Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out. '
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 275
'No, such a Genius never can lie still;'
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my _Style_? 280
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, 285
Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame: 290
Who can _your_ merit _selfishly_ approve.
And show the _sense_ of it without the _love_;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, 295
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the _Dean_, and _silver bell_ can swear,
And sees at _Canons_ what was never there;
Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie. 300
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let _Sporus_ tremble--A. What? that thing of silk,
_Sporus_, that mere white curd of Ass's milk?
Satire or sense, alas! can _Sporus_ feel? 305
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys: 310
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 315
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of _Eve_, familiar Toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies. 320
His wit all see-saw, between _that_ and _this_, }
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, }
And he himself one vile Antithesis. }
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head or the corrupted heart, 325
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.
_Eve's_ tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest;
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust; 330
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor servile;--be one Poet's praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways: 335
That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame,
And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same.
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, 340
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; 345
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings scape, 350
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father, dead;
The whisper, that to greatness still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:-- 355
Welcome for thee, fair _Virtue_! all the past;
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the _last_!
A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state:
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, 360
_Sporus_ at court, or _Japhet_ in a jail
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own. 365
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
_Sappho_ can tell you how this man was bit;
This dreaded Sat'rist _Dennis_ will confess
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at _Tibbald's_ door, 370
Has drunk with _Cibber_, nay has rhym'd for _Moore_.
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand suns went down on _Welsted's_ lie.
To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life;
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife. 375
Let _Budgel_ charge low _Grubstreet_ on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two _Curlls_ of Town and Court, abuse
His father, mother, body, soul, and muse.
Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, 380
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool:
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and spare his family, _James Moore! _
Unspotted names, and memorable long!
If there be force in Virtue, or in Song. 385
Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause.
While yet in _Britain_ Honour had applause)
Each parent sprung--A. What fortune, pray? --P. Their own,
And better got, than _Bestia's_ from the throne.
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife, 390
Nor marrying Discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age.
Nor Courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie. 395
Un-learn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
No language, but the language of the heart.
By Nature honest, by Experience wise,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;
His life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown, 400
His death was instant, and without a groan.
O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I.
O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine: 405
Me, let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of reposing Age,
With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 410
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like these if length of days attend,
May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend,
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a QUEEN. 415
A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.
* * * * *
ODE ON SOLITUDE
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And Innocence, which most does please 15
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie. 20
* * * * *
THE DESCENT OF DULLNESS
[From the 'Dunciad', Book IV]
In vain, in vain--the all-composing Hour
Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r.
She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
Of _Night_ primaeval and of _Chaos_ old!
Before her, _Fancy's_ gilded clouds decay, 5
And all its varying Rain-bows die away.
_Wit_ shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain; 10
As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,
Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
_Art_ after _Art_ goes out, and all is Night.
See skulking _Truth_ to her old cavern fled, 15
Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
_Philosophy_, that lean'd on Heav'n before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
_Physic_ of _Metaphysic_ begs defence,
And _Metaphysic_ calls for aid on _Sense_! 20
See _Mystery_ to _Mathematics_ fly!
In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
_Religion_ blushing veils her sacred fires,
And unawares _Morality_ expires.
For _public_ Flame, nor _private_, dares to shine; 25
Nor _human_ Spark is left, nor Glimpse _divine_!
Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor'd;
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal Darkness buries All. 30
* * * * *
ON MR. GAY
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1732
Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild;
In Wit, a Man; Simplicity, a Child:
With native Humour temp'ring virtuous Rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age:
Above Temptation, in a low Estate, 5
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the Great:
A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
Unblam'd thro' Life, lamented in thy End.
These are Thy Honours! not that here thy Bust
Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy dust; 10
But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms--_Here_ lies GAY.
* * * * *
NOTES
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK
INTRODUCTION
In 1711 Pope, who had just published his 'Essay on Criticism', was
looking about for new worlds to conquer. A fortunate chance threw in his
way a subject exactly suited to his tastes and powers. He seized upon
it, dashed off his first sketch in less than a fortnight, and published
it anonymously in a 'Miscellany' issued by Lintot in 1712. But the theme
had taken firm root in his mind. Dissatisfied with his first treatment
of it, he determined, against the advice of the best critic of the day,
to recast the work, and lift it from a mere society 'jeu d'esprit' into
an elaborate mock-heroic poem. He did so and won a complete success.
Even yet, however, he was not completely satisfied and from time to time
he added a touch to his work until he finally produced the finished
picture which we know as 'The Rape of the Lock'. As it stands, it is an
almost flawless masterpiece, a brilliant picture and light-hearted
mockery of the gay society of Queen Anne's day, on the whole the most
satisfactory creation of Pope's genius, and, perhaps, the best example
of the mock-heroic in any literature.
The occasion which gave rise to 'The Rape of the Lock' has been so often
related that it requires only a brief restatement. Among the Catholic
families of Queen Anne's day, who formed a little society of their own,
Miss Arabella Fermor was a reigning belle. In a youthful frolic which
overstepped the bounds of propriety Lord Petre, a young nobleman of her
acquaintance, cut off a lock of her hair. The lady was offended, the two
families took up the quarrel, a lasting estrangement, possibly even a
duel, was threatened. At this juncture a common friend of the two
families, a Mr. Caryll, nephew of a well-known Jacobite exile for whom
he is sometimes mistaken, suggested to Pope "to write a poem to make a
jest of it," and so kill the quarrel with laughter. Pope consented,
wrote his first draft of 'The Rape of the Lock', and passed it about in
manuscript. Pope says himself that it had its effect in the two
families; certainly nothing more is heard of the feud. How Miss Fermor
received the poem is a little uncertain. Pope complains in a letter
written some months after the poem had appeared in print that "the
celebrated lady is offended. " According to Johnson she liked the verses
well enough to show them to her friends, and a niece of hers said years
afterward that Mr. Pope's praise had made her aunt "very troublesome and
conceited. " It is not improbable that Belinda was both flattered and
offended. Delighted with the praise of her beauty she may none the less
have felt called upon to play the part of the offended lady when the
poem got about and the ribald wits of the day began to read into it
double meanings which reflected upon her reputation. To soothe her
ruffled feelings Pope dedicated the second edition of the poem to her in
a delightful letter in which he thanked her for having permitted the
publication of the first edition to forestall an imperfect copy offered
to a bookseller, declared that the character of Belinda resembled her in
nothing but in beauty, and affirmed that he could never hope that his
poem should pass through the world half so uncensured as she had done.
It would seem that the modern critics who have undertaken to champion
Miss Fermor against what they are pleased to term the revolting behavior
of the poet are fighting a needless battle. A pretty girl who would long
since have been forgotten sat as an unconscious model to a great poet;
he made her the central figure in a brilliant picture and rendered her
name immortal. That is the whole story, and when carping critics begin
to search the poem for the improprieties of conduct to which they say
Pope alluded, one has but to answer in Pope's own words.
If to her share some female errors fall,
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.
Pope's statement in the dedication that he had been forced into
publishing the first draft of the poem before his design of enlarging it
was half executed is probably to be taken, like many of his statements,
with a sufficient grain of salt. Pope had a curious habit of protesting
that he was forced into publishing his letters, poems, and other
trifles, merely to forestall the appearance of unauthorized editions. It
is more likely that it was the undoubted success of 'The Rape of the
Lock' in its first form which gave him the idea of working up the sketch
into a complete mock-heroic poem.
Examples of such a poem were familiar enough to Pope. Not to go back to
the pseudo-Homeric mock epic which relates the battle of the frogs and
mice, Vida in Italy and Boileau in France, with both of whom Pope, as
the 'Essay on Criticism' shows, was well acquainted, had done work of
this kind. Vida's description of the game of chess in his 'Scacchia
Ludus' certainly gave him the model for the game of ombre in the third
canto of 'The Rape of the Lock'; Boileau's 'Lutrin' probably suggested
to him the idea of using the mock-heroic for the purposes of satire.
Now it was a dogma of the critical creed of the day, which Pope devoutly
accepted, that every epic must have a well-recognized "machinery. "
Machinery, as he kindly explained to Miss Fermor, was a "term invented
by the critics to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons
are made to act in a poem," in short for the whole supernatural element.
Such machinery was quite wanting in the first draft of the Rape; it must
be supplied if the poem was to be a true epic, even of the comic kind.
And the machinery must be of a nature which would lend itself to the
light satiric tone of the poem. What was it to be? The employment of
what we may call Christian machinery, the angels and devils of Tasso and
Milton, was, of course, out of the question. The employment of the
classic machinery was almost as impossible. It would have been hard for
such an admirer of the classics as Pope to have taken the deities of
Olympus otherwise than seriously. And even if he had been able to treat
them humorously, the humor would have been a form of burlesque quite at
variance with what he had set out to accomplish. For Pope's purpose,
springing naturally from the occasion which set him to writing the
'Rape', was not to burlesque what was naturally lofty by exhibiting it
in a degraded light, but to show the true littleness of the trivial by
treating it in a grandiose and mock-heroic fashion, to make the quarrel
over the stolen lock ridiculous by raising it to the plane of the epic
contest before the walls of Troy.
In his perplexity a happy thought, little less in fact than an
inspiration of genius, came to Pope. He had been reading a book by a
clever French abbe treating in a satiric fashion of the doctrines of the
so-called Rosicrucians, in particular of their ideas of elemental
spirits and the influence of these spirits upon human affairs. Here was
the machinery he was looking for made to his hand. There would be no
burlesque in introducing the Rosicrucian sylphs and gnomes into a
mock-heroic poem, for few people, certainly not the author of the 'Comte
de Gabalis', took them seriously. Yet the widespread popularity of this
book, to say nothing of the existence of certain Rosicrucian societies,
had rendered their names familiar to the society for which Pope wrote.
He had but to weave them into the action of his poem, and the brilliant
little sketch of society was transformed into a true mock-epic.
The manner in which this interweaving was accomplished is one of the
most satisfactory evidences of Pope's artistic genius. He was proud of
it himself. "The making the machinery, and what was published before,
hit so well together, is," he told Spencer, "I think, one of the
greatest proofs of judgment of anything I ever did. " And he might well
be proud. Macaulay, in a well-known passage, has pointed out how seldom
in the history of literature such a recasting of a poem has been
successfully accomplished. But Pope's revision of 'The Rape of the Lock'
was so successful that the original form was practically done away with.
No one reads it now but professed students of the literature of Queen
Anne's time. And so artfully has the new matter been woven into the old
that if the recasting of 'The Rape of the Lock' were not a commonplace
even in school histories of English literature, not one reader in a
hundred would suspect that the original sketch had been revised and
enlarged to more than twice its length. It would be an interesting task
for the student to compare the two forms printed in this edition, to
note exactly what has been added, and the reasons for its addition, and
to mark how Pope has smoothed the junctures and blended the old and the
new. Nothing that he could do would admit him more intimately to the
secrets of Pope's mastery of his art.
A word must be said in closing as to the merits of 'The Rape of the
Lock' and its position in English literature. In the first place it is
an inimitable picture of one phase, at least, of the life of the time,
of the gay, witty, heartless society of Queen Anne's day. Slowly
recovering from the licentious excesses of the Restoration, society at
this time was perhaps unmoral rather than immoral. It was quite without
ideals, unless indeed the conventions of "good form" may be dignified by
that name. It lacked the brilliant enthusiasm of Elizabethan times as
well as the religious earnestness of the Puritans and the devotion to
patriotic and social ideals which marked a later age. Nothing, perhaps,
is more characteristic of the age than its attitude toward women. It
affected indeed a tone of high-flown adoration which thinly veiled a
cynical contempt. It styled woman a goddess and really regarded her as
little better than a doll. The passion of love had fallen from the high
estate it once possessed and become the mere relaxation of the idle
moments of a man of fashion.
In the comedies of Congreve, for example, a lover even if honestly in
love thinks it as incumbent upon him to make light of his passion before
his friends as to exaggerate it in all the forms of affected compliment
before his mistress.
In 'The Rape of the Lock' Pope has caught and fixed forever the
atmosphere of this age. It is not the mere outward form and
circumstance, the manners and customs, the patching, powdering, ogling,
gambling, of the day that he has reproduced, though his account of these
would alone suffice to secure the poem immortality as a contribution to
the history of society. The essential spirit of the age breathes from
every line. No great English poem is at once so brilliant and so empty,
so artistic, and yet so devoid of the ideals on which all high art
rests. It is incorrect, I think, to consider Pope in 'The Rape of the
Lock' as the satirist of his age. He was indeed clever enough to
perceive its follies, and witty enough to make sport of them, but it is
much to be doubted whether he was wise enough at this time to raise his
eyes to anything better. In the social satires of Pope's great admirer,
Byron, we are at no loss to perceive the ideal of personal liberty which
the poet opposes to the conventions he tears to shreds. Is it possible
to discover in 'The Rape of the Lock' any substitute for Belinda's
fancies and the Baron's freaks? The speech of Clarissa which Pope
inserted as an afterthought to point the moral of the poem recommends
Belinda to trust to merit rather than to charms. But "merit" is
explicitly identified with good humor, a very amiable quality, but
hardly of the highest rank among the moral virtues. And the avowed end
and purpose of "merit" is merely to preserve what beauty gains, the
flattering attentions of the other sex,--surely the lowest ideal ever
set before womankind. The truth is, I think, that 'The Rape of the Lock'
represents Pope's attitude toward the social life of his time in the
period of his brilliant youth. He was at once dazzled, amused, and
delighted by the gay world in which he found himself. The apples of
pleasure had not yet turned to ashes on his lips, and it is the poet's
sympathy with the world he paints which gives to the poem the air, most
characteristic of the age itself, of easy, idle, unthinking gayety. We
would not have it otherwise. There are sermons and satires in abundance
in English literature, but there is only one 'Rape of the Lock'.
The form of the poem is in perfect correspondence with its spirit. There
is an immense advance over the 'Essay on Criticism' in ease, polish, and
balance of matter and manner. And it is not merely in matters of detail
that the supremacy of the latter poem is apparent. 'The Rape of the
Lock' is remarkable among all Pope's longer poems as the one complete
and perfect whole. It is no mosaic of brilliant epigrams, but an organic
creation. It is impossible to detach any one of its witty paragraphs and
read it with the same pleasure it arouses when read in its proper
connection. Thalestris' call to arms and Clarissa's moral reproof are
integral parts of the poem. And as a result, perhaps, of its essential
unity 'The Rape of the Lock' bears witness to the presence of a power in
Pope that we should hardly have suspected from his other works, the
power of dramatic characterization. Elsewhere he has shown himself a
master of brilliant portraiture, but Belinda, the Baron, and Thalestris
are something more than portraits. They are living people, acting and
speaking with admirable consistency. Even the little sketch of Sir Plume
is instinct with life.
