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All hell is ravifh'd with fo fweet a fong;
Light fouls and airy spirits glide along
In troops, like millions of the feather'd kind,
Driven home by night, or fome tempestuous

wind:

Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids ;
And mighty heroes' more majestic shades ;
And fons entomb'd before their parents face;
These the black waves of bounding Styx embrace
Nine times circumfluent; clogg'd with noifome
weeds,

And all that filth which standing water breeds.
Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep caves of death;
The fifters with blue fnaky curls took breath;
Ixion's wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd,
And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice re-
ftrain'd.

When safe return'd, and all these dangers past,
His wife, reitor'd to breathe fresh air at last,
Fellowing for fo Proferpina was pleas'd),
A sudden rage th' un vary lover seiz'd;
He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light fhin'd,
Could not refrain to caft one look behind;
A fault of love. could hell compaffion find.
A dreadful found thrice fbook the Stygian coast,
His hopes quite fled, and all his labour loft!
Why haft thou thus undone thyself and me?
What rage is this? oh, I am fnatch'd from thee!
(She faintly cry'd) Night and the powers of hell
Surround my fight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell!
My hands @retch forth to reach thee as before;
But all in vain, for I am thine no more;

No more allow'd to view thy face, or day !— Then from his eyes, like smoke, the fleets away. Much he would fain have spoke: but fate, alas! Would ne'er again consent to let him pafs.

Thus twice undone, what courfe remain'd to take,

To gain her back, already pafs'd the lake?
What tears, what patience, could procure him
eafe?

Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appeafe?
'Tis faid, he feven long moons bewail'd his lofs
To bleak and barren rocks, en whose cold mofs,
While languishing he fung his fatal flame,
He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame.
So the fad nightingale, when childless made
By fome rough fwain who ftole her young away,
Bewails her lofs beneath a poplar fhade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs waftes the
day;

Her melting fongs a doleful pleasure yield,
And melancholy mufic fills the field.

Marriage nor love could ever move his mind;
But all alone, beat by the nothern wind,
Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain’d,
And of the god's unfruitful gift complain'd.
Circonian dames, enrag'd to be defpis'd,
As they the feast of Bacchus folemniz'd,
Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs ;
His head, torn off from the fair body, fwims
Down that swift current where the Heber flows,
And fill its tongue in doleful accents goes,
Ah, poor Eurydice! he dying cry'd;
Eurydice resounds from every fide.

AN ESSAY ON POETRY *.

Of all those arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man fo high,
As facred and foul-moving poefy :
No kind of work requires fo nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing fhines so much.
But heaven forbid we should be fo profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which fometimes,
Dazzling our minds, fets off the slightest rhymes:
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the fun,
Which, though fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious found,
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts ;
And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the foul:
A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;
Ev'n fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unfeen, yet all things by it shown,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.
Where doft thou dwell? what caverns of the brain
Can fuch a vaft and mighty thing contain?
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abfence
[return,

mourn,

Oh! where do thou retire? and why doft thou Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me [day?

away,

From pleasures of the night, and hufinefs of the
Ev'n now, too far tranfported, I am fain
To check thy courfe, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulnefs, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad :
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fenfe,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reafon is that fubftantial useful part,
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I fhall all the various forts of verfe,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that taik would after Horace do?
The best of mafters, and examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can fay is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitless were the pain.
the ancients we may rob with eafe;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new abfurdities infpire new thoughts :
What need has fatire then to live on theft,
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankeft weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.

'Tis true,

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But hold, the fools shall have no caufe to fear;
'Tis wit and fenfe that is the fubje& here:
Defects fo witty men deserve a cute,
And thofe who are fo, will ev'n this endure.

Firft then, of fongs; which new fo much abound,
Without his fong no fup is to be found;
A mot offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, againit Apollo's laws.
Though nothing feems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that efcapes our eyes,
The leail of which defects is plainly shown
In one fmall ring, and brings the value down:
So fongs fhould be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
Exact p:opriety of word- and thought;
Expreffion eafy and the fancy high;
Yet that not feem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,
As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall.
Here, as in all things elfe, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nafeous fongs by a late author † made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.

Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can fhock the chasteft, or the nicest cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move defire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deferves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise..

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Next, elegy, of sweet, but folemn voice, And of a fubject grave, exacts the choice; The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains; And there too oft' despairing love complains: In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd? That phoenix-fhe deferves to be belov'd; But noify nonsense, and fuch fops as vex Mankind, take most with that fantaflic fex. This to the praise of those who better knew; The many raife the value of the few. But here (as all our fex too oft' have try'd) Women have drawn my wandering thoughts afide. Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ, Is not defect in words, or want of wit; But fhould this mufe harmonius numbers yield, And every couplet be with fancy fill'd; If yet a juft coherence be not made Between each thought; and the whole model laid So right, that every line may higher rife, Like goodly mountains, till they reach the fkies: Such trilles may perhaps of late have past, And may be lik'd awhile, but never laft';

is cpigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will, But not an elegy, nor writ with skill, No panegyric, nor a Cooper's-hill.

A higher flight, and of a happier. force, Are odes: the mufes' most unruly horfe, That bounds fo fierce, the rider has no reft, Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poffefs'd. The poet here must be indeed infpir'd, With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.

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Cowley might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature jin'd the rules of art;
Bur fometimes dicti in mean, or vcrfe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though ali appear in heat and fury done,
The language still must soft and easy rua.
Thefe laws may found a little ton severe;
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here,
Which, though extravagant, this mute allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows.

Of all the ways that wifeft men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has moft fuccefsful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.
'Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things faid oft' before!
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That ftain a beauty which we fo much love.
Of chofen words fome take not care enough,
And think they should be as the subject rough;
This poem muf. be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smootheft words convey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bufinefs was to rail:

But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diftinguishes a fatyr from a scold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A fatyr's fmile is fharper than his frown;
So while you feem to flight fome rival youth,
Malice itself may pafs fometimes for truth.
The Laureat there may juftly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mack Fleckno || with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegafus has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpifh minifter of state.

Here reft, my mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile,
A more important task attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle, that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the fky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprife before,
O'er what wide lands and feas fhe is to foar,
Doubts her own ftrength fo far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet incited by fome bold defign,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes every feather, views herfelf with care,
At last, refolv'd, he cleaves the yielding air ;
Away fhe flies, fo ftrong, fo high, so fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at lalt:
So (though too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The mufe inipires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?..
On then, my mufe, adventuroufly engage
To give instructions that. concern the stage.

The unities of action, time, and place, Which, if obferv'd, give plays fo great a grace, Are, though but little practis'd, too well known To be taught here, where we pretend alone From nicer faults to purge the prefent age, Lefs obvious errors of the English Itage.

First then, foliloquies had need be few, Extremely fhort, and spoke in paffion too.

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Our lovers talking to themfelves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend, only to tell it us;
Th' occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when Bellario † confeffes all.

Figures of fpeech, which poets think fo fine,
(Art's needlefs varnish to make nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in defcriptions only claim a place :
But, to make rage declaim, and grief difcourfe,
From lovers in despair fine things to force,

Muft needs fucceed; for who can choose but pity
A dying hero, miferably witty?

But oh the dialogues, where jeft and mock
Is held up like a reft at fhittle-cock;
Or elfe, like bells, eternally they chime,
They figh in fimile, and die in rhyme.

What things are thefe who would be poets thought,
By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more; for they must look within, to find
Thofe fecret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a foul.
All this united yet but makes a part
Of dialogue, that great and powerful art,
Now almost loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended fince, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakspeare and Fletcher are the wonders now;
Confider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For though in many things they grofsly fail,
Qver o passions still they so prevail,

That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways;
This oft', alone, has given fuccefs to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no fuch thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs monfter which the world ne'er faw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But fuch as may deserve compaffion too.
Befides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving fcene must be a plot-apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark every place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs.
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to
As what a man would fay in fuch a cafe: [place,
Neither in comedy will this fuffice,
The player too must be before your eyes!

† 19 Philafter, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher,

And, though 'tis drudgery to floop fo low,
To him you must your fecret meaning fhow,
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft' we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he :
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from every flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff + ftands inimitable yet.

Another fault which often may befall,

Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall

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So overflow, that is, be none at all,

That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe, as if poffeft,
And each by infpiration breaks his jett.
If once the juftnefs of each part be loft,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
That filly thing men call fheer-wit avoid,
With which our age fo nauseoufly is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit fhould be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper thought.

But fince the poets we of late have known
Shine in no dress fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fenfe.
Firft, a foliloquy is calmly made,
Where every reafon is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet fake, whom at first fight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion provés :
But fome fad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone;
He ftrait grows jealous, though we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die:
But first he makes a fpeech, wherein he tells
The abfent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who ftrait appears; but who can fate withitand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hasty hand,
That just has given himself the cruel ftroke!
At which his very rival's heart it broke :
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Moft fadly mourns at being left behind,
Of fuch a death prefers the pleating charms
To love, and living in a lady's armis.
What fhameful and what monstrous things are
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonfon's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can fearce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, fures, Italian fongs, and rhyme,
May keep up finking nonsente for a time
But that must fail, which now fo much o'er-rules,
And ferfe no longer will fubmit to fools.
By painful fteps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whose bright airy top

+ The matchlefs character of Shakspeare.

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[thefe!

The epic poets fo divinely fhow,

And with juft pride behold the reft below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

To be the utmost ftretch of human sense;
A work of fuch ineftimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought forth!

Homer and Virgil! with what facred awe,

Do those mere founds the world's attention draw!
Juft as a changeling feems below the reft
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beaft;
So thefe gigantic fouls amaz'd we find
As much above the refl of human kind!
Nature's whole frength united! endless fame,
And univerfal fhouts attend their name?
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear fo mean, so poor,
fo
Verse will feem profe; but ftill perfist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Boffu never writ, the world had ftill,
Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill;
As fomething of divine the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be inftructed, but infpir'd:
But he, difclofing facred myfteries,
Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;
Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vaft proportion grown.
Sure from fome angel he the fecret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To fee this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is fhown, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whofe fancy flies beyond weak reason's fight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whofe juft difcernment, Virgil-like, is fuch
Never to fay too little or too much?
Let fuch a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Must above Taffo's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenfer, and ev'n Milton fail.

ODE ON BRUTUS.

I.

"Tis faid, that favourite, mankind, Was made the lord of all below;

But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find, 'Tis only one man tells another so.

And, for this great dominion here, Which over other beafts we claim, Reason our best credential does appear, By which indeed we domineer, But how abfurdly, we may fee with fhame. Reafon, that folemn trifle light as air, Driven up and down by cenfure or applaufe; By partial love away 'tis blown, Or the least prejudice can weigh it down; Thus our high privilege becomes our fnare. In any nice and weighty caufe, How weak, at best, is reafon! yet the grave Impofe on that small judgment which we have.

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In all thofe wits, whofe names have spread fo wide, And ev'n the force of time defy'd,

Some failings yet may be defcry'd. Among the reft, with wonder be it told, That Brutus is admir'd for Cæfar's death; By which he yet furvives in fame's immortal breath. Brutus, ev'n he, of all the reit,

In whom we should that deed the most deteft,
Is of mankind efteem'd the beft.

As fnow, defcending from fome lofty hill,
Is by its rolling courfe augmenting still,
So from illuftrious authors down have roll'd
Those great encomiums he receiv'd of old:

Republic orators will fhow eftcem,

And gild their eloquence with praise of him : But truth, unveil'd, like a bright fun appears, To fhine away this heap of feventeen hundred

years.

III.

In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious wit,
(To whom in all befides I willingly fubmit)

That Cæfar's life no pity could deferve
From one who kill'd himself, rather than ferve.
Had Brutus chose rather himself to flay,

Than any mafter to obey,

Happy for Rome had been that noble pride; The world had then remain'd in peace, and only Brutus dy'd.

For he, whofe foul difdains to own
Subjection to a tyrant's frown,
And his own life would rather end,
Would fure much rather kill himself, than only
hurt his friend.

To his own fword in the Philippian field
Brutus indeed at laft did yield:
But in thofe times felf-killing was not rare,
And his proceeded only from despair:

He might have chofen elfe to live,
In hopes another Cæfar would forgive;
Then, for the good of Rome, he could once more
Confpire against a life which had spar'd his before.

IV.

Our country challenges our utmost care,

And in our thoughts deferves the tenderest share;
Her to a thousand friends we fhould prefer,
Yet not betray them, though it be for her
Hard is his heart, whom no defert can move,
A mistress or a friend to love,
Above whate'er he does befides enjoy ;
But may he, for their fakes, his fire or fons destroy?
For facred juftice, or for public good,
Scorn'd be our wealth, our honour, and our blood:
In fuch a caufe, want is a happy ftate,
Ev'n low difgrace would be a glorious fate;
And death itfelf, when noble fame furvives,
More to be valued than a thoufand lives.

But 'tis not furely of fo fair renown
To spill another's blood, as to expose our own:
Of all that's ours we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to friendship, oh! 'tis facrilege
to touch.

V.

Can we stand by unmov'd, and fee

Our mother robb'd and ravifh'd? Can we be

...

Excus'd, if in her caufe we never stir, Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher? Thus fings our bard with heat almost divine; 'Tis pity that his thought was not as ftrong as fine. Would it more juftly did the case express, Or that its beauty and its grace were lefs. (Thus a nymph fometimes we see, Who fo charming seems to be, That, jealous of a soft surprise,

We scarce durft truft our eager eyes) Such a fallacious ambush to escape,

It were but vain to plead a willing rape; A valiant fon would be provok'd the more;

A force we therefore muft confefs, but acted long before;

A marriage fince did intervene,
With all the folemn and the facred fcene;

Loud was the Hymenean fong;

The violated dame walk'd smilingly along,
And in the midst of the moft facred dance,
As if enamour'd of his fight,
Often she caft a kind admiring glance

On the bold struggler for delight;
Who afterwards appear'd fo moderate and cool,
As if for public good alone he fo defir'd to rule.

VI.

But, oh! that this were all which we can urge
Against a Roman of fo great a foul !
And that fair truth permitted us to purge

His fact, of what appears fo foul!
Friendship, that facred and fublimeft thing!
The nobleft quality, and chiefest good,

(In this dull age fcarce understood) Inspires us with unusual warmth her injur'd rites to fing.

Affift, ye angels! whofe immortal bliss,

Though more refin'd, chiefly confifts in this. How plainly your bright thoughts to one another fhine!

Oh how ye all agree in harmony divine!
The race of mutual love with equal zeal ye run,
A course, as far from any end, as when at firft begun.
Ye faw, and fmil'd upon this matchless pair,
Who still betwixt them did so many virtues fhare,
Some which belong to peace, and fome to ftrife,
Those of a calm, and of an active life,

# Roms,

That all the excellence of human-kind Concurr'd to make of both but one united mind, Which friendship did so fast and closely bind, Not the least cement could appear by which their fouls were join'd.

That tie which holds our mortal frame, Which poor unknowing we a foul and body name, Seems not a compofition more divine, [fhine.

Or more abftrufe, than all that does in friendship

VII.

From mighty Cæfar and his boundless grace, Though Brutus, once at least, his life receiv'd; Such obligations, though fo high believ'd,

Are yet but flight in such a cafe. Where friendship fo poffeffes all the place, There is no room for gratitude; fince he, Who so obliges, is more pleas'd than his fav'd friend can be.

Juft in the midst of all this noble heat,

While their great hearts did both fo kindly beat,

That it amaz'd the lookers-on,

And forc'd them to fufpect a father and a fon*; (Though here ev'n Nature's self still seem to bẹ outdone)

From fuch a friendship unprovok'd to fall Is horrid, yet I with that fact were all [call, Which does with too much caufe ungrateful Brutos

VIII.

In coolest blood he laid a long defign

Against his best and dearest friend;
Did ev'n his foes in zeal exceed,
To fpirit others up to work fo black a deed;
Himself the centre where they all did join.
Cæfar, meantime, fearless, and fond of him,
Was as induftrious all the while

To give fuch ample marks of fond esteem,
As made the graveft Romans fmile [guile.
To fee with how much eafe love can the wife bes
He, whom thus Brutus doom'd to bleed,
Did, setting his own race afide,

Nothing lefs for him provide,
Than in the world's great empire to fucceed:
Which we are bound in justice to allow,

Is all-fufficient proof to fhow

That Brutus did not ftrike for his own fake: And if, alas! he fail'd, 'twas only by mistake,

* Caefar was fufpected to have begotten Brutus,

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