Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone, For a whole page of dulnefs must atone.
How vain a thing is Man, and how unwife!
Ev'n he who would himself the most despise!
I, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't fee.
While the world's nonfenfe is fo fharply shown, 270
We pull down others but to raise our own:
That we may angels feem we paint them elves,
And are but fatyrs to set up ourselves.
I, who have all this while been finding fault
Ev'n with my mafter, who firft Satire taught, 275
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendous and above reward,
Now labour, with unequal force, to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time:
'Tis just that I fhould to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
AN ESSAY ON POETRY.
Or all thofe arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief masterpiece 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 fo much.
But Heav'n forbid we should be fo profane
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
"Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes
Dazzling our minds sets off the slightest rhymes 10
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True wit is everlasting, like the fun,
Which, tho' fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious found 15
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure of the whole
Without a genius too; for that's the foul:
A spirit which inspires 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 describ'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 absence mourn, Oh! where doft thou retire? and why doft thou return, Sometimes with pow'rful charms to hurry me away From pleasures of the night and bus'nefs of the day? 32 Ev'n now, too far tranfported, I am fain
To check thy course, 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 sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reason is that substantial useful
Which gains the head, while t' other wins the heart. Here I fhall all the various forts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at beft, all we can fay is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitless were the pain.
'Tis true the Ancients we may rob with ease,
But who with that mean fhift himself can please 50
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 inspire new thoughts.
What need has Satire then to live on theft,
When so much fresh occafion ftill is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools fhall have no cause to fear,
'Tis wit and fenfe that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deferve a cure,
And those who are fo will ev'n this endure.
First, then, of Songs, which now fo much abound; Without his Song no fop is to be found;
A most offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Tho' nothing feems more eafy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;
For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The leaft of which defects is plainly shown
In one fmall ring, and brings the value down;
So Songs fhould be to just perfection wrought,
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words 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 naufeous Songs by a late author * made
Call an unwilling cenfure on his shade.
Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can fhock the chastest, or the niceft cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move defire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.
*The Earl of Rochefter.---It may be observed, however, that many of the worst fongs afcribed to this nobleman were Spurious.
On other themes he well deferves our praise,
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of fweet but folemn voice,
And of a subject 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 nonfenfe, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praife of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our fex too oft' have try'd)
Women have drawn my wand'ring thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words or want of wit;
But should this Muse harmonious numbers yield,
And ev'ry 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 ev'ry line may higher rife,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies;
Such trifles may perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last;
'Tis epigram, 't is point, 't is what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill;
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