Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

WORKS OF POPE.

EXTRACT FROM DR. WARBURTON'S ADVERTISEMENT

To the Oavo Edition of Ma. Pore's Works, 1751.

Ma. POPE, in his laft illness, amufed himself, a-, thor's manufcript copies of thefe poems, commu-
midft the care of his higher concerns, in prepar-nicated by him for this purpose to the editor.
ing a corrected and complete edition of his writ
ings; and with his ufual delicacy, was even fo-
licitous to prevent any share of the offence they
might occafion, from falling on the friend whom
he had engaged to give them to the public.

In discharge of this truft, the public has here complete edition of his works, executed in fuch a manner, as, I am perfuaded, would have been to his fatisfaction.

But it may be proper to be a little more particular concerning the fuperiority of this edition above all the preceding; fo far as Mr. Pope himfelf was concerned. What the editor hath done, the reader must collect for himself.

The first volume, and the original poems in the fecond, are here printed from a copy corrected throughout by the author himself, even to the very preface; which, with several additional notes in his own hand, he delivered to the editor a little before his death. The Juvenile Translations, in the other part of the fecond volume, it was never hi intention to bring into this edition of his works, on account of the levity of fome, the freedom of others, and the little importance of any but thefe being the property of other men, the editor had it not in his power to follow the author's intention.

:

The third volume, all but the Effay on Man (which, together with the Essay on Criticism, the author, a little before his death, had corrected and publifhed in quarto, as a specimen of his projected edition), was printed by him in his last illness (but never published) in the manner it is now given. The difpofition of the Epistle on the Characters of Men is quite altered; that on the Characters of Women, much enlarged; and the Epiftles on Riches and Tafte, corrected and improved. To these advantages of the third volume, must be added a great number of fine Verses, taken from the auVOL. VIII.

Thefe, when he first published the poems to which they belong, he thought proper, for various reafons, to omit. Some from the manufcript copy of the Effay on Man, which tended to difcredit fate, and to recommend the moral government of God, had, by the editor's advice, been restored to their places in the last edition of that poem. The rest, together with others of the like fort, from his ma nufcript copy of the other Ethic Epistles, are here inferted at the bottom of the page, under the title of Variations.

The fourth volume contains the Satires, with their prologue, the epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, and epilogue, the two poems, intitled M DCC XXXVIII. The prologue and epilogue are here given with the like advantages as the Ethic Epiftles in the foregoing volume; that is to fay, with the variations, or additional verfes, from the author's manuscripts. The epilogue to the fatires is likewife enriched with many and large notes, now first printed from the author's own manufcript.

The fifth volume contains a correcter and completer edition of the Dunciad than hath been hitherto published; of which, at prefent, I have only this farther to add, that it was at my requeft he laid the plan of a fourth book. I often told him, it was a pity fo fine a poem fhould remain disgraced by the meannefs of its fubject, the most infignificant of all dunces, bad rhymers, and malevolent cavillers; that he ought to raise and enobie it, by pointing his fatire against the most pernicious of all, minute philofophers and freethinkers. I imagined too, it was for the interest of religion, to have it known that so great a genius had a due abhorrence of these pests of virtue and fociety. He came readily into my opinion; but, at the fame time, told me it would create him many enemies: he was not mistaken; for though the terror of his

A

[ocr errors][ocr errors]

pen kept them for fome time in refpect, yet on his death they rofe with unrestrained fury, in numerous coffee-house tales, and Grub-street libels. The plan of this admirable fatire was artfully contrived to fhew, that the follies and defects of a fashionable education naturally led to, and neceffarily ended in, freethinking; with design to point out the only remedy adequate to fo fatal an evil. It was to advance the fame ends of virtue and religion, that the editor prevailed on him to alter every thing in his moral writings that might be suspected of having the leaft glance towards fate, or naturalism; and to add what was proper to convince the world. that he was warmly on the fide of moral government, and a revealed will: and it would be injuftice to his memory, not to declare that he embraced thefe occafions with the most unfeigned pleafure.

The fixth volume confifts of Mr. Pope's Mifcellaneous Pieces, in verfe and profet. Among the verse several fine poems make now their first appearance in his works: and of the profe, all that is good, and nothing but what is exquifitely fo, will be found in this edition.

The profe is not within the plan of this edition.

|

The feventh, eighth, and ninth volumes, confift entirely of his Letters; the more valuable, as they are the only true models which we, or perhaps any of our neighbours have, of familiar epiftles. This collection is now made more complete by the addition of several new picces. Yet excepting a short explanatory letter to Col. M. and the letters to Mr. A. and Mr. W. (the latter of which are given to shew the editor's inducements, and the engagements he was under, to intend the care of this edition), excepting these, I say, the reft are all publifhed from the author's own printed, though not publifhed, copies, delivered to the editor.

On the whole, the advantages of this edition, above the preceding, are thefe: That it is the first complete collection which has ever been made of his original writings; that all his principal poems, of early or later date, are here given to the public with his last corrections and improvements; that a great number of his verses are here first printed from the manufcript copies of his principal poems of later date; that many new notes of the author's are here added to his poems; and, lastly, that feveral pieces, both in profe and verfe, make now their first appearance before the public.

RECOMMENDATORY POEMS.

[ocr errors]

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS PASTORALS.

Is thofe more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A mufe fincere, that never flattery knew,
Pays what to friendship and defert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verfe are found,
Art strengthening nature, fenfe improv'd by found.
Unlike thofe wits, whofe numbers glide along
So fmooth, no thought e'er interrupts the fong:
Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the car:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull :

So purling fireams with even murmurs creep,
And hufh the heavy hearers into fleep.
As Imootheft fpeech is most deceitful found,
The fmoothest numbers oft are empty found.
But wit and judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age confummate too :
Your trains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected cafe,
With proper thoughts, and lively images;
Such as by nature to the ancients fhewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Although difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some, in a polifh'd ftyle, write paftoral:
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall.

Like Come fair fhepherdefs, the Sylvan mufe

Should wear thofe flowers her native fields pro

duce;

And the true measure of the fhepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the country fit :
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwain's be wrought;
So, with becoming art, the players drefs
In fiks the fhepherd, and the shepherdefs;
Yet ftill unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely ruffet of the fwain.
Your rural mufe appears to justify
The long-loft graces of fimplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence :
Yet long her modefty thofe charms conceal'd,
Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;

For wits induftrious to their trouble feem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate,
Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whofe mufe did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine thall, like his, foon take a higher flight:
So larks, which firft from lowly fields arife,
Mount by degrees, and reach at laft the fkies.
W. WYCHERLEY.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HI3 WINDSOR-FOREST.

HAIL! facred bard! a mufe unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is fhewn,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The eastern pomp had just befpoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
A various fpol adorn'd our naked land,
The pride of Perfia glitter'd on our strand,
And China's earth was caft on common fand:
Tofs'd up and down the gloffy fragments lay,
And dreis'd the rocky fhelves, and pav'd the paint-

ed bay.

Thy treafures next arriv'd: and now we boast A nobler cargo on our barren coalt: From thy luxuriant forest we receive More lafting glories than the cat can give.

Where'er we dip in thy delightful page,
What pompous fcenes our bufy thoughts engage!
The pompous fcenes in all their pride appcar,
Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were:
Nor half fo true the fair Lodona fhews

The fylvan ftate that on her border grows,
While fhe the wond'ring fhepherd entertains
With a new Windfor in her watery plains;
The jufter lays the lucid wave furpafs,
The living fcene is in the mufe's glass.
Nor fweeter notes the echoing forests cheer,
When Philomela fits and warbles there,
Than when you fing the greens and opening glades,
And give us harmony as well as fhades:
A Titian's hand might draw the grove; but you
Can paint the grove, and add the mufic too.

With vast variety thy pages fhine;

A new creation starts in every line.
How fudden trees rife to the reader's fight,
And make a doubtful scene of shade and light,
And give at once the day, at once the night!
And here again what fweet confufion reigns,
In dreary deferts mix'd with painted plains!
And fee! the deferts caft a pleasing gloom,
And fhrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom;
Whilft fruitful crops rife by their barren fide,
And bearded groves difplay their annual pride.
Happy the man, who ftrings his tuneful lyre
Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields
inspire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell
Amidst the rural joys you fing fo well.
I in a cold, and in a barren clime,

Cold as my thought, and barren to my rhyme,
Here on the western beach attempt to chime,
O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main !
Border'd with weeds, and folitudes obfcene!

}

Suatch me, ye gods! from these Atlantic thores,
And fhelter me in Windfor's fragraut bowers;
Or to my much-lov'd Ifis' walk convey,.
And on her flowery banks for ever lay.
Thence let me view the venerable scene,
The awful dome, the groves eternal green,
Where facred Hough long found his fam'd retreat,
And brought the mufes to the fylvan feat;
Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the claflic ftore,
And made that mufic which was noife before.
There, with illuftrious bards, I spent my days,
Not free from cenfure, nor unknown to praise :
Enjoy'd the bleffings that his reign bestow'd,
Nor envy'd Windfor in the foft abode.

The golden minutes fmoothly danc'd away,
And tuneful bards beguil'd the tedious day:
They fung, nor fung in vain, with numbers fir'd,
That Maro taught, or Addifon infpir'd.
Ev'n Ieffay'd to touch the trembling ftring:
Who could hear them, and not attempt to fing?
Rous'd from thefe dreams by thy commanding
ftrain,

I rife and wander through the field or plain;
Led by thy mufe, from fport to sport I run,
Mark the ftretch'd line, or hear the thundering gun.
Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy
On the cold earth the fluttering pheafant lie!
His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear,
And every feather fhines and varies there.

Nor can I país the generous courfer by;
But while the prancing fteed allures my eye,
He ftarts, he's gone! and now I fee him fly
O'er hills and dales; and now I lofe the course,
Nor can the rapid fight pursue the flying horfe.
Oh, could thy Virgil from his orb look down,
He'd view a courfer that might match his own!
Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace,
Lodona's murmurs ftop me in the race.
Who can refufe Lodona's melting tale?
The foft complaint fhall over time prevail;
The tale be told when fhades forfake her fhore,
The nymph be fung when the can flow no more.
Nor fhall the fong, old Thames: forbear to fhine,
At once the fubject and the fong divine.

Peace, fung by thee, fhall please ev'n Britons more
Than all their fhours for victory before.
Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream,
The world fhould tremble at her awful name;
From various fprings divided waters glide,
In different colours roli a different tide,
Murmur along their crooked banks a while,
At once they murmur and enrich the ifle;
A while diftin&t through many channels run,
But meet at last, and fweetly flow in one;
There joy to lose their long-diftingaish'd names,
And make one glorious and immortal Thames.
FR. KNAP.

TO MR. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE COUNTESS OF Winchelsea.

THE muse, of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, though not proud.
Widely extenfive is the poet's aim,

And in each verfe he draws a bill on fame.
For none have wit (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a patron or a friend;
But whatfoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating poems of the age;
Nor by injurious fcruples think it fit,

To hide their judgments who applaud your wit:
But let their pens to yours the heralds prove,
Who ftrive for you, as Greece for Homer ftrove;
Whilft he who beft your poetry afferts,
Afferts his own, by fympathy of parts.
Me panegyric verfe does not infpire,
Who never well can praise what I admire,
Nor in thofe lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counfel in your ear:
Go on, to gain applaufes by defert;
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart;
Inflame the foldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the fage:
Allure, with tender verfe, the female race;
And give their darling paffion, courtly grace:
Describe the forest still in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains:
Your tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the poet in that part display;
Nor let the critic there his fkill unfold,
For Boccace thus and Chaucer tales have told :
Soothe, as you only can, each different taste,
And for the future charm us in the past.
Then, fhould the verfe of every artful hand
Before your numbers eminently ftand;
In you no vanity could thence be fhewn,
Unless, fince fhort in beauty of your own,
Some envious fcribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But envy could not against you fucceed:
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read;
Cenfure or praife muft from ourfelves proceed.

TO MR. POPE,

BY MISS JUD. COWPER, AFTERWARDS MRS. MADAN.

O POPE by what commanding wondrous art
Doft thou each paffion to each breaft impart?
Our beating hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless love!
Th' elated mind's impetuous starts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul!
Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctness, Homer's majesty!
Soft Waller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, ftrength, beauty, genius fhine,
While nervous judgment guides each flowing line.
No borrow'd tinfel glitters o'er these lays,
And to the mind a falfe delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The weight of fenfe, and elegance of found:
A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre.
The matchless strains our ravish'd senses charm:
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully just the turns appear!
The language how majestically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,
And all the bard th' infpiring God reveals.
Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes 1 turn,
Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn;
Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers fur-

round,

And bounteous rufh amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blissful seats,
Thy fylvan fhades, the mufes' lov'd retreats;
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods!
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;
Whofe virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her spotlefs waves fhould cease to
glide:

Ta mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,

Still fhall the grace and range the verdant plains;
By him felected for the mufes' theme, [tream.
Still fine a blooming maid, and toll a limpid
Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art,
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The spring and teft of verfe unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Soothe, with thy wonted eafe and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate taftes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foften Wisdom's harsh reproofs to wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,,
In thee rife worthy of their facred source;
His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe entire,
As gold runs purer from the trying fire.
0, for a mufe like thine, while I rehearse
fa'ia.mortal beauties of thy various verfa!

Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled love,
Gay as the freaks that stain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celestial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,
From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarfe verfe we fee th' embattled foes
In each loud ftrain the fiery onfet glows;
With strength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright magic of the painter's hand Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-stretch'd plains, command;

Here fpreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene,

Therethe wide landfcape fmiles with livelier green;
The floating glafs reflects the diftant fky,
And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and difclose the inmoft fhade;
The ripen'd harveft crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,
Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the stretch'd cloth a rougher ftroke receives,
And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;
When art like lavish nature's felf fupplies,
Grace to the limbs, and fpirit to the eyes;

When ev'n the paffions of the mind are seen,

And the foul fpeaks in the exalted mien;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

We own the mighty Master's fkill, as boundless as complete.

LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE,
On reading Mr. Addifon's Account of the Englifo Poetse

Ir all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
In Addifon's majestic numbers fhine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himfelf fo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftnefs, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meaneft of the muses throng,
To thy juft praifes tune th' adventurous fong.

How am I fill'd with rapture and delight,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuflain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polifh'd ftrains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoking plains.
What though archangel 'gainft archangel arms,
And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms,
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul difmay?

But when fome fair one guides your soster verse, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in fimoother numbers charm! When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, For fill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

« ПредишнаНапред »