UNNATURAL FLIGHTS IN POETRY.
AS when fome image of a charming face,
In living paint, an artist tries to trace,
He carefully confults each beauteous line,
Adjusting to his object his defign;
We praise the piece, and give the painter fame,
But as the bright refemblance speaks the dame.
Poets' are limners of another kind,,
To copy out ideas in the mind;
Words are the paint by which their thoughts are shown,
And Nature is their object to be drawn ;
The written picture we applaud or blame,
But as the juft proportions are the fame.
Who, driven with ungovernable fire,
Or, void of art, beyond these bounds afpire,
Gigantic forms and monftrous births alone
Produce, which Nature fhock'd difdains to own.
By true reflection I would fee my face,
Why brings the fool a magnifying-glafs?
"But poetry in fiction takes delight,
"And mounting in bold figures out of fight,
"Leaves Truth behind in her audacious flight:
"Fables and metaphors, that always lie,
"And rafh hyperboles that foars so high,
And
every ornament of verse must die.
Q4
Mistake me not: no figures I exclude,
And but forbid intemperance, not food.
Who would with care fome happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very fame,
Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's fcorn,
But meant to grace, illuftrate, and adorn :
Important truths still let your fables hold,
And moral myfteries with art unfold;
Ladies and beaux to please, is all the task,
But the fharp critic will inftruction ask.
As veils tranfparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear, when right apply'd;
When through the phrase we plainly fee the fenfe,
Truth with such obvious meanings will dispense.
The reader what in reason's due believes,
"Nor can we call that falfe which not deceives:
Hyperboles fo daring and fo bold,
Difdaining bounds, are yet by rules control'd;
Above the clouds, but yet within our fight,
They mount with Truth, and make a towering flight,
Prefenting things impoffible to view,
They wander through incredible to true :
Falfehoods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd,
And truth, like filver, leaves the drofs behind.
Thus Poetry has ample space to foar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore;
Such vaunts as his who can with patience read,
Who thus defcribes his hero when he 's dead?
"In heat of action flain, yet fcorns to fall,
"But ftill maintains the war, and fights at---,
The noify culverin, o'er-charg'd, lets fly,
And burfts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And Nature fuffers in the wild extreme.
The captive Canibal, oppreft with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, difdains;
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He bids defiance to the gaping croud,
And spent at last, and speechlefs as he lies,
With fiery glances mocks their rage, and dies.
This is the utmost ftretch that Nature can,
And all beyond is fulfome, falfe, and vain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different fides,
I would condemn, but that, in fpite of sense,
Th' admiring world still stands in his defence:
The gods permitting traitors to fucceed,
Become not parties in an impious deed,
And, by the tyrant's murder, we may find,
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with fuch prepofterous praise,
Our characters we leffen, when we'd raise;
Like caftles built by magic art in air,
That vanish at approach, fuch thoughts appear;
But rais'd on truth by fome judicious hand,
As on a rock they fhall for ages ftand.
Our king return'd, and banish'd peace reftor'd,
The Mufe ran mad to fee her exil❜d lord;
On the crack'd stage the Bedlam heroes roar'd,
And scarce could speak one reasonable word :
Dryden himself, to please a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgment stoop to rage;
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Comply'd to cuftom, but not err'd through choice.
Deem then the people's, not the writer's fin,
Almanfor's rage, and rants of Maximin;
That fury spent in each elaborate piece,
He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Rofcommon first, then Mulgrave rofe, like light,
To clear our darknefs, and to guide our flight;
With steady judgment, and in lofty sounds,
They gave us patterns, and they fet us bounds.
The Stagyrite and Horace laid aside,
Inform'd by them, we need no foreign guide;
Who feck from poetry a lasting name,
May from their lessons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be fure
That every line the test of truth endure;
On this foundation may the fabric rife
Firm and unfhaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from love,
Abandon'd Truth feeks fhelter in the
Cherish, ye Mufes, the forfaken fair,
And take into your train this beauteous wanderer...
CHARACTER OF MR. WYCHERLEY*.
OF all our modern wits, none feems to me
Once to have touch'd upon true comedy, But hafty Shadwell, and flow Wycherley. Shadwell's unfinish'd works do yet impart Great proofs of Nature's force, though none of Art;
*This character, however juft in other particulars, yet is injurious in one; Mr. Wycherley being reprefented as a laborious writer, which every man who has the leaft perfonal knowledge of him can contradict.
Thofe indeed who form their judgment only from his writings, may be apt to imagine fo many admirable reflections, fuch diverfity of images and characters, fuch ftrict enquiries into nature, fuch clofe obfervations on the feveral humours, manners, and affections of all ranks and degrees of men, and, as it were, so true and fo per-. fect a diffection of humankind, delivered with fo much pointed wit and force of expreffion, could be no other than the work of extraordinary diligence and application whereas others, who have the happinefs to be ac-. quainted with the author, as well as his writitings, are able to affirm thefe happy performances were due to his infinite genius and natural penetration. We owe the pleasure and advantage of having been fo well entertained and inftructed by him to his facility of doing it; for, if I mistake him not extremely, had it been a trouble to him to write, he would have fpared himself that trouble. What he has performed would indeed have been difficult for another; but the club which a man of ordinary fize could not lift, was but a walking-stick for Hercules.
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