r party-notions, vapours, faith, and zeal Were all, at proper times, infallible. True wit, and true religion are but one, cough fome pervert 'em, and ev'n most have

none.

Who thinks what others never thought before, Acts but just that his fons will act no more.

et on a time, when vig'rous thoughts demand, ndulge a warmth, and prompt the daring hand: On purpose deviate from the laws of art, And boldly dare to captivate the heart; Breafts warm'd to rapture fhall applaud fire,

your

May difapprove you, but shall still admire.
The Grecian artist, at one dash, supply'd
What patient touches and flow art deny'd.
So when pale Florio in the gloomy grove
Sits fadly mufing on the plagues of love,
When hopes and fears diftract his tim'rous mind,
And fancy only makes the nymph unkind;
Defp'rate at laft he rushes from the fhade,
By force and warm addrefs to win the maid:
His brifk attack the melting nymph receives
With equal warmth, he preffes, the forgives;
One moment crowns whole tedious years of pain,
And endless griefs, and health confum'd in vain.
Of ev'ry beauty that confpires to charm
Man's nicer judgment, and his genius warm,
To juft invention be the glory giv'n,
A particle of light deriv'd from heav'n.
Unnumber'd rules t'improve the gift are shown
By ev'ry critic, to procure it, none.

Some colours often to the reft impart
New graces, more through happiness, than art.
This nicely ftudy'd, will your fame advance,
The greatest beauties feldom come by chance.
Some gaze at ornament alone, and then
So value paint, as women value men.
It matters nought to talk of truth, or grace,
Religion, genius, cuftoms, time, and place.
So judge the vain, and young; nor envy we:
They cannot think indeed---but they may fee.
Exceffive beauty, like a flash of light,
Seems more to weaken, than to please the fight.
In one gay thought luxuriant Ovid writ,
And Voiture tires us, but with too much wit.
Some all their value for Grotesque express,
Beauty they prize, but beauty in excels:
Where each gay figure feems to glare apart,
Without due grace, proportion, fhades, or art.
(The fad remains of Goths in ancient times,
And rev'rend dullness, and religious rhymes)
So youthful poets ring their mufic round
On one eternal harmony of found.
"The lines are gay," and whotoe'er pretends
To fearch for more, mittakes the writer's ends.
Colours, like words, with equal care are fought,
Thele please the fight, and those express the
thought,

But most of all, the landscape feems to please
With calm repofe, and rural images.
Sec, in due lights th' obedient objects stand,
As happy eafe exalts the mafter's hand.
See, abfent rocks hang trembling in the sky,
See, diftant mountains vanish from the eye;
A darker verdure ftains the dusky woods:
Floats the green shadow in the filver floods ;

Fair vifionary worlds furprise the view,
And fancy forms the golden age a-new.

True juft defigns will merit honour still; Who begins well, can fcarcely finish ill. Unerring truth muft guide your hand aright, Art without this is violence to fight.

The first due poftures of each figure trace
In fwelling out-lines with an eafy grace.
But the prime perfon moftly will demand
Th' unweary'd touches of thy patient hand:
There thought, and boldness, strength, and art
confpire,

The critic's judgment, and the painter's fire;
It lives, it moves, it fwells to meet the eye:
Behind the mingling groups in tofter shadows die.
Never with felf-design your merits raife,
Nor let your tongue be echo to your praise.
To wifer heads commit fuch points as thefe,
A modeft blush will tell how much they please.
In days of yore, a prating lad, they lay,
Met glorious Reubens journeying on the way:
Sneering, and arch, he thakes his empty head,
(For half-learn'd boys will talk a Solon dead)
Your fervant, good Sir Paul, why, what, the devil,
The world to you is more than fairly civil;
No life, no gusto in your pieces fhine,
Without decorum, as without design...--

Sedate to this the heav'n-born artist fmil'd, "Nor thine nor mine to fpeak our praife, my "child!

"Each fhall expofe his best to curious eyes,
"And let th' impartial world adjust the prize.
Let the foft colours fweeten and unite

To one just form, as all were shade, or light.
Nothing fo frequent charms th' admiring eyes
As well-tim'd fancy, and a fweet furprife.

So when the Grecian labour'd to difclofe
His niceft art, a mimic lark arofe:
The fellow-birds in circles round it play'd,
Knew their own kind, and warbled to a fhade.
So Vandervaart in later times excell'd,
And nature liv'd in what our eyes beheld.

He too can oft, (in optics deeply read)
A noon-day darkness o'er his chamber spread.
The tranfient objects fudden as they pafs
O'er the fmall convex of the visual glass,
Transferr'd from thence by magic's powerful call,
Shine in quick glories on the gloomy wall;
Groves, mountains, rivers, men furprise the fight,
Trembles the dancing world, and iwims the wavy
light.

Each varying figure in due place difpofe, Thefe boldly heighten, touch but faintly those, Contiguous objects place with judgment nigh, Each due proportion fwelling on the eye.

Remoter views infenfibly decay,
And lights, and fhadows (weetly drop away.
In bluish white the fartheft mounts arife,
Steal from the eye, and melt into the skies.
Hence facred domes in length'ning ifles extend,
Round columns fwell, and rifing arches bend:
Obliquer views in fide-long Vita's glance,
And bending groves in fancy feem to dance.
Two equal lights descending from the sky,
O'erpow'r each other, and confule the eye.

The greatest pleafures tire the moft, and fuch
Still end in vices if enjoy'd too much.
Though painters often to the fhades retire,
Yet too long eafe but ferves to quench the fire.
Wang'd with new praite, methinks they boldly fly
O'er airy Alps, and feem to touch the sky.
Still true to fame, here well-wrought bufts decay,
High turrets nod, and arches fin' away.
Ev'n the bare walls, whofe breathing figures
glow'd

With each warm roke that living art bestow'd,
Or flow decay, or hoftil time invades,
And all in filence the fair frofco fades.
Each image yet in fancy'd thoughts we view,
And ftrong idea forms the fcene a-new:
Delutive, the, Paulo's free froke fupplies,
Revives the face, and points th' enlight'ning
eyes.

'Tis thought each fcience, but in part, can boast
A length of toils for human life at most :
(So vaft is art!) if this remark prove true,
Tis dang'rous fure to think at once of two,
And hard to judge if greater praise there be
To please in painting, or in poetry;
Yet painting lives lefs injur'd, or confin'd,
True to th' idea of the mafter's mind:
In ev'ry nation are her beauties known,
In ev'ry age the language is her own:
Nor time, nor change diminish from her fame;
Her charms are univerfal, and the fame.
O, could fuch bleflings wait the poet's lays,
New beauties lill, and ftill eternal praife!
Ev'n though the mufes ev'ry ftrain inspire,
Exalt his voice, and animate his lyre:
Ev'n though their art each image thou'd combine
In one clear light, one harmony divine;
Yet ah, how foon the cafual blifs decays,
How great the pains, how tranfient is the praife!
Language, frail flow'r, is in a moment loft,
(That only product human wit can boast)
Now gay in youth, its early honours rife,
Now hated, curft, it fades away, and dies.

Yet verfe firft rofe to foften human kind,
To mend their manners, and exalt their mind.
See, favage beafts ftand lift'ning to the lay,
And men more furious, and more wild than they;
Ev'n fhapeleis trees a fecond birth receive,
Rocks mave to form, and ftatues feem to live.
Immortal Homer felt the facred rage,
And pious Orpheus taught a barb'rous age;
Succeeding painters thence deriv'd their light,
And durit no more than thofe vouchfaf'd to
write.

At lat t' adorn the gentler arts, appears
Illuftrious Xeuxis from a length of years.
Parrhafius' hand with foft'ning ftrokes expreft
The nervous motions, and the folded veft:

Pregnant of life his rounded figures rife,
With strong relievo fwelling on the eyes.
Evenor bold, with fair Apelles came,
And happy Nicias crown'd with deathlefs fame,
At length from Greece, ot impions arms afre
Painting withdrew, and fought th' Italian fhade,
What time each fcience met its due regard,
And patrons took a pleasure to reward.
But ah, how foon must glorious times decay,
One tranfient joy, juft known, and foatch'e away!
By the fame foes, which painting thunn'd bet re,
Ev'n here the bleeds, and arts expire once more.
Eafe, luft, and pleasures shake a feeble state,
Gothic invafions, and domestic hate;
'Time's flow decays, what thefe ev'n fpare, con-
fume,

And Rome lies bury'd in the depths of Rome!

Long flumber'd Painting in a ftupid trance Of heavy zeal, and Monkih ignorance: (When faith itself for mere difpute was giv'n, Subtile was wife, and wranglers went to heav's) Till glorious Cimabue reflor'd her crowa, And dipp'd the pencil, ftudious of renown. Malaccio taught the finish'd piece to live, And added ev'ry grace of peripeAive. Exact correctuels Titian's hand bestow'd, And Vinci's stroke with living labour glow'd. Next Julio rofe, who ev'ry language kaew, Liv'd o'er each age, and look'd all nature through.

In happy Paulo ftrength and art confpire, The graces pleafe us, and the mufes fire.

Each nobler fecret others boaft alone, By curious toil Caracci made his own: Raphael's nice judgment, Angelc's defign, Correggio's warmth, and Guido's pleafing line. Thrice glorious times, when ev'ry science charms, When rapture lifts us, and religion warms! Vocal to heav'n the fwelling organs blow, A thriller confort aids the notes below; Above, around the pictur'd faints appear, And lift'ning feraphs fmile and bend to hear.

Thence Painting, by fome happy genius led, O'er the cold north in flow approaches fpread. Ev'n Britain's ifle that blufh'd with hoftile gore, Receiv'd her laws, unknown to yield before; Relenting now, her favage heroes ftand, And melt at ev'ry ftroke from Reuben's hand. Still in his right the graceful Jervas ways, Sacred to beauty, and the fair one's praife, Whofe breathing paint another life fapplies, And calls new wonders forth from Mordaunt's eyet, And Thornhill, gen'rous as his art, deûgn'd At once to profit and to pleafe mankind. Thy dome, O Paul's, which heav'nly views adorn,

Shall guide the hands of painters yet unborn;
Each melting ftroke fhali foreign eyes engage,
And shine unrivali'd through a future age.

Hail, happy artifts! in eternal lays
The kindred-mufes fhall record your praife;
Whofe heav'nly aid infpir'd you firit to rife,
And fix'd your fame immortal in the ikies;

*Giovanni Cimabue, born at Florence in the year 1240; he was the first perfon who revived painting after its unfortunate extirĝation.

here fure to laft, till nature's felf expires, ncreafing ftill, and crown'd with clearer fires :

ligh-rais'd above the blafts of public breath, The voice of hatred, and the rage of death. Ah, thus for ever may my numbers thine, old as your thoughts, but eafy as your line! Then might the mufe to diftant ages live, Contract new beauty, and new praise receive: ein strength, and light ev'n time itself beltow, often each line, and bid the thought to glow; Fame's fecond life) whofe lafting glory fears For change, nor envy, nor devouring years.

Then fhould thefe ftrains to Pembroke's hand be born

Whom native graces, gentle arts adorn,
Honour unfhaken, piety refign'd,

A love of learning, and a gen'rous mind.
Yet, if by chance, enamour'd of his praife,
Some nobler bard fhall rife in future days,
(When from his Wilton walls the ftrokes decay,
And all art's fair creation dies away:
Or folid ftatues, faithlefs to their trust,
In filence fink, to mix with vulgar duft ;)
Ages to come fhall Pembroke's fame adore,
Dear to the mufe, till Homer be no more.

im ges.

ARGUMENT.

. THE origin and ufe of Satire. The excellency of Epic Satire above others, as adding example to precept, and animit.ng by fable and fenfible Epic Satire compared with Epic Poem, and wherein they differ: Of their extent, action, unities, epifodes, and the nature of their morals. Of parody; of the Ayle, figures, and wit proper to this fort of poem, and the fuperior talents requifite to excel in it.

II. The characters of the feveral authors of Satire. 1. The ancients; Homer, Simonides, Archilochus, Ariftophanes, Menippus, Ennius Lu. cilius, Varro, Horace, Perfius, Petronius, Juvenal, Lucian, the Emperor Julian. moderns; Tallone, Coccaius, Rabelais, Regnier, Boileau, Dryden, Garth, Pope.

2. The

III. From the practice of all the best writers and men in every age and nation, the moral juftice of Satire in general, and of this fort in particular is vindicated. The neceflity of it shown in this age more cfpecially and why bad writers are at prefent the most proper objects of

Satire. The true caufes of bad writers. Cha

racters of feveral forts of them now abounding; envious critics, furious pedants, fecret libeliers, obicene poeteffes, advocates for corruption, scoffers at religion, writers for deifin, deiftical and ariian-clergymen.

Application of the whole difcourfe to the Dunciad; concluding with an addrefs to the author of it.

T'exalt the foul, or make the heart fincere,
To arm our lives with honefty fevere,
To shake the wretch beyond the reach of law,
Deter the young, and touch the bold with awe,
To raife the fall'n, to hear the fufferer's cries,
And fanctify the virtues of the wife,
Old Satire rofe from probity of mind,
The noblest ethics to reform mankind.

As Cynthia's orb excels the gems of night:
So Epic Satire fhines diftinctly bright.
Here genius lives, and ftrength in every part,
And lights and fhades, and fancy fix'd by art.

The poet decks her with each unknown grace,
Clears her dull brain, and brightens her dark face:

See! Father Chaos o'er his firit-born nods,
And Mother Night, in majefty of gods!
See Querno's throne, by hands pontitic rife,"
And a fool's Pandemonium trike our eyes!
Ev'n what on C-l the public bounteous pours,
Is fublimated here to golden fhow'rs.
And one in action; ludicrously great.
A Dunciad or a Lutrin is complete,
Each wheel rolls round in due degrees of force;
Of course, when things are virtually begun
E'en epifodes are needful, or of courfe:
E'er the first ends, the Father and the Son:
Or elfe fo needful, and exactly grac'd,
That nothing is ill-fuited, or ill-plac'd.

True epic's a vaft world, and this a small;
Like Cynthia, one in thirty days appears,
One has its proper beauties, and one all.
Like Saturn one, rolls round in thirty years.
There opens a wide tract, a length of floods,
A height of mountains, and a waste of woods:
Here but one ipot; nor leaf, nor green depart
From rules; e'en nature feems the child of art.
As unities in epic works appear,

So muft they fhine in full diftinction here.
Ev'n the warm Iliad fhoves with flower pow'rs:
That forty days demands, this forty hours.

Each other Satire humbler arts has known,
Content with meaner beauties, though its own:
Enough for that, if rugged in its courfe
The verfe but rolls with vehemence and force;
Or nicely pointed in th' Horatian way
Wounds keen, like Syrens mifchievously gay.
Here, all has wit, yet muft that wit be strong,
Beyond the turns of epigram or fong.
The thought must rife exactly from the vice,
Sudden, yet finifh'd, clear, and yet concife.

One harmony must first with last unite;
As all true paintings have their place and light.
Tranfitions must be quick, and yet defign'd,
Not made to fill, but just retain the mind:
And fimiles, like meteors of the night,
Just give one flash of momentary light.

As thinking makes the foul, low things expreft
In high-rais'd terms, define a Dunciad best.
Books and the man demands as much, or more,
Than he who wander'd to the Latian shore :
For here (eternal grief to Duns's foul,

'Twere better judg'd, to study and explain
Each ancient grace he copies not in vain;
To trace thee, Satire, to thy utmost spring,
Thy form, thy changes, and thy authors fing.

All nations with this liberty difpenfe,
And bid us fhock the man that shocks good fente.
Great Homer first the mimic sketch defign'd;
What grafp'd not Homer's comprehenfive mind?
By him who virtue prais'd, was folly curft,
And who Achilles fung, drew Dunce the Firft.
Next him Simonides, with lighter air,

whole :

Since in mock-epic none fucceeds, but he

Who taftes the whole of epic poefy.

The moral must be clear and understood;

But finer still, if negatively good :
Blafpheming Capaneus obliquely fhows
T'adore thofe gods Æneas fears and knows.
A fool's the hero; but the poet's end
Is, to be candid, modeft, and a friend.

Let claffic learning fanctify each part,
Not only fhow your reading, but your art.
The charms of parody, like those of wit,
If well contrafted, never fail to hit;
One half in light, and one in darkness drest,
(For contraries oppos'd ftill fhine the best.)
When a cold page half breaks the writer's heart,
By this it warms, and brightens into art.
When rhet'ric glitters with too pompous pride,
By this, like Circe, 'tis undeify'd.
So Berecynthia, while her offspring vie
In homage to the mother of the sky,
(Deck'd in rich robes, of trees, and plants, and
flow'rs,

And crown'd illuftrious with an hundred tow'rs)
O'er all Parnaffus cafts her eyes at once,
And fees an hundred fons-and each a Dunce.
The language next from hence new pleasure
fprings;

For ftyles are dignify'd, as well as things.
Though sense subsists, diftinct from phrafe or found,
Yet gravity conveys a furer wound.

The chymic fecret which your pains would find,
Breaks out, unfought for, in Cervantes' mind;
And Quixot's wildness, like that king's of old,
Turns all he touches into pomp and gold.
Yet in this pomp difcretion must be had;
Tho' grave, not stiff; tho' whimfical, not mad:
In works like thefe, if fuftian might appear,
Mock-epics, Blackmore, would not coft thee dear.

We grant that Butler ravishes the heart,
As Shakspeare foar'd beyond the reach of art;
(For nature form'd thofe poets without rules,
To fill the world with imitating fools.)
What burlesque could, was by that genius done;
Yet faults it has, impoffible to fhun:

Th' unchanging ftrain for want of grandeur cloys,
And gives too oft the horfe-laugh mirth of boys:
The fhort-legg'd verfe, and double-gingling found,
So quick furprife us, that our heads run round:
Yet in this work peculiar life prefides,
And wit, for all the world to glean befides.

Here paufe, my mufe, too daring and too young!
Nor rafhly aim at precepts yet unfung.
Can man the mafter of the Dunciad teach?
And thefe new bays what other hopes to reach ?

The good Scriblerus in like forms displays
The reptile rhymefters of these later days.
More fierce, Archilochus! thy vengetul flame;
Fools read and dy'd: for blockheads then had
shame.

The comic-fatirift attack'd his age,
And found low arts, and pride, among the fage:
See learned Athens ftand attentive by,
And Stoics learn their foibles from the eye.

Latium's fifth Homer held the Greeks in view; Solid, though rough, yet incorrect as new. Lucilius, warm'd with more than mortal flame, Rofe next § and held a torch to ev'ry fhame. See ftern Menippus, cynical, unclean; And Grecian Cento's, mannerly obscene. Add the laft efforts of Pacuvius' rage,

And the chafte decency of Varro's page. See Horace next, in each reflection nice, Learn'd, but not vain, the foe of fools, not vice. Each page inftructs, each sentiment prevails, All fhines alike; he rallies, but ne'er rails: With courtly eafe conceals a mafter's art, And leaft expected steals upon the heart. Yet Caffius felt the fury of his rage, (Caflius, the We-d of a former age) And fad Alpinus, ignorantly read, Who murder'd Memnon, though for ages dead. Then Perfius came, whofe line, though rough,

ly wrought,

His fenfe o'erpaid the stricture of his thought.
Here in clear light the ftoic-doctrine shines,
Truth all fubdues, or patience all refigns.
A mind fupreme! impartial, yet severe :
Pure in each act, in each recess fincere!
Yet rich ill poets urg'd the ftoic's frown,
And bade him ftrike at dulnefs and a crown
The vice and luxury Petronius drew,
In Nero meet th' imperial point of view:
The Roman Wilmot, that could vice chaftife,
Pleas'd the mad king he serv'd to fatirize.

:

The next in Satire felt a nobler rage, What honeft heart could bear Domitian's age? See his ftrong fenfe and numbers masculine: His foul is kindled, and he kindles mine:

Scornful of vice, and fearlefs of offence,
Hit flows a torrent of impetuous fenfe.

Lo! favage tyrants who blafphem'd their God
Turn fuppliants now, and gaze at Julian's rod.
Lucian, fevere, but in a gay difguife,
Attacks old faith, or fports in learned † lies;
Sets heroes and philofophers at odds;
And fcourges mortals, and dethrones the gods.
Then all was night-But Satire rofe once more
Where Medici and Leo arts restore.
Taffone thone fantastic, but fublime :
And he, who form'd the Macaronic-rhyme:
Then weftward too by flow degrees confeft,
Where boundless Rabelais made the world his jeft;
Marot bad nature, Regnier force and flame,
But fwallow'd all in Boileau's matchless fame!
Extenfive foul! who rang'd all learning o'er,
Prefent and paft-and yet found room for more.
Full of new fense, exact in every page,
Unbounded, and yet fober in thy rage.
Strange fate! Thy folid fterling of two lines,
Drawn to our Tinfel, through whole pages fhines!
In Albion then, with equal luftre bright,
Great Dryden rofe, and fteer'd by nature's light.
Two glimmering orbs he juft obferv'd from far,
The ocean wide, and dubious cither star,
Donne teem'd with wit, but all was maim'd and

bruis'd,

The periods endless, and the fense confus'd:
Oldham rufh'd on, impetuous, and fublime,
But lame in language, harmony, and rhyme.
Thefe (with new graces) vig'rous nature join'd
In one, and center'd 'em in Dryden's mind.
How full thy verfe? Thy meaning how fevere?
How dark thy theme? yet made exactly clear.
Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage,
Yet mercy foftens, or contracts each page.
Dread bard! inftruct us to revere thy rules,
And hate like thee, all rebels, and all fools.

His fpirit ceas'd not (in ftrict truth) to be;
For dying Dryden breath'd, O Garth! on thee,
Bade thee to keep alive his genuine rage,
Half-funk in want, oppreffion and old age;
Then, when thy § pious hands repos'd his head,
When vain young lords and ev'n the flamen fled.
For well thou knew'ft his merit and his art,

His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart.
Ev'n Pope himself (who fees no virtue bleed
But bears th' affliction) envies thee the deed.

O Pope! inftructor of my ftudious days,
Who fix'd my fteps in virtue's early ways:
On whom our labours, and our hopes depend,
Thou more than patron, and ev'n more than
Above all flattery, all thirst of gain, [friend!
And mortal but in ficknefs, and in pain!
Thou taught'st old Satire nobler fruits to bear,
And check'd her licence with a moral care:
Thou gav'ft the thought new beauties not its own,
And touch'd the verfe with graces yet unknown.
Each lawlefs branch thy level eye furvey'd,
And ftill corrected nature as she stray'd:

The Gefars of the Emperor Julian. + Lucian's True Hiftory.

Rofcommon, Revers’d.

[tend,

Thefe ever hate the poet's facred line; Thefe hate whate'er is glorious, or divine. From one eternal fountain beauty fprings, The energy of wit, and truth of things, That fource is God: from him they downwards Flow round-yet in their native centre end. Hence rules, and truth, and order, Dunces ftrike; Of arts, and virtues, enemies alike.

Some urge, that poets of fupreme renown
Judge ill to fcourge the refufe of the town.
Howe'er their cafuifts hope to turn the scale,
These men must smart, or fcandal will prevail.
By these the weaker fex ftill fuffer moft:

And fuch are prais'd who rofe at honour's coft:
The learn'd they wound, the virtuous, and the fair,
No fault they cancel, no reproach they spare:
The random fhaft, impetuous in the dark,
Sings on unfeen, and quivers in the mark.
'Tis juftice, and not anger, makes us write,
Such fons of darknefs must be drag'd to light:
Long-fuff'ring nature must not always hold;
In virtue's caufe 'tis gen'rous to be bold.
To fcourge the bad, th' unwary to reclaim,
And make light flash upon the face of fhame.

Others have urg'd (but weigh it, and you'll find 'Tis light as feathers blown before the wind) That poverty, the curfe of providence,

Atones for a dull writer's want of fense:
Alas! his dullness 'twas that made him poor;
Not vice verfa: We infer no more.
Of vice and folly poverty's the curse,
Heaven may be rigid, but the man was worse,
By good made bad, by favours more difgrac'd,
So dire th' effects of ignorance mifplac'd!
Of idle youth, unwatch'd by parents eyes!
Of zeal for pence, and dedication lies!
Of confcience modell'd by a great man's looks!
And arguings in religion-from no books!

No light the darkness of that mind invades, Where Chaos rules, enfhrin'd in genuine thades; Where, in the dungeon of the foul enclos'd, True Dullness nods, reclining and repos'd.