Comes from afar, in gratitude, to own
The great fupporter of his father's throne:
What tides of glory to his bofom ran,
Clafp'd in th'embraces of the godlike man!
How were his eyes with pleafing wonder fixt,
To fee fuch fire with fo much sweetness mixt,
Such eafy greatnefs, fuch a graceful port,
So turn'd and finifh'd for the camp or court!
Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace,
And Nireus fhone but in the second place;
Thus the great father of almighty Rome
(Divinely flutht with an immortal bloom
That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow'd)
In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd.
The royal youth by Marlborough's prefence
charm'd,
Taught by his counfels, by his actions warm'd,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,
Difcharges all his thunder on its walls;
O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight,
And learns to conquer in the hero's fight.
The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd,
Increas'd in titles, and with conquefts crown'd,
To Belgian coafts his tedious march renews,
And the long windings of the Rhine pursues,
Clearing its borders from ufurping focs,
And bleft by refcu'd nations as he goes.
Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms;
And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms:
Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake,
While Marlborough preffes to the bold attack,
Plants all his batteries, bids his cannon roar,
And fhews how Landau might have fall'n before.
Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears
Vengeance referv'd for his declining years;
Forgets his thirft of univerfal fway,
And fcarce can teach his fubjects to obey;
His arms he finds on vain attempts employ'd,
Th'ambitious projects for his race deftroy'd,
The works of ages funk in one campaign,
And lives of millions facrific'd in vain.
Such are th'effects of Anna's royal cares:
By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars,
Ranges thro' nations, wherefoe'er disjoin'd,
Without the wonted aid of fea and wind.
By her th'unfetter'd Ifter's ftates are free,
And taste the sweets of English liberty:
But who can tell the joys of those that lie
Beneath the conftant influence of her eye?
Whilst in diffufive fhowers her bounties fall,
Like Heaven's indulgence, and defcend on all,
Secure the happy, fuccour the diftreft,
Make ev'ry fubject glad, and a whole people
Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse
In the fmooth records of a faithful verfe;
That, if fuch numbers can o'er time prevail,
May tell pofterity the wond'rous tale.
When actions, unadorn'd, are faint and weak,
Cities and countries must be taught to speak;
Gods may defcend in factions from the ikies,
And rivers from their oozy beds arife;
Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays,
And round the hero caft a borrow'd blaze.
Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright, And proudly fhine in their own native light; Rais'd of themfelves, their genuine charms they boast,
And those who paint them trueft praise them most.
$34. An Allegory on Man. PARNELL. THOUGHTFUL being, long and spare, Our race of mortals call him Care (Were Homer living, well he knew What name the gods have call'd him too); With fine mechanic genius wrought, And lov'd to work, tho' no one bought. This being, by a model bred In Jove's eternal fable head, Contriv'd a fhape impower'd to breathe, And be the worldling here beneath.
The man rofe ftaring, like a ftake,
Wond'ring to fee himfelf awake!
Then look'd fo wife, before he knew
The bus'nefs he was made to do;
That, pleas'd to fee with what a gracę
He gravely fhew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-fomething of the fky.
But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a Poet's God
(For which his curls ambrofial shake,
And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake)
He faw old mother Earth arife;
She ftood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read fhe wore,
A caftle for a crown before,
Nor with long ftreets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone fhe dreft,
And trail'd a landfkip-painted veft.
Then thrice the rais'd, as Ovid faid,
And thrice the bow'd her weighty head.
Her honors made, Great Jove, the cry'd,
This thing was fafhion'd from my fide:
His hands, his heart, his head, are mine;
Then what haft thou to call him thine?
Nay, rather afk, the Monarch faid,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head?
Were what I gave remov'd away,
Thy part's an idle thape of clay.
Halves, more than halves! cry'd honeft Care
Your pleas would make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the foul;
But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the Gods debate began,
On fuch a trivial caufe as Man.
And can celeftial tempers rage?
Quoth Virgil, in a latter age.
As thus they wrangled, Time came by
(There's none that paint him fuch as I;
For what the fabling ancients fung
Makes Saturn old when Time was young);
As yet his winters had not fhed
Their filver honors on his head;
He just had got his pinions free
From his old fire, Eternity.
X
A ferpent girdled round he wore,
The tall v m the mouth, before;
By which our almanacs are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A ftaff he carry'd, where on high
A glafs was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a fhow
For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day and night, was py'd;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;
And fpring's new months his train adorn!
The other Seafons were unborn.
Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where fince his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate: Since body from the parent Earth, And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they firft began; But fince their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth fhall part thefe two, To Care who join'd them, man is due,
He faid, and fprung with fwift carcer To trace a circle for the year; Where ever fince the Seafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, said Jove; and for consent, Thund'ring, he shook the firmament. Our umpire Time fhall have his way; With Care I let the creature ftay: Let bus'nefs vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion fpeak, And want afflict, and ficknefs break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy diftract, and forrow kill; Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long deftruétive blow; And wafted man, whofe quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The foul flies fooner back to me.
$35. The Book-Worm. PARNELL. COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day;
The Book-worn, rav'ning beaft of prey, Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds, As fame reports it with the Gods. Him frantic hunger wildly drives Against a thoufand authors lives: Thro' all the fields of wit he flies; Dreadful his wit with cluft'ring eyes, With horns without, and tufks within,. And feales to ferve him for a íkin. Obferve him nearly, left he climb To wound the Bards of ancient time, Or down the vale of Fancy go, To tear fome modern wretch below.. On ev'ry corner fix thine eye, Or ten to one he flips thee by.
See where his teeth a paffage eat t
We'll roufe him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's forc'd to give?
'Tis facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he feuds the cover o'er;
He turns, he doubles, there he paft;
And here we have him, caught at last.
Infatiate brute! whofe teeth abufe
The fweeteft fervants of the Mufe.
(Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His rofes nipt in ev'ry page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lefbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half deftroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rend Belinda's locks away,
And fpoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentless Juftice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myfelf the priest, my desk the fhrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here.
Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' ruftic ftrain;
Pray take your mortal bards again.
Come, bind the victim,-there he lies, And here between his num'rous eyes This vencrable duft I lay, From manufcripts juft fwept away.
The goblet in my hand I take (For the libation's yet to make) A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praife; Senfe may they feek, and lefs engage papers fill'd with party-rage.
But if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again!
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye Gods! what tonnets on a wench!
What lean tranflations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,
Sprints before the months go round.
But hold, before I clofe the fcene,
The facred aitar thould be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never mifs'd your works till now)
Who giv't to ev'ry flying hour
To work fome new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unfeen,
Thy fecret faps prevail,
And ruin man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.
My change arrives; the change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh.
My fpring, my years of pleafure fleet,
And all their beauties die.
age I fearch, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain, Grave Wisdom ftalking flow behind, Opprefs'd with loads of pain. My ignorance could once beguile, And fancy'd joys inspire; My errors cherish'd Hope to fmile On newly-born desire. But now experience fhews the blifs
For which I fondly fought, Not worth the long impatient wish, And ardour of the thought. My youth met Fortune fair array'd, In all her pomp the fhone, And might perhaps have well effay'd, To make her gifts my own; But when I faw the bleffings fhow'r On fome unworthy mind,
I left the chace, and own'd the Pow'r Was justly painted blind.
I pafs'd the glories which adorn
The fplendid courts of kings,
And while the perfons mov'd my scorn,
I rofe to fcorn the things.
My manhood felt a vig'rous fire,
By love increas'd the more;
But years with coming years confpire
To break the chains I wore.
In weaknefs fafe, the fex I fee
With idle laftre fhine;
For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?
But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to reit,
And truths which would difturb my peace
Are painful truths at beft.
Vainly the time I have to roll
In fad reflection flies;
Ye fondling paflions of my foul!
Ye fweet deceits! arife.
I wifely change the fcene within,
To things that us'd to pleafe;
In pain, philofophy is fpleen;
In health, 'tis only cafe.
all thofe arts in which the wift excel,
Nature's chief mafter-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 finifh'd, nothing fhines fo much.
But Heav'n forbid we fhould be fo profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flath of fancy, which, fometines
Dazzling our minds, fet off the flightcft rhymes:
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the f :n,
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 niceft ear with harthnefs wound
Are neceflary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure 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 amid conceptions fit:
Ev'n fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itfelf unfeen, yet all things by it fhown,
Defcribing all men, but defcribed by none!
Where doit thou dwell? what caverns of the brain
Can fuch a vaft and mighty thing contain !
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence
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The "Effay on Satire," which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.
As all is dulnefs when the fancy's bad,
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad;
And judgment has a boundlefs influence
Not only in the choice of words, or fense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men:
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reafon is that fubftantial ufeful [heart.
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the
Here I thall all the various forts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of matters, and examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can fay is vain;
Dull the defign, and fruitlefs were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease!
But who with that mean thift himself can pleafe,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for latter faults,
And new abfurdities infpire new thoughts;
What need has Satire thien to live on theft,
When fo much fresh occafion ftill is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankeft weeds,
And monfters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fool thall have no caufe to fear;
'Tis wit and fenfe that is the fubject here:
Defects of witty men deferve a cure;
And thofe who are fo, will ev'n this endure.
First then, of fongs, which now fo much abound;
Without his fong no fop is to be fund;
A moft offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets against Apollo's laws.
Tho' nothing feems more cafy, 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 leaft of which defects is plainly thown
In one finall ring, and brings the value down.
So fongs fhould be to juft 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 fongs by a late author † made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.
Not that warm thoughts of the tranfporting joy
Can fhock the chafteft, 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 praife;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of fweet, but folemn voice, And of a fubject grave, exacts the choice; The praife 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;
+The Earl of Rochefter. nobleman were fpurious:
But noify nonfenfe, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take moft with that fantastic fex.
This to the praife of thofe 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 wand'ring thoughts afide,
Their greateft fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
But fhould this Mufe 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 every line might higher rife,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies,
Such trifles may perhaps of late have paft,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never laft;
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an elegy, nor writ with fkill,
No Panegyric, nor a + Cooper's Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Mufes moft unruly horfe,
That Bounds fo fierce, the rider has no reft,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poffeft.
The poet here must be indeed infpir'd
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But fometimes diction mean, or verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens or clouds his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ftill muft foft and cafy run.
Thefe laws may found a little too fevere;
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here;
Which, though extravagant, this Mufe 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 fuch a fubje&t more,
Without repeating things faid oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That ftain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chofen words fome take not care enough,
And think they fhould be as the fubje&t, rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,
And fharpeft thoughts in fimootheft words con◄
vey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'nefs was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diftinguishes a fatyr from a fcold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A fatyr's fimile 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 justly claim our praife,
Crown'd by Mac Flecknoel with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegafus § has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpish minifter of ftate.
It may be obferved, however, that many of the worst fongs afcribed to this Waller's. † Denham's. Mr. Dryden. A famous fatirical Poem of his. § A poem call'd The Hind and Panther.
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 enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and feas the is to foar;
Doubts her own ftrength fo far, and juftly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet, incited by fome bold design,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Pruncs ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last, refolv'd, the cleaves the yielding air;
Away the flies, fo ftrong, to high, so fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at laft;
So (tho' too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Mufe infpires 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, advent'roufly engage
To give inftructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obferv'd, give plays to great a grace,
Are, tho' 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 stage.
First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely fhort, and spoke in paffion too.
Our lovers talking to themfelves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet if thus
They truft a friend, only to tell it us;
Th'occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when Beilario + confeffes all,
Figures of fpeech, that 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 discourse,
From lovers in defpair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed; for who can chufe but pity
A dying hero miferably witty?
But oh the Dialogues, where jest and mock
Is held up like a reft at fhittle-cock;
Or dife, like bells, eternally they chime;
They figh in Simile, and dye in Rhyme.
What things are thofe who would be poets
thought,
By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better courfe 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 pow'rful art,
Now almoft 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 juftice must allow,
Shakefpcare and Fletcher are the wonders now :
Confider then, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go fee them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grofsly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wife to weep.
Tr beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
Firit on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thoufand fev'ral 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 monster which the world ne'er
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faw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew;
But fuch as may deferve compation too.
Befides the main defign, compos'd with art,
Each moving scene muft be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mar ev'ry place,
As painters firft chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs. [place,
Think not fo much where fhining thoughts to
As what a man would fay in fuch a cafe:
Neither in comedy will this fuffice
The player too must be before your eyes;
And tho' 'tis drudgery to stoop fo low,
To him you muft 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
bird of prey.
may prove a
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice,
Which ferves the world for pleafure and for ufe;
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff* ftands inimitable yet.
Another fault, which often may befal,
Is, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow; that is, be none at all-
That ev'n his fools fpeak fenfe, as if poff.ft,
And cach by infpiration breaks his jeft.
If once the juftnefs of each part be loft,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's coft.
That filly thing men call fheer-wit, avoid,
With which our rage so nauseously 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 drefs fo much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of fer f.
Firft a foliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reason is exactly weig'i'd;
In Philafter, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
*The matchiefs character of Shakespeare.
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