POPE, Effay on Criticism.
Yet fome there were among the founder few,
Of those who lefs prefum'd, and better knew,
Who durft affert the jufter ancient caufe,
And here reftor'd Wit's fundamental laws :
Such was the Mufe, whofe rules and practice tell,
"Nature's chief master-piece is writing well."
Mufe, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends,
And thou fhalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verfe affail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail :
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain,
Time, health, and fortune are not loft in vain ;
Sheffield approves, confenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.
N thofe cold climates, where the fun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears,
A difmal vale lies in a defert ifle
On which indulgent heaven did never smile.
There a thick grove of aged cypress trees,
Which none without an awful horror fees,
Into its wither'd arms, depriv'd of leaves,
Whole flocks of ill-prefaging birds receives:
Poifons are all the plants that foil will bear,
And winter is the only feafon there :
Millions of graves o'erfpread the fpacious field,
And fprings of blood a thousand rivers yield;
Whofe ftreams, opprefs'd with carcaffes and bones,
Inftead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans.
Within this vale a famous temple ftands,
Old as the world itfelf, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four iron gates
Divide mankind, by order of the Fates:
Thither in crowds come to one common grave
The young, the old, the monarch, and the flave..
Old age and pains, thofe evils man deplores,
Are rigid keepers of th' eternal doors;
All clad in mournful blacks, which fadly load
The facred walls of this obfcure abode;
And tapers, of a pitchy fubftance made,
With clouds of finoke increafe the difinal fhade.
A monster void of reafon and of fight
The goddefs is, who fways this realm of night;
Her power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A cruel tyrant, and her name is Death.
The fairest object of our wondering eyes
Was newly offer'd up her facrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the altar stood,
Yet blufhing with the fair Almeria's blood.
When griev'd Orontes, whofe unhappy flame
Is known to all who e'er converfe with Fame,
His mind poffefs'd by Fury and Despair,
Within the facred temple made this prayer :
Great Deity! who in thy hands dost bear
That iron fceptre which poor mortals fear;
Who, wanting eyes thyfelf, refpe&teft none,
And neither spar'ft the laurel nor the crown!
O thou, whom all mankind in vain withftand,
Each of whefe blood muft one day ftain thy hand!
O thou, who every eye that fees the light
Clofeft for ever in the fhades of night!
Goddefs, attend, and hearken to my grief,
To which thy power alone can give relief.
Alas! I afk not to defer my fate,
But with my haplefs life a fhorter date ;
And that the earth would in its bowels hide
A wretch, whom heaven invades on every fide:
That from the fight of day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my love.
Thou only comforter of minds oppreft,
The port where wearied fpirits are at reft;
Conductor to Elyfium, take my life,
My breaft I offer to thy facred knife;
So just a grace refufe not, nor despise
A willing, though a worthlefs facrifice.
Others (their frail and mortal ftate forgot)
Before thy altars are not to be brought
Without constraint; the noife of dying rage,
Heaps of the flain of every fex and age,
The blade all reeking in the gore it shed,
With fever'd heads and arms confus'dly spread;
The rapid flames of a perpetual fire,
The groans of wretches ready to expire:
This tragic fcene in terror makes them live,
Till that is forc'd which they fhould freely give;
Yielding unwillingly what heaven will have,
Their fears eclipfe the glory of their grave:
Before thy face they make indecent moan,
And feel a hundred deaths in fearing one:
Thy flame becomes unhallow'd in their breast,
And he a murderer who was a priest.
But against me thy ftongeft forces call,
And on my head let all the tempeft fall;
No mean retreat fhall any weaknefs fhow,
But calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,
Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear.
Think not that Time, our wonted fure relief,
That univerfal cure for every grief,
Whofe aid fo many lovers oft' have found,
With like fuccefs can never heal my wound :
Too weak the power of nature or of art,
Nothing but death can ease a broken heart:
And that thou may'st behold my helpless state,
Learn the extremeft rigour of my fate.
Amidft th' innumerable beauteous train,
Paris, the queen of cities, does contain,
(The fairest town, the largest, and the best)
The fair Almeria fhin'd above the reft:
From her bright eyes to feel a hopeless flame,
Was of our youth the most ambitious aim;
Her chains were marks of honour to the brave,
She made a prince whene'er she made a slave.
Love, under whose tyrannic power I groan,
Shew'd me this beauty ere 'twas fully blown;
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