« EelmineJätka »
On Mr. POPE and his Poems,
7ITH Age decay'd, with Courts and bus'nefs tir'd,
Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd;
Too dully serious for the Muse's sport,
And from the Critics fafe arriv'd in Port;
I little thought of launching forth agen,
Amidft advent'rous Rovers of the Pen;
And after fo much undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.
Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itself a fubject for fatyric rhime;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!
But to this Genius, join'd with fo much Art,
Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet fo wonderful, fublime a thing,
As the great ILIAD, scarce could make me fing;
Except I juftly could at once commend
A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.
One moral, or a meer well-natur'd deed,
Can all defert in Sciences exceed.
"Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise.
To Mr. POPE, on his Paftorals.
'N these more dull, as more cenforious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit Praise;
A Muse fincere, that never Flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and desert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found
Art ftrengthning Nature, Senfe improv'd by Sound.
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 ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best moft mufically dull;
So purling ftreams with even murmurs creep;
And hush the heavy hearers into fleep.
As fmootheft fpeech is moft deceitful found,
The smoothest numbers oft' are empty found.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as Youth, as Age confummate too:
Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown;
Fancy improves, and Judgment makes your own:
men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' difgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polish'd ftyle write Paftoral,
Arcadia fpeaks the language of the Mall;
Like fome fair Shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse,
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet muft his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common fwains be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In filks the fhepherd, and the fhepherdess;
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 Simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her Modesty 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 wou'd, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait;
Whose Muse did once, like thine, in plains delight;
Thine fhall, like his, foon take a higher flight;
So Larks, which firft from lowly fields arise,
Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.
Mr. POPE, on his Windfor-Foreft.
AIL, facred Bard! a Mufe unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic fhore.
To our dark world thy fhining page is shown,
And Windfor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here: