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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
Introduction | 1 |
A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING. | 1 |
SIR, | 1 |
A POEM. | 7 |
What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found in the brief article in the Dictionary of National Biography by W.P. Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ’s Hospital and at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., 1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed “under grammar master” at Christ’s Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won him a mention without honor in Johnson’s life of Pope (Lives of the Poets, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his poem on “Poetry” aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as Dennis, Addison, and Pope. “Of Poetry” belongs to the prolific literary type of “progress poems,” in which the modern student finds illuminating statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past literary traditions. The list of Cobb’s publications in the Cambridge Bibliography suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His volume, Poems on Several Occasions, was published in 1707, and reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith of the Preface “On Criticism” and the versified discourse “Of Poetry” is from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago.
Louis I. Bredvold
University of Michigan
In a Letter to Richard Carter Esq; late of the Middle-Temple, now living in Barbadoes.
The Muses are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe Death it self can blot out an Idea so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as Temperance, Fortitude and the like, will certainly carry Love and Gratitude along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World know what Obligations you have laid upon me.
By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have supply’d) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able to secure you from the Zeal of a_ Friend, and the Vanity of a Poet.
For tho’ retiring to the Western
Isles,
At the long Distance of five thousand
Miles,
You’ve chang’d dear London
for your Native Seat,
And think Barbadoes is a safe Retreat;
You highly err: Nor is the Wat’ry
Fence
Sufficient Guard against Impertinence.
The Muse, which smiles on jingling
Bards, like Me,
Has always Winds to waft her o’er
the Sea.
Blow on, ye Winds, and o’er th’
Atlantick Main,
Bear to my Gen’rous Friend this
thankful Strain.
You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer’d my Prose with a little Verse.
After this Preamble, it is presum’d, that one who lives on the Other side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn every where, and particularly in Italy; which Success of our Armies and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at home.—Parties still run between High and Low. I shall make no Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather than peevishly to quarrel with it.
But You will cry, Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? How goes the State of Parnassus? What has the Battle of Ramillies produc’d? What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us’d to do on things of a larger Size.
Born to surprize the World, and teach
the Great
The slippery Danger of exalted State,
Victorious Marlbro to Ramilly
flies;
Arm’d with new Lightning from bright
ANNA’s Eyes.
Wonders like These, no former Age has
seen;
Subjects are Heroes, where a Saint’s
the QUEEN.
Mr. Congreve has given the World an Ode,
and prefix’d to it a Discourse on the Pindaric
Verse, of which more, when I come to speak on the
same Argument: There are several others on that
Subject, and some which will bear the Test; one particularly,
written in imitation of the Style of Spencer;
and goes under the Name of Mr. Prior; I have
not read it through, but ex pede Herculem. He
is a Gentleman who cannot write ill. Yet some
of our Criticks have fell upon it, as the Viper
Page 3
did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth.
So that Criticism, which was formerly the Art of judging
well, is now become the pure Effect of Spleen, Passion
and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every
Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must
have patience till Dooms-day. The Worship we
pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its to the
Contempt of another’s. This blind Idolatry
of Self is the Mother of Errour; and this begets
a secret Vanity in our Modern Censurers, who,
when they please to think a Meaning for an Author,
would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour
to their inlighten’d Sagacity. When, perhaps,
the Failings they expose are a plain Evidence of their
own Blindness.
For to display our Candour and our Sence,
Is to discover some deep Excellence.
The Critick’s faulty, while the
Poet’s free;
They raise the Mole hill, who want
Eyes to see.
Excrescences are easily perceiv’d by an ordinary Eye; but it requires the Penetration of a Lynceus to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal’d from a Vulgar Apprehension.
I remember somewhere an Observation of St. Evremont (an Author whom you us’d to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, according to Juvenal; and according to Scripture, the Marks of a Fool. These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be witty, but at another’s Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own.
Rules they can write, but, like the College Tribe, Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe. I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool, Insipidly correct, and dull by Rule: Homer, with all his Nodding, I would chuse, Before the more exact Sicilian Muse. Who’d not be Dryden; tho’ his Faults are great, Sooner than our Laborious Laureat? Not but a decent Neatness, I confess, In Writing is requir’d, as well as Dress. Yet still in both the unaffected Air Will always please the Witty and the Fair.
I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a Delicate Taste. Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a Free Writer. He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true Grammar, and unexceptionable Prosodia, but most stupid Poetry.
In vitium culpae ducit fuga, si caret arte.
A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick.
Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would that Reflection be cast upon the best-natur’d Nation in the World, that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and now, being civiliz’d, we expend our Barbarity on one another. Homer would not be so much the Ridicule of our Beaux Esprits; when, with all his Sleepiness, he is propos’d as the most exquisite Pattern of Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. Nor is Longinus behind hand with Aristotle in his Character of the same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of Homer’s Soul look’d above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and hurry’d on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. A Racer at New-market or the Downs, which has been fed and drest, and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of Pegasus bear him o’er Hills and Mountains,
Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera—
Such was the Soul of Homer: who is more justly admir’d by those who understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his Heroes; and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his Criticks, than on Himself: who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which Alcibiades gave to Socrates, when he compar’d him to the Statues of the Sileni, which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods and Goddesses.
Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those
sudden Emotions, which excite illustrious Men, to
act and speak out of the Common Road? They
seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and
Bigottry we pay to Custom, which is no Standard
to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules we receive
in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose,
to restrain the Mind; which by reason of the
Tenderness of our Age and the ungovernable Disposition
of Young Nature, is apt to start out into Excess and
Extravagance. But when Time has ripen’d
Page 5
us, and Observation has fortify’d the Soul,
we ought to lay aside those common Rules with our
Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free,
generous and manly Spirit. Thus a Good Poet
should make use of a Discretionary Command; like
a Good General, who may rightly wave the vulgar
Precepts of the Military School (which may confine
an ordinary Capacity, and curb the Rash and Daring)
if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he find
out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success.
Bocalin, the Italian Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When Tasso (says he) had presented Apollo with his Poem, call’d Giurasalemme Liberata; the Reformer of the Delphic Library, to whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not written according to the Rules of Aristotle; which affront being complain’d of, Apollo was highly incens’d, and chid Aristotle for his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high Conceptions of the Virtuosi, whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, enrich’d the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring Charms which daily flow’d from the Productions of Poets, who follow the Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the 28th Advertisement.
The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho’ Homer and Virgil, Pindar and Horace be laid before us as Examples of exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro’ the Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that Nature has furnish’d him with, and his own Observation has improv’d, we may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority with the best of the Athenian and Roman Excellencies.
Nec minimum meruere decus vestigia Graeca
Ausi deserere.——
It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern Milo’s who have been wedg’d in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail’d in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation by Hippocrates and Galen well-studied, than by Homer and Virgil ill-copied?
Horace, who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish’d Writer on a pardonable Want of Care, or excus’d them by the Infirmity of Human Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, to clap their Play, or admire their Poem.
For noble Scriblers are with Flattery
fed,
And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread.
Dryden’s Pers..
Juvenal shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left the Town,
—Mentiri
nescio: librum
Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere.
To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman.
Who then is this Critick? You will find him in Quintilius Varus, of Cremona, who when any Author shew’d him his Composure, laid aside the Fastus common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen’d on any Mistake, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc.
Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another like him. Our English Criticks having taken away a great deal from the Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. Like a certain Nobleman mention’d by my Lord Verulam, who when he invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest.
The French then seem to me to have a truer
Taste of the ancient Authors than ever Scaliger
or Heinsius could pretend to. Rapin,
and above all, Bossu, have done more Justice
to Homer and to Virgil, to Livy
and Thucydides, to Demosthenes and
to Cicero, _&c. and have bin more beneficial to
the Republick of Learning, by their nice Comparisons
and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those
well-meaning Men, who rummage_ musty Manuscripts for
various Lections. They did not Insistere in
ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis intenti nihil
ultra petere, (As Dacier has it) but
search’d the inmost Recesses, open’d their
Mysteries, and (as it were) call’d the Spirit
Page 7
of the Author from the Dead. It is for this
Le Clerc (in his Bibliotheque Choisie, Tom.
9. p. 328.) commends St. Evremont’s
Discourses on Salust and Tacitus, as
also his Judgment on the Ancients, and blames the
Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste of Antiquity
after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen
to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their
Manner of Writing, which takes Notice only of Words,
Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with a blind Admiration
of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and
deters it from the pursuit of the Belles Lettres.
I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow’d the Strophe and Antistrophe; neither do I think it necessary; besides I had rather err with Mr. Cowley, who shew’d us the Way, than be flat and in the right with others.
Mr. Congreve, an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm’d, I think too hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza’s are alike, whereas the last Olympic has two Monostrophicks of different Measure, and Number of Lines.
The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You may expect the rest on the Pindaric Style. In the mean time I beg leave to subscribe myself,
Sir, Your ever Obedient and
Obliged Servant,
Samuel Cobb.
Of POETRY.
1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement.
Antiquity of Poetry
Sure when the Maker in his
Heav’nly Breast
Design’d a Creature to command the
rest,
Of all th’ Erected Progeny of
Clay
His Noblest Labour was his First Essay.
There shone th’ Eternal Brightness,
and a Mind
Proportion’d for the Father of Mankind.
The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen
In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien.
Inrich’d with Arts, unstudy’d
and untaught,
With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of
Thought
To Rule the World, and what he Rul’d
to Sing,
And be at once the Poet and the King.
Whether his Knowledge with his breath
he drew,
And saw the Depth of Nature at a View;
Or, new descending from th’ Angelick
race,
Retain’d some tincture of his Native
Place.
Fine was the Matter of the
curious Frame,
Which lodg’d his Fiery Guest[1],
and like the same
Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense,
His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.
Whene’re He spoke, from his Seraphick
Tongue
Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young,
With new Calliopes and Clio’s
sprung.
No shackling Rhyme chain’d the free
Poet’s mind,
Majestick was His Style, and unconfin’d.
Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous
strain
Sprung forth, unlabour’d, from His
fruitful Brain.
[1] The Soul according to the Platonists. So Virgil: Aurai simplicis ig, nem.
But when He yielded to deluding
Charms,
Th’Harmonious Goddess shun’d
His empty Arms.
The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir’d,
But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir’d.
Yet here and there Celestial Seeds
She threw,
And rain’d melodious Blessings
as She flew.
Which some receiv’d, whom Gracious
Heav’n design’d
For high Employments, and their Clay resin’d.
Who, of a Species more sublime,
can tame
The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame.
When in their breasts th’impetuous
Numen rowls,
And with uncommon heaves swells their
Diviner Souls.
Thus the Companion of the
Godhead [Moses] sung,
And wrote upon those Reeds from whence
he Sprung.
He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light,
Unknown before, dawn’d from the
Womb of Night.
How Sin and Shame th’ Unhappy
Couple knew,
And thro’ affrighted Eden,
more affrighted, flew.
How God advanc’d his Darling Abram’s
fame,
In the sure Promise of his lengthen’d
Name.
On Horeb’s Top, or Sinah’s
flaming Hill
Familiar Heav’n reveal’d his
Sacred Will.
Unshaken then Seth’s stony
Column stood,
Surviving the Destruction of the Flood.
His Father’s Fall was letter’d
on the Stone,
Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were
Known.
Thence Divine Moses, with exalted
thought,
In Hebrew Lines the Worlds Beginning
wrote.
[The Progress of Poetry.]
The Gift of Verse descended
to the Jews,
Inspir’d with something nobler than
a Muse.
Here Deborah in fiery rapture sings,
The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings.
Thy Torrent, Kison, shall for ever
flow,
Which trampled o’er the Dead, and
swept away the Foe.
With Songs of Triumph, and
the Maker’s praise,
With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays,
The Seed of Judah to the Battle
flew,
And Orders of Destroying Angels drew
To their Victorious side: Who marching
round
Their Foes, touch’d Myriads at the
signal Sound,
By Harmony they fell, and dy’d without
a Wound.
So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim
Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy
Name!
[Orpheus.]
Nor does it here alone it’s
Magick show,
But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends
below.
So powerful is the Muse! When David
plaid,
The Frantick Daemon heard him,
and obey’d.
No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate
lay
Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv’d
away.
Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin’d
To Jews alone: For in a Heathen
mind
Some strokes appear: Thus Orpheus
was inspir’d,
Inchanting Syrens at his Song retir’d.
To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu’d,
And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms
subdu’d.
[Homer.]
But Greece was honour’d
with a Greater Name,
Homer is Greece’s
Glory and her Shame.
How could Learn’d Athens
with contempt refuse,
Th’ immortal labours of so vast
a Muse?
Thee, Colophon, his angry Ghost
upbraids,
While his loud Numbers charm th’
Infernal Shades.
Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly
strive
For the Dead Homer, whom they scorn’d
Alive.
So strangely wretched is the Poet’s
Doom!
To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.
Tho’ Virgil rising
under happier Stars,
Saw Rome succeed in Learning as
in Wars.
When Pollio, like a smiling Planet,
shone,
And Caesar darted on him, like
the Sun.
Nor did Mecaenas, gain a less repute,
When Tuneful Flaccus touch’d
the Roman Lute.
But when, Mecaenas,
will Thy Star appear
In our low Orb, and gild the British
Sphere?
Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our
Eyes
Dissembled under DORSET’s
fair Disguise?
If so; go on, Great Sackvile, to
regard
The Poet, and th’imploring Muse
reward.
So to Thy Fame a Pyramid shall
rise,
Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.
For if a Verse Eternity can claim,
Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.
This Province all is Thine, o’er
which in vain
Octavius hover’d long, and
sought to Reign.
This Sun prevail’d upon his Eagle’s
sight,
Glar’d in their Royal Eyes, and
stop’d their flight.
Let him his Title to such Glory bring,
You give as freely, and more nobly sing.
Reason will judge, when both their Claims
produce,
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the
Muse.
Horace and He are in Thy Nature
joyn’d,
The Patron’s Bounty with the Poet’s
Mind.
O Light of England,
and her highest Grace!
Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient
Race!
Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine
(For ’tis thy Praise) on each unworthy
Line,
While to the World, unprejudic’d,
I tell
The noblest Poets, and who most excel.
Thee with the Foremost thro’ the
Globe I send,
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.
But ’twould be vain, and tedious,
to reherse
The meaner Croud, undignify’d for
Verse
On barren ground who drag th’unwilling
Plough,
And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as
Brow.
A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping
Memories.
Some stuff’d in Garrets
dream for wicked Rhyme
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.
Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
To void forth Nonsense from their costive
Brain.
Who (when they’ve murder’d
so much costly time,
Such to the Rabble may appear
inspir’d,
By Coxcombs envy’d, and by Fools
admir’d.
I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their Airy Babel to the
Sky.
Who, arm’d with Gabble, to create
a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,
Not so the Seat of Phoebus role,
which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.
To Britany the Temple was convey’d,
By Natures utmost force, and more than
Human Aid.
Built from the Basis by a noble
Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish’d
piece,
The Work of many rowling Centuries.
For Joyn’d with Art She labour’d
long to raise
An English Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first
were known
For Greek and Latin Tongues,
but scorn’d their Own.
As Moors of old, near Guinea’s
precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang’d their
shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro’
the Cloud.
[Chaucer and Spencer]
Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance
we lay,
Till Chaucer rose, and pointed
out the Day.
A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our English Ennius He, who claim’d
his part
In wealthy Nature, tho’ unskil’d
in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which Spencer gather’d, for
his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer’s
Day,
Hum o’er the Flowers, and suck the
sweets away.
O had thy Poet, Britany, rely’d
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny’d!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
Maeanides and Virgil had
been Thine!
Their Finish’d Poems He exactly
view’d,
But Chaucer’s steps religiously
pursu’d.
[Ben. Johnson.]
He cull’d, and pick’d,
and thought it greater praise
T’adore his Master, than improve
his Phrase;
’Twas counted Sin to deviate from
his Page;
So secred was th’ Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for currant Sterling
pass,
Stamp’d with old Chaucer’s
Venerable Face.
But Johnson found it of a gross
Souls of a Heroe’s,
or a Poet’s Frame
Are fill’d with larger particles
of flame.
Scorning confinement, for more Land they
groan,
And stretch beyond the Limits of their
Own.
[Fletcher and Beaument]
Fletcher, whose Wit,
like some luxuriant Vine,
Profusely wanton’d in each golden
Line.
Who, prodigal of Sense, by Beaumont’s
care,
Was prun’d so wisely, and became
so fair.
Could from his copious Brain new Humours
bring,
A bragging Bessus, or inconstant
King.
Could Laughter thence, here melting pity
raise
In his Amyntors, and Aspasia’s.
But Rome and Athens must
the Plots produce
With France, the Handmaid of the
English Muse
[Shakespear.]
Ev’n Shakespear
sweated in his narrow Isle,
And Subject Italy obey’d
his Stile.
Boccace and Cinthio must
a tribute pay,
T’inrich his Scenes, and furnish
out a Play.
Tho’ Art ne’re taught him
how to write by Rules,
Or borrow Learning from Athenian
Schools:
Yet He, with Plautus, could instruct
and please,
And what requir’d long toil, perform
with ease.
By inborn strength so Theseus bent
the Pine,
Which cost the Robber many Years
Design[2].
[2] See Plutarch’s Life of Theseus.
Tho’ sometimes rude,
unpolish’d and undrest
His Sentence flows, more careless than
the rest.
Yet, when his Muse, complying with his
will,
Deigns with informing heat his Breast
to fill,
Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
Of AEschylus, or sooth in Ovid’s
vein.
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
When Desdemona by Othello
dyes.
When I view Brutus in his Dress
appear;
I know not how to call him too severe.
His rigid Vertue there attories
for all,
And makes a Sacrifice of Caesar’s
Fall.
[Cowley.]
Nature work’d Wonders
then; when Shakespear dy’d
Her Cowley rose, drest in her gaudy
Pride.
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
And Builds an Ovid[3] when a Tully
Falls.
[3] Ovid was born the same year in which Cicero dy’d.
With what Delight he tunes
his Silver-Strings,
And David’s Toils in David’s
numbers Sings?
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and
Groves,
His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,
Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,
Hermits may read them to a Virgin’s
Ear.
Unstoln Promethean Fire informs
his Song,
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.
His Wit, unfathom’d, has a fresh
Supply,
Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.
Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.
A Spirit, that is unconfin’d and
free,
Should hurry forward, like the Wind or
Sea.
Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when
a Vain
Presuming Xerxes shall pretend
to Reign,
And on the flitting Air impose his pond’rous
Chain.
Hail English Swan?
for You alone could dare
With well-pois’d Pinions tempt th’
unbounded Air:
And to your Lute Pindaric Numbers
call,
Nor fear the Danger of a threatned
Fall.
O had You liv’d to Waller’s
Reverend Age,
Better’d your Measures, and reform’d
your Page!
Then Britain’s Isle might
raise her Trophies high,
And Solid Rome, or Witty Greece
outvy.
The Rhine, the Tyber, and
Parisian Sein,
When e’re they pay their Tribute
to the Main,
Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,
Than gentle Cowley’s never-dying
Verse.
The Thames should sweep his briny
way before,
And with his Name salute each distant
Shore.
[Milton.]
Then You, like Glorious Milton
had been known
To Lands which Conquest has insur’d
our Own.
Milton! whose Muse Kisses th’
embroider’d Skies,
While Earth below grows little, as She
Flies.
Thro’ trackless Air she bends her
winding Flight,
Far as the Confines of retreating Light.
Tells the sindg’d Moor, how
scepter’d Death began
His Lengthning Empire o’er offending
Man.
Unteaches conquer’d Nations to Rebel,
By Singing how their Stubborn Parents
fell.
Now Seraphs crown’d
with Helmets I behold,
Helmets of Substance more refin’d
than Gold:
The Skies with an united Lustre shine,
And Face to Face th’ Immortal Armies
joyn.
God’s plated Son, Majestically
gay,
Urges his Chariot thro’ the Chrystal-Way
Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders,
as he Flies,
Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his
I see the Fiend, who tumbled
from his Sphere
Once by the Victor God, begins
to fear
New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.
I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
Was’t not enough, Relentless
Power! he cries,
Despair of better state, and loss of
Light
Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night
And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
And Register the Fate which we Sustain?
Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty
Name
Hence, after Thine, we feel the Poet’s
Flame
And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame.
O Soul Seraphick, teach us how
we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
For who can Merit more? or who enough
can Pay?
Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
Sublimer Objects were reserv’d for
You.
Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho’ neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer’s
Rose
Their op’ning Beauties could to
Thee disclose.
Tho’ Nature’s curious Characters,
which we
Exactly view, were all eras’d to
Thee.
Yet Heav’n stood Witness to Thy
piercing sight,
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would
it stay
In nether Night, and such a want of Day.
But wing’d aloft from sordid Earth
retires
To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:
Like an unhooded Hawk, who, loose
to Prey,
With open Eyes pursues th’ Ethereal
Way.
There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin’d
Place,
And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:
Or, if amongst the Laurel’d Heads
there be
A Mansion in the Skies reserv’d
for Thee,
There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,
And rowl with Homer in the brightest
Sphere;
To whom Calliope has joyn’d
thy Name,
And recompens’d thy Fortunes with
his Fame.
[Waller.]
Tho’ She (forgive our
freedom) sometimes Flows
In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.
Verse with a lively smoothness should
be Wrote,
When room is granted to the Speech and
Thought.
Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song
Should gently move, and sparkle as it
rowls along.
Like Waller’s Muse, who tho’
inchain’d by Rhime,
Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.
His Praise inflames my breast, and should
be shown
In Numbers sweet and Courtly as
his Own.
Who no unmanly Turns of Thought
Here could I dwell, like Bees
on Flowry Dew,
And Waller’s praise Eternally
pursue,
Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,
So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so
Well.
But now the forward Muse converts
her Eye
To see where Denham, and Roscommon
fly,
Cautiously daring, and correctly High.
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning’s
Grace,
Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.
Who, when withdrawn from Business, and
Affairs,
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,
With soothing Verse deceiv’d the
sliding Time,
And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.
Not like those Venal Bards, who Write
for Pence,
Above the Vulgar were their Names and
Sense,
The Critick judges what the Muse
indites,
And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden,
Writes.
’Tis true their Lamps were of the
smallest Size,
But like the Stoicks[4], of prodigious
Price.
Roscommon’s Rules shall o’er
our Isle be Read,
Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.
Fam’d Cooper’s Hill
shall, like Parnassus, stand,
And Denham reign, the Phaebus
of the Land.
[4] Epictetus.
Among these sacred and immortal
Names, [Oldham.]
A Youth glares out, and his just Honour
claims;
See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel,
play
Around his Head, and Sun the brighten’d
Way.
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,
Cast their black Mantle o’er th’
immoderate Light.
Here, pious Muse, lament a While; ’tis
just
We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.
O’er his fresh Marble strow the
fading Rose
And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.
The brooding Sun took care to dress him
Gay,
In all the Trappings of the flowry May.
He set him out unsufferably bright,
And sow’d in every part his beamy
Light.
Th’ unfinish’d Poet budded
forth too soon,
For what the Morning warm’d; was
scorch’d at Noon.
His careless Lines plain Nature’s
Rules obey,
Like Satyrs Rough, but not Deform’d
as they.
His Sense undrest, like Adam, free
from Blame,
Without his Cloathing, and without his
Shame,
True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,
A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.
Warm’d with just Rage
he lash’d the Romish Crimes,
In rugged Satyr and ill-sounding
Rhymes.
All Italy felt his imbitter’d
Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp Lucilius
Stung.
Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse
Th’ extravagance of his Unhallow’d
Muse.
In Jordan’s stream she wash’d
the tainted Sore,
And rose more Beauteous than She was before.
[Lee.]
Then Fancy curb’d began
to Cool her Rage,
And Sparks of Judgment glimmer’d
in his Page,
When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,
She rav’d, and set the Little World
on Fire.
Thus Lee by Reason strove not to
controul
That powerful heat which o’er-inform’d
his Soul.
He took his swing, and Nature’s
bounds surpast,
Stretch’d her, and bent her, till
she broke at last.
I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?
[Otway. and Dryden.]
Terrour and Pity are allow’d
to be,
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.
If Pity sooths us, Otway claims
our Praise;
If Terrour strikes, then Lee deserves
the Bays.
We grant a Genius shines in Jaffeir’s
Part,
And Roman Brutus speaks a Master’s
Art.
But still we often Mourn to see their
Phrase
An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze.
A rising Meteor never was design’d,
T’amaze the sober part of Human
kind.
Were I to write for Fame, I would not
chuse
A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse.
Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings
go,
Emptily Gay, magnificently Low,
Like Ancient Rome’s Religion,
Sacrifice and Show.
Things fashion’d for amusement and
Tho’ for the Comick,
others we prefer,
Himself[5] the Judge; nor do’s his
Judgment Err.
But Comedy, ’tis Thought, can never
claim
The sounding Title of a Poem’s Name.
For Raillery, and what creates a Smile
Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.
That Heav’nly Heat refuses
to be seen
In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.
[5] See Preface to Aurengzebe.
If we would do him right,
we must produce
The Sophoclean Buskin; when his
Muse
With her loud Accents fills the list’ning
Ear,
And Peals applauding shake the
Theater.
They fondly seek, Great Name,
to blast thy Praise,
Who think that Foreign Thanks produc’d
thy Bays.
Is he oblig’d to France,
who draws from thence
By English Energy, their Captive
Sense?
Tho’ Edward and fam’d
Henry Warr’d in vain,
Subduing what they could not long retain:
Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,
And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.
This does superiour excellence betray;
O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!
If Art be Nature’s Scholar, and
can make
Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake
Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design
She must her Own Originals decline,
And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine.
Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,
Which Young Thalia sung in Rural
Lays.
As Sleep to weary Drovers
on the Plain
As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,
Such Tityrus’s charming Number
show,
Please like the River, like the River
flow.
When his first Years in mighty Order ran,
And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,
Around his Lips the Waxen Artists
hung,
And drop’d ambrosial Dew upon his
Tongue.
Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers
broke,
More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke.
Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain
Glide,
Yet lofty as the Top from whence they
slide.
Long He possest th’
Hereditary Plains,
Admir’d by all the Herdsmen and
the Swains.
Till he resign’d his Flock, opprest
with cares,
Weaken’d by num’rous Woes,
and grey with Years.
Yet still, like AEtna’s Mount,
he kept his Fire,
And look’d like beauteous Roses
on a Brier.
He smil’d, like Phoebus in
a Stormy Morn,
And sung, like Philomel against
a Thorn.
Here Syren of sweet Poesy,
receive
That little praise my unknown Muse can
give.
Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear
Tho’ angry B——more
in Heroicks jeer.
A Bard, who seems to challenge
Virgil’s Flame,
And would be next in Majesty and Name.
With lofty Maro he at first may
please;
The Righteous Briton rises by degrees.
But once on Wing, thro’ secret Paths
he rows,
And leaves his Guide, or follows him too
close,
The Mantuan Swan keeps a soft gentle
Flight,
Is always Tow’ring, but still Plays
in Sight.
Calm and Serene his Verse; his active
Song
Runs smooth as Thames’s River,
and as strong.
Like his own Neptune he the Waves
confines,
While Bl——re
rumbles, like the King of Winds.
His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,
Jade out our Patience with excessive length.
While Readers, Yawning o’er his
Arthurs see
Whole Pages spun on one poor Simile.
We grant he labours with no want of Brains,
Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the
Pains,
One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat
Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat
A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.
It call’d for an Omnipotence to
raise
The World’s Imperial Poem
in Six Days.
But Man, that offspring of corrupting
Clay,
Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay:
In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous
Train,
Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain:
Must tire the Heav’nly Muse with
endless Prayer,
And call the smiling Angels to his care.
Must sleep less Nights, Vulcanian
Labours prove,
Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for
a Jove.
With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts
and Style,
Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing
Thus in bright Numbers and
well polish’d Strains
Virgilian Addison describes Campaigns.
Whose Verse, like a proportion’d
Man, we find,
Not of the Gyant, nor the Pygmy
kind.
Such Symmetry appears o’er all the
Song,
Lofty with justness, and with Caution
strong.
This Congreve follows
in his Deathless Line,
And the Tenth Hand is put to the
Design.
The Happy boldness of his Finish’d
Toil
Claims more than Shakespear’s
Wit, or Johnson’s Oil.
Sing on, Harmonious Swan, in weeping
strains,
And tell Pastora’s Death
to mournful Swains.
Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer
Airs
Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.
Or let thy Satyr grin with half
a Smile,
And jeer in Easy Etherege’s
Style.
Let Manly Wycherly chalk out the
Way,
And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.
’Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu’ring
Kings,
The Noise of Arms will break thy Am’rous
Strings.
The Teian Muse invites
Thee from above
To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.
Let MONTAGUE describe Boyn’s
swelling Flood
And purple Streams fatned with Hostile
Blood.
O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse!
Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.
When You Nassau’s bright
Actions dar’d to see,
You was the Eagle, and Apollo
He.
But when He read You, and Your Value knew,
He was the Eagle, and Apollo
You.
Both spoke the Bird in her AEthereal
height,
The Majesty was His, and
Thine the Flight.
Both did Apollo in His Glory shew,
The Silver Harp was Thine,
and His the Bow,
So may Pierian Clio
cease to fear,
When Honour deigns to sing, and
Majesty to hear!
So may she favour’d live, and always
please
Our Dorset’s, and Judicious
Normanby’s!
Nor does the Coronet
alone defend
The Muses Cause: The Miter
is Her Friend.
Can we forget how Damon’s
lofty Tongue
Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys
rung
When Rochester’s Seraphick Shepherd
Sung.
How Mars and Pallas wept
to see the Day
When Athens by a Plague dispeopled
lay.
What Learning perish’d, and what
Lives it cost!
But smile, my Muse, once more
upon my Song,
Let Creech be numbred with the
Sacred Throng.
Whose daring Muse could with Manilius
fly,
And, like an Atlas, shoulder up
the Sky.
He’s mounted, where no vulgar Eye
can trace
His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious
race.
See, how He walks above in mighty strains,
And wanders o’er the wide Ethereal
Plains!
He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey,
In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet
than they.
’Tis cause of Triumph,
when Rome’s Genius shines
In nervous English, and well-worded
Lines.
Two Famous Latins[6] our bright
Tongue adorn,
And a new Virgil[7] is in England
born.
An AEneid to translate, and make
a new,
Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.
[6] Lucretius and Manilius.
[7] Mr. Dryden’s Virgil.
For tho’ th’ Invention
of a Godlike Mind
Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind;
Yet a well-languag’d Version will
require
An equal Genius, and as strong
a Fire.
These claim at once our Study and our
Praise,
Fam’d for the Dignity of Sense and
Phrase.
These gainful to the Stationer, shall
stand
At Paul’s or Cornhill,
Fleetstreet or the Strand.
Shall wander far and near, and cross the
Seas,
An Ornament to Foreign Libraries.
Hail, Glorious Titles! who
have been my Theme!
O could I write so well as I esteem!
From her low Nest my humble Soul shou’d
rise
As a young Phoenix out of Ashes
flies
Above what France or Italy
can shew,
The Celebrated Tasso, or Boileau.
Come You, where’er you
be, who seek to find
Something to pleasure, and instruct your
Mind:
If, when retir’d from Bus’ness,
or from Men,
You love the Labour’d Travels
of the Pen;
Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time
On Cowley, or on Dryden’s
useful Rhyme:
Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse,
The Tragick, Lyrick, or Heroick
Muse:
For they, if well observ’d, will
strictly shew
In Charming Numbers, what is false,
what true,
And teach more good than Hobbs
or Lock can do.
Hail, ye Poetick Dead,
who wander now
In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines
we bow.
Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,
Ye blest Partakers of a happier State!
Whether Intomb’d with English
Kings you sleep,
Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:
There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,
May Tuneful Birds their pious Off’rings
pay!
There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears
perfume
The hallow’d Ground, and Roses deck
the Tomb.
While You, Who live, no frowning
Tempest fear,
Sing on; let Montague and Dorset
hear.
In Stately Verse let William’s
Praise be told,
WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold.
No more of Richelieu’s Worth:
Forget not, Fame,
To change Augustus for Great William’s
Name.
Who, tho’ like Homer’s
Jupiter, he sate,
Musing on something eminently great
And ballanc’d in his Mind the World’s
important Fate;
Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears
The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike
Years.
Whether this Praise to Stepny’s
Muse belong,
Or Prior claim it for Pindarick
Song.
The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay’d,
And Fate stood silent while the Poet play’d.
The double Vertue of Nassovian Fire
At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire.
The Hero listen’d when the Canons
rung
A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,
When Mars has Acted, or when Phoebus
Sung.
O cou’d my Muse reach
Milton’s tow’ring Flight,
Or stretch her Wings to the Maeonian
Height!
Thro’ Air, and Earth, and Seas,
I wou’d disperse
His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.
The rowling Waves to hear me shou’d
grow tame,
And Winds should calm a Tempest with his
Name
But we must all decline: The Muse
grows dumb,
Not weary’d with his Praise, but
overcome.
Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can
trace
The Matchless Glories of his Princely
Race?
What Prince can equal what no Muse can
praise?
No Land but Britain, must pretend
to shine
With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.
So may this Island a new Delos
prove,
Joyn[8] Young Apollo to the Cretan
Jove!
What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of
future Fame!
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav’nly
Flame!
How swiftly Gloster in his Bud
began!
How the Green Hero blossoms into
Man!
Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour’s
Charms,
To tread his Uncle’s Steps, and
shine in Arms:
See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,
What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy
They
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.
Edwards and Harry’s
to his Eyes appear
[8] The Duke of Glouceiter. Here the Author laments he prov’d so bad a Prophet.
After whose Conquests, and
the Work of Fate,
The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.
The Streams of Thamisis, exulting,
Ring,
When fair Augusta’s lofty
Clio’s Sing
Granta and Rhedycina’s
Tuneful Throng
Fill the resounding Vales with Learned
Song.
Live, Heav’nly Youth,
beyond invidious Time,
Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme.
Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,
Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure.
But on thy Fame no envious spots shall
prey,
Till English Sense and Valour shall
decay.
Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,
Or Cam or Isis shall forget
to Flow.