An Essay on Man Part 14

Cato's long wig, flowered gown, and lacquered chair.

Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach, Let me for once presume t' instruct the times, To know the poet from the man of rhymes: 'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains, Can make me feel each pa.s.sion that he feigns; Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, With pity, and with terror, tear my heart; And s.n.a.t.c.h me, o'er the earth, or through the air, To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.

But not this part of the poetic state Alone, deserves the favour of the great; Think of those authors, sir, who would rely More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye.

Or who shall wander where the Muses sing?

Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring?

How shall we fill a library with wit, When Merlin's cave is half unfurnished yet?

My liege! why writers little claim your thought, I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault: We poets are (upon a poet's word) Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd: The season, when to come, and when to go, To sing, or cease to sing, we never know; And if we will recite nine hours in ten, You lose your patience, just like other men.

Then too we hurt ourselves, when to defend A single verse, we quarrel with a friend; Repeat unasked; lament, the wit's too fine For vulgar eyes, and point out every line.

But most, when straining with too weak a wing, We needs will write epistles to the King; And from the moment we oblige the town, Expect a place, or pension from the Crown; Or dubbed historians, by express command, T' enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land, Be called to Court to plan some work divine, As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown) Ah think, what poet best may make them known?

Or choose at least some minister of grace, Fit to bestow the laureate's weighty place.

Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair, a.s.signed his figure to Bernini's care; And great Na.s.sau to Kneller's hand decreed To fix him graceful on the bounding steed; So well in paint and stone they judged of merit: But kings in wit may want discerning spirit.

The hero William and the martyr Charles, One knighted Blackmore, and one pensioned Quarles; Which made old Ben, and surly Dennis swear, "No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear."

Not with such majesty, such bold relief, The forms august, of king, or conquering chief, E'er swelled on marble; as in verse have s.h.i.+ned (In polished verse) the manners and the mind.

Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing, Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing!

What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought!

Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought!

How barb'rous rage subsided at your word, And nations wondered while they dropped the sword!

How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep, Peace stole her wing, and wrapped the world in sleep; Till earth's extremes your mediation own, And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne- But verse, alas! your majesty disdains; And I'm not used to panegyric strains: The zeal of fools offends at any time, But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme.

Besides, a fate attends on all I write, That when I aim at praise, they say I bite.

A vile encomium doubly ridicules: There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.

If true, a woeful likeness; and if lies, "Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise:"

Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives; And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves (Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings) Clothe spice, line trunks, or, flutt'ring in a row, Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

"Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur." Hor. (v.124.)

Dear Colonel, Cobham's and your country's friend!

You love a verse, take such as I can send.

A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy, Bows and begins-"This lad, sir, is of Blois: Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curled!

My only son, I'd have him see the world: His French is pure; his voice too-you shall hear.

Sir, he's your slave for twenty pound a year.

Mere wax as yet, you fas.h.i.+on him with ease, Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please: A perfect genius at an opera song- To say too much might do my honour wrong.

Take him with all his virtues, on my word; His whole ambition was to serve a lord: But, sir, to you, with what would I not part?

Though faith, I fear 'twill break his mother's heart.

Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie, And then, unwhipped, he had the grace to cry: The fault he has I fairly shall reveal, (Could you o'erlook but that) it is to steal."

If, after this, you took the graceless lad, Could you complain, my friend, he proved so bad?

Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir G.o.dfrey should decide the suit: Who sent the thief that stole the cash away, And punished him that put it in his way.

Consider then, and judge me in this light; I told you when I went, I could not write; You said the same; and are you discontent With laws to which you gave your own a.s.sent?

Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time!

D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?

In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old Had dearly earned a little purse of gold; Tired with a tedious march, one luckless night, He slept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit.

This put the man in such a desperate mind, } Between revenge, and grief, and hunger joined } Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, } He leaped the trenches, scaled a castle wall, Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.

"Prodigious well," his great commander cried, Gave him much praise and some reward beside.

Next pleased his excellence a town to batter: (Its name I know not, and it's no great matter).

"Go on, my friend," he cried, "see yonder walls, Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!

More honours, more rewards attend the brave."

Don't you remember what reply he gave?

"D'ye think me, n.o.ble general, such a sot?

Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat."

Bred up at home, full early I begun To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son.

Besides, my father taught me from a lad, The better art to know the good from bad: (And little sure imported to remove, To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove).

But knottier points we knew not half so well, Deprived us soon of our paternal cell; And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust, Denied all posts of profit or of trust: Hopes after hopes of pious Papists failed, While mighty William's thundering arm prevailed, For right hereditary taxed and fined, He stuck to poverty with peace of mind; And me, the Muses helped to undergo it; Convict a Papist he, and I a poet.

But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive, Indebted to no prince or peer alive, Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, If I would scribble rather than repose.

Years following years, steal something every day, At last they steal us from ourselves away; In one our frolics, one amus.e.m.e.nts end, In one a mistress drops, in one a friend: This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, What will it leave me, if it s.n.a.t.c.h my rhyme?

If every wheel of that unwearied mill, That turned ten thousand verses, now stands still?

But after all, what would you have me do?

When out of twenty I can please not two; When this heroics only deigns to praise, Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays?

One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg; The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg; Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests, When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests.

But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, Again to rhyme, can London be the place?

Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends, In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends?

My counsel sends to execute a deed; A poet begs me I will hear him read; 'In Palace Yard at nine you'll find me there-'

'At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury Square-'

'Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on-'

'There's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one.-'

"Oh, but a wit can study in the streets, And raise his mind above the mob he meets."

Not quite so well, however, as one ought; A hackney coach may chance to spoil a thought; And then a nodding beam or pig of lead, G.o.d knows, may hurt the very ablest head.

Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pa.s.s, Two aldermen dispute it with an a.s.s?

And peers give way, exalted as they are, Even to their own s-r-v-ance in a car?

Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd, Sing thy sonorous verse-but not aloud.

Alas! to grottoes and to groves we run, To ease and silence, every Muse's son: Blackmore himself, for any grand effort, Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's Court.

How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar?

How match the bards whom none e'er matched before?

The man, who, stretched in Isis' calm retreat, To books and study gives seven years complete, See! strewed with learned dust, his night-cap on, He walks, an object new beneath the sun!

The boys flock round him, and the people stare: } So stiff, so mute! some statue you would swear, } Stepped from its pedestal to take the air! } And here, while town, and court, and city roars, With mobs, and duns, and soldiers at their doors; Shall I, in London, act this idle part?

Composing songs for fools to get by heart?

The Temple late two brother sergeants saw, Who deemed each other oracles of law; With equal talents these congenial souls, One lulled th' Exchequer, and one stunned the Rolls; Each had a gravity would make you split, And shook his head at Murray as a wit.

"'Twas, sir, your law"-and "Sir, your eloquence-"

"Yours, Cowper's manner"-and "yours, Talbot's sense."

Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit.

Call Tibbald Shakespeare, and he'll swear the nine, Dear Cibber! never matched one ode of thine.

Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see No poets there, but Stephen, you, and me.

Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please.

"My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do, "Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you: Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, And you shall rise up Otway for your pains."

Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race; And much must flatter, if the whim should bite To court applause by printing what I write: But let the fit pa.s.s o'er, I'm wise enough, To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject, They treat themselves with most profound respect; 'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue: Each praised within, is happy all day long; But how severely with themselves proceed The men, who write such verse as we can read?

Their own strict judges, not a word they spare That wants, or force, or light, or weight, or care, Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, Nay though at Court, perhaps, it may find grace: Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead, In downright charity revive the dead; Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years; Command old words that long have slept, to wake, Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake; Or bid the new be English, ages hence, (For use will farther what's begot by sense) Pour the full tide of eloquence along, } Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, } Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue; } Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine, But show no mercy to an empty line: Then polish all, with so much life and ease, You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please: "But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; As those move easiest who have learned to dance."

If such the plague and pains to write by rule, Better, say I, be pleased and play the fool; Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease, It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.

There lived in primo Georgii, they record, A worthy member, no small fool, a lord; Who, though the House was up, delighted sate, Heard, noted, answered, as in full debate: In all but this, a man of sober life, Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife; Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell, And much too wise to walk into a well.

Him, the d.a.m.ned doctors and his friends immured, They bled, they cupped, they purged; in short, they cured.

Whereat the gentleman began to stare- "My friends!" he cried, "plague take you for your care!

That from a patriot of distinguished note, Have bled and purged me to a simple vote."

Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate: Wisdom (curse on it) will come soon or late.

There is a time when poets will grow dull: I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school: To rules of poetry no more confined, I learn to smooth and harmonise my mind, Teach every thought within its bounds to roll, And keep the equal measure of the soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door My mind resumes the thread it dropt before; Thoughts, which at Hyde Park Corner I forgot, Meet and rejoin me, in the pensive grot.

There all alone, and compliments apart, I ask these sober questions of my heart.

If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, You tell the doctor; when the more you have, The more you want; why not with equal ease Confess as well your folly, as disease?

The heart resolves this matter in a thrice, "Men only feel the smart but not the vice."

When golden angels cease to cure the evil, You give all royal witchcraft to the devil; When servile chaplains cry, that birth and place Endure a peer with honour, truth, and grace, Look in that breast, most dirty D----! be fair, Say, can you find out one such lodger there?