Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry Part 2

Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to s.h.i.+ne (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line, While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell The n.o.blest 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, Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme) Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task, As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask, To build a Poem of the vastest price, A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_.

So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_ May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, By c.o.xcombs 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 n.o.ble 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 Sh.o.r.e, For glittering Bra.s.s exchang'd their s.h.i.+ning Oar.

Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, Nor could we view the G.o.ddess 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 s.h.i.+nes, 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_ pa.s.s, Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_.

But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_, Melted it down, and slung the Dross away He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_, And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.

We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar, Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.

Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame, Such Thefts as these add l.u.s.tre to thy Name.

Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way, Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play.

Whether his Crimes more excellently s.h.i.+ne, Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine, And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine.

All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke, And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.

So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.

Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His, Were _n.o.ble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_.

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 _Oth.e.l.lo_ 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 rehea.r.s.e, Than gentle _Cowley's_ never-dying Verse.

The _Thames_ should sweep his briny way before, And with his Name salute each distant Sh.o.r.e.

[_Milton._]

Then You, like Glorious _Milton_ had been known To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own.