Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry Part 3

_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 l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+ne, And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn.

G.o.d'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 Eyes.

O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore, And transfix d Angels groan upon the _Diamond-Floor_.

Then, wheeling from _Olympus_ Snowy top, Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop Down to th' Abyss of their allotted h.e.l.l, And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere Once by the _Victor G.o.d_, 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 h.e.l.l 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, a.s.sume 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 pursues, Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.

Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay, Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.

In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung, Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung.

If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_.

Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings _Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main, Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain, Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care, Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.

As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill; So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such, No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.

As Pearls in Gold with their own l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+ne, The Substance precious, and the Work Divine: So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase, Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace, A mighty Value in a little s.p.a.ce.

So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old, When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.

But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less, Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.

O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast, To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest?

To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove, In strains lamenting his neglected Love.

Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake, And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake.

Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline; And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.

Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known; Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone.

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 n.o.ble 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 _Parna.s.sus_, 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 Prost.i.tute 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 fas.h.i.+on'd for amus.e.m.e.nt and surprize, Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes.

The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage, May please the Young _Sir Foplings_ on the Stage.

But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find Like _Spencer's_ Giant sunk away in Wind.

It grates judicious Readers when they meet Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet.

Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these, Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.

_Lee_ aim'd to rise above great _Dryden's_ Height, But lofty _Dryden_ keeps a steddy Flight.

Like Daedalus, he times with prudent Care His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air.

The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name, By industry he kindled to a Flame.

The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung.

His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine, _All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine._ His _Images_ so strong and lively be, I hear not Words alone, but Substance see; Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move Our various Pa.s.sions, Pity, Rage and Love.