The Works of Alexander Pope Part 10

With vast variety thy pages s.h.i.+ne; A new creation starts in ev'ry line.

How sudden trees rise to the reader's sight, } And make a doubtful scene of shade and light, } 35 And give at once the day, at once the night! } And here again what sweet confusion reigns, In dreary deserts mixed with painted plains!

And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom, And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom: 40 Whilst fruitful crops rise by their barren side, And bearded groves display their annual pride.

Happy the man, who strings his tuneful lyre, Where woods, and brooks, and breathing fields inspire!

Thrice happy you! and worthy best to dwell 45 Amidst the rural joys you sing so well.

I in a cold, and in a barren clime, } Cold as my thought, and barren as my rhyme, } Here on the western beach attempt to chime. } O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! 50 Bordered with weeds, and solitudes obscene![11]

Let me ne'er flow like thee! nor make thy stream My sad example, or my wretched theme.

Like bombast now thy raging billows roar, And vainly dash themselves against the sh.o.r.e; 55 About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown, And all extremes are in a moment shown.

s.n.a.t.c.h me, ye G.o.ds! from these Atlantic sh.o.r.es, And shelter me in Windsor's fragrant bow'rs; Or to my much loved Isis' walks convey, 60 And on her flow'ry banks for ever lay.

Thence let me view the venerable scene, The awful dome, the groves' eternal green: Where sacred Hough[12] long found his famed retreat, And brought the muses to the sylvan seat, 65 Reformed the wits, unlocked the cla.s.sic store, And made that music which was noise before.

There with ill.u.s.trious bards I spent my days Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise, Enjoyed the blessings that his reign bestowed, 70 Nor envied Windsor in the soft abode.

The golden minutes smoothly danced away, And tuneful bards beguiled the tedious day: They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fired That Maro taught, or Addison inspired. 75 Ev'n I essayed to touch the trembling string: Who could hear them, and not attempt to sing?

Roused from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise and wander through the field or plain; Led by thy muse, from sport to sport I run, 80 Mark the stretched line, or hear the thund'ring gun.

Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the flutt'ring pheasant lie; His gaudy robes in dazzling lines appear, And ev'ry feather s.h.i.+nes and varies there. 85 Nor can I pa.s.s the gen'rous courser by, } But while the prancing steed allures my eye, } He starts, he's gone! and now I see him fly } O'er hills and dales, and now I lose the course, Nor can the rapid sight pursue the flying horse. 90 O could thy Virgil from his...o...b..look down, He'd view a courser that might match his own!

Fired with the sport, and eager for the chase, Lodona's murmurs stop me in the race.

Who can refuse Lodona's melting tale? 95 The soft complaint shall over time prevail; The tale be told, when shades forsake her sh.o.r.e, The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more.

Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to s.h.i.+ne, At once the subject and the song divine; 100 Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britons more Than all their shouts for victory before.

Oh! could Britannia imitate thy stream, The world should tremble at her awful name: From various springs divided waters glide, 105 In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tide, Murmur along their crooked banks awhile, At once they murmur and enrich the isle; A while distinct through many channels run, But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; 110 There joy to lose their long-distinguished names, And make one glorious and immortal Thames.

ELIJAH FENTON.

TO MR. POPE.

IN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM ON HOMER.[13]

When Phoebus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old a.s.sembled in the Thespian shades; What theme, they cried, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear?

Replied the G.o.d: "Your loftiest notes employ, 5 To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy."

The wond'rous song with rapture they rehea.r.s.e; Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse?

He answered with a frown: "I now reveal A truth, that envy bids me not conceal: 10 Retiring frequent to this laureat vale, I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale, Which, un.o.bserved, a wand'ring Greek and blind, Heard me repeat, and treasured in his mind; And fired with thirst of more than mortal praise, 15 From me, the G.o.d of wit, usurped the bays.

But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame, Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name; Yet when my arts shall triumph in the west, And the white isle with female pow'r is blest; 20 Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there, And the translator's palm to me transfer.

With less regret my claim I now decline, The world will think his English Iliad mine."

DR. THOMAS PARNELL.

TO MR. POPE.

To praise, and still with just respect to praise A bard triumphant in immortal bays, The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, Yet still preserve the province of the friend; What life, what vigour must the lines require? 5 What music tune them, what affection fire?

O might thy genius in my bosom s.h.i.+ne, Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine: The brightest ancients might at once agree To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10 Horace himself would own thou dost excel In candid arts to play the critic well.

Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream; On silver feet, with annual osier crowned, 15 She runs for ever through poetic ground.

How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, Made by thy muse the envy of the fair!

Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 20 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds; Belles war with beaus, and whims descend for G.o.ds.

The new machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave phrenzy of the chomic fool.

But know, ye fair, a point concealed with art, 25 The sylphs and gnomes are but a woman's heart.

The graces stand in sight; a satire-train Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene.

In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits Inshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 30 And sits in measures such as Virgil's muse To place thee near him might be fond to choose.

How might he tune th' alternate reed with thee, Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he; While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise, 35 Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!

Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains, And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.

Indulgent nurse of ev'ry tender gale, Parent of flow'rets, old Arcadia, hail! 40 Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head: Still slide thy waters soft among the trees, Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze!

Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring, 45 Be hushed, ye winds, while Pope and Virgil sing.

In English lays, and all sublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He s.h.i.+nes in council, thunders in the fight, And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. 50 Long has that poet reigned, and long unknown, Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne; In all the majesty of Greek retired; Himself unknown, his mighty name admired; His language failing wrapt him round with night; 55 Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.

So wealthy mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden ore, When choked by sinking banks, no more appear, And shepherds only say, the "mines were here:" 60 Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand informed with art) Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein; The mines detected flame with gold again.

How vast, how copious, are thy new designs! 65 How ev'ry music varies in thy lines!

Still, as I read, I feel my bosom beat, And rise in raptures by another's heat.

Thus in the wood, when summer dressed the days, While Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70 Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest, And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest: The shades resound with song--O softly tread, While a whole season warbles round my head.

This to my friend--and when a friend inspires, 75 My silent harp its master's hand requires; Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune placed me in unfertile ground; Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning--very far from thee. 80 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf; Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;[14]

Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet; Or lazy lakes unconscious of a flood, 85 Whose dull, brown naiads ever sleep in mud.

Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease, A friend delight me, and an author please; Ev'n here I sing, when POPE supplies the theme, Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90

THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT.[15]

TO MR. POPE,

ON THE PUBLIs.h.i.+NG HIS WORKS.

He comes, he comes! bid ev'ry bard prepare The song of triumph, and attend his car.

Great Sheffield's[16] muse the long procession heads, And throws a l.u.s.tre o'er the pomp she leads; First gives the palm she fired him to obtain, 5 Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign.

Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught, Was formed for all the miracles he wrought: Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud, Pleased to behold the earnest of a G.o.d. 10 But hark, what shouts, what gath'ring crowds rejoice!

Unstained their praise by any venal voice, Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due, When prost.i.tutes, or needy flatt'rers sue.

And see the chief! before him laurels borne; 15 Trophies from undeserving temples torn; Here Rage enchained reluctant raves, and there Pale Envy dumb, and sick'ning with despair; p.r.o.ne to the earth she bends her loathing eye, Weak to support the blaze of majesty. 20 But what are they that turn the sacred page?

Three lovely virgins, and of equal age; Intent they read, and all enamoured seem, As he that met his likeness in the stream:[17]

The Graces these; and see how they contend, 25 Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend.

The chariot now the painful steep ascends, The paeans cease; thy glorious labour ends.

Here fixed, the bright eternal temple stands,[18]

Its prospect an unbounded view commands: 30 Say, wond'rous youth, what column wilt thou choose, What laurelled arch for thy triumphant muse?

Though each great ancient court thee to his shrine, Though ev'ry laurel through the dome be thine, (From the proud epic,[19] down to those that shade 35 The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid) Go to the good and just, an awful train,[20]

Thy soul's delight, and glory of the fane: While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies, "Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies." 40

WILLIAM BROOME.

TO MR. POPE.[21]

Let vulgar souls triumphal arches raise, Or speaking marbles, to record their praise, And picture (to the voice of fame unknown) The mimic feature on the breathing stone; Mere mortals! subject to death's total sway, 5 Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day!

'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise, A monument which worth alone can raise: Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dust The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust: 10 Nor till the volumes of th' expanded sky Blaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die: Then sink together in the world's last fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires.

If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, 15 With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightness s.h.i.+nes;[22]

Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully published what Lucretius wrote; 20 Pruned by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow.

Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades, A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part 25 Some latent grace, and equals art with art; Transported we survey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life.[23]

How long, untuned, had Homer's sacred lyre Jarred grating discord, all extinct his fire! 30 This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to sing, Called the loud music from the sounding string.

Now waked from slumbers of three thousand years, Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears, Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns, 35 Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns; With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He strides along, and meets the G.o.ds in fight: Then the pale t.i.tans, chained on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th' infernal sh.o.r.es, 40 Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coasts, And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts.

To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay; Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play; Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise, 45 Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies; Or softer than a yielding virgin's sigh, The gentle breezes breathe away and die.

Thus, like the radiant G.o.d who sheds the day, You paint the vale, or gild the azure way; 50 And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies, Sink without grov'ling, without rashness rise.

Proceed, great bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer; still Ulysses sing.

How long[24] that hero, by unskilful hands, 55 Stripped of his robes, a beggar trod our lands!

Such as he wandered o'er his native coast, Shrunk by the wand, and all the warrior lost; O'er his smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread; Old age disgraced the honours of his head; 60 Nor longer in his heavy eye-ball s.h.i.+ned The glance divine, forth-beaming from the mind.

But you, like Pallas, ev'ry limb infold With royal robes, and bid him s.h.i.+ne in gold; Touched by your hand his manly frame improves 65 With grace divine, and like a G.o.d he moves.

Ev'n I, the meanest of the muses' train, Inflamed by thee, attempt a n.o.bler strain; Advent'rous waken the Maeonian lyre, Tuned by your hand, and sing as you inspire: 70 So armed by great Achilles for the fight, Patroclus conquered in Achilles' right: Like theirs, our friends.h.i.+p! and I boast my name To thine united--for thy friends.h.i.+p's fame.

This labour past, of heav'nly subjects sing, 75 While hov'ring angels listen on the wing, To hear from earth such heart-felt raptures rise, As, when they sing, suspended hold the skies: Or n.o.bly rising in fair virtue's cause, From thy own life transcribe th' unerring laws: 80 Teach a bad world beneath her sway to bend: To verse like thine fierce savages attend, And men more fierce: when Orpheus tunes the lay, Ev'n fiends relenting hear their rage away.