And Sorrow, like an envious worm,
Devour'd the blossom of his youth.
Beneath this stone the youth is laid-
O greet his ashes with a tear!
May Heaven with blessings crown his shade,
And grant that peace he wanted here!

§ 45. An Essay on Poetry. Buckingham.

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well;
No writing lifts exalted man so high
As sacred and soul-moving Poesy:
No kind of work requires so nice a touch;
And, if well-finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name!
"Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True wit is everlasting, like the sun; [tir'd,
Which, though sometimes behind a cloud re-
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too, for that's the soul:
A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conception fit;
E'en something of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all men, but describ'd by none.
Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the
brain

mourn,

Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;
Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for latter faults,
What need has Satire then to live on theft,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts.

Can such a vast and mighty thing contain?
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence
[return,
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me
away,
[day?
From pleasures of the night and business of the
E'en now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulness when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgement, fancy is but mad:
And judgement has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men ;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen :
Reason is that substantial useful part
Which gains the head, while t' other wins the
heart.

Here I shall all the various sorts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters and examples too!

When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold-the fool shall have no cause to fear;
"Tis wit and sense that are the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure;
And those who are so, will e'en this endure.
First then of Songs which now so much
abound:

Without his song no fop is to be found;
A most offensive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws:
Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art:

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one small ring, and brings the value down-
So songs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be seen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly :
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.
Here as in all things else, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous songs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling censure on his shade.
Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
But words obscene too gross to move desire,
Like heaps of fuel only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, Elegy, of sweet but solemn voice,
And of a subject grave exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valor, wit, contains;
And there too oft despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-she deserves to be belov'd;
But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have tried)
Women have drawn my wand'ring thoughts
aside.

Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit:

The Essay on Satire, which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.

+ The Earl of Rochester.-It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascribed to this nobleman were spurious.

But should this Muse harmonious numbers | But yet incited by some bold design,

And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd; [yield,
If yet a just coherence be not made
Between each thought; and the whole model laid
So right, that ev'ry line may higher rise,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies;
Such trifles may perhaps of late have pass'd,
And may be liked a while, but never last :
Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill,
No Panegyric, nor a +Cooper's Hill.

A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes; the Muses' most unruly horse,
That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest,
He foams at mouth, and moves like one pos-
The poet here must be indeed inspir'd, [sess'd.
With fury too as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But sometimes diction mean, or verse ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language still must soft and casy run.
These laws may sound a little too severe :
But judgement yields, and fancy governs here;
Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows,

Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd :
'Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things said oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove
That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chosen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be as the subject rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words con-
vey'd.

Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only business was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satyr from a scold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown:
So while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.
The Laureat here may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mac Flecknoe § with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus || has borne dead weight,
Rid by some lumpish minister of state.

That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last, resolv'd, she cleaves the yielding air;
Away she flies, so strong, 'so high, so fast,
She lessens to us, and is lost at last:
So (though too weak for such a weighty thing)
The Muse inspires a sharper note to sing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On, then, my Muse; advent'rously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if observ'd, give plays so great a grace,
Are, though but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Less obvious errors of the English stage.

First, then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in passion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend only to tell it us;
Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confesses all T.

Figures of speech, which poets thinks so fine,
(Art's needless varnish to make nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in descriptions only claim a place;
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed; for who can choose but pity
A dying hero miserably witty?

But oh! the Dialogues, where just and mock
Are held up like a rest at shuttle-cock;
Or else like bells eternally they chime;
They sigh in simile and die in rhyme.
What things are these who would be poets
thought,

By nature not inspir'd, nor learning taught? Some wit they have, and therefore may deserve A better course than this, by which they starve: But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence To judgement, breeding, wit, and eloquence: Nay more for they must look within, to find Those secret turns of nature in the mind. Without this part in vain would be the whole, And but a body all, without a soul: All this united yet but makes a part Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art, Now almost lost, which the old Grecians knew, From whom the Romans fainter copies drew, Scarce comprehended since but by a few. Plato and Lucian are the best remains Of all the wonders which this art contains Yet to ourselves we justice must allow, Shakspeare and Fletcher are the wonders now: Consider then, and read them o'er and o'er; Go see them play'd, then read them as before; ↑ Mr. Dryden. || A Poem called the Hind and Panther. Beaumont and Fletcher.

Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy cares a while;
A more important task attends thy toil.
As some young eagle, that designs to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprise before,
O'er what wide lands and seas she is to soar;
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;

* Waller's. poem of his.

+ Denham's.

;

A famous satirical In Philaster, a play of

For though in many things they grossly fail,
Over our passions still they so prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The duli are forc'd to feel, the wise to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults:
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand sev'ral ways;
This oft, alone, has given success to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultless monster-which the world ne'er saw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve compassion too.
Besides the main design compos'd with art,
Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not so much where shining thoughts
to place,

As what a man would say in such a case:
Neither in comedy will this suffice,
The player too must be before your eyes;
And, though 'tis drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your secret meaning show.
Expose no single fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious: oft we see
A fool derided by as bad as he :
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of
prey.

Sinall poets thus will one poor fop devour:
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compose that precious juice
Which serves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction-this would favor get;
But Falstaff stands inimitable yet.
Another fault which often may befal,
Is, when the wit of some great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That e'en his fools speak sense, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If once the justness of each part be lost,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
That silly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd:
Humor is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper thought.

But since the poets we of late have known
Shine in no dress so much as in their own,
The better, by example, to convince,
Cast but a view on this wrong side of sense.
First, a soliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reason is exactly weigh'd;

He straight grows jealous, though we know not
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die: [why
But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The absent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who straight appears; but who can fate with-
Too late, alas! to hold his hasty hand, [stand?
That just has given himself the cruel stroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Most sadly mourns at being left behind;
Of such a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
What shameful and what monstrous things
are these!

And then they rail at those they cannot please:
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme
Many keep up sinking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rules.
And sense no longer will submit to fools.

By painful steps at last we labor up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The epic poets so divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of such inestimable worth, [forth!
There are but two the world has yet brought
Homer and Virgil!-with what sacred awe
Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast;
So these gigantic souls, amaz'd, we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endless fame,
And universal shouts, attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still
Like Indians view'd this wondrous piece of
skill;

As something of divine the work admir'd,
Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,

Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;
Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure from some angel he the secret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clew.

Which once perform'd, most opportunely comesBut what, alas! avails it poor mankind
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves,
And all in metaphor his passion proves;
But some sad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone:

To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shown, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak reason's sight,
And yet has judgement to direct it right?

The matchless character of Shakspeare.

Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such,
Never to say too little or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say;
Must above Tasso's lofty flight prevail,
Succeed where Spenser and e'en Milton fail.

§ 40. The Chace. Somerville.
BOOK I.

mans.

THE ARGUMENT.

Or hew thy passage through th' embattled foe,
And clear thy way to fame: inspir d by thee,
The nobler chace of glory shall pursue
Through fire, and sinoke, and blood, and fields
of death.

Nature, in her productions slow, aspires By just degrees to reach perfection's height; So mimic Art works leisurely, till Time Improve the piece, or wise Experience give The proper finishing. When Nimrod bold, The subject proposed. Address to his Royal And stain'd the woodland green with purple dye, That mighty hunter! first made war on beasts, Highness the Prince. The origin of hunting New and unpolish'd was the huntsman's art; The rude and unpolished manners of the first No stated rule, his wanton will his guide. hunters. Beasts at first hunted for food and With clubs and stones, rude implements of war! sacrifice. The grant made by God to man of He arm'd his savage bands, a multitude the beasts, c. The regular manner of hunt-Untrain'd: of twining osiers form'd, they pitch ing first brought into this island by the Nor-Their artless toils, then range the desert hills, The best hounds and best horses bred And scour the plains below: the trembling herd here. The advantage of this exercise to us, as Start at th' unusual sound, and clain'rous shout islanders. Address to gentlemen of estates. Unheard before; surpris'd, alas! to find [lord, Situation of the kennel, and its several courts. Man now their foc, whom erst they deem'd their The diversion and employment of hounds in But mild and gentle, and by whom as yet the kennel. The different sorts of hounds for Secure they graz'd. Death stretches o'er the plain each different chace. Description of a perfect Wide wasting, and grim Slaughter, red with hound. Of sizing and sorting of hounds; the middle-sized hound recommended. Of the large deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and atter. Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland. A physical account of scents. Of good and bad scenting days. A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.

THE Chace I sing, hounds, and their various breed,

And no less various use. O thou, great Prince!
Whom Cambria's tow'ring hills proclaim their
lord,

Deign thou to hear my bold instructive song.
While grateful citizens, with pompous show,
Rear the triumphal arch, rich with th' exploits
Of thy illustrious house; while virgins pave
Thy way with flow'rs, and as the Royal Youth
Passing they view, adinire, and sigh in vain;
While crowded theatres, too fondly proud
Of their exotic minstrels and shrill pipes,
The price of manhood, hail thee with a song,
And airs soft warbling; my hoarse-sounding horn
Invites thee to the Chace, the sport of kings;
Image of war without its guilt. The Muse
Aloft on wing shall soar, conduct with care
Thy foaming courser o'er the steepy rock,
Or on the river bank receive thee safe,
Light-bounding o'er the wave from shore to shore.
Be thou our great protector, gracious Youth:
And if, in future times, some envious prince,
Careless of right, and guileful, should invade
Thy Britain's commerce, or should strive in vain
To wrest the balance from thy equal hand,
Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green array'd
(A band undaunted, and inur'd to toils),
Shall compass thee around, die at thy feet,

blood:

Urg'd on by hunger keen, they wound, they kill;
Their rage licentious knows no bound; at last,
Encumber'd with their spoils, joyful they bear
Upon their shoulders broad the bleeding prey.
Part on their altars smokes, a sacrifice [hand
To that all-gracious Pow'r whose bounteous
Supports his wide creation; what remains,
On living coals they broil, inelegant
Of taste, nor skill'd as yet in nicer arts
Of pamper'd luxury. Devotion pure,
And strong necessity, thus first began
The chace of beasts; tho' bloody was the deed,
Yet without guilt: for the green herb alone
Unequal to sustain man's lab'ring race,
Now ev'ry moving thing that liv'd on earth
Was granted him for food. So just is Heav'n,
To give us in proportion to our wants.

Or chance or industry in after times
Some few improvements made, but short as yet
Of due perfection. In this isle remote
Our painted ancestors were slow to learn:
To arms devote, in the politer arts
Nor skill'd nor studious; till from Neustria's
Victorious William to more decent rules [coasts
Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak
The proper dialect, with horn and voice
To cheer the busy hound, whose well-known cry
His list'ning pcers approve with joint acclaim.
From him successive huntsmen learn'd to join
In bloody social leagues the multitude
Dispers'd, to size, to sort their various tribes;
To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the pack.

Hail, happy Britain: highly favor'd isle,
And Heaven's peculiar care! to thee 'tis given
To train the sprightly steed, more fleet than those
Begot by winds, or the celestial breed

* Gen. chap. ix. ver. 3.