Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bow'r,
The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour:
Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night,
To blot out order, and extinguish light,
Of dull and venal a new world to mould,
And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold.
She mounts the throne: her head a cloud con-

15

[ceal'd,

20

In broad effulgence all below reveal'd,
('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines)
Soft on her lap her Laureate Son reclines.
Beneath her footstool Science groans in chains,
And Wit dreads exile, penalties and pains.
There foam'd rebellious Logic, gagg'd and bound;
There, stript, fair Rhet'ric languish'd on the ground;
His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne,
25
And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn.
Morality, by her false guardians drawn,
Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn.
Gásps, as they straiten at each end the cord,
And dies when Dulness gives her page the word.

. 14. To bolt out order, and extinguish light.] The two great ends of her mission; the one in quality of daughter of Claos, the other as daughter of Night. Order here is to be understood extensively, both as civil and moral; the distinctions between high and low in society, and true and false in individuals: light as intellectual only, wit, science, arts.

v. 15. Of dull and venal.] The allegory continued; dull referring to the extinction of light or science; venal to the destruc tion of order and the truth of things.

Ibid...a new world.] In allusion to the Epicurean opinion, that from the dissolution of the natural world into night and chaos, a new one should arise; this the Poet alluding to, in the production of a new world, makes it partake of its original prin iples.

31

33

: Mad Mathesis alone was unconfin'd,
Too mad for mere material chains to bind :
Now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare,
Now running round the circle, finds it square.
But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie,
Watch'd both by Envy's and by Flatt'ry's eye:
There to her heart sad Tragedy addrest
The dagger, wont to pierce the tyrant's breast;
But sober History restrain'd her rage,
And promis'd vengeance on a barb'rous age. 40
There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead,
Had not her sister Satire held her head:
Nor could'st thou, Chesterfield! a tear refuse,
Thou wept'st, and with thee wept each gentle Muse.
When, lo! a harlot form soft sliding by, 45
With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye`;
Foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride
In patch-work flutt'ring, and her head aside;
By singing peers upheld on either hand,

49

She tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand;
Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look,
Then thus in quaint recitativo spoke:

O Cara! Cara! silence all that train;

Joy to great Chaos! let Division reign:

Chromatic tortures soon shall drive them hence, 55 Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense;

IMITATIONS,

v. 54 Joy to great Chaos!]

Joy to great Cæsar !'

The beginning of a famous old song.

One thrill shall harmonize joy, grief, and rage,
Wake the dull Church, and lull the ranting Stage;
To the same notes thy son shall hum, or snore,
And all the yawning daughters cry, Encore. 60
Another Phœbus, thy own Phœbus reigns,
Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains.
But soon, ah soon, rebellion will commence,
If music meanly borrows aid from sense :
Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, 65
Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands;
To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes,
And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums.
Arrest him, Empress, or you sleep no more—
She heard, and drove him to the Hibernian shore.
And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, 71
And all the nations summon'd to the throne:
The young, the old, who feel her inward sway,
One instinct seizes, and transports away.
None need a guide by sure attraction led,
And strong impulsive gravity of head:
None want a place, for all their centre found,
Hung to the Goddess, and coher'd around.
Not closer, orb in orb, conglob'd are seen
The buzzing bees about their dusky queen.

The gath'ring number as it moves along,
Involves a vast involuntary throng,

Who gently drawn, and struggling less and less,
Roll in her vortex, and her pow'r confess.
Not those alone who passive own her laws,
But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause.

75

80

83

Whate'er of dunce in college or in town
Sneers at another, in toupee or gown;
Whate'er of mungril no one class admits,
A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

90

Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the great; Who false to Phoebus, bow the knee to Baal, Or impious, preach his word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, 95 With-hold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull Flatt❜ry in the sacred gown, Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown; And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite.

105

100 There march'd the bard and blockhead side by side, Who rhym'd for hire, and patronis'd for pride. Narcissus, prais'd with all a parson's pow'r, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a show'r. There mov'd Montalto with superior air: His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side; But as in graceful act, with awful eye, Compos'd he stood, bold Benson thrust him by: On two unequal crutches propt he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnson's name. The decent Knight retir'd with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and clos'd the pompous page:

111

115

But (happy for him as the times went then)
Appear'd Apollo's may'r and aldermen,
On whom three hundred gold-capt youths await,
To lug the pond'rous volume off in state. -

When Dulness, smiling "Thus revive the wits! But murder first, and mince them all to bits; 120 As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!)

A new edition of old son gave;

Let standard authors thus, like trophies borne, Appear more glorious as more hack'd and torn. And you my Critics! in the chequer'd shade, 125 Admire new light thro' holes yourselves have made.

Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A page, a grave, that they can call their own; But spread, my Sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick. So by each bard an alderman shall sit, A heavy lord shall hang at ev'ry wit,

REMARKS.

130

v. 115. &c.] These four lines were printed in a separate le by Mr. Pope, in the last edition which he himself gave t Dunciad, with directions to the printer to put this leaf inte place, as soon as Sir T. H's Shakespeare should be published

VARIATIONS.

v. 114.] What! no respect, he cry'd, for Shakespeare's page

IMITATIONS.

v. 126. Admire new light, &c.]

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
'Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.