AN ESSAY on SATIRE: Occasion'd by the DEATH of Mr.
POPE.
O sacred Weapon, left for Truth's Defence,
Sole Dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence!
To all, but Heav'n-directed Hands, deny'd,
The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide.
LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY at Tully's Head in Pall-Mall. M.DCC.XLV. [Price One Shilling.]
CONTENTS.
PART I.
Of the end and efficacy of Satire. The love of Glory and fear of Shame universal:
v. 23.
This passion implanted in man as a Spur to Virtue, is generally perverted:
v. 37.
And thus becomes the occasion of the greatest miseries, follies, and vices:
v. 49.
It is the work of Satire to rectify this passion, to reduce it to its proper channel, and convert it into an incentive to Wisdom and Virtue:
v. 81.
Hence it appears, that Satire may influence those who defy all laws human and divine:
v. 93.
An objection answer'd:
v. 123.
PART II.
Rules for the conduct of Satire. Justice and Truth its chief and essential Property:
v. 159,
Prudence in the application of Wit and Ridicule, whose province is, not to explore unknown, but to enforce known truths:
v. 185,
Proper subjects of Satire are, the Manners of present Times:
v. 225.
Decency of expression recommended:
v. 245.
The different methods in which Folly and Vice ought to be chastised:
v. 259.
The variety of Stile and Manner which these two subjects require:
v. 267.
The Praises of Virtue, tho' not an essential branch of Satire, may yet be admitted with propriety:
v. 313.
Caution with regard to Panegyrick:
v. 315.
PART III.
The history of Satire. Roman Satirists,
Lucilius: v. 352. Horace: v. 355. Persius: v. 363. Juvenal: v. 372.
Causes of the decay of Literature, and particularly of Satire:
v. 378.
Revival of Satire:
v. 389. Erasmus
one of its principal Restorers:
v. 393. Donne; v. 399.
The abuse of Satire in
England
during the licentious reign of King
Charles II. v. 403. Dryden: v. 425.
The true ends of Satire pursued by
Boileau
in
France: v. 435.
and Mr.
Pope
in
England: v. 445, &c.
AN ESSAY ON SATIRE, &c.
FATE gave the word, the cruel arrow sped,
And POPE lies number'd with the mighty dead.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Guilt at the signal rowzing all her train,
Broods o'er the glories of her growing reign:
Th' envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And snake-hung Envy hisses o'er his urn.
But thou whose eye, from passion's film refin'd,
Can see true greatness in an honest mind;
Can see each virtue and each grace unite,
And taste the raptures of a PURE delight;
O visit oft his awful page with care,
And view the bright assemblage treasur'd there.—
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a muse,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues;
Intent from this great archetype to draw,
Or faintly shadow SATIRE's pow'r and law;
Pleas'd, if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend,
And rev'rence HIS and SATIRE's generous end.
1. In ev'ry breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame:
The passion ONE, tho' diff'rent forms it wear,
As brighten'd into hope, or sunk by fear:
The lisping infant, and the hoary sire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire:
The charms of praise the coy, the modest wooe,
And fly from glory that she may pursue:
(As Galatea
—Galatea lasciva Puella
Fugit ad Salices, sed se cupit ante videri.
VIRG.
, playful on the green,
Hides in the grove, yet wishes to be seen:)
She, pow'rful goddess, rules the wise and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet:
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the scepter and the spade.
Heav'n thus in man it's friendly pow'r displays,
To urge him on to deeds that merit praise:
But man, vain man, to folly only wife,
Rejects the Manna sent him from the skies:
With rapture hears corrupted passion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall.
As each deceitful shadow tempts his view,
He for imagin'd substance quits the true:
Eager to catch the visionary prize,
In quest of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry praise he pants to gain.
Thus still imperious nature plies her part,
And still her dictates work in ev'ry heart:
Each pow'r that sovereign nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy:
Like mighty rivers, with resistless force
The passions rage, obstructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before.
And sure the deadliest foe to virtue's flame,
Our worst of evils, is
perverted shame.
Beneath this yoke what abject numbers groan,
The shackled slaves to folly not their own!
Blind to ourselves, by sordid fear oppress'd,
We seek our Virtues in each other's breast;
Meanly adopt another's wild caprice,
Another's weakness, or another's vice.
Each tool to hood-wink'd pride, so poorly great,
That pines in splendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in ambition's chase, would nobly yield,
And but for shame, like Sylla, quit the field:
The daemon
Shame
paints strong the ridicule,
And whispers close "
the world will call you fool.
"
Behold, yon wretch, to impious madness driv'n,
Believes and trembles, while he scoffs at heav'n:
By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone,
He dreads the sneer by shallow coxcombs thrown,
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod,
To man a coward, a bravoe to GOD
Vois-tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,
Qui preche contre un Dieu que dans son ame il croit?
Il iroit embrasser la verité qu'il voit:
Mais de ses faux amis il craint la raillerie,
Et ne brave ainsi Dieu que par poltronnerie.
BOIL. Ep. 3.
.
Truth, justice, heav'n, in vain shall claim their pow'r,
If the heart court fantastick honour more:
Thus virtue sinks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When passions born her friends, revolt, her foes.
Hence SATIRE's pow'r: 'Tis her instructive part,
To calm the wild disorders of the heart:
She points the arduous height where glory lies,
And teaches mad ambition to be wise;
From foul example kindles fair desire,
Draws good from ill, from flint elicits fire;
Like the nice BEE, with art most subtly true
From poys'nous vice extracts a healing dew
Parody on these lines of Mr. POPE:
In the nice
BEE
what art so subtly true
From poys'nous herbs extracts a healing dew.
,
Strips black oppression of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horror rise;
Strikes bloated pride, and lawless rapine dead,
And plants the wreath of fame on virtue's head.
Nor boasts the muse imaginary pow'r,
Tho' oft' she mourn those ills she cannot cure:
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who hate her piercing eye, that eye revere:
Her awful voice the vain and vile obey,
And ev'ry foe to wisdom feels her sway:
Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more grow vain;
Desponding fops resign the clouded cane:
Hush'd at her voice, pert folly's self is still,
And dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Her
hand from vice fair virtues oft hath sprung,
As the skill'd planter raises flow'rs from dung:
Weak are the ties which publick art can find,
To quell the madness of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, securely wrapt in wiles;
And force strong-sinew'd rends th'unequal toils:
The stream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for policy, for pow'r too strong:
Ev'n fair religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the fool, seeks refuge with the wise:
But SATIRE's arrow searches ev'ry breast:
She plays a
ruling
passion on the rest:
Fast binds the slave that earth and heav'n defy'd,
And awes him from the battery of his pride.
When fell corruption, by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n justice prostrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd people's groan,
Bold SATIRE shakes the tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as death, defies the sordid train,
And slaves and sycophants surround in vain.
But with the friends of vice, the foes of SATIRE,
All truth is spleen, all spirit is ill-nature.—
Well may they dread the Muse's fatal skill;
Well may they tremble when she draws her quill:
Her magick quill, that like Ithuriel's spear
Displays the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear;
Bids vice and folly take unborrow'd shapes,
Turns Duchesses to
Not
these
into Duchesses; which is but a modern art.
strumpets, beaux to apes,
Drags the vile whisperer from his dark abode,
Till all the daemon starts up from the toad.
O sordid maxim, form'd to screen the vile,
That true good-nature still must wear a smile!
In frowns involv'd her beauties stronger rise,
When love of virtue wakes her scorn of vice:
Where justice calls, 'tis cruelty to save;
And 'tis the law's good-nature hangs the knave.
Who combats virtue's foe, is virtue's friend;
Then judge of SATIRE's merit by her end:
To guilt alone her vengeance stands confin'd,
The object of her love is all mankind.
They least are pain'd, who merit Satire most:
Folly the Laureat's, vice was Chartres' boast:
And sure 'tis just to gibbet high the name
Of fools and knaves already dead to shame.
Oft' SATIRE acts the faithful surgeon's part;
Generous and kind, tho' painful is her art:
Her optics all the dark disease explore,
Her weapon launces wide the gangreen'd sore;
Deep wounds hypocrisy's fair-seeming skin,
Where death in ulcerous humours lurks within:
With caution bold, she only strikes to heal,
Tho' folly burns to break the friendly steel.
Then sure no guilt impartial SATIRE knows,
Kind, even in vengeance kind to virtue's foes:
Whose is the crime, the scandal too be their's:
The knave and fool are their own libellers.
2.
Dare nobly then:
But conscious of your trust,
As ever warm and bold, be ever just:
Nor court applause in these degenerate days;
The hate of villains is extorted praise.
O'er all be steady in a noble end,
And shew mankind that truth has yet a friend.
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write
(As Foplings laugh to show their teeth are white;)
To lash a doubtful folly with a smile,
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is vile:
'Tis doubly vile, when but to prove your art,
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.
O lost to honour's call, O doom'd to shame,
Thou fiend accurs'd, thou murderer of fame!
Fell ravisher, from innocence to tear
That name, than life, than freedom held more dear:
To breathe contagion o'er the springing flow'r:
Procrustes like, in wantonness of pow'r
To torture truth and virtue till they fit,
And die in pangs upon the rack of wit!
Where shall thy baseness meet it's just return,
Or what repay thy guilt, but endless scorn!
And know, immortal truth shall mock thy toil:
Immortal truth shall bid the shaft recoil;
With rage redoubled, wing the deadly dart;
And steep it's load of poison in thy heart.
Let SATIRE next, her proper limits know;
And e'er she strike,
be sure
she strikes a foe.
Nor fondly deem, you spy a real fool
At each gay impulse of blind
ridicule
;
Before whose altar virtue oft' hath bled,
And oft' a fated victim shall be led:
Lo!
It were to be wished that Lord
Shaftsbury
had expressed himself with greater precision on this subject: However, thus much may be affirmed with truth.
1st, By the general tenour of his Essays on
Enthusiasm,
and the
Freedom of Wit and Humour,
it appears that his principal design was to recommend the
Way of Ridicule
(as he calls it) for the
Investigation
of Truth, and
Detection
of Falshood, not only in
moral
but
religious
subjects.
2dly, It appears no less evident, that in the course of his reasonings on this question, he confounds two things which are in their nature and consequences entirely different. These are,
Ridicule
and
Good-Humour:
the
latter
acknowledged by all to be the best
Mediator
in every debate; the
former
no less regarded by most, as an
Embroiler
and
Incendiary.
Tho' he sets out with a formal profession of proving the efficacy of Wit, Humour, and Ridicule in the investigation of Truth, yet by shifting and mixing his terms, he generally slides insensibly into mere encomiums on Good-Breeding, Chearfulness, Urbanity, and free Enquiry. This indeed keeps something like an argument on foot, and amuses the superficial reader; but to a more observant eye discovers a very contemptible defect either of sincerity or penetration.
The question concerning Ridicule may be thus not improperly stated: Whether
doubtful
Propositions of any kind can be
ascertained
by the application of
Ridicule?
Much might be said on this question; but a few words will make the matter clear to an unprejudiced mind.
The Disapprobation or Contempt which certain objects raise in the mind of man, is a particular mode of Passion: the objects of this passion are
apparent
Falshood, Incongruity, or Impropriety of some particular kinds. Thus, the object of Fear is
apparent
Danger, or probable approaching Ill. But who has ever dreamt of exalting the passion of
Fear
into a
Standard
or
Test
of
real Danger?
The design must have been rejected as absurd, because it is the work of Reason
only,
to correct and fix the passion on its proper objects. The case is parallel:
apparent
or
seeming
Falshoods,
&c.
are the objects of Contempt; but it is the work of Reason
only,
to determine whether the
supposed
Falshoods be
real
or
fictitious.
But it is said,
"The
Sense of Ridicule
can never be mistaken."
—Why, no more can the
Sense of Danger.
—
"What, do men never
fear
without reason?"
—Yes, very commonly; but they as often
despise
and
laugh
without reason. And thus, before any thing can be determined in either case, Reason, and Reason only, must examine Circumstances, separate Ideas, decide upon, restrain, and correct the Passion.
Hence it follows, that the
way of Ridicule
is in fact no more than a
species of Eloquence:
It applies to a Passion, and therefore can go no farther in the investigation of Truth, than any of those arts which tend to raise Love, Pity, Terror, Rage or Hatred in the heart of man. Consequently, his Lordship might have transplanted the
whole System of Rhetorick
into his new scheme, with the same propriety as he hath introduced the
way of Ridicule
itself. A hopeful project this, for the propagation of Truth!
As this seems to be the real nature and tendency of Ridicule, it hath been generally discouraged by
Philosophers
and
Divines,
together with every other mode of eloquence, when apply'd to
controverted Opinions.
This discouragement, from what is said above, appears to have been rational and just; therefore the charge laid against
Divines
with regard to this affair by a zealous admirer of Lord
Shaftsbury
(See a note on the
Pleasures of Imagination,
Book III.) seems entirely groundless. The distinction which the same author hath attempted with respect to the influence of Ridicule, between
speculative
and
moral Truths,
seems no better founded. It is certain that
Opinions
are no less liable to Ridicule than
Actions.
And it is no less certain that the way of Ridicule cannot
determine
the Propriety or Impropriety of the
one,
more than the Truth or Falshood of the
other
; because the same passion of Contempt is equally engaged in both cases, and therefore (as above) Reason
only
can examine the circumstances of the
Action
or
Opinion,
and thus six the Passion on its
proper
Objects.
Upon the whole, this new design of
discovering Truth
by the
vague
and
unsteady Light of Ridicule,
puts one in mind of the honest
Irishman,
who apply'd his
Candle
to the
Sun-Dial
in order to see how the Night went.
Shaftsb'ry rears her high on reason's throne,
And loads the slave with honours not her own:
Big-swoln with folly, as her smiles provoke,
Profaneness spawns, pert dulness drops a joke!
Say, shall we join a while this gaping crew,
And prove at least, the ideot
may
be true,
Deride our weak forefathers' musty rule,
Who
therefore
smil'd,
because
they saw a fool?
Sublimer logick now adorns our isle;
We
therefore
see a fool,
because
we smile:
Truth in her gloomy cave why fondly seek?
Lo! gay she sits in laughter's dimpled cheek:
Contemns each surly academick foe,
And courts the spruce free-thinker and the beau:
Daedalian arguments but few can trace,
But all can screw the muscles of their face:
Hence mighty Ridicule's all-conqu'ring hand
Shall work Herculean wonders thro' the land:
Bound in the magick of her cobweb chain,
Great WARBURTON shall rage, but rage in vain;
Truth's sacred prize the loudest horse-laugh win;
And coxcombs vanquish BERKLEY by a grin.
But you more wise, reject th' inverted rule,
That truth is e'er explor'd by ridicule:
On truth, on falsehood let her colours fall,
She throws a dazzling glare alike on all:
Beware the mad advent'rer: Bold and blind
She hoists her sail, and drives with ev'ry wind,
Deaf as the storm to sinking virtue's groan,
Nor heeds a friend's destruction, or her own.
Let clear-ey'd reason at the helm preside,
Bear to the wind, or stem the furious tide:
Then mirth may urge when reason can explore,
This point the way, that waft us to the shore.
Tho' distant times be sketch'd in SATIRE's page,
Yet chief, 'tis her's to draw the
present age:
With wisdom's lustre, folly's shade contrast,
And judge the reigning manners by the past:
Bid Britain's Heroes (awful shades!) arise,
And ancient honour beam on modern vice:
Point back to minds ingenuous, actions fair,
Till the sons blush at what their fathers were;
E'er yet 'twas beggary the great to trust;
E'er yet 'twas quite a scandal to be just;
When vulgar sharpers only dar'd a lye,
Or falsify'd the card, or cogg'd the dye;
E'er lewdness the stain'd garb of honour wore,
Or chastity was carted for the whore,
Vice strutted in the plumes of freedom dress'd,
Or publick spirit was the publick jest:
E'er yet indignant SATIRE's honest page
Was fir'd to vengeance by an iron age,
The parent and the nurse of ev'ry crime,
The dregs, the drainings of exhausted time.
Be ever in a just expression bold,
Yet ne'er degrade fair SATIRE to a scold:
Let no unworthy rage her form debase,
But let her smile, and let her frown with grace:
In mirth be temperate, decent in her spleen;
Nor, while she preaches modesty, obscene:
Deep let her wound, not rankle to a sore;
Nor call his lordship ----, her grace a -----:
The muse's charms with surest force assail,
When wrapt in Irony's transparent veil:
Her beauties half-conceal'd the more surprize,
And keener lustre sparkles in her eyes.
Then be your line with sharp encomiums grac'd:
Stile Clodius honourable, Bufa chaste:
For memoirs, Ayre the glory of the nation;
Cibber for ode, and Gordon for translation
Of TACITUS.
.
Dart not on Folly an indignant eye:
Who e'er discharg'd artillery on a fly?
Laugh not at vice: absurd the thought and vain,
To bind the tiger in so weak a chain:
Nay more: when flagrant crimes your laughter move,
The knave exults: to smile is to approve.
The muse's labour then success shall crown,
When Folly feels her smile, and Vice her frown.
Know next what measures to each theme belong,
And suit your thoughts and numbers to your song;
On wings proportion'd to your quarry rise,
And stoop to earth, or soar among the skies.
Thus when prevailing folly claims a smile,
Free the expression, humble be the stile:
In strains adapted sing the midnight toil
Of Camps and S---s disciplin'd by Hoyle.
In artless numbers paint th' ambitious P-----r,
That mounts the box, and shines a charioteer,
For glory warm, the leathern belt puts on,
And smacks the whip with art, and rivals John;
Or
him
whose moderate ambition reaches
But to his hip, a connoisseur in breeches,
Proud with his sheers to clip his way to fame,
And grope for glory while he covers shame.
Let SATIRE here in milder beauty shine,
And gayly graceful sport along the line;
Bid awkard folly quit her thin pretence,
And smile each affectation into sense.
Not so when Virtue by her guards betray'd,
Spurn'd from her throne, implores the muse's aid:
When
crimes
which erst in kindred darkness lay,
Rise frontless and insult the eye of day:
When weeping Hymen veils his hallow'd fires,
And white-rob'd Chastity with sighs retires;
And rank Adultery on the marriage bed
Hot from Cocytus rears her crimson head:
When private Faith and publick Trust are sold,
And traitors barter Liberty for gold:
When fell Corruption dark and deep as fate,
Saps the foundation of a tottering state:
When Giant-Vice and Irreligion rise
On mountain'd falsehoods to invade the skies:—
Then warmer numbers glow thro' SATIRE's page,
And all her smiles are darken'd into rage:
On eagle wing she gains Parnassus' height,
Not lofty Epic soars a nobler flight;
The conscious mountain trembles at her nod,
And ev'ry awful gesture speaks the God:
Then keener indignation fires her eye,
Then flash her light'nings, and her thunders fly;
Wide and more wide the flaming bolts are hurl'd,
Till all her wrath involves the guilty world.
Yet SATIRE oft' assumes a gentler mein,
And beams on virtue's friends a smile serene;
Reluctant wounds, but pours her balm with joy,
Pleas'd to commend, where merit strikes her eye.
But tread with caution this enchanted ground,
Inclos'd by faithless precipices round:
Truth be your guide: disdain ambition's call:
And if you fall with Truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis virtue's
native Lustre
that must
shine:
The poet can but
set
it in his line:
And who unmov'd with laughter can behold
A
dirty Pebble
meanly grac'd with gold?
Let real merit then adorn your lays,
For shame attends on prostituted praise:
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art
Can only prove, you want an honest heart.
Nor think the Muse by SATIRE's law confin'd:
She yields description of the noblest kind.
Great
is the toil, the latent soul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace;
By turns bid vice and virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a WOLSEY or SEJANUS rise;
Now with a touch more sacred and refin'd,
Call forth a BRUTUS' or a SCIPIO's mind;
Here sweet or strong may ev'ry colour flow:
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake the swelling figures into life.
3. Thro' ages thus hath SATIRE greatly shin'd,
The friend to truth, to virtue, and mankind:
Yet the fair plant from virtue ne'er had sprung;
And man was guilty e'er the Poet sung.
With joy the Muse beheld each better age,
Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage:
Truth saw her honest spleen with just delight,
And bad her wing her shafts, and urge their flight:
First on the sons of Greece she prov'd her art,
And Sparta felt the fierce IAMBICK Dart
Archilocum proprio rabies armavit Iambo.
HOR.
.
To Latium next, avenging SATIRE flew:
The flaming faulcion bold LUCILIUS
Ense velut stricto quoties Lucilius ardens
Infremuit, rubet auditor cui frigida mens est
Criminibus, tacita sudant praecordia culpa.
JUV. Sat. 1.
drew;
With dauntless warmth in virtue's cause engag'd,
And conscious villains trembled as he rag'd.
Next, playful HORACE
Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico
Tangit, & admissus circum praecordia ludit,
Callidus excusso populum suspendere naso.
PERS. Sat. 1.
caught the generous fire;
For SATIRE's bow resign'd the sounding lyre:
Each arrow polish'd in his hand was seen,
And as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
He cloath'd his art in study'd negligence,
Politely sly, cajol'd the foes of sense;
Seem'd but to sport and trifle with the dart,
But while he sported, stab'd them to the heart.
In graver strains majestick PERSIUS wrote,
Big with a ripe exuberance of thought:
Greatly sedate, contemn'd a tyrant's reign,
And lash'd corruption with a calm disdain:
Yet far from vulgar eyes remov'd his seat;
Vast chains of rocks inclose the green retreat:
Let BOND conduct you thro' the dark profound,
And fair poetick scenes shall open round.
More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage
Devour, in JUVENAL's exalted page:
His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted
Rome,
And swept audacious greatness to it's doom;
As headlong torrents thund'ring from on high,
Rend the proud rock that lately brav'd the sky.
But lo! the fatal victor of mankind,
Swoln
Luxury!
—and
Ruin
stalks behind!
As countless insects from the North-east pour,
To blast the spring, and ravage ev'ry flow'r;
So barb'rous millions spread contagious death,
The sick'ning laurel wither'd at their breath:
Deep Superstition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the poppy sprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But dulness nodded in the Muse's grove;
Wit, spirit, freedom were the sole offence,
Nor aught was held ridiculous but sense.
At length, again fair Science shot her ray,
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day:
Now SATIRE, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Whet, whet thy arrows, and resume thy bow!
See, great ERASMUS breaks the pow'rful spell,
And wounds triumphant folly in her cell!
In vain the solemn cowl surrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her sow'r grimace;
With shame compell'd her giddy throne to quit,
And own the force of reason urg'd by wit.
'Twas then plain DONNE in honest vengeance 'rose,
His wit refulgent, tho' his rhyme were prose:
He 'midst an age of puns and pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.
Yet scarce had SATIRE well relum'd her flame,
(With grief the muse relates her country's shame)
E'er Britain saw the foul revolt commence,
And treacherous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then 'rose a shameless, mercenary crew,
Whom latest time with just contempt shall view:
A race fantastick, in whose page you see
Untutor'd fancy, a meer
Jeu d'Esprit:
Wit's shatter'd mirror lies in fragments bright,
Reflects not nature, but confounds the sight.
Dry morals the court-poet blush'd to sing;
'Twas all his praise to say "
the oddest thing:
"
By quaint conceits and turns of wit surprize,
And puff poetick dust into your eyes.
Perhaps some virtue was his awkward theme,
When the light purse inspir'd a darker dream:
When active hunger urg'd her lawless pow'r,
Or the stern bailiff thunder'd at the door:
But lo! again the
Splendid Shilling
shines,
And the bard grows immoral as he dines;
Proud, for a jest obscene, a patron's nod,
To martyr virtue, or blaspheme his God.
Unhappy DRYDEN! who unmov'd can see,
Th' extremes of wit and meanness joyn'd in thee!
Flames that could mount and gain their kindred skies,
Low-creeping in the putrid sink of vice:
A muse whom truth and wisdom woo'd in vain,
The pimp of pow'r, the prostitute to gain.
Wreaths that shou'd deck fair Virtue's form alone,
To strumpets, traitors, tyrants, vilely thrown:
Unrival'd parts, the scorn of honest fame;
And genius rise, a monument of shame!
More happy France: immortal BOILEAU there
Protected wisdom with a father's care:
Him with her love propitious SATIRE bless'd,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast:
To form his line, perfection's laws conspire,
And faultless judgment guides unbounded fire:
Whether he smiles at folly's fond caprice,
Or pours the thunder of his rage on vice.
But see at length relenting SATIRE smile,
And show'r her choicest boon on BRITAIN's isle:
Behold, for POPE she twines the laurel crown,
And leads the bard triumphant to his throne;
Despairing guilt and dulness loath the sight,
As goblins vanish at approaching light;
The gentle Thames, that pours his urn fast by,
Surveys the structure with revering eye;
To a clear mirror smooths his glassy tide,
Proud to reflect a nation's justest pride.
But oh! what thoughts, what numbers shall I find,
But faintly to express the Poet's mind!
Who yonder star's effulgence can display,
Unless he dip his pencil in the ray?
Who paint a God, unless the God inspire?
What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire?
So, mighty POPE, to make thy genius known,
All pow'r is weak, all numbers—but thy own.
For thee each Muse with kind contention strove,
For thee the Graces left th'Idalian grove;
With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung,
Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue.
Next, to her bard majestick Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the vigorous flame:
With taste superior scorn'd the venal tribe;
Whom fear can sway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At fancy's call who rear the wanton sail,
Sport with the stream, and trifle in the gale;
Sublimer views
thy
daring spirit bound;
Thy
mighty voyage was Creation's round;
Intent, new worlds of science to explore,
And bless mankind with wisdom's sacred store;
A nobler joy than wit can give, impart;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastick wit shoots momentary fires,
And like a meteor, while we gaze, expires;
Wit kindled by the sulph'rous breath of vice,
Like the blue light'ning, while it shines, destroys;
But genius fir'd by truth's eternal ray,
Burns clear and constant, like the source of day;
Like this, it's beam prolifick and refin'd,
Feeds, warms, inspirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly dispells each wintry passion's gloom,
And opens all the virtues into bloom.
This praise, immortal POPE, to thee be giv'n;
Thy genius was indeed a gift from heav'n.
Hail, bard unequal'd, in whose deathless line
Reason and wit with strength collected shine,
Where matchless wit but wins the second praise,
Lost, nobly lost, in Truth's superior blaze.
Did friendship e'er mislead his wandering muse?
O let that friendship plead the
great
excuse;
That sacred friendship which inspir'd his song,
Fair
in defect, and
amiably
wrong.
Ye deathless names, ye sons of endless praise,
By virtue crown'd with never-fading bays!
Say, shall an artless muse, if you inspire,
Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire?
Shou'd she attempt, O may she faultless claim
A small, a temporary wreath of fame?
If such her fate; do thou fair
Truth
descend,
And watchful guard her in an honest end;
Kindly severe, instruct her equal line
To court no friend, nor own a foe, but
thine.
But if her giddy eye shou'd vainly quit
Thy sacred paths, to run the maze of Wit;
If her apostate heart shou'd e'er incline
To offer incense at Corruption's shrine;
Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound,
And dash the smoaking censer to the ground;
Till aw'd to fear, instructed bards may see
That guilt is doom'd to sink in infamy.
FINIS.