The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope, complete in two volumes. To which is prefixed the life of the author

Front matter

AXESANBEm F@IPE'0 '/ SKt ■ /Se-r-te/rr-/^, ,./__.S'J„r/; ,„/„,. .. L™ ! 1- Sep! l'H8-Tl.br Tho? Mt Lean.26.Haym__rket . THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE, ESQ. COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES. TO WHICH IS PREFIXED Œ5* iLtfe of tfte autfior* VOL. I. llonium: PUBLISHED BY THOMAS M'LEAN, 26, HAYMARKET. 1821. Hewlett aud Brimmer, P r'ntert, lo, Frith-street, Solio. CONTENTS. Page The Life of Alexander Pope . . . v Pastorals . . . . . . I Messiah ... . . .25 Windsor Forest . . . . .34 Ode on St. Cecilia's Day ... 49 Chorusses ... . . .54 Odes .... . . .58 An Essay on Criticism . . 60 The Rape of the Lock .... 89 Elegy to the Memory of an unfortunate Lady . 123 Prologue to Cato . . . .. .126 Epilogue to Jane Shore . . 128 Sappho to Phaon ... . . 130 Eloisa to Abelard . . . . . 140 The Temple of Fame . . . .154 January and May . . . . . 173 The wife of Bath .... 202 ThebaisofStatius . . . . 218 The Fable of Dryope .... 250 Vertumnus and Pomona . ... 254 Imitations of English Poets . . .

CONTENTS. Page An Essay on Man, Epistle I. ... 271 Epistle II. . . 285 Epistle III. . . 296 Epistle IV. . . 308 The Universal Prayer - . . , . 324 Moral Essays, Epistle I . . . 327 Epistle II. . ■'. 340 Epistle III. . . 351 Epistle IV. . . 367 Epistle V. . . THE LIFE OF ALEXANDER POPE. This highly distinguished poet was born in London, in the year 1688, where his father was a tradesman, and acquired considerable property, with which he retired to a purchase he had made at Binfield, in Windsor Forest. Our poet, being from his infancy of a sickly habit, was educated mostly at home; and his father being a rigid catholic, and attached to the cause of James II., very naturally im parted to his son those principles of religion and politics whfch he retained throughout life. His son began early to read, and he had scarcely perused some of the English poets before he courted the muse, and exhibited such specimens of versification and fancy as are rarely found at his tender age.

His Pasb THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. torals were shown in manuscript to Sir William Turnbull, in the year 1704; and Wycherley, Walsh, and others, were proud to encourage so promising a genius. He soon after began his Windsor Forest, which, it is said, he used to compose under a beech-tree, on which lady Gower carved these words ; ' HERE POPE SANG.' During her life the letters were cut new every three or four years, but they have since been suffered to decay. As his poems became circulated, his ac quaintance was courted by the most distinguished characters of his day ; nor can we be surprised at their admiration of a youth Avho produced the alterations from Chaucer's Wife of Bath, and the Translation of Sappho to Phaon, at the age of fourteen ; the Pastorals, at sixteen ; and the Essay on Criticism, at nineteen.

Part I

Introduction. That it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public, ver. 1. That a true taste is as rare to be found as a true genius, ver. 9 to 18. That most men are born with some taste, but spoiled by false education, ver. 10 to 25. The multitude of critics, and causes of them, ver. 26 to 45. That we are to study our own taste, and know the limits of it, ver. 46 to 67. Nature the best guide of judgment, ver. 68 to 87. Improved by art and rules, which are but methodized nature, ver. 88. Rules derived from the practice of ancient poets, ver. 88 to 110. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a critic, particularly Homer and Virgil, ver. 120 to 138. Of licences, and the use of them by the ancients, ver. 140 to 180. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them, ver. 181, &c. Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill ; But ofthe two, less dangerous is the offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.

Some few in that, but numbers err in this ; Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others who themselves excel, And censure freely who have written well : Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true; But are not critics to their judgment too ? Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find, Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind : Nature affords at least a glimmering light, 21 The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.

But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, Is by ill-colouring but the more disgraced, So by false learning is good sense defaced : Some are bewilder' d in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools. In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence : Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, 30 Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite. All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would be upon the laughing side. If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite, There are who judge still worse than he can write, Some have at first for wits, then poets, pass'd ; Turn'd critics next, and proved plain fools at last. Some neither can for wits nor critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. 39 Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle, As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile ; Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal : To tell them would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.

But you, who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning, go ; Launch not beyond your depth, butbe discreet, 50 And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit : As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid power of understanding fails ; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit ; 60 So vast is art, so narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confined to single parts. Like kings, we lose the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more : Each might his several province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand.

First follow nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same : Unerring nature, still divinely bright, 70 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. Art from that fund each just supply provides ; Works without show, and without pomp presides : In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains ; Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. 79 Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed ; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed: The winged courser, like a generous horse, Shows most true metal when you check his course.

Those rules of old discover'd, not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodized : Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd 90 By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights : High on Parnassus' top her sun she show'd, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples given, She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. The generous critic fann'd the poet's fire, 100 And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved : But following wits from that intention stray'd; Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid ; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, 110 Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.

Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they : Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. You then, whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each ancient's proper character: His fable, subject, scope in every page ; 120 Religion, country, genius of his age: Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homer's works your study and delight, — Read them by day, and meditate by night : Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, And trace the muses upward to their spring: Still with itself compared, his text peruse ; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind A work to outlast immortal Rome design'd, 131 Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law, And but from nature's fountains scorn'd to draw : But when to examine every part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design, And rules as strict his labourd work confine, As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem ; To copy nature, is to copy them. 140 Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, For there 's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry ; in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend (Since rules were made but to promote their end), Some lucky licence answer to the full The intent proposed, that licence is a rule.

VOL. I. F Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 May boldly deviate from the common track ; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. 160 But though the ancients thus their rules invade (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made), Moderns, beware ! or, if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end : Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need ; And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faults. 170 Some figures monstrous and mis-shaped appear, Consider'd singly, or beheld too near, Which, but proportion'd to their light or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His powers in equal ranks, and fair array, But with the occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, Destructive war, and all-involving age. See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring ! Hear, in all tongues consenting Pæans ring !

In praise so just let every voice be join'd, And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! 190 Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! O may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That, on weak wings, from far pursues your flights ; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes), To teach vain wits a science little known, 200 To admire superior sense, and doubt their own! F2

Part II

Causes hindering a true Judgment. 1. Pride, ver. 201. 2. Imperfect learning, ver. 215. 3. Judging by parts, and not by the whole, ver. 233 to 288. Critics in wit, language, versification, only, 288, 305, 339, &c. 4. Being too hard to please, or too apt to admire, ver. 384. 5. Partiality — too much love to a sect, — to the ancients or moderns, ver. 394. 6. Prejudice or prevention, ver. 408. 7. Singularity, ver. 424. 8. Inconstancy, ver. 430. 9. Party spirit, ver. 452, &c. 10. Envy, ver. 466. Against envy, and in praise of good-nature, ver. 508, &c. When severity is chiefly to be used by the critics, ver. 526, &c. Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful pride !

For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind : Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And sills up all the mighty void of sense. 210 If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of every friend — and every foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing! Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 220 While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise!

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ! The eternal snows appear already pass'd, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthen'd way : 230 The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ : Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind ; Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The generous pleasure to be charm'd with wit. But, in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 That, shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep; We cannot blame indeed — but we may sleep.

In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not the exactness of peculiar parts ; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, (The world's j ust wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome !) No single parts unequally surprise, All conies united to the admiring eyes ; 250 No monstrous height, or bread th, or length appear ; The whole at once is bold, and regular. Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend ; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, To avoid great errors, must the less commit; 260 Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles, is a praise.

Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one loved folly sacrifice. Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encountering on the way, Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis, ofthe Grecian stage; 270 Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produced his play, and begg'd the knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, The manners, passions, unities ; what not ? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight. 'Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.' — 280 ' Not so, by heaven !

(he answers in a rage) 'Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' — ' So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.' — ' Then build a new, or act it on a plain.' Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice, Form short ideas ; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts. Some to conceit alone their taste confine, 289 And glittering thoughts struck out at every line ; Pleased with a work where nothing 's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd ; Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind.

As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit : For works may have more wit than does them good, As bodies perish through excess of blood. Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress : Their praise is still,— the style is excellent; The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. 310 False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on every place ; The face of nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay : But true expression, like the unchanging sun, Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon ; It gilds all objects, but it alters none. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable : A vile conceit in pompous words express'd, 320 Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd : For different styles with different subjects sort, As several garbs, with country, town, and court.

Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancient in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze the unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungosa in the play, These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 330 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires in their doublets dress'd. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold ; Alike fantastic, if too new or old : Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song ; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong : In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 340 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there.

These, equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 349 Where'er you find ' the cooling western breeze,' In the next line it ' whispers through the trees :' If crystal streams ' with pleasing murmurs creep,' The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with ' sleep :' Then at the last and only couplet, fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What 's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learnt to dance, 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense: Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbersflows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labours, and the words move slow : Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparklingfury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,380 And the world's victor stood subdued by sound!

The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such Who still are pleased too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense ; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; 390 For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify. Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The ancients only, or the moderns prize : Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes ; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last ; Though each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days.

Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true. Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town ; They reason aud conclude by precedent, 410 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality; A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney 'd sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, 420 How the wit brightens ! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought! The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learn'd by being singular ; So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throne By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damn'd for having too much wit. 429 Some praise at morning what they blame at night, But always think the last opinion right.

A muse by these is like a mistress used, This hour she 's idolized, the next abused; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. Ask them the cause ; they're wiser still, they say; And still to-morrow 's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread ; Who knew most sentences was deepest read : Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted : Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit ; And authors think their reputation safe, 4-50 Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.

Some, valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux: But sense survived, when merry jests were past; For rising merit will buoy up at last. 461 Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbournsmust arise: Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would startup from the dead. Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue; But, like a shadow, proves the substance true : For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known The opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too powerful beams displays, It draws up vapours which obscure its rays ; 471 But e'en those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas! of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When patriarch-wits survived a thousand years : Now length of fame (our second life) is lost, 480 And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. .So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright idea ofthe master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live; 491 The treacherous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away !

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings; In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-lived vanity is lost ; Like some fair flower the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but e'en in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; 501 Then most our trouble still when most admired, And still the more we give, the more required : Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun ; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone ! If wit so much from ignorance undergo, Ah, let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards, who could excel, 510 And such were praised who butendeavour'd well; Though triumphs were to generals only due, Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.

Now they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill author is as bad a friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways,520 Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join ; To err, is human; to forgive, divine. But if in noble minds some dregs remain, Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain ; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, 530 Though wit and art conspire to move your mind ; But dulness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love.