The Works of Mr. Alexander Pope

Front matter

THE

WORKS

OF

Preface

PREFACE.

I am inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers of them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations. The first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. Methinks as on the one hand, no single man is born with a right of controuling the opinions of all the rest; so on the other, the world has no title to demand, that the whole care and time of any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertainment. Therefore I cannot but believe that writers and readers are under equal obligations, for as much fame, or pleasure, as each affords the other.

Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection in any work of man: and yet one would think the contrary was taken for granted, by the judgment commonly past upon Poems. A Critic supposes he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expression, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be wonder'd at, if the Poets in general seem resolv'd not to own themselves in any error? For as long as one side despises a well-meant endea­vour, the other will not be satisfy'd with a mode­rate approbation.

I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill-plac'd; Poetry and Criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only the affair of idle men who write in their clo­sets, and of idle men who read there. Yet sure upon the whole, a bad Author deserves better usage than a bad Critic; a man may be the former merely thro' the misfortune of an ill judgment, but he cannot be the latter without both that and an ill temper.

I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad Poets. What we call a Genius, is hard to be distinguish'd by a man himself, from a strong inclination: and if it be never so great, he cannot at first discover it any other way, than by that prevalent propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. The only method he has, is to make the experiment by writing, and appealing to the judgment of others: And if he happens to write ill (which is certainly no sin in itself) he is immediately made an object of ri­dicule. I wish we had the humanity to reflect that even the worst authors might endeavour to please us, and in that endeavour, deserve some­thing at our hands. We have no cause to quarrel with them but for their obstinacy in persisting, and this too may admit of alleviating circumstances. Their particular friends may be either igno­rant, or insincere; and the rest of the world too well bred to shock them with a truth, which ge­nerally their Booksellers are the first that inform them of. This happens not till they have spent too much of their time, to apply to any profession which might better fit their talents; and till such talents as they have are so far discredited, as to be but of small service to them. For (what is the hard­est case imaginable) the reputation of a man ge­nerally depends upon the first steps he makes in the world, and people will establish their opinion of us, from what we do at that season when we have least judgment to direct us.

On the other hand, a good Poet no sooner com­municates his works with the same desire of infor­mation, but it is imagin'd he is a vain young creature given up to the ambition of fame; when perhaps the poor man is all the while trembling with the fear of being ridiculous. If he is made to hope he may please the world, he falls under very unlucky circumstances: for, from the moment he prints, he must expect to hear no more truth, than if he were a Prince, or a Beauty. If he has not very good sense, his living thus in a course of flattery may put him in no small danger of becoming a Coxcomb: If he has, he will conse­quently have so much diffidence, as not to reap any great satisfaction from his praise; since, if it be given to his face, it can scarce be distinguish'd from flattery, and if in his absence, it is hard to be certain of it. Were he sure to be commended by the best and most knowing, he is as sure of be­ing envy'd by the worst and most ignorant; for it is with a fine Genius as with a fine fashion, all those are displeas'd at it who are not able to follow it: And 'tis to be fear'd that esteem will seldom do any man so much good, as ill-will does him harm. Then there is a third class of people who make the largest part of mankind, those of ordinary or indifferent capacities; and these (to a man) will hate, or suspect him: a hundred honest gentle­men will dread him as a wit, and a hundred in­nocent women as a satyrist. In a word, whatever be his fate in Poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed some advantages accruing from a Gen­ius to Poetry, and they are all I can think of: the agreeable power of self-amusement when a man is idle or alone; the privilege of being admitted into the best company; and the freedom of say­ing as many careless things as other people, without being so severely remark'd upon.

I believe, if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the dangerous fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any consideration. The life of a Wit is a warfare upon earth; and the present spirit of the world is such, that to attempt to serve it (any way) one must have the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to suffer for its sake. I confess it was want of considerati­on that made me an author; I writ because it amused me; I corrected because it was as plea­sant to me to correct as to write; and I publish'd because I was told I might please such as it was a credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am really ignorant; I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of them at first, and too much judgment to be pleas'd with them at last. But I have reason to think they can have no reputation which will conti­nue long, or which deserves to do so: for they have always fallen short not only of what I read of others, but even of my own Ideas of Poetry.

If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect, that the Ancients (to say the least of them) had as much Genius as we; and that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to produce more complete pieces. They constantly apply'd themselves not only to that art, but to that single branch of an art, to which their talent was most powerfully bent; and it was the business of their lives to correct and fi­nish their works for posterity. If we can pretend to have used the same industry, let us expect the same immortality: Tho' if we took the same care, we should still lie under a farther misfortune: they writ in languages that became universal and ever­lasting, while ours are extremely limited both in extent, and in duration. A mighty foundation for our pride! when the utmost we can hope, is but to be read in one Island, and to be thrown aside at the end of one Age.

All that is left us is to recommend our produ­ctions by the imitation of the Ancients: and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest cha­racter for sense and learning has been obtain'd by those who have been most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good sense must have been common sense in all times; and what we call Learning, is but the knowledge of the sense of our predecessors. Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own because they resemble the Ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own, because they are like our Fathers: And indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect us to be Scholars, and yet be angry to find us so.

I fairly confess that I have serv'd myself all I could by reading; that I made use of the judgment of authors dead and living; that I o­mitted no means in my power to be inform'd of my errors, both by my friends and enemies; and that I expect not to be excus'd in any negligence on account of youth, want of leisure, or any other idle allegations: But the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing to the considerati­on how short a time they, and I, have to live: One may be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing sense and rhyme together; and what Critic can be so unreasonable, as not to leave a man time enough for any more serious employment, or more agreeable amusement?

The only plea I shall use for the favour of the publick, is, that I have as great a respect for it, as most authors have for themselves; and that I have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing not only many mean things from see- ing the light, but many which I thought tolera­ble. I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts; and it must be this (if any thing) that can give me a chance to be one. For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be par­don'd; but for what I have burn'd, I deserve to be prais'd. On this account the world is under some obligation to me, and owes me the justice in return, to look upon no verses as mine that are not inserted in this collection. And perhaps nothing could make it worth my while to own what are really so, but to avoid the imputation of so many dull and immoral things, as partly by malice, and partly by ignorance, have been ascri­bed to me. I must farther acquit my self of the presumption of having lent my name to recommend any Miscellanies, or works of other men, a thing I never thought becoming a person who has hardly credit enough to answer for his own.

In this office of collecting my pieces, I am al­together uncertain, whether to look upon my self as a man building a monument, or burying the dead?

If time shall make it the former, may these Poems (as long as they last) remain as a testimo­ny, that their Author never made his talents sub­servient to the mean and unworthy ends of Party or self-interest; the gratification of publick pre­judices, or private passions; the flattery of the un­deserving, or the insult of the unfortunate. If I have written well, let it be consider'd that 'tis what no man can do without good sense, a qua­lity that not only renders one capable of being a good writer, but a good man. And if I have made any acquisition in the opinion of any one under the notion of the former, let it be continued to me under no other title than that of the latter.

But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my Remains, I desire it may be known that I die in charity, and in my senses; without any murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to posterity. I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly submit to every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of these writings; not so much as wish­ing so irrational a thing, as that every body should be deceiv'd, meerly for my credit. However, I desire it may then be consider'd, that there are very few things in this collection which were not written under the age of five and twenty; so that my youth may be made (as it never fails to be in Executions) a case of compassion. That I was never so concern'd about my works as to vindicate them in print, be­lieving if any thing was good it would defend it­self, and what was bad could never be defended. That I used no artifice to raise or continue a repu­tation, depreciated no dead author I was obliged to, brib'd no living one with unjust praise, in­sulted no adversary with ill language, or when I could not attack a Rival's works, encourag'd re­ports against his Morals. To conclude, if this vo­lume perish, let it serve as a warning to the Cri­tics, not to take too much pains for the future to destroy such things as will die of themselves; and a Memento mori to some of my vain contemporaries the Poets, to teach them that when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing to have been encourag'd by the great, commended by the eminent, and fa­vour'd by the public in general.

On Mr. Pope and his Poems

On Mr. POPE and his Poems,

By his Grace

JOHN SHEFFIELD Duke of Buckingham.

WITH age decay'd, with Courts and bus'ness tir'd, Caring for nothing but what Ease requir'd; Too dully serious for the Muse's sport, And from the Critics safe arriv'd in Port; I little thought of launching forth agen, Amidst adventrous rovers of the Pen: And after so much undeserv'd Success, Thus hazarding at last to make it less. Encomiums suit not this censorious time, It self a Subject for satyric Rhime; Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd, Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd! But to this Genius, join'd with so much Art, Such various Learning mix'd in ev'ry part, Poets are bound a loud applause to pay; Apollo bids it, and they must obey. And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing, As the great Iliad, scarce should make me sing;

Except I justly could at once commend A good Companion, and as firm a Friend. One moral, or a meer well-natur'd deed, Does all desert in Sciences exceed. 'Tis great Delight to laugh at some men's ways, But a much greater to give Merit praise.

To Mr. Pope

To Mr. POPE,

By the Right Honourable

ANNE Countess of Winchelsea.

THE Muse, of ev'ry heav'nly gift allow'd To be the chief, is publick, tho' not proud. Widely extensive is the Poet's aim, And, in each verse, he draws a bill on fame. For none have writ (whatever they pretend) Singly to raise a Patron or a Friend, But whatsoe'er the theme or object be, Some commendations to themselves foresee. Then let us find, in your foregoing page, The celebrating Poems of the age, Nor by injurious scruples think it fit, To hide their Judgments who applaud your Wit: But let their pens, to yours, the heralds prove, Who drive for you as Greece for Homer strove.

Whilst he who best your Poetry asserts, Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts. Me Panegyrick verse does not inspire, Who never well can praise what I admire, Nor in those lofty tryals dare appear, But gently drop this counsel in your ear. Go on, to gain applauses by desert, Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart: Inflame the Soldier with harmonious rage, Elate the young, and gravely warm the sage: Allure, with tender verse, the Female race, And give their darling passion, courtly grace. Describe the Forest still in rural strains, With vernal sweets fresh-breathing from the plains. Your Tales be easy, natural, and gay, Nor all the Poet in that part display; Nor let the Critic, there his skill unfold, For Boccace thus, and Chaucer tales have told. Sooth, as you only can, each differing taste, And for the future charm as in the past. Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand Before your numbers eminently stand; In you no vanity could thence be shown, Unless, since short in beauty of your own, Some envious scribler might in spight declare, That for comparison you plac'd 'em there. But Envy could not against you succeed, >>> 'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Censure or Praise must from our selves proceed.

To Mr. Pope on his Pastorals

To Mr. POPE on his Pastorals.

By Mr. WYCHERLEY.

IN these more dull, as more censorious days, When few dare give, and fewer merit praise; A Muse sincere, that never flatt'ry knew, Pays what to friendship and desert is due. Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found Art strengthning Nature, Sense improv'd by Sound: Unlike those Wits, whose numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song: Laboriously enervate they appear, And write not to the head, but to the ear: Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull, And are at best most musically dull. So purling streams with even mrumurs creep, And hush the heavy hearers into sleep. As smoothed speech is most deceitful found, >>> The smoothed numbers oft' are empty sound, And leave our lab'ring fancy quite a-ground. But Wit and Judgment join at once in you, Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too: Your strains are regularly bold, and please >>> With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease, With proper thoughts, and lively images: Such as by Nature to the Ancients shown, Fancy improves, and Judgment makes your own:

For great men's fashions to be follow'd are, Altho' disgraceful 'tis their cloaths to wear. Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral, Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall, Like some fair shepherdess, the sylvan Muse, Deck'd in those flow'rs her native fields produce, With modest charms would in plain neatness please, >>> But seems a dowdy in the courtly dress, Whose aukward finery allures us less. But the true measure of the shepherd's wit Should, like his garb, be for the country fit; Yet mud his pure and unaffected thought More nicely then the common swains be wrought: So, with becoming art, the Players dress In silks, the shepherd, and the shepherdess; Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain, Shap'd like the homely russet of the swain. Your rural Muse appears to justify The long-lost graces of Simplicity: So rural beauties captivate our sense With virgin charms, and native excellence. Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd, Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd, For Wits industrious to their trouble seem, And needs will envy, what they must esteem. Live, and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate Which wou'd, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whose Muse did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight, So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies.

To Mr. Pope on his Windsor-Forest

Killala in the County of Mayo in Ireland, June 7. 1715.

TO

Mr. POPE on his Windsor-Forest.

HAIL, sacred Bard! a Muse unknown before Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore. To our dark world thy shining page is shown, And Windsors gay retreat becomes our own. The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care, And India pour'd her gawdy treasures here: A various spoil adorn'd our naked land, >>> The pride of Persia glitter'd on our strand, And Chinas Earth was cast on common sand: Toss'd up and down the glossy fragments lay, And dress'd the rocky shelves, and pav'd the painted bay. Thy treasures next arriv'd: And now we boast A nobler Cargo on our barren coast. From thy luxuriant Forest we receive More lasting glories than the East can give. Where-e'er we dip in thy delightful page, What pompous scenes our busy thoughts engage! The pompous scenes in all their pride appear, Fresh in the page, as in the grove they were. Nor half so true the fair Lodona shows The sylvan state that on her border grows, While she the wondring shepherd entertains With a new Windsor in her watry plains:

Thy juster lays the lucid wave surpass; The living scene is in the Muse's glass. Nor sweeter notes the ecchoing Forests chear, When Philomela sits and warbles there, Than when you sing the greens, and opening glades, And give us Harmony as well as Shades. A Titians hand might draw the grove, but you Can paint the grove, and add the Music too. With vast variety thy pages shine; 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, And give at once the day, at once the night! And here again what sweet confusion reigns, In dreary deserts mix'd with painted plains! And see! the deserts cast a pleasing gloom; And shrubby heaths rejoice in purple bloom: 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 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 rhime, Here on the Western beach attempt to chime! O joyless flood! O rough tempestuous main! Border'd with weeds, and solitudes obscene! 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 shore:

About like quibbles now thy froth is thrown, And all extreams are in a moment shown. Snatch me, ye Gods! from these Atlantic shores, And shelter me in Windsors fragrant Bow'rs; Or to my much-lov'd Isis walks convey, 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 long found his fam'd retreat, And brought the Muses to the sylvan seat, Reform'd the wits, unlock'd the Classic store, And made that Music which was noise before. There with illustrious Bards I spent my days, Nor free from censure, nor unknown to praise; Enjoy'd the blessings that his reign bestow'd, Nor envy'd Windsor in the soft abode. The golden minutes smoothly danc'd away, And tuneful Bards beguil'd the tedious day. They sung, nor sung in vain, with numbers fir'd That Maro taught, or Addison inspir'd. Ev'n I essay'd to touch the trembling string: Who cou'd hear them, and not attempt to sing? Rouz'd from these dreams by thy commanding strain, I rise, and wander thro' the field or plain; Led by thy Muse from sport to sport I run, Mark the stretch'd line, or hear the thund'ring gun. Ah! how I melt with pity, when I spy On the cold earth the fluttering Pheasant lie; His gawdy robes in dazling lines appear, And ev'ry feather shines and varies there. Nor can I pass 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. Oh cou'd thy Virgil from his orb look down, He'd view a courser that might match his own! Fir'd with the sport, and eager for the chace, Lodonas murmurs stop me in the race. Who can refuse Lodonas melting tale? The soft complaint shall over time prevail; The tale be told, when shades forsake her shore, The nymph be sung, when she can flow no more. Nor shall thy song, old Thames! forbear to shine, At once the subject and the song divine. Peace, sung by thee, shall please ev'n Britains more Than all their shouts for Victory before. Oh! cou'd Britannia imitate thy stream, The world should tremble at her awful name. From various springs divided waters glide, In diff'rent colours roll a diff'rent tyde, Murmur along their crooked banks a while, At once they murmur and enrich the Ille; A while distinct thro' many channels run, But meet at last, and sweetly flow in one; There joy to lose their long-distinguish'd names, And make one glorious, and immortal Thames.

>>>Fr. Knapp.

To Mr. Pope, in Imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer

To Mr. POPE,

In imitation of a Greek Epigram on Homer.

When Phœbus, and the nine harmonious maids, Of old assembled in the Thespian shades; What Theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air, Befit these harps to sound, and thee to hear? Reply'd the God; Your loftiest notes employ, To sing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy. The wond'rous song, with rapture they rehearse; Then ask, who wrought that miracle of verse? He answer'd with a frown; I now reveal A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal: Retiring frequent to this Laureat vale, I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite tale, Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek, and blind, Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind; And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise, From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd 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; Fame, I foresee, will make reprizals 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. >>E. Fenton.

To Mr. Pope

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? What Music tune them, what affection fire? O might thy Genius in my bosom shine! 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. Horace himself wou'd own thou dost excell 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 crown'd, She runs for ever thro' Poetic ground. How flame the glories of Belindas Hair, Made by the Muse the envy of the Fair? Less shone the tresses Ægypts Princess wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. Here courtly trifles sets the world at odds; Belles war with Beaus, and Whims descend for Gods. The new Machines, in names of ridicule, Mock the grave frenzy of the Chimick fool. But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart.

The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr-train, Peeps o'er their head, and laughs behind the scene. In Fame's fair Temple o'er the boldest wits, Inshrin'd on high, the sacred Virgil sits, And sits in measures, such as Virgils Muse, To place thee near him, might be fond to chuse. 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, 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 flowrets, old Arcadia hail! 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 Aspins quiver in a breathing breeze! Smile, all ye valleys, in eternal spring, Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing. In English lays, and all sublimely great, Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat; He shines in Council, thunders in the fight, And flames with ev'ry sense of great delight. Long has that Poet reign'd, and long unknown, Like Monarchs sparkling on a distant throne; In all the majesty of Greek retir'd, Himself unknown, his mighty name admir'd; His language failing, wrapt him round with night; Thine, rais'd by thee, recalls the work to light. So wealthy Mines, that ages long before Fed the large realms around with golden Oar,

When choak'd by sinking banks, no more appear, And shepherds only say, The mines were here: Should some rich youth (if nature warm his heart, And all his projects stand inform'd 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! 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 dress'd the days, When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 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, My silent harp its master's hand requires, Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound; For fortune plac'd me in unfertile ground. Far from the joys that with my soul agree, From wit, from learning——very far from thee. Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf; Here half an Acre's corn is half a sheaf; Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, Rocks at their sides, and torrents at their feet; Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood, 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, Shew my own love, tho' not increase his fame. >>T. Parnell.