Si quid
novisti rectius istis,
Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum.
[If you have come to know any precept more correct than these, share it with
me, brilliant one; if not, use these with me.]
Horace, Epistle I.6.67
'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skillAppear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' 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.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n 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 glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false learning is good sense defac'd;
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,
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 prov'd plain fools at last;
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous 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 'em, 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 your self and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
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 pow'r of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's soft figures melt away.
One science only will one genius fit;
So vast is art, so narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in those, confin'd to single parts.
Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before,
By vain ambition still to make them more;
Each might his sev'ral 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,
One clear, unchang'd, 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 th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n 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 gen'rous horse,
Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd;
Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd
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 sons she show'd,
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd;
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 doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
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 ev'ry page;
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 compar'd, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
When first young Maro in his boundless mind
A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design,
And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy nature is to copy them.
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 answers to the full
Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;
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.
But tho' 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, ev'n in them, seem faults.
Some figures monstrous and misshap'd 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 pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array,
But with th' 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.
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 ev'ry voice be join'd,
And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind!
Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of universal praise!
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!
Oh 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,
T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!
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 fills up all the
mighty void of sense!
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 ev'ry
friend—and ev'ry foe.
A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not
the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts
intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely
sobers us again.
Fir'd at first sight
with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless youth we
tempt the heights of arts,
While from the bounded
level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor
see the lengths behind,
But more advanc'd,
behold with strange surprise
New, distant scenes of
endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first, the
tow'ring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales,
and seem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal snows appear
already past,
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,
Th' increasing prospect
tires our wand'ring 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 gen'rous pleasure to
be charm'd with wit.
But in such lays as
neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and
regularly low,
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 th' 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 just
wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!'
No single parts
unequally surprise;
All comes united to th'
admiring eyes;
No monstrous height, or
breadth, 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 ev'ry 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,
T' avoid great errors,
must the less commit:
Neglect the rules each
verbal critic lays,
For not to know such
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 lov'd
folly sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say,
A certain bard
encount'ring on the way,
Discours'd in terms as
just, with looks as sage,
As e'er could Dennis of
the Grecian stage;
Concluding all were
desp'rate sots and fools,
Who durst depart from
Aristotle's rules.
Our author, happy in a
judge so nice,
Produc'd 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 Stagirite."
"Not so by
Heav'n" (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 in 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,
And glitt'ring thoughts
struck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd 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 ev'ry 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
convinc'd 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 'em 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.
False eloquence, like
the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colours
spreads on ev'ry place;
The face of Nature we no
more survey,
All glares alike,
without distinction gay:
But true expression,
like th' 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,
Is like a clown in regal
purple dress'd:
For diff'rent styles
with diff'rent subjects sort,
As several garbs with
country, town, and court.
Some by old words to
fame have made pretence,
Ancients in phrase, mere
moderns in their sense;
Such labour'd nothings,
in so strange a style,
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and
make the learned smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in
the play,
These sparks with awkward
vanity display
What the fine gentleman
wore yesterday!
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,
Not 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,
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,
Tho' 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.
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,
Where Denham's strength,
and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing
comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest
who have learn'd 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 numbers flows;
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,
The line too labours,
and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift
Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' 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
sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and
tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like
turns of nature found,
And the world's victor
stood subdu'd by sound!
The pow'r of music all
our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was,
is Dryden now.
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleas'd
too little or too much.
At ev'ry 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,
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,
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 and conclude
by precedent,
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 woeful stuff this
madrigal would be,
In some starv'd hackney sonneteer,
or me?
But let a Lord once own
the happy lines,
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 throng
By chance go right, they
purposely go wrong:
So Schismatics the plain
believers quit,
And are but damn'd for
having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night;
But always think the
last opinion right.
A Muse by these is like
a mistress us'd,
This hour she's
idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
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 tomorrow's
wiser than today.
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
Which lives as long as
fools are pleased 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, Beaus;
But sense surviv'd, when
merry jests were past;
For rising merit will
buoy up at last.
Might he return, and
bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new
Milbourns must arise;
Nay should great Homer
lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start
up from the dead.
Envy will merit, as its
shade, pursue,
But like a shadow,
proves the substance true;
For envied wit, like Sol
eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing body's
grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too
powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapours
which obscure its rays;
But ev'n 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
'em live betimes.
No longer now that
golden age appears,
When patriarch wits
surviv'd a thousand years:
Now length of Fame (our
second life) is lost,
And bare threescore is
all ev'n 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 of the
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,
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-liv'd
vanity is lost:
Like some fair flow'r
the early spring supplies,
That gaily blooms, but
ev'n in blooming dies.
What is this wit, which
must our cares employ?
The owner's wife, that
other men enjoy;
Then most our trouble
still when most admir'd,
And still the more we
give, the more requir'd;
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 ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not learning too
commence its foe!
Of old, those met
rewards who could excel,
And such were prais'd
who but endeavour'd well:
Though triumphs were to
gen'rals only due,
Crowns were reserv'd 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,
Are mortals urg'd
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 purg'd 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,
Though wit and art
conspire to move your mind;
But dulness with
obscenity must prove
As shameful sure as
impotence in love.
In the fat age of pleasure,
wealth, and ease,
Sprung the rank weed,
and thriv'd with large increase:
When love was all an
easy monarch's care;
Seldom at council, never
in a war:
Jilts ruled the state,
and statesmen farces writ;
Nay wits had pensions,
and young Lords had wit:
The fair sat panting at
a courtier's play,
And not a mask went
unimprov'd away:
The modest fan was
lifted up no more,
And virgins smil'd at
what they blush'd before.
The following licence of
a foreign reign
Did all the dregs of
bold Socinus drain;
Then unbelieving priests
reform'd the nation,
And taught more pleasant
methods of salvation;
Where Heav'n's free
subjects might their rights dispute,
Lest God himself should
seem too absolute:
Pulpits their sacred
satire learned to spare,
And Vice admired to find
a flatt'rer there!
Encourag'd thus, wit's
Titans brav'd the skies,
And the press groan'd
with licenc'd blasphemies.
These monsters, critics!
with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder,
and exhaust your rage!
Yet shun their fault,
who, scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an
author into vice;
All seems infected that
th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to
the jaundic'd eye.
Learn then what morals
critics ought to show,
For 'tis but half a
judge's task, to know.
'Tis not enough, taste,
judgment, learning, join;
In all you speak, let
truth and candour shine:
That not alone what to
your sense is due,
All may allow; but seek
your friendship too.
Be silent always when
you doubt your sense;
And speak, though sure,
with seeming diffidence:
Some positive,
persisting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will
needs be always so;
But you, with pleasure
own your errors past,
And make each day a
critic on the last.
'Tis not enough, your
counsel still be true;
Blunt truths more
mischief than nice falsehoods do;
Men must be taught as if
you taught them not;
And things unknown
proposed as things forgot.
Without good breeding,
truth is disapprov'd;
That only makes superior
sense belov'd.
Be niggards of advice on
no pretence;
For the worst avarice is
that of sense.
With mean complacence
ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be so civil as to
prove unjust.
Fear not the anger of
the wise to raise;
Those best can bear
reproof, who merit praise.
'Twere well might
critics still this freedom take,
But Appius reddens at
each word you speak,
And stares, Tremendous ! with a threatening eye,
Like some fierce tyrant
in old tapestry!
Fear most to tax an
honourable fool,
Whose right it is,
uncensur'd, to be dull;
Such, without wit, are
poets when they please,
As without learning they
can take degrees.
Leave dangerous truths
to unsuccessful satires,
And flattery to fulsome
dedicators,
Whom, when they praise,
the world believes no more,
Than when they promise
to give scribbling o'er.
'Tis best sometimes your
censure to restrain,
And charitably let the
dull be vain:
Your silence there is
better than your spite,
For who can rail so long
as they can write?
Still humming on, their
drowsy course they keep,
And lash'd so long, like
tops, are lash'd asleep.
False steps but help them
to renew the race,
As after stumbling,
jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of these,
impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling
syllables grown old,
Still run on poets, in a
raging vein,
Even to the dregs and
squeezings of the brain,
Strain out the last,
dull droppings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the
rage of impotence!
Such shameless bards we
have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad,
abandon'd critics too.
The bookful blockhead,
ignorantly read,
With loads of learned
lumber in his head,
With his own tongue
still edifies his ears,
And always list'ning to
himself appears.
All books he reads, and
all he reads assails,
From Dryden's Fables
down to Durfey's Tales.
With him, most authors
steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his
own Dispensary .
Name a new play, and
he's the poet's friend,
Nay show'd his
faults—but when would poets mend?
No place so sacred from
such fops is barr'd,
Nor is Paul's church
more safe than Paul's churchyard:
Nay, fly to altars;
there they'll talk you dead:
For fools rush in where
angels fear to tread.
Distrustful sense with
modest caution speaks;
It still looks home, and
short excursions makes;
But rattling nonsense in
full volleys breaks;
And never shock'd, and
never turn'd aside,
Bursts out, resistless,
with a thund'ring tide.
But where's the man, who
counsel can bestow,
Still pleas'd to teach,
and yet not proud to know?
Unbias'd, or by favour
or by spite;
Not dully prepossess'd,
nor blindly right;
Though learn'd,
well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere;
Modestly bold, and
humanly severe?
Who to a friend his
faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the
merit of a foe?
Blest with a taste
exact, yet unconfin'd;
A knowledge both of
books and human kind;
Gen'rous converse; a
soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with
reason on his side?
Such once were critics;
such the happy few,
Athens and Rome in
better ages knew.
The mighty Stagirite
first left the shore,
Spread all his sails,
and durst the deeps explore:
He steer'd securely, and
discover'd far,
Led by the light of the
Mæonian Star.
Poets, a race long
unconfin'd and free,
Still fond and proud of
savage liberty,
Receiv'd his laws; and
stood convinc'd 'twas fit,
Who conquer'd nature,
should preside o'er wit.
Horace still charms with
graceful negligence,
And without methods
talks us into sense,
Will, like a friend,
familiarly convey
The truest notions in
the easiest way.
He, who supreme in
judgment, as in wit,
Might boldly censure, as
he boldly writ,
Yet judg'd with
coolness, though he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but
what his works inspire.
Our critics take a
contrary extreme,
They judge with fury,
but they write with fle'me:
Nor suffers Horace more
in wrong translations
By wits, than critics in
as wrong quotations.
See Dionysius Homer's
thoughts refine,
And call new beauties
forth from ev'ry line!
Fancy and art in gay
Petronius please,
The scholar's learning,
with the courtier's ease.
In grave Quintilian's
copious work we find
The justest rules, and
clearest method join'd;
Thus useful arms in magazines
we place,
All rang'd in order, and
dispos'd with grace,
But less to please the
eye, than arm the hand,
Still fit for use, and
ready at command.
Thee, bold Longinus! all
the Nine inspire,
And bless their critic
with a poet's fire.
An ardent judge, who
zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives
sentence, yet is always just;
Whose own example
strengthens all his laws;
And is himself that
great sublime he draws.
Thus long succeeding
critics justly reign'd,
Licence repress'd, and
useful laws ordain'd;
Learning and Rome alike
in empire grew,
And arts still follow'd
where her eagles flew;
From the same foes, at
last, both felt their doom,
And the same age saw
learning fall, and Rome.
With tyranny, then
superstition join'd,
As that the body, this
enslav'd the mind;
Much was believ'd, but
little understood,
And to be dull was
constru'd to be good;
A second deluge learning
thus o'er-run,
And the monks finish'd
what the Goths begun.
At length Erasmus, that
great, injur'd name,
(The glory of the
priesthood, and the shame!)
Stemm'd the wild torrent
of a barb'rous age,
And drove those holy
Vandals off the stage.
But see! each Muse, in
Leo's golden days,
Starts from her trance,
and trims her wither'd bays!
Rome's ancient genius,
o'er its ruins spread,
Shakes off the dust, and
rears his rev'rend head!
Then sculpture and her
sister-arts revive;
Stones leap'd to form,
and rocks began to live;
With sweeter notes each
rising temple rung;
A Raphael painted, and a
Vida sung.
Immortal Vida! on whose
honour'd brow
The poet's bays and
critic's ivy grow:
Cremona now shall ever
boast thy name,
As next in place to
Mantua, next in fame!
But soon by impious arms
from Latium chas'd,
Their ancient bounds the
banished Muses pass'd;
Thence arts o'er all the
northern world advance;
But critic-learning
flourish'd most in France.
The rules a nation born
to serve, obeys,
And Boileau still in
right of Horace sways.
But we, brave Britons,
foreign laws despis'd,
And kept unconquer'd,
and uncivilis'd,
Fierce for the liberties
of wit, and bold,
We still defied the
Romans, as of old.
Yet some there were,
among the sounder few
Of those who less
presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the
juster ancient cause,
And here restor'd wit's
fundamental laws.
Such was the Muse, whose
rules and practice tell
"Nature's chief
master-piece is writing well."
Such was Roscommon—not
more learn'd than good,
With manners gen'rous as
his noble blood;
To him the wit of Greece
and Rome was known,
And ev'ry author's
merit, but his own.
Such late was Walsh—the
Muse's judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame
or to commend;
To failings mild, but
zealous for desert;
The clearest head, and
the sincerest heart.
This humble praise,
lamented shade! receive,
This praise at least a
grateful Muse may give:
The Muse, whose early
voice you taught to sing,
Prescrib'd her heights,
and prun'd her tender wing,
(Her guide now lost) no
more attempts to rise,
But in low numbers short
excursions tries:
Content, if hence th'
unlearn'd their wants may view,
The learn'd reflect on what
before they knew:
Careless of censure, nor
too fond of fame,
Still pleas'd to praise,
yet not afraid to blame,
Averse alike to flatter,
or offend,
Not free from faults,
nor yet too vain to mend.
*Poetry Foundation
