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TO MR. POPE,

BY MISS JUD. COWPEN, AFTERWARDS MES. MADÁN.

O POPE by what commanding wondrous art
Doft thou each paffion to each breast impart?
Our beating hearts with sprightly measures move,
Or melt us with a tale of hapless love!
Th' elated mind's impetuous ftarts control,
Or gently footh to peace the troubled foul!
Graces till now that fingly met our view,
And fingly charm'd, unite at once in you:
A ftyle polite, from affectation free,
Virgil's correctnefs, Homer's majesty!
Soft Waller's ease, with Milton's vigour wrought,
And Spenfer's bold luxuriancy of thought.
In each bright page, ftrength, beauty, genius fhine,
While nervous judgment guides each flowing line.
No borrow'd tinfel glitters o'er thefe lays,
And to the mind a falfe delight conveys:
Throughout the whole with blended power is found,
The weight of fenfe, and elegance of found:
A lavish fancy, wit, and force, and fire,
Graces each motion of th' immortal lyre.
The matchlefs ftrains our ravifh'd fenfes charm:
How great the thought! the images how warm!
How beautifully juft the turns appear!
The language how majestically clear!
With energy divine each period fwells,
And all the bard th' infpiring God reveals.

Loft in delights, my dazzled eyes I turn,

Where Thames leans hoary o'er his ample urn; Where his rich waves fair Windfor's towers fur

round,

And bounteous rufh amid poetic ground.
O Windfor! facred to thy blissful feats,
Thy fylvan shades, the mufes' lov'd retreats;
Thy rifing hills, low vales, and waving woods,
Thy funny glades, and celebrated floods!
But chief Lodona's filver tides, that flow
Cold and unfullied as the mountain fnow;
Whose virgin name no time nor change can hide,
Though ev'n her spotlefs waves should cease to
glide:

In mighty Pope's immortalizing strains,
Still fhall fhe grace and range the verdant plains;
By him selected for the mufes' theme, [ftream.
Still fhine a blooming maid, and roll a limpid
Go on, and, with thy rare refiftless art,
Rule each emotion of the various heart;
The spring and test of verse unrival'd reign,
And the full honours of thy youth maintain;
Soothe, with thy wonted eafe and power divine,
Our fouls, and our degenerate taftes refine;
In judgment o'er our favourite follies fit,
And foíten Wisdom's harfh reproofs to wit.

Now war and arms thy mighty aid demand,
And Homer wakes beneath thy powerful hand;
His vigour, genuine heat, and manly force,
In thee rife worthy of their facred fource;
His fpirit heighten'd, yet his fenfe entire,
As gold runs purer from the trying fire.
O, for a mufe like thine, while I rehearse
Th' inmortal beauties of thy various verfe!

Now light as air th' enlivening numbers move,
Soft as the downy plumes of fabled love,
Gay as the freaks that ftain the gaudy bow,
Smooth as Meander's crystal mirrors flow.

But, when Achilles, panting for the war,
Joins the fleet courfers to the whirling car;
When the warm hero, with celeftial might,
Augments the terror of the raging fight,
From his fierce eyes refulgent lightnings ftream
(As Sol emerging darts a golden gleam);
In rough hoarfe verfe we fee th' embattled foes;
In each loud ftrain the fiery onfet glows;
With strength redoubled here Achilles fhines,
And all the battle thunders in thy lines.

So the bright magic of the painter's hand Can cities, ftreams, tall towers, and far-ftretch'd plains, command;

Here fpreading woods embrown the beauteous fcene,

Therethe wide landscape smiles with livelier green;
The floating glafs reflects the diftant sky,
And o'er the whole the glancing fun-beams fly;
Buds open, and disclose the inmost shade;
The ripen'd harveft crowns the level glade.
But when the artist does a work defign,
Where bolder rage informs each breathing line;
When the stretch'd cloth a rougher stroke receives,
And Cæfar awful in the canvas lives;
When art like lavish nature's felf fupplies,
Grace to the limbs, and fpirit to the eyes;

When ev'n the paflions of the mind are seen,

And the foul fpeaks in the exalted mien ;
When all is juft, and regular, and great,

We own the mighty Master's fkill, as boundless as complete.

LORD MIDDLESEX TO MR. POPE,

On reading Mr. Addifon's Account of the Englifo Poets.

Ir all who e'er invok'd the tuneful Nine,
In Addifon's majestic numbers fhine,
Why then should Pope, ye bards, ye critics, tell,
Remain unfung, who fings himself fo well?
Hear then, great bard, who can alike inspire
With Waller's foftnefs, or with Milton's fire;
Whilft I, the meanest of the mufes throng,
To thy juft prailes tune th' adventurous fong.

How am I fill'd with rapture and delight,
When gods and mortals, mix'd, fuftain the fight!
Like Milton then, though in more polifh'd strains,
Thy chariots rattle o'er the smoking plains.
What though archangel 'gainst archangel arms,
And highest Heaven refounds with dire alarms!
Doth not the reader with like dread furvey
The wounded gods repuls'd with foul difmay?

But when fome fair one guides your fofter verfe, Her charms, her godlike features, to rehearse; See how her eyes with quicker lightnings arm, And Waller's thoughts in smoother numbers charm! When fools provoke, and dunces urge thy rage, Flecknoe improv'd bites keener in each page. Give o'er, great bard, your fruitless toil give o'er, For ftill king Tibbald fcribbles as before;

Poor Shakspeare suffers by his pen each day,
While Grub-street alleys own his lawful fway.
Now turn, my mufe, thy quick, poetic eyes,
And view gay fcenes and opening profpects rife.
Hark how his ruftic numbers charm around,
While groves to groves, and hills to hills refound!
The liftening beasts stand fearless as he fings,
And birds attentive close their useless wings.
The fwains and fatyrs trip it o'er the plain,
And think old Spenfer is reviv'd again.
But when once more the godlike man begun
In words fmooth flowing from his tuneful tongue,
Ravish'd they gaze, and struck with wonder fay,
Sure Spenfer's felf ne'er sung so sweet a lay:
Sure once again Eliza glads the isle,
That the kind mufes thus propitious fmile-
Why gaze ye thus? Why all this wonder, fwains?
'Tis Pope that fings, and Carolina reigns.

But hold, my mufe! whofe awkward verfe betrays
Thy want of skill, nor fhews the poet's praife;
Ceafe then, and leave fome fitter bard to tell
How Pope in every ftrain can write, in every
ftrain excel.

TO MR. POPE,

ON THE PUBLISHING HIS WORKS.

He comes, he comes! bid every bard prepare
The fong of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's mufe the long proceffion heads,
And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads;
First gives the palm fhe fir'd him to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form'd for all the miracles be wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a God.

But hark! what fhouts, what gathering crowds
rejoice!

Unftain'd their praife by any venial voice,
Such as th' ambitious vainly think their due,
When prostitutes, or needy flatterers fue.
And fee the chief! before him laurels borne ;
Trophies from undeferving temples torn :
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves; and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with despair,
Prone to the earth fhe bends her lothing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd feem,
As he that met his likeness in the ftream:
The Graces thefe; and fee how they contend,
Who moft fhall praife, who beft fhall recommend.
The chariot now the painful feep afcends,
The Paans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal temple ftands,
Its profpect an unbounded view commands:
Say, wondrous youth, what column wilt thou
choofe,

What laurel'd arch for thy triumphant mufe? Though cach great ancient court thee to his fhrine,

(From the proud epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the foft Lefbian maid) Go to the good and just, an awful train, Thy foul's delight, and glory of the fane : While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies,

"Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.” SIMON HARCOURT.

TO MR. POPE,

BY MR. HARTE.

To move the fprings of nature as we please;
To think with fpirit, but to write with ease;
With living words to warm the confcious heart,
Or please the foul with nicer charms of art;
For this the Grecian foar'd in epic ftrains,
And fofter Maro left the Mantuan plains:
Melodious Spenser felt the lover's fire,
And awful Milton ftrung his heavenly lyre.

'Tis yours, like thefe, with curious toil to trace
The powers of language, harmony, and grace;
How Nature's felf with living luftre shines,
How judgment ftrengthens, and how art refines;
How to grow bold with conscious fenfe of fame,
And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;
To charm us more through negligence than pains,
And give ev'n life and action to the strains:
Led by fome law, whofe powerful impulfe guides
Each happy ftroke, and in the foul prefides;
Some fairer image of perfection given

T' infpire mankind, itfelf deriv'd from heaven.
O ever worthy, ever crown'd with praife,
Bleft in thy life, and bleft in all thy lays!
Add that the Sisters every thought refine,
Or ev❜n thy life be faultiefs as thy line;
Yet Envy ftill with fiercer rage pursues,
Obfcures the virtue, and defames the mufe.
A foul like thine, in pains, in grief refign'd,
Views with vain fcorn the malice of mankind:
Not critics, but their planets, prove unjust;
And are they blam'd who fin becaufe they muft?
Yet fare not fo muft all perufe thy lays:

I cannot rival-and yet dare to praife.
A thousand charms at once my thoughts engage;
Sappho's foft fweetnefs, Pindar's warmer rage,
Statius' free vigour, Virgil's ftudious care,
And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.

So feems fome picture, where exact design, And curiouspains, and ftrength, and sweetness join; Where the free thought its pleafing grace bestows, And each warm ftroke with living colour glows; Soft without weakness, without labour fair, Wrought up at once with happiness and care!

How bleft the man that from the world removes, To joys that Merdaunt, or his Pope, approves ; Whole tafte exact each author can explore, And live the prefent and paft ages o'er; Who, free from pride, from penitence, or ftrife, Moves calmly forward to the verge of life :

Such be my days, and such my fortunes be,
To live by reafon, and to write by thee!

Nor deem this verse, though humble, a disgrace:
All are not born the glory of their race:
Yet all are born t' adore the great man's name,
And trace his footsteps in the paths to fame.
The mufe, who now this early homage pays,
First learn'd from thee to animate her lays:
A mufe as yet unhonour'd, but unstain'd,
Who prais'd no vices, no preferment gain'd;
Unbials'd or to cenfure or commend,

Who knows no envy, and who grieves no friend; Perhaps too fond to make those virtues known, And fix her fame immortal on thy own.

THE TRIUMVIRATE OF POETS,

BY MRS. TOLLET.

BRITAIN with Greece and Rome contended long
For lofty genius and poetic fong,

Till this Auguftan age with Three was bleft,
To fix the prize, and finish the contest.
In Addison, immortal Virgil reigns;
So pure his numbers, fo refin'd his strains :
Of nature full, with more impetuous heat,
In Prior Horace shines, fublimely great.
Thy country, Homer! we difpute no more,
For Pope has fix'd it to his native shore.
A iiij

PREFACE.

I AM inclined to think, that both the writers of I think a good deal may be faid to extenuate books and the readers of them, are generally not a the fault of bad Poets. What we call a Genius, little unreasonable in their expectations. The firft is hard to be distinguished, by a man himself, from feem to fancy that the world muft approve of a ftrong inclination: and if his genius be ever fo whatever they produce, and the latter to imagine great, he cannot at first discover it any other way, that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. than by giving way to that prevalent propensity Methinks, as, on the one hand, n fingle man is which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. born with a right of controuling the opinions of The only method he has, is to make the experiment all the reft; fo, on the other, the world has no by writing, and appealing to the judgment of title to demand, that the whole care and time of others: now, if he happens to write ill (which is any particular person should be facrificed to its certainly no fin in itself, he is immediately made entertainnient. Therefore, I cannot but believe an object of ridicule I wish we had the humathat writers and readers are under equal obliga-nity to reflect, that even the worst authors might, tions, 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 paffed upon poems. A critic fuppofes he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an expreffion, or erred in any particular point and can it then be wondered at, if the Poets, in general, feem refolved not to own themselves in any error? For, as long as one fide will make no allowances, the other will be brought to no acknowledgments*.

in their endeavour to please us, deserve something at our hands. We have no caufe to quarrel with them but for their obftinacy in perfifting to write; and this too may admit of alleviating circumftances. Their particular friends may be either ignorant or infincere; and the reft of the world in general is too well-bred to fhock them with a truth, which generally their bookfellers are the first that inform them of. This happens not till they have spent too much of their time, to apply to any profeffion which might better fit their ta lents; and till fuch talents as they have are fo far difcredited as to be but of small fervice to them. For (what is the hardest cafe imaginable) the reI am afraid this extreme zeal on both fides is ill-putation of a man generally depends upon the first placed; Poetry and Criticism being by no means the univerfal concern of the world, but only the affair of idle men who write in their clofets, and of idle men who read there.

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fteps he makes in the world; and people will establish their opinion of us, from what we do at that feason, when we have least judgment to direct us

On the other hand, a good poet no fooner communicates his works with the fame defire of information, but it is imagined 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 muft expect to hear no more truth, than if he were a prince, or a beauty. If he has not very good fenfe (and indeed there are twenty men of wit for one man of fenfe), his living thus in a course of flattery may put him in

has, he will confequently have fo much diffidence as not to reap any great fatisfaction from his praife; fince, if it be given to his face, it can fcarce be diftinguished from flattery, and if in his abfence, it is hard to be certain of it. Were he fure to be commended by the best and most know ing, he is as fure of being envied by the worft and moft ignorant, which are the majority; for it is with a fine genius, as with a fine fashion, all those are displeased at it who are not able to follow it: and it is to be feared that efteem will feldom do any man fo much good, as ill-will does him harm. Then there is a third clafs of people who make the largest part of mankind, thofe of ordinary or indifferent capacities; and thefe (to a man) will hate or fufpect him : a hundred honeft gentlemen will dread him as a wit, and a hundred innocent women as a fatirift. In a word, whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he muft give up all the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed fome 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 faying as many careless things as other people, without being fo feverely remarked upon.

I believe, if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the dangerous fate of authors, he would fcarce be of their number on any confideration. The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth; and the present fpirit of the learned world is fuch, that to attempt to ferve it (any way) one muft have the conftancy of a martyr, and a resolution to fuffer for its fake. I could with people would be. lieve, what I am pretty certain they will not, that I have been much lefs concerned about fame than I durft declare till this occafion, when methinks I fhould find more credit than I could heretofore, fince my writings have had their fate already, and it is too late to think of prepoffeffing the reader in their favour. I would plead it as fome merit in me, that the world has never been prepared for thefe trifles by prefaces, biaffed by recommendations, dazzled with the names of great patrons, wheedled with fine reafons and pretences, or troubled with excufes. I confefs it was want of confideration 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 published 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 pleafed with them at last But I have reafon to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or which deferves to do fo; for they have always fallen fhort not only of what I read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry.

If any one fhould imagine I am not in earnest, I defire him to reflect, that the Ancients (to say the leaf 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 con

ftantly applied themselves not only to that art, daë to that fingle branch of an art, to which their ta lent was most powerfully bent; and it was the bufinefs of their lives to correct and finish their works for posterity. If we can pretend to have used the fame industry, let us expect the fame im mortality: Though, if we took the fame care, we should still lie under a further 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 utmoft we can hope is but to be read in one ifland, and to be thrown afide at the end of one age.

All that is left us is to recommend our produc tions by the imitation of the Ancients; and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest character for fenfe and learning has been obtained by those who have been most indebted to them. For, to fay truth, whatever is very good fenfe, muit have been common fenfe in all times; and what we call Learning, is but the knowledge of the fenfe of our predeceffors Therefore they who fay our thoughts are not our own, because they refemble the Ancients, may as well fay our faces are not our own, because they are like our Fathers: And indeed it is very unreasonable, that people fhould expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us fo.

I fairly confefs that I have ferved myfelf 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 informed of my errors, both by my friends and enemies: But the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing to the confideration how fhort a time they and I have to live: One may be afhamed to confume half one's days in bringing fenfe and rhyme together; and what critic can be fo unreasonable, as not to leave a man time enough for any more ferious employment, or more agreeable amufement?

The only plea I fhall ufe for the favour of the public, is, that I have as great a refpe&t for it, as most authors have for themselves; and that I have facrificed much of my own felf-love for its fake, in preventing not only many mean things from feeing the light, but many which I thought tolerable. I would not be like thofe authors, who forgive themfelves fome particular lines for the fake of a whole poem. and vice verfa a whole poem for the fake of fome particular lines. I believe, no one qualifi cation is fo likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts; and it muft be this (if any thing) that can give me a chance to be one. For what I have publifhed, I can only hope to be pardoned; but for what I have burned I deferve to be praift d. On this account the world is under fome obligation to me, and owes me the juftice in return, to look upon no verfes as mine that are not inferted in this collection. And per haps nothing could make it worth my while to own what are really fo, but to avoid the imputation of fo many dull and immo al things, as partly by mal.ce, and partly by ignorance, have been afcribed to me. I mult frther acquit myfelt of the prefumption of having lent my name to re

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