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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:44:45 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:44:45 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14528-0.txt b/14528-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd040cf --- /dev/null +++ b/14528-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1281 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14528 *** + +_Series Two:_ + +_Essays on Poetry and Language_ + + +No. 1 + + + +Samuel Cobb's + +Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry + +from + +Poems on Several Occasions (1707) + + + +With an Introduction by + +Louis I. Bredvold + + + +The Augustan Reprint Society July, 1946 + + +Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to +six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. +Address subscriptions and communications to The Augustan Reprint Society +in care of the General Editors: Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan, +Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Edward N. Hooker or H.T. Swedenberg, Jr., +University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Editorial +Advisors: Louis I. Bredvold, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, +Michigan, and James L. Clifford, Columbia University, New York. + + + + +Introduction + + +What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found +in the brief article in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ by W.P. +Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ's Hospital and +at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., +1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed "under grammar master" at +Christ's Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school +until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and +also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially +cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won +him a mention without honor in Johnson's life of Pope (_Lives of the +Poets_, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his +poem on "Poetry" aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at +epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves +attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to +fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his +opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as +Dennis, Addison, and Pope. "Of Poetry" belongs to the prolific literary +type of "progress poems," in which the modern student finds illuminating +statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past +literary traditions. The list of Cobb's publications in the _Cambridge +Bibliography_ suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His +volume, _Poems on Several Occasions_, was published in 1707, and +reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith +of the Preface "On Criticism" and the versified discourse "Of Poetry" is +from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago. + +Louis I. Bredvold + +University of Michigan + + + + +A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING. + + +In a Letter to _Richard Carter_ Esq; late of the _Middle-Temple_, now +living in _Barbadoes_. + + +SIR, + +_The_ Muses _are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore +must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a +Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and +particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon +my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe +Death it self can blot out an_ Idea _so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when +it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those +Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as_ +Temperance, Fortitude _and the like, will certainly carry_ Love _and_ +Gratitude _along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World +know what Obligations you have laid upon me. + +By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have +supply'd) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able +to secure you from the Zeal of a_ Friend, _and the Vanity of a_ Poet. + + + For tho' retiring to the _Western Isles_, + At the long Distance of five thousand Miles, + You've chang'd _dear London_ for your Native Seat, + And think _Barbadoes_ is a safe Retreat; + You highly err: Nor is the _Wat'ry Fence_ + Sufficient Guard against Impertinence. + The _Muse_, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me, + Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea. + Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' _Atlantick Main_, + Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain. + +_You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but +knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I +thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer'd my Prose with a +little Verse._ + +_After this Preamble, it is presum'd, that one who lives on the Other +side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is +done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn +every where, and particularly in_ Italy; _which Success of our Armies +and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at +home.--Parties still run between_ High _and_ Low. _I shall make no +Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more +safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather +than peevishly to quarrel with it._ + +_But You will cry,_ Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? +How goes the State of _Parnassus_? What has the Battle of _Ramillies_ +produc'd? _What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I +could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which +had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. +You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us'd to do on +things of a larger Size._ + + Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great + The slippery Danger of exalted State, + Victorious _Marlbrô_ to _Ramilly_ flies; + Arm'd with new Lightning from bright _ANNA's_ Eyes. + Wonders like These, no former Age has seen; + Subjects are _Heroes_, where a Saint's the _QUEEN_. + +_Mr._ Congreve _has given the World an Ode, and prefix'd to it a +Discourse on the_ Pindaric Verse, _of which more, when I come to speak +on the same Argument: There are several others on that Subject, and some +which will bear the Test; one particularly, written in imitation of the +Style of_ Spencer; _and goes under the Name of Mr._ Prior; _I have not +read it through, but_ ex pede Herculem. _He is a Gentleman who cannot +write ill. Yet some of our_ Criticks _have fell upon it, as the Viper +did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism, +which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure +Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every +Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till_ +Dooms-day. _The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its +to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of_ Self _is the +Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our_ Modern +Censurers, _who, when they please to_ think a Meaning _for an Author, +would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their +inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a +plain Evidence of their own Blindness._ + + For to display our Candour and our Sence, + Is to discover some deep _Excellence_. + The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free; + They raise the _Mole hill, who want Eyes to see_. + +_Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires +the Penetration of a_ Lynceus _to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the +secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar +Apprehension._ + +_I remember somewhere an Observation of St._ Evremont _(an Author whom +you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who +would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. +The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, +according to_ Juvenal; _and according to_ Scripture, _the Marks of a_ +Fool. _These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be +witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of +Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own._ + + Rules they can write, but, like the _College Tribe_, + Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe. + I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool, + _Insipidly_ correct, and _dull_ by Rule: + _Homer_, with all his _Nodding_, I would chuse, + Before the more exact _Sicilian_ Muse. + Who'd not be _Dryden_; tho' his Faults are great, + Sooner than our Laborious _Laureat_? + Not but a decent Neatness, I confess, + In _Writing_ is requir'd, as well as _Dress_. + Yet still in both the _unaffected Air_ + Will always please the _Witty_ and the _Fair_. + +_I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for +there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a_ Delicate +Taste. _Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the +Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we +write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour +of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a_ Free +Writer. _He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, +but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is +timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true +Grammar, and unexceptionable_ Prosodia, _but most stupid Poetry._ + + In vitium culpæ ducit fuga, si caret arte. + +_A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more +inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose +artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains +and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick._ + +_Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from +the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their +Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than +Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and +Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would +that Reflection be cast upon the_ best-natur'd Nation _in the World, +that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and +now, being civiliz'd, we expend our Barbarity on one another_. Homer +_would not be so much the Ridicule of our_ Beaux Esprits; _when, with +all his Sleepiness, he is propos'd as the most exquisite Pattern of +Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. +Nor is_ Longinus _behind hand with_ Aristotle _in his Character of the +same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of_ Homer's _Soul +look'd above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and +hurry'd on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. +A Racer at_ New-market _or the_ Downs, _which has been fed and drest, +and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble +perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of_ Pegasus _bear him o'er +Hills and Mountains,_ + + Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera-- + +_Such was the Soul of_ Homer: _who is more justly admir'd by those who +understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings +partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his_ +Heroes; _and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his_ Criticks, +_than on_ Himself: _who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule +to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which_ +Alcibiades _gave to_ Socrates, _when he compar'd him to the Statues of +the_ Sileni, _which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; +but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods +and Goddesses._ + +_Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those sudden Emotions, +which excite illustrious Men, to act and speak out of the_ Common Road? +_They seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and Bigottry we pay +to_ Custom, _which is no Standard to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules +we receive in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose, to +restrain the_ Mind; _which by reason of the Tenderness of our Age and +the ungovernable Disposition of Young Nature, is apt to start out into +Excess and Extravagance. But when Time has ripen'd us, and Observation +has fortify'd the Soul, we ought to lay aside those common Rules with +our Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free, generous and +manly Spirit. Thus a_ Good Poet _should make use of a Discretionary +Command; like a_ Good General, _who may rightly wave the vulgar Precepts +of the Military School (which may confine an ordinary Capacity, and curb +the Rash and Daring) if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he +find out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success._ + +Bocalin, _the_ Italian _Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has +this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When_ +Tasso _(says he) had presented_ Apollo _with his_ Poem, _call'd_ +Giurasalemme Liberata; _the_ Reformer _of the_ Delphic Library, _to +whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not +written according to the Rules of_ Aristotle; _which affront being +complain'd of,_ Apollo _was highly incens'd, and chid_ Aristotle _for +his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high +Conceptions of the_ Virtuosi, _whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, +enrich'd the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to +enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring +Charms which daily flow'd from the Productions of Poets, who follow the +Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the +28th Advertisement._ + +_The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must +wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho'_ Homer +_and_ Virgil, Pindar _and_ Horace _be laid before us as Examples of +exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro' the +Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find +like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that +Nature has furnish'd him with, and his own Observation has improv'd, we +may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority +with the best of the_ Athenian _and_ Roman _Excellencies_. + + Nec minimum meruêre decus vestigia Græca + Ausi deserere.---- + +_It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt +nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern_ Milo's _who have +been wedg'd in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail'd +in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, +would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation +by_ Hippocrates _and_ Galen _well-studied, than by_ Homer _and_ Virgil +_ill-copied?_ + +Horace, _who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of +Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish'd Writer on a +pardonable Want of Care, or excus'd them by the Infirmity of Human +Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who +quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform +which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling +Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we +should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater +Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to +praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay +a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, +to clap their Play, or admire their Poem._ + + For noble Scriblers are with Flattery fed, + And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread. + + _Dryden's Pers.._ + +Juvenal _shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old +disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left +the Town,_ + + --Mentiri nescio: librum + Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere. + +_To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a +Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault +with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman._ + +_Who then is this Critick? You will find him in_ Quintilius Varus, _of_ +Cremona, _who when any Author shew'd him his Composure, laid aside the_ +Fastus _common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen'd on any +Mistake_, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc. + +_Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to +others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another +like him. Our_ English _Criticks having taken away a great deal from the +Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. +Like a certain Nobleman mention'd by my Lord_ Verulam, _who when he +invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the +Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest._ + +_The_ French _then seem to me to have a truer Taste of the ancient +Authors than ever_ Scaliger _or_ Heinsius _could pretend to_. Rapin, +_and above all_, Bossu, _have done more Justice to_ Homer _and to_ +Virgil, _to_ Livy _and_ Thucydides, _to_ Demosthenes _and to_ Cicero, +_&c. and have bin more beneficial to the Republick of Learning, by their +nice Comparisons and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those +well-meaning Men, who rummage_ musty Manuscripts _for_ various Lections. +_They did not_ Insistere in ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis +intenti nihil ultra petere, (_As_ Dacier _has it_) _but search'd the +inmost Recesses, open'd their Mysteries, and (as it were) call'd the +Spirit of the Author from the Dead. It is for this_ Le Clerc _(in his_ +Bibliotheque Choisie, _Tom._ 9. _p._ 328.) _commends St._ Evremont's +_Discourses on_ Salust _and_ Tacitus, _as also his Judgment on the +Ancients, and blames the Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste +of Antiquity after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen +to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their Manner of Writing, +which takes Notice only of Words, Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with +a blind Admiration of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and +deters it from the pursuit of the_ Belles Lettres. + +_I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an +Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly +of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the_ Strophe +_and_ Antistrophe; _neither do I think it necessary; besides I had +rather err with Mr._ Cowley, _who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in +the right with others._ + +_Mr._ Congreve, _an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too +hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the +last Olympic has two_ Monostrophicks _of different Measure, and Number +of Lines._ + +_The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You +may expect the rest on the_ Pindaric Style. _In the mean time I beg +leave to subscribe myself,_ + + _Sir, Your ever Obedient and + Obliged Servant,_ + + Samuel Cobb. + + + + +_Of POETRY._ + +1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement. + + +A POEM. + +_Antiquity of Poetry_ + + Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast + Design'd a Creature to command the rest, + Of all th' _Erected Progeny of Clay_ + His Noblest Labour was his _First Essay_. + There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind + Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind. + The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen + In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien. + Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught, + With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought + To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing, + And be at once the Poet and the King. + Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew, + And saw the Depth of Nature at a View; + Or, new descending from th' Angelick race, + Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place. + + Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame, + Which lodg'd his _Fiery Guest_[1], and like the same + Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense, + His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence. + Whene're He spoke, from his _Seraphick_ Tongue + Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young, + With new _Calliopes_ and _Clio's_ sprung. + No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind, + Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd. + Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain + Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain. + +[1] The Soul according to the Platonists. So _Virgil_: _Aurai +simplicis ig, nem._ + + But when He yielded to deluding Charms, + Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms. + The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd, + But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd. + Yet here and there _Celestial Seeds_ She threw, + And rain'd _melodious Blessings_ as She flew. + Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd + For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd. + Who, of a _Species_ more sublime, can tame + The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame. + When in their breasts th'impetuous _Numen_ rowls, + And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls. + + Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung, + And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung. + He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light, + Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night. + How Sin and Shame th' _Unhappy Couple_ knew, + And thro' affrighted _Eden_, more affrighted, flew. + How God advanc'd his Darling _Abram's_ fame, + In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name. + On _Horeb's_ Top, or _Sinah's_ flaming Hill + Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will. + Unshaken then _Seth's_ stony Column stood, + Surviving the Destruction of the Flood. + His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone, + Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known. + Thence Divine _Moses_, with exalted thought, + In _Hebrew_ Lines the _Worlds Beginning_ wrote. + +[_The Progress of Poetry._] + + The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews, + Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse. + Here _Deborah_ in fiery rapture sings, + The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings. + Thy Torrent, _Kison_, shall for ever flow, + Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe. + + With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise, + With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays, + The Seed of _Judah_ to the Battle flew, + And Orders of Destroying Angels drew + To their Victorious side: Who marching round + Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound, + By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound. + So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim + Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name! + +[_Orpheus._] + + Nor does it here alone it's Magick show, + But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below. + So powerful is the Muse! When _David_ plaid, + The Frantick _Dæmon_ heard him, and obey'd. + No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay + Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away. + Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd + To _Jews_ alone: For in a Heathen mind + Some strokes appear: Thus _Orpheus_ was inspir'd, + Inchanting _Syrens_ at his Song retir'd. + To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd, + And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd. + +[_Homer._] + + But _Greece_ was honour'd with a Greater Name, + _Homer_ is _Greece's_ Glory and her Shame. + How could Learn'd _Athens_ with contempt refuse, + Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse? + Thee, _Colophon_, his angry Ghost upbraids, + While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades. + Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive + For the Dead _Homer_, whom they scorn'd Alive. + So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom! + To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb. + + Tho' _Virgil_ rising under happier Stars, + Saw _Rome_ succeed in Learning as in Wars. + When _Pollio_, like a smiling Planet, shone, + And _Cæsar_ darted on him, like the Sun. + Nor did _Mecænas_, gain a less repute, + When Tuneful _Flaccus_ touch'd the _Roman_ Lute. + + But when, _Mecænas_, will Thy Star appear + In our low Orb, and gild the _British_ Sphere? + Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes + Dissembled under _DORSET's_ fair Disguise? + If so; go on, Great _Sackvile_, to regard + The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward. + So to Thy Fame a _Pyramid_ shall rise, + Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies. + For if a Verse Eternity can claim, + Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name. + This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain + _Octavius_ hover'd long, and sought to Reign. + This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight, + Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight. + Let him his Title to such Glory bring, + You give as freely, and more nobly sing. + Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce, + He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse. + _Horace_ and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd, + The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind. + + O Light of _England_, and her highest Grace! + Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race! + Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine + (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line, + While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell + The noblest Poets, and who most excel. + Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send, + Far as the British Arms or Memory extend. + + But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse + The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse + On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough, + And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. + A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease, + May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease, + Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories. + + Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme + Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. + Observe their twenty faces, how they strain + To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. + Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time, + Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, + And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme) + Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task, + As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask, + To build a Poem of the vastest price, + A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_. + So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_ + May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, + The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, + Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain. + + Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, + By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd. + I pity Madmen who attempt to fly, + And raise their _Airy Babel_ to the Sky. + Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name, + Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame, + Not so the Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay + In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. + To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd, + By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. + Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few, + The stately Fabrick in perfection view. + While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece, + The Work of many rowling Centuries. + + For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise + An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays. + How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known + For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own. + + As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore, + For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar. + Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, + Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud. + +[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_] + + Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay, + Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day. + A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse + In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. + Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part + In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art. + The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines, + And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. + Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known, + And by successful gleanings made his Own. + So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day, + Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. + O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd + On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd! + Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design, + _Mæanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine! + Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd, + But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd. + +[_Ben. Johnson_.] + + He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise + T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase; + 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page; + So secred was th' Authority of Age! + The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass, + Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_. + But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_, + Melted it down, and slung the Dross away + He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_, + And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn. + We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar, + Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before. + Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame, + Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name. + Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray + The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way, + Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play. + Whether his Crimes more excellently shine, + Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine, + And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine. + All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke, + And learn the Language which the Victor spoke. + So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw + His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew. + Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His, + Were _Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_. + + Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame + Are fill'd with larger particles of flame. + Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan, + And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own. + +[_Fletcher_ and _Beaument_] + + _Fletcher_, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine, + Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line. + Who, prodigal of Sense, by _Beaumont's_ care, + Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair. + Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring, + A _bragging Bessus_, or _inconstant King_. + Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise + In his _Amyntors_, and _Aspasia's_. + But _Rome_ and _Athens_ must the Plots produce + With _France_, the Handmaid of the _English_ Muse + +[_Shakespear_.] + + Ev'n _Shakespear_ sweated in his narrow Isle, + And Subject _Italy_ obey'd his Stile. + _Boccace_ and _Cinthio_ must a tribute pay, + T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play. + Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules, + Or borrow Learning from _Athenian_ Schools: + Yet He, with _Plautus_, could instruct and please, + And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease. + By inborn strength so _Theseus_ bent the Pine, + Which cost _the Robber_ many Years Design[2]. + +[2] _See Plutarch's Life of Theseus_. + + Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest + His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest. + Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will, + Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill, + Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain + Of _Æschylus_, or sooth in _Ovid's_ vein. + I feel a Pity working in my Eyes, + When _Desdemona_ by _Othello_ dyes. + When I view _Brutus_ in his Dress appear; + I know not how to call him too severe. + His _rigid Vertue_ there attories for all, + And makes a Sacrifice of _Cæsar's_ Fall. + +[_Cowley_.] + + Nature work'd Wonders then; when _Shakespear_ dy'd + Her _Cowley_ rose, drest in her gaudy Pride. + So from great Ruins a new Life she calls, + And Builds an _Ovid[3]_ when a _Tully_ Falls. + +[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd. + + With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings, + And _David's_ Toils in _David's_ numbers Sings? + Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves, + His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves, + Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear, + _Hermits_ may read them to a Virgin's Ear. + Unstoln _Promethean_ Fire informs his Song, + Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong. + His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply, + Is always flowing-out, but never Dry. + + Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought, + Unjustly is imputed for a Fault. + A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free, + Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea. + Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain + Presuming _Xerxes_ shall pretend to Reign, + And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain. + + Hail _English_ Swan? for You alone could dare + With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air: + And to your Lute _Pindaric_ Numbers call, + Nor fear the Danger of a _threatned Fall_. + O had You liv'd to _Waller's_ Reverend Age, + Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page! + Then _Britain's_ Isle might raise her Trophies high, + And _Solid Rome_, or _Witty Greece_ outvy. + The _Rhine_, the _Tyber_, and _Parisian Sein_, + When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main, + Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse, + Than gentle _Cowley's_ never-dying Verse. + The _Thames_ should sweep his briny way before, + And with his Name salute each distant Shore. + +[_Milton._] + + Then You, like Glorious _Milton_ had been known + To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own. + _Milton_! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies, + While Earth below grows little, as She Flies. + Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight, + Far as the Confines of retreating Light. + Tells the _sindg'd Moor_, how scepter'd Death began + His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man. + Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel, + By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell. + + Now _Seraphs_ crown'd with _Helmets_ I behold, + _Helmets_ of Substance more refin'd than Gold: + The Skies with an united Lustre shine, + And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn. + God's _plated Son, Majestically gay_, + Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way + Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies, + Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes. + O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore, + And transfix d Angels groan upon the _Diamond-Floor_. + Then, wheeling from _Olympus_ Snowy top, + Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop + Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell, + And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell. + + I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere + Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear + New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer. + I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies, + _Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries, + _Despair of better state, and loss of Light + Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night + And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain, + But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign, + And Register the Fate which we Sustain? + Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name + Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame + And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_. + + O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may + Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display, + For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay? + Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View, + Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You. + Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design, + Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine, + All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine. + Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose + Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose. + Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we + Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee. + Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight, + Below was Darkness, but Above was Light: + Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay + In nether Night, and such a want of Day. + But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires + To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires: + Like an unhooded _Hawk_, who, loose to Prey, + With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way. + There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place, + And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race: + Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be + A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee, + There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear, + And rowl with _Homer_ in the brightest Sphere; + To whom _Calliope_ has joyn'd thy Name, + And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame. + +[_Waller_.] + + Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows + In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose. + Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote, + When room is granted to the Speech and Thought. + Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song + Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along. + Like _Waller's_ Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime, + Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime. + His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown + In Numbers sweet and _Courtly_ as his Own. + Who no unmanly _Turns_ of Thought pursues, + Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse. + Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay, + Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away. + In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung, + Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung. + If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall + Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_. + Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings + the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings + _Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main, + Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain, + Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair + With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care, + Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair. + As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill + The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill; + So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such, + No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much. + As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine, + The Substance precious, and the Work Divine: + So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase, + Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace, + A mighty Value in a little Space. + So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old, + When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told. + But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less, + Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success. + O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast, + To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest? + To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove, + In strains lamenting his neglected Love. + Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake, + And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake. + Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline; + And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine. + Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known; + Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone. + + Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew, + And _Waller's_ praise Eternally pursue, + Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel, + So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well. + + But now the forward Muse converts her Eye + To see where _Denham_, and _Roscommon_ fly, + Cautiously daring, and correctly High. + Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace, + Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race. + Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs, + Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares, + With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time, + And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme. + Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence, + Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense, + The _Critick_ judges what the _Muse_ indites, + And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes. + 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size, + But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price. + _Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read, + Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead. + Fam'd _Cooper's Hill_ shall, like _Parnassus_, stand, + And _Denham_ reign, the _Phæbus_ of the Land. + +[4] _Epictetus._ + + Among these sacred and immortal Names, [_Oldham_.] + A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims; + See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play + Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way. + But misty Clouds of unexpected Night, + Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light. + Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just + We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust. + O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose + And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those. + The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay, + In all the Trappings of the flowry _May_. + He set him out unsufferably bright, + And sow'd in every part his beamy Light. + Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon, + For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon. + + His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey, + Like _Satyrs_ Rough, but not Deform'd as they. + His Sense undrest, like _Adam_, free from Blame, + Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame, + True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill, + A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still. + + Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the _Romish_ Crimes, + In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes. + All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue, + And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung. + Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse + Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse. + In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore, + And rose more Beauteous than She was before. + +[_Lee._] + + Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage, + And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page, + When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire, + She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire. + Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul + That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul. + He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast, + Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last. + I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame; + But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame? + +[_Otway._ and _Dryden._] + + Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be, + The moving parts of Tragic Poetry. + If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise; + If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_ deserves the Bays. + We grant a Genius shines in _Jaffeir's_ Part, + And _Roman Brutus_ speaks a Master's Art. + But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase + An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze. + A rising Meteor never was design'd, + T'amaze the sober part of Human kind. + Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse + A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse. + Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go, + Emptily Gay, magnificently Low, + Like Ancient _Rome's_ Religion, Sacrifice and Show. + Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize, + Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes. + The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage, + May please the Young _Sir Foplings_ on the Stage. + But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find + Like _Spencer's_ Giant sunk away in Wind. + It grates judicious Readers when they meet + Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet. + Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these, + Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas. + _Lee_ aim'd to rise above great _Dryden's_ Height, + But lofty _Dryden_ keeps a steddy Flight. + Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care + His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air. + The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name, + By industry he kindled to a Flame. + The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue + To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung. + His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine, + _All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine._ + His _Images_ so strong and lively be, + I hear not Words alone, but Substance see; + Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move + Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love. + I weep to hear fond _Anthony_ complain + In _Shakespear's_ Fancy, but in _Virgil's_ Strain. + + Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer, + Himself[5] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err. + But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim + The sounding Title of a Poem's Name. + For Raillery, and what creates a Smile + Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. + That _Heav'nly Heat_ refuses to be seen + In a Town-Character and Comick Mien. + +[5] See Preface to _Aurengzebe_. + + If we would do him right, we must produce + The _Sophoclean Buskin_; when his Muse + With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear, + And _Peals_ applauding shake the Theater. + + They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise, + Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays. + Is he oblig'd to _France_, who draws from thence + By _English_ Energy, their Captive Sense? + Tho' _Edward_ and fam'd _Henry_ Warr'd in vain, + Subduing what they could not long retain: + Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails, + And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails. + + This does superiour excellence betray; + O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! + If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make + Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake + Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design + She must her Own Originals decline, + And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. + Pardon this just transition to thy Praise, + Which Young _Thalia_ sung in Rural Lays. + + As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain + As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain, + Such _Tityrus's_ charming Number show, + Please like the River, like the River flow. + When his first Years in mighty Order ran, + And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man, + Around his Lips the _Waxen Artists_ hung, + And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. + Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke, + More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. + Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide, + Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide. + + Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains, + Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. + Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares, + Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years. + Yet still, like _Ætna's_ _Mount_, he kept his Fire, + And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier. + He smil'd, like _Phoebus_ in a Stormy Morn, + And sung, like _Philomel_ against a Thorn. + + Here _Syren of sweet Poesy_, receive + That little praise my unknown Muse can give. + Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear + Tho' angry _B----more_ in Heroicks jeer. + + A Bard, who seems to challenge _Virgil's_ Flame, + And would be next in Majesty and Name. + With lofty _Maro_ he at first may please; + The Righteous _Briton_ rises by degrees. + But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows, + And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close, + The _Mantuan_ Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight, + Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight. + Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song + Runs smooth as _Thames's_ River, and as strong. + Like his own _Neptune_ he the Waves confines, + While _Bl----re_ rumbles, like the King of Winds. + His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength, + Jade out our Patience with excessive length. + While Readers, Yawning o'er his _Arthurs_ see + Whole Pages spun on one poor _Simile_. + We grant he labours with no want of Brains, + Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains, + One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat + Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat + A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. + It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise + The _World's_ _Imperial Poem_ in Six Days. + But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay, + Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay: + In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train, + Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain: + Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer, + And call the smiling Angels to his care. + Must sleep less Nights, _Vulcanian_ Labours prove, + Like _Cyclops_, forging Thunder for a _Jove_. + With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style, + Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File. + If You design to make Your Prince appear + As perfect as Humanity can bear. + Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please, + Deaf to the _Syrens_ of alluring ease. + No Terrours Thee, _Achilles_, could invade, + Nor Thee, _Ulysses_, any Charms persuade. + This must be done, if Poets would be Read, + Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead. + + Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains + _Virgilian Addison_ describes _Campaigns_. + Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find, + Not of the _Gyant_, nor the _Pygmy_ kind. + Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song, + Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong. + + This _Congreve_ follows in his Deathless Line, + And the _Tenth Hand_ is put to the Design. + The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil + Claims more than _Shakespear's_ Wit, or _Johnson's_ Oil. + Sing on, _Harmonious Swan_, in weeping strains, + And tell _Pastora's_ Death to mournful Swains. + Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs + Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares. + Or let thy _Satyr_ grin with half a Smile, + And jeer in _Easy Etherege's_ Style. + Let _Manly Wycherly_ chalk out the Way, + And Art direct, where Nature goes astray. + 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings, + The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings. + + The _Teian Muse_ invites Thee from above + To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love. + Let _MONTAGUE_ describe _Boyn's_ swelling Flood + And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood. + O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse! + Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse. + When You _Nassau's_ bright Actions dar'd to see, + _You_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo He_. + But when He read You, and Your Value knew, + _He_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo You_. + Both spoke the Bird in her _Æthereal_ height, + The _Majesty_ was _His_, and _Thine_ the _Flight_. + Both did _Apollo_ in His Glory shew, + The Silver _Harp_ was _Thine_, and _His_ the _Bow_, + + So may _Pierian Clio_ cease to fear, + When _Honour_ deigns to sing, and _Majesty_ to hear! + So may she favour'd live, and always please + Our _Dorset's_, and Judicious _Normanby's_! + + Nor does the _Coronet_ alone defend + The Muses Cause: The _Miter_ is Her Friend. + Can we forget how _Damon's_ lofty Tongue + Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung + When _Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd_ Sung. + How _Mars_ and _Pallas_ wept to see the Day + When _Athens_ by a Plague dispeopled lay. + What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost! + Sung with more Spirit than all _Athens_ lost. + Nor can the _Miter_ now conceal the Bays, + For still we view the _Sacred Poet's_ praise. + So tho' _Eridanus_ becomes a Star + Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar, + Below he loses nothing but his Name, + Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same. + + But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song, + Let _Creech_ be numbred with the Sacred Throng. + Whose daring Muse could with _Manilius_ fly, + And, like an _Atlas_, shoulder up the Sky. + He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace + His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race. + See, how He walks above in mighty strains, + And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains! + He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey, + In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they. + + 'Tis cause of Triumph, when _Rome's_ Genius shines + In nervous _English_, and well-worded Lines. + Two Famous _Latins_[6] our bright Tongue adorn, + And a new _Virgil_[7] is in _England_ born. + An _Æneid_ to translate, and make a new, + Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue. + +[6] _Lucretius_ and _Manilius_. + +[7] Mr. _Dryden's_ _Virgil_. + + For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind + Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind; + Yet a well-languag'd Version will require + An equal _Genius_, and as strong a Fire. + These claim at once our Study and our Praise, + Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase. + These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand + At _Paul's_ or _Cornhill_, _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_. + Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas, + An Ornament to _Foreign Libraries_. + + Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my _Theme_! + O could I write so well as I esteem! + From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise + As a young _Phoenix_ out of Ashes flies + Above what _France_ or _Italy_ can shew, + The Celebrated _Tasso_, or _Boileau_. + + Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find + Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind: + If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men, + You love the _Labour'd Travels_ of the Pen; + Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time + On _Cowley_, or on _Dryden's_ useful Rhyme: + Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse, + The _Tragick, Lyrick_, or _Heroick_ Muse: + For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew + In _Charming Numbers_, what is false, what true, + And teach more good than _Hobbs_ or _Lock_ can do. + + Hail, ye _Poetick Dead_, who wander now + In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. + Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate, + Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! + Whether Intomb'd with _English Kings_ you sleep, + Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep: + There, on each Dawning of the tender Day, + May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay! + There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume + The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb. + + While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear, + Sing on; let _Montague_ and _Dorset_ hear. + In Stately Verse let _William's_ Praise be told, + WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. + No more of _Richelieu's_ Worth: Forget not, Fame, + To change _Augustus_ for Great _William's_ Name. + Who, tho' like _Homer's_ _Jupiter_, he sate, + Musing on something eminently great + And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate; + Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears + The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years. + Whether this Praise to _Stepny's_ Muse belong, + Or _Prior_ claim it for _Pindarick Song_. + The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd, + And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd. + The double Vertue of _Nassovian Fire_ + At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire. + The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung + A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung, + When _Mars_ has Acted, or when _Phoebus_ Sung. + + O cou'd my Muse reach _Milton's_ tow'ring Flight, + Or stretch her Wings to the _Mæonian_ Height! + Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse + His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse. + The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame, + And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name + But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb, + Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome. + Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace + The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race? + What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise? + No Land but _Britain_, must pretend to shine + With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line. + So may this Island a new _Delos_ prove, + Joyn[8] Young _Apollo_ to the _Cretan Jove_! + What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame! + How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame! + How swiftly _Gloster_ in his Bud began! + How the _Green Hero_ blossoms into Man! + Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms, + To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms: + See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War! + Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar, + What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They + Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day. + _Edwards_ and _Harry's_ to his Eyes appear + In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear. + At _Agincourt_ so terrible they stood, + So when _Pictavian_ Fields were dy'd with Blood. + The Royal Youth with Emulation glows, + And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes. + Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky, + Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly. + O'er _England's_ Hopes their flaming Swords they hold, + And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old. + Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep, + But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep. + Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread, + Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed, + Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head. + +[8] _The Duke of_ Glouceiter. _Here the Author laments he +prov'd so bad a Prophet_. + + After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate, + The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait. + The Streams of _Thamisis_, exulting, Ring, + When fair _Augusta's_ lofty _Clio's_ Sing + _Granta_ and _Rhedycina's_ Tuneful Throng + Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song. + + Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time, + Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme. + Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure, + Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure. + But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey, + Till _English_ Sense and Valour shall decay. + Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow, + Or _Cam_ or _Isis_ shall forget to Flow. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry +(1707), by Samuel Cobb + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14528 *** diff --git a/14528-h/14528-h.htm b/14528-h/14528-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b026b8a --- /dev/null +++ b/14528-h/14528-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1288 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry (1707), by Samuel Cobb. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 100%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + body {margin-left: 4%; + margin-right: 4%; + } + + .i0 {text-indent: 0em} + .i2 {text-indent: 2em} + .i4 {text-indent: 4em} + .i6 {text-indent: 6em} + + .sidenote {text-indent: 0px; text-align: left; width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: 80%; border: solid 1px;} + + .verse {margin-left: 5%; text-indent: 2em} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14528 ***</div> + +<h3>Series Two:<br /> + +<i>Essays on Poetry and Language</i><br /><br /> +No. 1<br /><br /> +</h3> + + +<h1>Samuel Cobb's<br /><br /> + +Discourse on Criticism<br />and<br />of Poetry<br /></h1> + +<h3>from<br /> + +Poems on Several Occasions (1707)<br /><br /> + + + +With an Introduction by<br /> + +Louis I. Bredvold<br /><br /> +</h3> + +<hr /> +<h3>The Augustan Reprint Society<br />July, 1946<br /></h3> + +<p> +Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to +six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. +Address subscriptions and communications to The Augustan Reprint Society +in care of the General Editors: Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan, +Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Edward N. Hooker or H.T. Swedenberg, Jr., +University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Editorial +Advisors: Louis I. Bredvold, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, +Michigan, and James L. Clifford, Columbia University, New York.</p> +<hr /> + + + +<h2>Introduction</h2> + +<p> +What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found +in the brief article in the <i>Dictionary of National Biography</i> by W.P. +Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ's Hospital and +at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., +1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed "under grammar master" at +Christ's Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school +until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and +also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially +cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won +him a mention without honor in Johnson's life of Pope (<i>Lives of the +Poets</i>, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his +poem on "Poetry" aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at +epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves +attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to +fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his +opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as +Dennis, Addison, and Pope. "Of Poetry" belongs to the prolific literary +type of "progress poems," in which the modern student finds illuminating +statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past +literary traditions. The list of Cobb's publications in the <i>Cambridge +Bibliography</i> suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His +volume, <i>Poems on Several Occasions</i>, was published in 1707, and +reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith +of the Preface "On Criticism" and the versified discourse "Of Poetry" is +from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago.</p> + +<p class="i4">Louis I. Bredvold</p> + +<p class="i6">University of Michigan</p> +<hr /> + + + +<h2>A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING.</h2> + + +<h3>In a Letter to <i>Richard Carter</i> Esq; late of the <i>Middle-Temple</i>, now +living in <i>Barbadoes</i>.</h3> + + +<p>SIR,</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Muses <i>are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore +must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a +Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and +particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon +my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe +Death it self can blot out an</i> Idea <i>so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when +it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those +Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as</i> +Temperance, Fortitude <i>and the like, will certainly carry</i> Love <i>and</i> +Gratitude <i>along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World +know what Obligations you have laid upon me.</i></p> + +<p><i>By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have +supply'd) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able +to secure you from the Zeal of a</i> Friend, <i>and the Vanity of a</i> Poet.</p> + + +<p class="verse">For tho' retiring to the <i>Western Isles</i>,<br /> + At the long Distance of five thousand Miles,<br /> + You've chang'd <i>dear London</i> for your Native Seat,<br /> + And think <i>Barbadoes</i> is a safe Retreat;<br /> + You highly err: Nor is the <i>Wat'ry Fence</i><br /> + Sufficient Guard against Impertinence.<br /> + The <i>Muse</i>, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me,<br /> + Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea.<br /> + Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' <i>Atlantick Main</i>,<br /> + Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain.</p> + +<p><i>You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but +knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I +thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer'd my Prose with a +little Verse.</i></p> + +<p><i>After this Preamble, it is presum'd, that one who lives on the Other +side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is +done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn +every where, and particularly in</i> Italy; <i>which Success of our Armies +and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at +home. ——Parties still run between</i> High <i>and</i> Low. <i>I shall make no +Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more +safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather +than peevishly to quarrel with it.</i></p> + +<p><i>But You will cry,</i> Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? +How goes the State of <i>Parnassus</i>? What has the Battle of <i>Ramillies</i> +produc'd? <i>What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I +could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which +had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. +You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us'd to do on +things of a larger Size.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great<br /> + The slippery Danger of exalted State,<br /> + Victorious <i>Marlbrô</i> to <i>Ramilly</i> flies;<br /> + Arm'd with new Lightning from bright <i>ANNA's</i> Eyes.<br /> + Wonders like These, no former Age has seen;<br /> + Subjects are <i>Heroes</i>, where a Saint's the <i>QUEEN</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Mr.</i> Congreve <i>has given the World an Ode, and prefix'd to it a +Discourse on the</i> Pindaric Verse, <i>of which more, when I come to speak +on the same Argument: There are several others on that Subject, and some +which will bear the Test; one particularly, written in imitation of the +Style of</i> Spencer; <i>and goes under the Name of Mr.</i> Prior; <i>I have not +read it through, but</i> ex pede Herculem. <i>He is a Gentleman who cannot +write ill. Yet some of our</i> Criticks <i>have fell upon it, as the Viper +did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism, +which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure +Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every +Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till</i> +Dooms-day. <i>The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its +to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of</i> Self <i>is the +Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our</i> Modern +Censurers, <i>who, when they please to</i> think a Meaning <i>for an Author, +would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their +inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a +plain Evidence of their own Blindness.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">For to display our Candour and our Sence,<br /> + Is to discover some deep <i>Excellence</i>.<br /> + The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free;<br /> + They raise the <i>Mole hill, who want Eyes to see</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires +the Penetration of a</i> Lynceus <i>to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the +secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar +Apprehension.</i></p> + +<p><i>I remember somewhere an Observation of St.</i> Evremont <i>(an Author whom +you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who +would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. +The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, +according to</i> Juvenal; <i> and according to</i> Scripture, <i>the Marks of a</i> +Fool. <i>These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be +witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of +Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Rules they can write, but, like the <i>College Tribe</i>,<br /> + Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe.<br /> + I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool,<br /> + <i>Insipidly</i> correct, and <i>dull</i> by Rule:<br /> + <i>Homer</i>, with all his <i>Nodding</i>, I would chuse,<br /> + Before the more exact <i>Sicilian</i> Muse.<br /> + Who'd not be <i>Dryden</i>; tho' his Faults are great,<br /> + Sooner than our Laborious <i>Laureat</i>?<br /> + Not but a decent Neatness, I confess,<br /> + In <i>Writing</i> is requir'd, as well as <i>Dress</i>.<br /> + Yet still in both the <i>unaffected Air</i><br /> + Will always please the <i>Witty</i> and the <i>Fair</i>.</p> + +<p><i>I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for +there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a</i> Delicate +Taste. <i>Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the +Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we +write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour +of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a</i> Free +Writer. <i>He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, +but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is +timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true +Grammar, and unexceptionable</i> Prosodia, <i>but most stupid Poetry.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">In vitium culpæ ducit fuga, si caret arte.</p> + +<p><i>A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more +inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose +artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains +and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick.</i></p> + +<p><i>Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from +the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their +Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than +Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and +Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would +that Reflection be cast upon the</i> best-natur'd Nation <i>in the World, +that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and +now, being civiliz'd, we expend our Barbarity on one another</i>. Homer +<i>would not be so much the Ridicule of our</i> Beaux Esprits; <i>when, with +all his Sleepiness, he is propos'd as the most exquisite Pattern of +Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. +Nor is</i> Longinus <i>behind hand with</i> Aristotle <i>in his Character of the +same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of</i> Homer's <i>Soul +look'd above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and +hurry'd on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. +A Racer at</i> New-market <i>or the</i> Downs, <i>which has been fed and drest, +and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble +perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of</i> Pegasus <i>bear him o'er +Hills and Mountains,</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera—</p> + +<p><i>Such was the Soul of</i> Homer: <i>who is more justly admir'd by those who +understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings +partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his</i> +Heroes; <i>and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his</i> Criticks, +<i>than on</i> Himself: <i>who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule +to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which</i> +Alcibiades <i>gave to</i> Socrates, <i>when he compar'd him to the Statues of +the</i> Sileni, <i>which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; +but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods +and Goddesses.</i></p> + +<p><i>Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those sudden Emotions, +which excite illustrious Men, to act and speak out of the</i> Common Road? +<i>They seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and Bigottry we pay +to</i> Custom, <i>which is no Standard to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules +we receive in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose, to +restrain the</i> Mind; <i>which by reason of the Tenderness of our Age and +the ungovernable Disposition of Young Nature, is apt to start out into +Excess and Extravagance. But when Time has ripen'd us, and Observation +has fortify'd the Soul, we ought to lay aside those common Rules with +our Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free, generous and +manly Spirit. Thus a</i> Good Poet <i>should make use of a Discretionary +Command; like a</i> Good General, <i>who may rightly wave the vulgar Precepts +of the Military School (which may confine an ordinary Capacity, and curb +the Rash and Daring) if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he +find out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success.</i></p> + +<p>Bocalin, <i>the</i> Italian <i>Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has +this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When</i> +Tasso <i>(says he) had presented</i> Apollo <i>with his</i> Poem, <i>call'd</i> +Giurasalemme Liberata; <i>the</i> Reformer <i>of the</i> Delphic Library, <i>to +whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not +written according to the Rules of</i> Aristotle; <i>which affront being +complain'd of,</i> Apollo <i>was highly incens'd, and chid</i> Aristotle <i>for +his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high +Conceptions of the</i> Virtuosi, <i>whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, +enrich'd the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to +enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring +Charms which daily flow'd from the Productions of Poets, who follow the +Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the +28th Advertisement.</i></p> + +<p><i>The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must +wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho'</i> Homer +<i>and</i> Virgil, Pindar <i>and</i> Horace <i>be laid before us as Examples of +exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro' the +Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find +like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that +Nature has furnish'd him with, and his own Observation has improv'd, we +may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority +with the best of the</i> Athenian <i>and</i> Roman <i>Excellencies</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse">Nec minimum meruêre decus vestigia Græca + Ausi deserere.——</p> + +<p><i>It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt +nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern</i> Milo's <i>who have +been wedg'd in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail'd +in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, +would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation +by</i> Hippocrates <i>and</i> Galen <i>well-studied, than by</i> Homer <i>and</i> Virgil +<i>ill-copied?</i></p> + +<p>Horace, <i>who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of +Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish'd Writer on a +pardonable Want of Care, or excus'd them by the Infirmity of Human +Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who +quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform +which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling +Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we +should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater +Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to +praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay +a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, +to clap their Play, or admire their Poem.</i></p> + +<p class="verse"> For noble Scriblers are with Flattery fed,<br /> + And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread.</p> + +<p class="verse"> <i>Dryden's Pers..</i></p> + +<p>Juvenal <i>shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old +disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left +the Town,</i></p> + +<p class="verse"> —Mentiri nescio: librum<br /> + Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere.</p> + +<p><i>To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a +Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault +with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman.</i></p> + +<p><i>Who then is this Critick? You will find him in</i> Quintilius Varus, <i>of</i> +Cremona, <i>who when any Author shew'd him his Composure, laid aside the</i> +Fastus <i>common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen'd on any +Mistake</i>, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc.</p> + +<p><i>Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to +others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another +like him. Our</i> English <i>Criticks having taken away a great deal from the +Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. +Like a certain Nobleman mention'd by my Lord</i> Verulam, <i>who when he +invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the +Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest.</i></p> + +<p><i>The</i> French <i>then seem to me to have a truer Taste of the ancient +Authors than ever</i> Scaliger <i>or</i> Heinsius <i>could pretend to</i>. Rapin, +<i>and above all</i>, Bossu, <i>have done more Justice to</i> Homer <i>and to</i> +Virgil, <i>to</i> Livy <i>and</i> Thucydides, <i>to</i> Demosthenes <i>and to</i> Cicero, +<i>&c. and have bin more beneficial to the Republick of Learning, by their +nice Comparisons and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those +well-meaning Men, who rummage</i> musty Manuscripts <i>for</i> various Lections. +<i>They did not</i> Insistere in ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis +intenti nihil ultra petere, (<i>As</i> Dacier <i>has it</i>) <i>but search'd the +inmost Recesses, open'd their Mysteries, and (as it were) call'd the +Spirit of the Author from the Dead. It is for this</i> Le Clerc <i>(in his</i> +Bibliotheque Choisie, <i>Tom.</i> 9. <i>p.</i> 328.) <i>commends St.</i> Evremont's +<i>Discourses on</i> Salust <i>and</i> Tacitus, <i>as also his Judgment on the +Ancients, and blames the Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste +of Antiquity after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen +to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their Manner of Writing, +which takes Notice only of Words, Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with +a blind Admiration of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and +deters it from the pursuit of the</i> Belles Lettres.</p> + +<p><i>I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an +Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly +of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the</i> Strophe +<i>and</i> Antistrophe; <i>neither do I think it necessary; besides I had +rather err with Mr.</i> Cowley, <i>who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in +the right with others.</i></p> + +<p><i>Mr.</i> Congreve, <i>an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too +hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the +last Olympic has two</i> Monostrophicks <i>of different Measure, and Number +of Lines.</i></p> + +<p><i>The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You +may expect the rest on the</i> Pindaric Style. <i>In the mean time I beg +leave to subscribe myself,</i></p> + +<p class="i4"><i>Sir, Your ever Obedient</i></p> +<p class="i6"><i>and Obliged Servant,</i></p> + +<h2>Samuel Cobb.</h2> + +<hr /> + + +<h2>Of POETRY.</h2> + +<h3>1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement.</h3> + + +<h2>A POEM.</h2> + + + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Antiquity of Poetry</i></span>Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast<br /> + Design'd a Creature to command the rest,<br /> + Of all th' <i>Erected Progeny of Clay</i><br /> + His Noblest Labour was his <i>First Essay</i>.<br /> + There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind<br /> + Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind.<br /> + The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen<br /> + In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien.<br /> + Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught,<br /> + With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought<br /> + To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing,<br /> + And be at once the Poet and the King.<br /> + Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew,<br /> + And saw the Depth of Nature at a View;<br /> + Or, new descending from th' Angelick race,<br /> + Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place.<span class="sidenote">* The Soul according to the Platonists. So <i>Virgil</i>: <i>Aurai +simplicis ig, nem.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame,<br /> + Which lodg'd his <i>Fiery Guest</i>[*], and like the same<br /> + Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense,<br /> + His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.<br /> + Whene're He spoke, from his <i>Seraphick</i> Tongue<br /> + Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young,<br /> + With new <i>Calliopes</i> and <i>Clio's</i> sprung.<br /> + No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind,<br /> + Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd.<br /> + Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain<br /> + Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain.</p> + + + +<p class="verse"> But when He yielded to deluding Charms,<br /> + Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms.<br /> + The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd,<br /> + But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd.<br /> + Yet here and there <i>Celestial Seeds</i> She threw,<br /> + And rain'd <i>melodious Blessings</i> as She flew.<br /> + Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd<br /> + For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd.<br /> + Who, of a <i>Species</i> more sublime, can tame<br /> + The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame.<br /> + When in their breasts th'impetuous <i>Numen</i> rowls,<br /> + And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung,<br /> + And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung.<br /> + He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light,<br /> + Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night.<br /> + How Sin and Shame th' <i>Unhappy Couple</i> knew,<br /> + And thro' affrighted <i>Eden</i>, more affrighted, flew.<br /> + How God advanc'd his Darling <i>Abram's</i> fame,<br /> + In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name.<br /> + On <i>Horeb's</i> Top, or <i>Sinah's</i> flaming Hill<br /> + Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will.<br /> + Unshaken then <i>Seth's</i> stony Column stood,<br /> + Surviving the Destruction of the Flood.<br /> + His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone,<br /> + Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known.<br /> + Thence Divine <i>Moses</i>, with exalted thought,<br /> + In <i>Hebrew</i> Lines the <i>Worlds Beginning</i> wrote.<span class="sidenote"><i>The Progress of Poetry.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,<br /> + Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse.<br /> + Here <i>Deborah</i> in fiery rapture sings,<br /> + The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings.<br /> + Thy Torrent, <i>Kison</i>, shall for ever flow,<br /> + Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe.</p> + +<p class="verse"> With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,<br /> + With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays,<br /> + The Seed of <i>Judah</i> to the Battle flew,<br /> + And Orders of Destroying Angels drew<br /> + To their Victorious side: Who marching round<br /> + Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound,<br /> + By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound.<br /> + So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim<br /> + Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name!</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nor does it here alone it's Magick show,<br /> + But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.<br /> + So powerful is the Muse! When <i>David</i> plaid,<br /> + The Frantick <i>Dæmon</i> heard him, and obey'd.<br /> + No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay<br /> + Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away.<br /> + Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd<span class="sidenote"><i>Orpheus.</i></span><br /> + To <i>Jews</i> alone: For in a Heathen mind<br /> + Some strokes appear: Thus <i>Orpheus</i> was inspir'd,<br /> + Inchanting <i>Syrens</i> at his Song retir'd.<br /> + To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd,<br /> + And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd.<span class="sidenote"><i>Homer.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> But <i>Greece</i> was honour'd with a Greater Name,<br /> + <i>Homer</i> is <i>Greece's</i> Glory and her Shame.<br /> + How could Learn'd <i>Athens</i> with contempt refuse,<br /> + Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse?<br /> + Thee, <i>Colophon</i>, his angry Ghost upbraids,<br /> + While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.<br /> + Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive<br /> + For the Dead <i>Homer</i>, whom they scorn'd Alive.<br /> + So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom!<br /> + To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' <i>Virgil</i> rising under happier Stars,<br /> + Saw <i>Rome</i> succeed in Learning as in Wars.<br /> + When <i>Pollio</i>, like a smiling Planet, shone,<br /> + And <i>Cæsar</i> darted on him, like the Sun.<br /> + Nor did <i>Mecænas</i>, gain a less repute,<br /> + When Tuneful <i>Flaccus</i> touch'd the <i>Roman</i> Lute.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But when, <i>Mecænas</i>, will Thy Star appear<br /> + In our low Orb, and gild the <i>British</i> Sphere?<br /> + Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes<br /> + Dissembled under <i>DORSET's</i> fair Disguise?<br /> + If so; go on, Great <i>Sackvile</i>, to regard<br /> + The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward.<br /> + So to Thy Fame a <i>Pyramid</i> shall rise,<br /> + Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.<br /> + For if a Verse Eternity can claim,<br /> + Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.<br /> + This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain<br /> + <i>Octavius</i> hover'd long, and sought to Reign.<br /> + This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,<br /> + Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.<br /> + Let him his Title to such Glory bring,<br /> + You give as freely, and more nobly sing.<br /> + Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,<br /> + He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.<br /> + <i>Horace</i> and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd,<br /> + The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O Light of <i>England</i>, and her highest Grace!<br /> + Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race!<br /> + Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine<br /> + (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line,<br /> + While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell<br /> + The noblest Poets, and who most excel.<br /> + Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send,<br /> + Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse<br /> + The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse<br /> + On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough,<br /> + And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.<br /> + A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,<br /> + May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,<br /> + Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme<br /> + Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.<br /> + Observe their twenty faces, how they strain<br /> + To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.<br /> + Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,<br /> + Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,<br /> + And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)<br /> + Create a <i>BRITISH PRINCE</i>; as hard a task,<br /> + As would a <i>Cowley</i> or a <i>Milton</i> ask,<br /> + To build a Poem of the vastest price,<br /> + A <i>DAVIDEIS</i>, or <i>LOST PARADISE</i>.<br /> + So tho' a Beauty of <i>Imperial Mien</i><br /> + May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,<br /> + The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,<br /> + Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,<br /> + By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.<br /> + I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,<br /> + And raise their <i>Airy Babel</i> to the Sky.<br /> + Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,<br /> + Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,<br /> + Not so the Seat of <i>Phoebus</i> role, which lay<br /> + In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.<br /> + To <i>Britany</i> the Temple was convey'd,<br /> + By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.<br /> + Built from the <i>Basis</i> by a noble Few,<br /> + The stately Fabrick in perfection view.<br /> + While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,<br /> + The Work of many rowling Centuries.</p> + +<p class="verse"> For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise<br /> + An <i>English</i> Poet, meriting the Bays.<br /> + How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known<br /> + For <i>Greek</i> and <i>Latin</i> Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.</p> + +<p class="verse"> As <i>Moors</i> of old, near <i>Guinea's</i> precious Shore,<br /> + For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.<br /> + Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,<br /> + Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.<span class="sidenote"><i>Chaucer</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,<br /> + Till <i>Chaucer</i> rose, and pointed out the Day.<br /> + A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse<br /> + In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.<br /> + Our <i>English Ennius</i> He, who claim'd his part<br /> + In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.<br /> + The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,<span class="sidenote"><i>Spencer</i></span><br /> + And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.<br /> + Which <i>Spencer</i> gather'd, for his Learning known,<br /> + And by successful gleanings made his Own.<br /> + So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,<br /> + Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.<br /> + O had thy Poet, <i>Britany</i>, rely'd<br /> + On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!<br /> + Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,<br /> + <i>Mæanides</i> and <i>Virgil</i> had been Thine!<br /> + Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,<br /> + But <i>Chaucer's</i> steps <i>religiously</i> pursu'd.</p> + +<p class="verse"> He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise<br /> + T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;<br /> + 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;<br /> + So secred was th' Authority of Age!<br /> + The Coyn must sure for <i>currant Sterling</i> pass,<br /> + Stamp'd with old <i>Chaucer's Venerable Face</i>.<br /> + But <i>Johnson</i> found it of a gross <i>Alloy</i>,<br /> + Melted it down, and slung the Dross away<br /> + He dug pure Silver from a <i>Roman Mine</i>,<br /> + And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.<br /> + We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,<br /> + Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.<br /> + Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,<br /> + Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.<br /> + Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray<br /> + The Sweat of <i>Terence</i>, in thy Glorious way,<br /> + Or <i>Catliine</i> plots better in thy Play.<br /> + Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,<br /> + Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,<br /> + And doubt which merits most, <i>Rome's Cicero</i>, or Thine.<br /> + All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,<br /> + And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.<br /> + So <i>Macedon's Imperial Hero</i> threw<br /> + His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.<br /> + Great <i>Johnson's</i><span class="sidenote"><i>Ben. Johnson</i>.</span> Deeds stand Parallel with His,<br /> + Were <i>Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame<br /> + Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.<br /> + Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,<br /> + And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.</p> + + + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Fletcher</i> and <i>Beaument</i></span> <i>Fletcher</i>, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,<br /> + Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.<br /> + Who, prodigal of Sense, by <i>Beaumont's</i> care,<br /> + Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.<br /> + Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,<br /> + A <i>bragging Bessus</i>, or <i>inconstant King</i>.<br /> + Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise<br /> + In his <i>Amyntors</i>, and <i>Aspasia's</i>.<br /> + But <i>Rome</i> and <i>Athens</i> must the Plots produce<br /> + With <i>France</i>, the Handmaid of the <i>English</i> Muse</p> + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Shakespear</i>.</span> +Ev'n <i>Shakespear</i> sweated in his narrow Isle,<br /> + And Subject <i>Italy</i> obey'd his Stile.<br /> + <i>Boccace</i> and <i>Cinthio</i> must a tribute pay,<br /> + T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.<br /> + Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,<br /> + Or borrow Learning from <i>Athenian</i> Schools:<br /> + Yet He, with <i>Plautus</i>, could instruct and please,<br /> + <span class="sidenote"><i>* See Plutarch's Life of Theseus</i>.</span> + And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.<br /> + By inborn strength so <i>Theseus</i> bent the Pine,<br /> + Which cost <i>the Robber</i> many Years Design[*].</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest<br /> + His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.<br /> + Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,<br /> + Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,<br /> + Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain<br /> + Of <i>Æschylus</i>, or sooth in <i>Ovid's</i> vein.<br /> + I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,<br /> + When <i>Desdemona</i> by <i>Othello</i> dyes.<br /> + When I view <i>Brutus</i> in his Dress appear;<br /> + I know not how to call him too severe.<br /> + His <i>rigid Vertue</i> there attories for all,<br /> + And makes a Sacrifice of <i>Cæsar's</i> Fall.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nature work'd Wonders then; when <i>Shakespear</i> dy'd<br /> + <span class="sidenote"><i>Cowley</i>.</span><span class="sidenote">* <i>Ovid</i> was born the same year in which <i>Cicero</i> dy'd.</span>Her <i>Cowley</i> rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.<br /> + So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,<br /> + And Builds an <i>Ovid[*]</i> when a <i>Tully</i> Falls.</p> + +<p class="verse"> With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,<br /> + And <i>David's</i> Toils in <i>David's</i> numbers Sings?<br /> + Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,<br /> + His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,<br /> + Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,<br /> + <i>Hermits</i> may read them to a Virgin's Ear.<br /> + Unstoln <i>Promethean</i> Fire informs his Song,<br /> + Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.<br /> + His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply,<br /> + Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,<br /> + Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.<br /> + A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,<br /> + Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea.<br /> + Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain<br /> + Presuming <i>Xerxes</i> shall pretend to Reign,<br /> + And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail <i>English</i> Swan? for You alone could dare<br /> + With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air:<br /> + And to your Lute <i>Pindaric</i> Numbers call,<br /> + Nor fear the Danger of a <i>threatned Fall</i>.<br /> + O had You liv'd to <i>Waller's</i> Reverend Age,<br /> + Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page!<br /> + Then <i>Britain's</i> Isle might raise her Trophies high,<br /> + And <i>Solid Rome</i>, or <i>Witty Greece</i> outvy.<br /> + The <i>Rhine</i>, the <i>Tyber</i>, and <i>Parisian Sein</i>,<br /> + When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main,<br /> + Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,<br /> + Than gentle <i>Cowley's</i> never-dying Verse.<br /> + The <i>Thames</i> should sweep his briny way before,<br /> + And with his Name salute each distant Shore.<span class="sidenote"><i>Milton.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Then You, like Glorious +<i>Milton</i> had been known<br /> + To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own.<br /> + <i>Milton</i>! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies,<br /> + While Earth below grows little, as She Flies.<br /> + Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight,<br /> + Far as the Confines of retreating Light.<br /> + Tells the <i>sindg'd Moor</i>, how scepter'd Death began<br /> + His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man.<br /> + Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel,<br /> + By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Now <i>Seraphs</i> crown'd with <i>Helmets</i> I behold,<br /> + <i>Helmets</i> of Substance more refin'd than Gold:<br /> + The Skies with an united Lustre shine,<br /> + And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn.<br /> + God's <i>plated Son, Majestically gay</i>,<br /> + Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way<br /> + Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies,<br /> + Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes.<br /> + O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore,<br /> + And transfix d Angels groan upon the <i>Diamond-Floor</i>.<br /> + Then, wheeling from <i>Olympus</i> Snowy top,<br /> + Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop<br /> + Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,<br /> + And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.</p> + +<p class="verse"> I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere<br /> + Once by the <i>Victor God</i>, begins to fear<br /> + New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.<br /> + I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,<br /> + <i>Was't not enough, Relentless Power</i>! he cries,<br /> + <i>Despair of better state, and loss of Light<br /> + Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night<br /> + And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,<br /> + But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,<br /> + And Register the Fate which we Sustain?<br /> + Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name<br /> + Hence, after Thine, we feel the</i> Poet's <i>Flame<br /> + And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O Soul <i>Seraphick</i>, teach us how we may<br /> + Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,<br /> + For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?<br /> + Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,<br /> + Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.<br /> + Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,<br /> + Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,<br /> + All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.<br /> + Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose<br /> + Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.<br /> + Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we<br /> + Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.<br /> + Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,<br /> + Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:<br /> + Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay<br /> + In nether Night, and such a want of Day.<br /> + But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires<br /> + To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:<br /> + Like an unhooded <i>Hawk</i>, who, loose to Prey,<br /> + With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way.<br /> + There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place,<br /> + And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:<br /> + Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be<br /> + A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee,<br /> + There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,<br /> + And rowl with <i>Homer</i> in the brightest Sphere;<br /> + To whom <i>Calliope</i> has joyn'd thy Name,<br /> + And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows<br /> + In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.<br /> + Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,<br /> + When room is granted to the Speech and Thought.<br /> + Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song<span class="sidenote"><i>Waller</i>.</span><br /> + Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along.<br /> + Like <i>Waller's</i> Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime,<br /> + Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.<br /> + His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown<br /> + In Numbers sweet and <i>Courtly</i> as his Own.<br /> + Who no unmanly <i>Turns</i> of Thought pursues,<br /> + Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.<br /> + Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay,<br /> + Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.<br /> + In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung,<br /> + Like those <i>Seraphick</i> flames of which He Sung.<br /> + If, <i>Cromwel</i>, he laments thy Mighty Fall<br /> + Nature attending Weeps at the <i>Great Funeral</i>.<br /> + Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings<br /> + the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings<br /> + <i>Batavians</i> worsted on the Conquer'd Main,<br /> + Fleets flying, and advent'rous <i>Opdam</i> Slain,<br /> + Then <i>Rome</i> and <i>Athens</i> to his Song repair<br /> + With <i>British</i> Graces smiling on his Care,<br /> + Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.<br /> + As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill<br /> + The <i>Flandrian Plains</i>, and speak no vulgar Skill;<br /> + So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such,<br /> + No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.<br /> + As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine,<br /> + The Substance precious, and the Work Divine:<br /> + So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase,<br /> + Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,<br /> + A mighty Value in a little Space.<br /> + So the <i>Venusian Clio</i> sung of Old,<br /> + When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.<br /> + But <i>Rome's</i> aspiring <i>Lyrick</i> pleas'd us less,<br /> + Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.<br /> + O <i>Sacharissa</i>, what could steel thy Breast,<br /> + To Rob <i>Harmonious Waller</i> of his Rest?<br /> + To send him Murm'ring thro' the <i>Cypress</i>-Grove,<br /> + In strains lamenting his neglected Love.<br /> + Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake,<br /> + And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake.<br /> + Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline;<br /> + And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.<br /> + Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known;<br /> + Like <i>Niobe</i>, a Monument of Stone.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew,<br /> + And <i>Waller's</i> praise Eternally pursue,<br /> + Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,<br /> + So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But now the forward Muse converts her Eye<br /> + To see where <i>Denham</i>, and <i>Roscommon</i> fly,<br /> + Cautiously daring, and correctly High.<br /> + Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,<br /> + Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.<br /> + Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs,<br /> + Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,<br /> + With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time,<br /> + And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.<br /> + Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence,<br /> + Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense,<br /> + The <i>Critick</i> judges what the <i>Muse</i> indites,<br /> + And Rules for <i>Dryden</i>, like a <i>Dryden</i>, Writes.<span class="sidenote"><i>* Epictetus.</i></span><br /> + 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,<br /> + But like the <i>Stoicks</i>[*], of prodigious Price.<br /> + <i>Roscommon's</i> Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,<br /> + Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.<br /> + Fam'd <i>Cooper's Hill</i> shall, like <i>Parnassus</i>, stand,<br /> + And <i>Denham</i> reign, the <i>Phæbus</i> of the Land.<span class="sidenote"><i>Oldham.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Among these sacred and immortal Names, <br /> + A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims;<br /> + See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play<br /> + Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way.<br /> + But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,<br /> + Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.<br /> + Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just<br /> + We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.<br /> + O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose<br /> + And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.<br /> + The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay,<br /> + In all the Trappings of the flowry <i>May</i>.<br /> + He set him out unsufferably bright,<br /> + And sow'd in every part his beamy Light.<br /> + Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,<br /> + For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.</p> + +<p class="verse"> His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,<br /> + Like <i>Satyrs</i> Rough, but not Deform'd as they.<br /> + His Sense undrest, like <i>Adam</i>, free from Blame,<br /> + Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame,<br /> + True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,<br /> + A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the <i>Romish</i> Crimes,<br /> + In rugged <i>Satyr</i> and ill-sounding Rhymes.<br /> + All <i>Italy</i> felt his imbitter'd Tongue,<br /> + And trembled less when sharp <i>Lucilius</i> Stung.<br /> + Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse<br /> + Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.<br /> + In <i>Jordan's</i> stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,<br /> + And rose more Beauteous than She was before.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,<br /> + And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,<br /> + When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,<span class="sidenote"><i>Lee.</i></span><br /> + She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.<br /> + Thus <i>Lee</i> by Reason strove not to controul<br /> + That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.<br /> + He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,<br /> + Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.<br /> + I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;<br /> + But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?</p> + +<p class="verse"> Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,<span class="sidenote"><i>Otway.</i></span><br /> + The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.<br /> + If Pity sooths us, <i>Otway</i> claims our Praise;<br /> + If Terrour strikes, then <i>Lee</i> deserves the Bays.<br /> + We grant a Genius shines in <i>Jaffeir's</i> Part,<br /> + And <i>Roman Brutus</i> speaks a Master's Art.<br /> + But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase<br /> + An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze.<br /> + A rising Meteor never was design'd,<br /> + T'amaze the sober part of Human kind.<br /> + Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse<br /> + A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse.<br /> + Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go,<br /> + Emptily Gay, magnificently Low,<br /> + Like Ancient <i>Rome's</i> Religion, Sacrifice and Show.<br /> + Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize,<br /> + Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes.<br /> + The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage,<br /> + May please the Young <i>Sir Foplings</i> on the Stage.<br /> + But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find<br /> + Like <i>Spencer's</i> Giant sunk away in Wind.<br /> + It grates judicious Readers when they meet<br /> + Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet.<br /> + Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,<br /> + Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.<span class="sidenote"><i>Dryden.</i></span><br /> + <i>Lee</i> aim'd to rise above great <i>Dryden's</i> Height,<br /> + But lofty <i>Dryden</i> keeps a steddy Flight.<br /> + Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care<br /> + His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air.<br /> + The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name,<br /> + By industry he kindled to a Flame.<br /> + The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue<br /> + To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung.<br /> + His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine,<br /> + <i>All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.</i><br /> + His <i>Images</i> so strong and lively be,<br /> + I hear not Words alone, but Substance see;<br /> + Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move<br /> + Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love.<br /> + I weep to hear fond <i>Anthony</i> complain<br /> + In <i>Shakespear's</i> Fancy, but in <i>Virgil's</i> Strain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer,<span class="sidenote">* See Preface to <i>Aurengzebe</i>.</span><br /> + Himself[*] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err.<br /> + But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim<br /> + The sounding Title of a Poem's Name.<br /> + For Raillery, and what creates a Smile<br /> + Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.<br /> + That <i>Heav'nly Heat</i> refuses to be seen<br /> + In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.</p> + +<p class="verse"> If we would do him right, we must produce<br /> + The <i>Sophoclean Buskin</i>; when his Muse<br /> + With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear,<br /> + And <i>Peals</i> applauding shake the Theater.</p> + +<p class="verse"> They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,<br /> + Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays.<br /> + Is he oblig'd to <i>France</i>, who draws from thence<br /> + By <i>English</i> Energy, their Captive Sense?<br /> + Tho' <i>Edward</i> and fam'd <i>Henry</i> Warr'd in vain,<br /> + Subduing what they could not long retain:<br /> + Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,<br /> + And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.</p> + +<p class="verse"> This does superiour excellence betray;<br /> + O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!<br /> + If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make<br /> + Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake<br /> + Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design<br /> + She must her Own Originals decline,<br /> + And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine.<br /> + Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,<br /> + Which Young <i>Thalia</i> sung in Rural Lays.</p> + +<p class="verse"> As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain<br /> + As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,<br /> + Such <i>Tityrus's</i> charming Number show,<br /> + Please like the River, like the River flow.<br /> + When his first Years in mighty Order ran,<br /> + And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,<br /> + Around his Lips the <i>Waxen Artists</i> hung,<br /> + And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue.<br /> + Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,<br /> + More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke.<br /> + Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide,<br /> + Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains,<br /> + Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains.<br /> + Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares,<br /> + Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years.<br /> + Yet still, like <i>Ætna's</i> <i>Mount</i>, he kept his Fire,<br /> + And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier.<br /> + He smil'd, like <i>Phoebus</i> in a Stormy Morn,<br /> + And sung, like <i>Philomel</i> against a Thorn.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Here <i>Syren of sweet Poesy</i>, receive<br /> + That little praise my unknown Muse can give.<br /> + Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear<br /> + Tho' angry <i>B—— more</i> in Heroicks jeer.</p> + +<p class="verse"> A Bard, who seems to challenge <i>Virgil's</i> Flame,<br /> + And would be next in Majesty and Name.<br /> + With lofty <i>Maro</i> he at first may please;<br /> + The Righteous <i>Briton</i> rises by degrees.<br /> + But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows,<br /> + And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,<br /> + The <i>Mantuan</i> Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,<br /> + Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight.<br /> + Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song<br /> + Runs smooth as <i>Thames's</i> River, and as strong.<br /> + Like his own <i>Neptune</i> he the Waves confines,<br /> + While <i>Bl—— re</i> rumbles, like the King of Winds.<br /> + His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,<br /> + Jade out our Patience with excessive length.<br /> + While Readers, Yawning o'er his <i>Arthurs</i> see<br /> + Whole Pages spun on one poor <i>Simile</i>.<br /> + We grant he labours with no want of Brains,<br /> + Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains,<br /> + One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat<br /> + Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat<br /> + A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.<br /> + It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise<br /> + The <i>World's</i> <i>Imperial Poem</i> in Six Days.<br /> + But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay,<br /> + Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay:<br /> + In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train,<br /> + Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain:<br /> + Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer,<br /> + And call the smiling Angels to his care.<br /> + Must sleep less Nights, <i>Vulcanian</i> Labours prove,<br /> + Like <i>Cyclops</i>, forging Thunder for a <i>Jove</i>.<br /> + With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style,<br /> + Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File.<br /> + If You design to make Your Prince appear<br /> + As perfect as Humanity can bear.<br /> + Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please,<br /> + Deaf to the <i>Syrens</i> of alluring ease.<br /> + No Terrours Thee, <i>Achilles</i>, could invade,<br /> + Nor Thee, <i>Ulysses</i>, any Charms persuade.<br /> + This must be done, if Poets would be Read,<br /> + Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains<br /> + <i>Virgilian Addison</i> describes <i>Campaigns</i>.<br /> + Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find,<br /> + Not of the <i>Gyant</i>, nor the <i>Pygmy</i> kind.<br /> + Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song,<br /> + Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.</p> + +<p class="verse"> This <i>Congreve</i> follows in his Deathless Line,<br /> + And the <i>Tenth Hand</i> is put to the Design.<br /> + The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil<br /> + Claims more than <i>Shakespear's</i> Wit, or <i>Johnson's</i> Oil.<br /> + Sing on, <i>Harmonious Swan</i>, in weeping strains,<br /> + And tell <i>Pastora's</i> Death to mournful Swains.<br /> + Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs<br /> + Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.<br /> + Or let thy <i>Satyr</i> grin with half a Smile,<br /> + And jeer in <i>Easy Etherege's</i> Style.<br /> + Let <i>Manly Wycherly</i> chalk out the Way,<br /> + And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.<br /> + 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings,<br /> + The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.</p> + +<p class="verse"> The <i>Teian Muse</i> invites Thee from above<br /> + To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.<br /> + Let <i>MONTAGUE</i> describe <i>Boyn's</i> swelling Flood<br /> + And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood.<br /> + O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse!<br /> + Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.<br /> + When You <i>Nassau's</i> bright Actions dar'd to see,<br /> + <i>You</i> was the <i>Eagle</i>, and <i>Apollo He</i>.<br /> + But when He read You, and Your Value knew,<br /> + <i>He</i> was the <i>Eagle</i>, and <i>Apollo You</i>.<br /> + Both spoke the Bird in her <i>Æthereal</i> height,<br /> + The <i>Majesty</i> was <i>His</i>, and <i>Thine</i> the <i>Flight</i>.<br /> + Both did <i>Apollo</i> in His Glory shew,<br /> + The Silver <i>Harp</i> was <i>Thine</i>, and <i>His</i> the <i>Bow</i>,</p> + +<p class="verse"> So may <i>Pierian Clio</i> cease to fear,<br /> + When <i>Honour</i> deigns to sing, and <i>Majesty</i> to hear!<br /> + So may she favour'd live, and always please<br /> + Our <i>Dorset's</i>, and Judicious <i>Normanby's</i>!</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nor does the <i>Coronet</i> alone defend<br /> + The Muses Cause: The <i>Miter</i> is Her Friend.<br /> + Can we forget how <i>Damon's</i> lofty Tongue<br /> + Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung<br /> + When <i>Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd</i> Sung.<br /> + How <i>Mars</i> and <i>Pallas</i> wept to see the Day<br /> + When <i>Athens</i> by a Plague dispeopled lay.<br /> + What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost!<br /> + Sung with more Spirit than all <i>Athens</i> lost.<br /> + Nor can the <i>Miter</i> now conceal the Bays,<br /> + For still we view the <i>Sacred Poet's</i> praise.<br /> + So tho' <i>Eridanus</i> becomes a Star<br /> + Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar,<br /> + Below he loses nothing but his Name,<br /> + Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song,<br /> + Let <i>Creech</i> be numbred with the Sacred Throng.<br /> + Whose daring Muse could with <i>Manilius</i> fly,<br /> + And, like an <i>Atlas</i>, shoulder up the Sky.<br /> + He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace<br /> + His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race.<br /> + See, how He walks above in mighty strains,<br /> + And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains!<br /> + He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey,<br /> + In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they.</p> + +<p class="verse"> 'Tis cause of Triumph, when <i>Rome's</i> Genius shines<span class="sidenote"><i>A. Lucretius</i> and <i>Manilius</i>.</span><br /> + In nervous <i>English</i>, and well-worded Lines.<br /> + Two Famous <i>Latins</i>[A] our bright Tongue adorn,<br /> + And a new <i>Virgil</i>[B]<span class="sidenote">B. Mr. <i>Dryden's</i> <i>Virgil</i>.</span> is in <i>England</i> born.<br /> + An <i>Æneid</i> to translate, and make a new,<br /> + Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.</p> + +<p class="verse"> For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind<br /> + Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind;<br /> + Yet a well-languag'd Version will require<br /> + An equal <i>Genius</i>, and as strong a Fire.<br /> + These claim at once our Study and our Praise,<br /> + Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase.<br /> + These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand<br /> + At <i>Paul's</i> or <i>Cornhill</i>, <i>Fleetstreet</i> or the <i>Strand</i>.<br /> + Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas,<br /> + An Ornament to <i>Foreign Libraries</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my <i>Theme</i>!<br /> + O could I write so well as I esteem!<br /> + From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise<br /> + As a young <i>Phoenix</i> out of Ashes flies<br /> + Above what <i>France</i> or <i>Italy</i> can shew,<br /> + The Celebrated <i>Tasso</i>, or <i>Boileau</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find<br /> + Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind:<br /> + If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men,<br /> + You love the <i>Labour'd Travels</i> of the Pen;<br /> + Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time<br /> + On <i>Cowley</i>, or on <i>Dryden's</i> useful Rhyme:<br /> + Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse,<br /> + The <i>Tragick, Lyrick</i>, or <i>Heroick</i> Muse:<br /> + For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew<br /> + In <i>Charming Numbers</i>, what is false, what true,<br /> + And teach more good than <i>Hobbs</i> or <i>Lock</i> can do.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail, ye <i>Poetick Dead</i>, who wander now<br /> + In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow.<br /> + Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,<br /> + Ye blest Partakers of a happier State!<br /> + Whether Intomb'd with <i>English Kings</i> you sleep,<br /> + Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:<br /> + There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,<br /> + May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay!<br /> + There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume<br /> + The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.</p> + +<p class="verse"> While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear,<br /> + Sing on; let <i>Montague</i> and <i>Dorset</i> hear.<br /> + In Stately Verse let <i>William's</i> Praise be told,<br /> + WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold.<br /> + No more of <i>Richelieu's</i> Worth: Forget not, Fame,<br /> + To change <i>Augustus</i> for Great <i>William's</i> Name.<br /> + Who, tho' like <i>Homer's</i> <i>Jupiter</i>, he sate,<br /> + Musing on something eminently great<br /> + And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate;<br /> + Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears<br /> + The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.<br /> + Whether this Praise to <i>Stepny's</i> Muse belong,<br /> + Or <i>Prior</i> claim it for <i>Pindarick Song</i>.<br /> + The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd,<br /> + And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.<br /> + The double Vertue of <i>Nassovian Fire</i><br /> + At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire.<br /> + The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung<br /> + A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,<br /> + When <i>Mars</i> has Acted, or when <i>Phoebus</i> Sung.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O cou'd my Muse reach <i>Milton's</i> tow'ring Flight,<br /> + Or stretch her Wings to the <i>Mæonian</i> Height!<br /> + Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse<br /> + His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.<br /> + The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame,<br /> + And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name<br /> + But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb,<br /> + Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome.<br /> + Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace<br /> + The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race?<br /> + What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?<br /> + No Land but <i>Britain</i>, must pretend to shine<br /> + With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.<span class="sidenote"><i>* The Duke of</i> Glouceiter. <i>Here the Author laments he +prov'd so bad a Prophet</i>.</span><br /> + So may this Island a new <i>Delos</i> prove,<br /> + Joyn[*] Young <i>Apollo</i> to the <i>Cretan Jove</i>!<br /> + What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame!<br /> + How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame!<br /> + How swiftly <i>Gloster</i> in his Bud began!<br /> + How the <i>Green Hero</i> blossoms into Man!<br /> + Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,<br /> + To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms:<br /> + See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!<br /> + Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,<br /> + What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They<br /> + Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.<br /> + <i>Edwards</i> and <i>Harry's</i> to his Eyes appear<br /> + In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.<br /> + At <i>Agincourt</i> so terrible they stood,<br /> + So when <i>Pictavian</i> Fields were dy'd with Blood.<br /> + The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,<br /> + And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.<br /> + Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,<br /> + Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly.<br /> + O'er <i>England's</i> Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,<br /> + And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.<br /> + Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,<br /> + But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep.<br /> + Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,<br /> + Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,<br /> + Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.</p> + +<p class="verse"> After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,<br /> + The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.<br /> + The Streams of <i>Thamisis</i>, exulting, Ring,<br /> + When fair <i>Augusta's</i> lofty <i>Clio's</i> Sing<br /> + <i>Granta</i> and <i>Rhedycina's</i> Tuneful Throng<br /> + Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time,<br /> + Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme.<br /> + Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,<br /> + Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure.<br /> + But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey,<br /> + Till <i>English</i> Sense and Valour shall decay.<br /> + Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,<br /> + Or <i>Cam</i> or <i>Isis</i> shall forget to Flow.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14528 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50cbf61 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14528 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14528) diff --git a/old/14528-8.txt b/old/14528-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8fe7b16 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14528-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1672 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry (1707) +by Samuel Cobb + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry (1707) + From Poems On Several Occasions (1707) + +Author: Samuel Cobb + +Release Date: December 30, 2004 [EBook #14528] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + +_Series Two:_ + +_Essays on Poetry and Language_ + + +No. 1 + + + +Samuel Cobb's + +Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry + +from + +Poems on Several Occasions (1707) + + + +With an Introduction by + +Louis I. Bredvold + + + +The Augustan Reprint Society July, 1946 + + +Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to +six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. +Address subscriptions and communications to The Augustan Reprint Society +in care of the General Editors: Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan, +Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Edward N. Hooker or H.T. Swedenberg, Jr., +University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Editorial +Advisors: Louis I. Bredvold, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, +Michigan, and James L. Clifford, Columbia University, New York. + + + + +Introduction + + +What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found +in the brief article in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ by W.P. +Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ's Hospital and +at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., +1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed "under grammar master" at +Christ's Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school +until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and +also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially +cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won +him a mention without honor in Johnson's life of Pope (_Lives of the +Poets_, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his +poem on "Poetry" aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at +epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves +attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to +fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his +opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as +Dennis, Addison, and Pope. "Of Poetry" belongs to the prolific literary +type of "progress poems," in which the modern student finds illuminating +statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past +literary traditions. The list of Cobb's publications in the _Cambridge +Bibliography_ suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His +volume, _Poems on Several Occasions_, was published in 1707, and +reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith +of the Preface "On Criticism" and the versified discourse "Of Poetry" is +from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago. + +Louis I. Bredvold + +University of Michigan + + + + +A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING. + + +In a Letter to _Richard Carter_ Esq; late of the _Middle-Temple_, now +living in _Barbadoes_. + + +SIR, + +_The_ Muses _are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore +must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a +Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and +particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon +my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe +Death it self can blot out an_ Idea _so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when +it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those +Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as_ +Temperance, Fortitude _and the like, will certainly carry_ Love _and_ +Gratitude _along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World +know what Obligations you have laid upon me. + +By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have +supply'd) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able +to secure you from the Zeal of a_ Friend, _and the Vanity of a_ Poet. + + + For tho' retiring to the _Western Isles_, + At the long Distance of five thousand Miles, + You've chang'd _dear London_ for your Native Seat, + And think _Barbadoes_ is a safe Retreat; + You highly err: Nor is the _Wat'ry Fence_ + Sufficient Guard against Impertinence. + The _Muse_, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me, + Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea. + Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' _Atlantick Main_, + Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain. + +_You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but +knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I +thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer'd my Prose with a +little Verse._ + +_After this Preamble, it is presum'd, that one who lives on the Other +side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is +done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn +every where, and particularly in_ Italy; _which Success of our Armies +and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at +home.--Parties still run between_ High _and_ Low. _I shall make no +Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more +safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather +than peevishly to quarrel with it._ + +_But You will cry,_ Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? +How goes the State of _Parnassus_? What has the Battle of _Ramillies_ +produc'd? _What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I +could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which +had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. +You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us'd to do on +things of a larger Size._ + + Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great + The slippery Danger of exalted State, + Victorious _Marlbrô_ to _Ramilly_ flies; + Arm'd with new Lightning from bright _ANNA's_ Eyes. + Wonders like These, no former Age has seen; + Subjects are _Heroes_, where a Saint's the _QUEEN_. + +_Mr._ Congreve _has given the World an Ode, and prefix'd to it a +Discourse on the_ Pindaric Verse, _of which more, when I come to speak +on the same Argument: There are several others on that Subject, and some +which will bear the Test; one particularly, written in imitation of the +Style of_ Spencer; _and goes under the Name of Mr._ Prior; _I have not +read it through, but_ ex pede Herculem. _He is a Gentleman who cannot +write ill. Yet some of our_ Criticks _have fell upon it, as the Viper +did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism, +which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure +Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every +Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till_ +Dooms-day. _The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its +to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of_ Self _is the +Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our_ Modern +Censurers, _who, when they please to_ think a Meaning _for an Author, +would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their +inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a +plain Evidence of their own Blindness._ + + For to display our Candour and our Sence, + Is to discover some deep _Excellence_. + The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free; + They raise the _Mole hill, who want Eyes to see_. + +_Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires +the Penetration of a_ Lynceus _to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the +secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar +Apprehension._ + +_I remember somewhere an Observation of St._ Evremont _(an Author whom +you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who +would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. +The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, +according to_ Juvenal; _and according to_ Scripture, _the Marks of a_ +Fool. _These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be +witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of +Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own._ + + Rules they can write, but, like the _College Tribe_, + Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe. + I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool, + _Insipidly_ correct, and _dull_ by Rule: + _Homer_, with all his _Nodding_, I would chuse, + Before the more exact _Sicilian_ Muse. + Who'd not be _Dryden_; tho' his Faults are great, + Sooner than our Laborious _Laureat_? + Not but a decent Neatness, I confess, + In _Writing_ is requir'd, as well as _Dress_. + Yet still in both the _unaffected Air_ + Will always please the _Witty_ and the _Fair_. + +_I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for +there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a_ Delicate +Taste. _Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the +Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we +write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour +of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a_ Free +Writer. _He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, +but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is +timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true +Grammar, and unexceptionable_ Prosodia, _but most stupid Poetry._ + + In vitium culpæ ducit fuga, si caret arte. + +_A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more +inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose +artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains +and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick._ + +_Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from +the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their +Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than +Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and +Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would +that Reflection be cast upon the_ best-natur'd Nation _in the World, +that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and +now, being civiliz'd, we expend our Barbarity on one another_. Homer +_would not be so much the Ridicule of our_ Beaux Esprits; _when, with +all his Sleepiness, he is propos'd as the most exquisite Pattern of +Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. +Nor is_ Longinus _behind hand with_ Aristotle _in his Character of the +same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of_ Homer's _Soul +look'd above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and +hurry'd on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. +A Racer at_ New-market _or the_ Downs, _which has been fed and drest, +and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble +perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of_ Pegasus _bear him o'er +Hills and Mountains,_ + + Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera-- + +_Such was the Soul of_ Homer: _who is more justly admir'd by those who +understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings +partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his_ +Heroes; _and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his_ Criticks, +_than on_ Himself: _who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule +to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which_ +Alcibiades _gave to_ Socrates, _when he compar'd him to the Statues of +the_ Sileni, _which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; +but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods +and Goddesses._ + +_Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those sudden Emotions, +which excite illustrious Men, to act and speak out of the_ Common Road? +_They seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and Bigottry we pay +to_ Custom, _which is no Standard to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules +we receive in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose, to +restrain the_ Mind; _which by reason of the Tenderness of our Age and +the ungovernable Disposition of Young Nature, is apt to start out into +Excess and Extravagance. But when Time has ripen'd us, and Observation +has fortify'd the Soul, we ought to lay aside those common Rules with +our Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free, generous and +manly Spirit. Thus a_ Good Poet _should make use of a Discretionary +Command; like a_ Good General, _who may rightly wave the vulgar Precepts +of the Military School (which may confine an ordinary Capacity, and curb +the Rash and Daring) if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he +find out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success._ + +Bocalin, _the_ Italian _Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has +this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When_ +Tasso _(says he) had presented_ Apollo _with his_ Poem, _call'd_ +Giurasalemme Liberata; _the_ Reformer _of the_ Delphic Library, _to +whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not +written according to the Rules of_ Aristotle; _which affront being +complain'd of,_ Apollo _was highly incens'd, and chid_ Aristotle _for +his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high +Conceptions of the_ Virtuosi, _whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, +enrich'd the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to +enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring +Charms which daily flow'd from the Productions of Poets, who follow the +Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the +28th Advertisement._ + +_The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must +wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho'_ Homer +_and_ Virgil, Pindar _and_ Horace _be laid before us as Examples of +exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro' the +Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find +like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that +Nature has furnish'd him with, and his own Observation has improv'd, we +may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority +with the best of the_ Athenian _and_ Roman _Excellencies_. + + Nec minimum meruêre decus vestigia Græca + Ausi deserere.---- + +_It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt +nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern_ Milo's _who have +been wedg'd in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail'd +in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, +would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation +by_ Hippocrates _and_ Galen _well-studied, than by_ Homer _and_ Virgil +_ill-copied?_ + +Horace, _who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of +Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish'd Writer on a +pardonable Want of Care, or excus'd them by the Infirmity of Human +Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who +quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform +which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling +Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we +should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater +Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to +praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay +a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, +to clap their Play, or admire their Poem._ + + For noble Scriblers are with Flattery fed, + And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread. + + _Dryden's Pers.._ + +Juvenal _shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old +disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left +the Town,_ + + --Mentiri nescio: librum + Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere. + +_To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a +Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault +with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman._ + +_Who then is this Critick? You will find him in_ Quintilius Varus, _of_ +Cremona, _who when any Author shew'd him his Composure, laid aside the_ +Fastus _common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen'd on any +Mistake_, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc. + +_Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to +others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another +like him. Our_ English _Criticks having taken away a great deal from the +Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. +Like a certain Nobleman mention'd by my Lord_ Verulam, _who when he +invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the +Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest._ + +_The_ French _then seem to me to have a truer Taste of the ancient +Authors than ever_ Scaliger _or_ Heinsius _could pretend to_. Rapin, +_and above all_, Bossu, _have done more Justice to_ Homer _and to_ +Virgil, _to_ Livy _and_ Thucydides, _to_ Demosthenes _and to_ Cicero, +_&c. and have bin more beneficial to the Republick of Learning, by their +nice Comparisons and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those +well-meaning Men, who rummage_ musty Manuscripts _for_ various Lections. +_They did not_ Insistere in ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis +intenti nihil ultra petere, (_As_ Dacier _has it_) _but search'd the +inmost Recesses, open'd their Mysteries, and (as it were) call'd the +Spirit of the Author from the Dead. It is for this_ Le Clerc _(in his_ +Bibliotheque Choisie, _Tom._ 9. _p._ 328.) _commends St._ Evremont's +_Discourses on_ Salust _and_ Tacitus, _as also his Judgment on the +Ancients, and blames the Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste +of Antiquity after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen +to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their Manner of Writing, +which takes Notice only of Words, Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with +a blind Admiration of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and +deters it from the pursuit of the_ Belles Lettres. + +_I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an +Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly +of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the_ Strophe +_and_ Antistrophe; _neither do I think it necessary; besides I had +rather err with Mr._ Cowley, _who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in +the right with others._ + +_Mr._ Congreve, _an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too +hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the +last Olympic has two_ Monostrophicks _of different Measure, and Number +of Lines._ + +_The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You +may expect the rest on the_ Pindaric Style. _In the mean time I beg +leave to subscribe myself,_ + + _Sir, Your ever Obedient and + Obliged Servant,_ + + Samuel Cobb. + + + + +_Of POETRY._ + +1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement. + + +A POEM. + +_Antiquity of Poetry_ + + Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast + Design'd a Creature to command the rest, + Of all th' _Erected Progeny of Clay_ + His Noblest Labour was his _First Essay_. + There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind + Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind. + The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen + In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien. + Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught, + With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought + To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing, + And be at once the Poet and the King. + Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew, + And saw the Depth of Nature at a View; + Or, new descending from th' Angelick race, + Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place. + + Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame, + Which lodg'd his _Fiery Guest_[1], and like the same + Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense, + His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence. + Whene're He spoke, from his _Seraphick_ Tongue + Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young, + With new _Calliopes_ and _Clio's_ sprung. + No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind, + Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd. + Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain + Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain. + +[1] The Soul according to the Platonists. So _Virgil_: _Aurai +simplicis ig, nem._ + + But when He yielded to deluding Charms, + Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms. + The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd, + But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd. + Yet here and there _Celestial Seeds_ She threw, + And rain'd _melodious Blessings_ as She flew. + Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd + For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd. + Who, of a _Species_ more sublime, can tame + The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame. + When in their breasts th'impetuous _Numen_ rowls, + And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls. + + Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung, + And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung. + He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light, + Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night. + How Sin and Shame th' _Unhappy Couple_ knew, + And thro' affrighted _Eden_, more affrighted, flew. + How God advanc'd his Darling _Abram's_ fame, + In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name. + On _Horeb's_ Top, or _Sinah's_ flaming Hill + Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will. + Unshaken then _Seth's_ stony Column stood, + Surviving the Destruction of the Flood. + His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone, + Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known. + Thence Divine _Moses_, with exalted thought, + In _Hebrew_ Lines the _Worlds Beginning_ wrote. + +[_The Progress of Poetry._] + + The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews, + Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse. + Here _Deborah_ in fiery rapture sings, + The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings. + Thy Torrent, _Kison_, shall for ever flow, + Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe. + + With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise, + With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays, + The Seed of _Judah_ to the Battle flew, + And Orders of Destroying Angels drew + To their Victorious side: Who marching round + Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound, + By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound. + So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim + Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name! + +[_Orpheus._] + + Nor does it here alone it's Magick show, + But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below. + So powerful is the Muse! When _David_ plaid, + The Frantick _Dæmon_ heard him, and obey'd. + No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay + Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away. + Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd + To _Jews_ alone: For in a Heathen mind + Some strokes appear: Thus _Orpheus_ was inspir'd, + Inchanting _Syrens_ at his Song retir'd. + To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd, + And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd. + +[_Homer._] + + But _Greece_ was honour'd with a Greater Name, + _Homer_ is _Greece's_ Glory and her Shame. + How could Learn'd _Athens_ with contempt refuse, + Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse? + Thee, _Colophon_, his angry Ghost upbraids, + While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades. + Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive + For the Dead _Homer_, whom they scorn'd Alive. + So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom! + To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb. + + Tho' _Virgil_ rising under happier Stars, + Saw _Rome_ succeed in Learning as in Wars. + When _Pollio_, like a smiling Planet, shone, + And _Cæsar_ darted on him, like the Sun. + Nor did _Mecænas_, gain a less repute, + When Tuneful _Flaccus_ touch'd the _Roman_ Lute. + + But when, _Mecænas_, will Thy Star appear + In our low Orb, and gild the _British_ Sphere? + Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes + Dissembled under _DORSET's_ fair Disguise? + If so; go on, Great _Sackvile_, to regard + The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward. + So to Thy Fame a _Pyramid_ shall rise, + Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies. + For if a Verse Eternity can claim, + Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name. + This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain + _Octavius_ hover'd long, and sought to Reign. + This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight, + Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight. + Let him his Title to such Glory bring, + You give as freely, and more nobly sing. + Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce, + He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse. + _Horace_ and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd, + The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind. + + O Light of _England_, and her highest Grace! + Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race! + Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine + (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line, + While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell + The noblest Poets, and who most excel. + Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send, + Far as the British Arms or Memory extend. + + But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse + The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse + On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough, + And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. + A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease, + May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease, + Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories. + + Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme + Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. + Observe their twenty faces, how they strain + To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. + Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time, + Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, + And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme) + Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task, + As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask, + To build a Poem of the vastest price, + A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_. + So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_ + May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, + The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, + Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain. + + Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, + By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd. + I pity Madmen who attempt to fly, + And raise their _Airy Babel_ to the Sky. + Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name, + Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame, + Not so the Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay + In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. + To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd, + By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. + Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few, + The stately Fabrick in perfection view. + While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece, + The Work of many rowling Centuries. + + For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise + An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays. + How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known + For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own. + + As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore, + For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar. + Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, + Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud. + +[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_] + + Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay, + Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day. + A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse + In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. + Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part + In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art. + The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines, + And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. + Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known, + And by successful gleanings made his Own. + So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day, + Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. + O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd + On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd! + Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design, + _Mæanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine! + Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd, + But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd. + +[_Ben. Johnson_.] + + He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise + T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase; + 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page; + So secred was th' Authority of Age! + The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass, + Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_. + But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_, + Melted it down, and slung the Dross away + He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_, + And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn. + We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar, + Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before. + Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame, + Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name. + Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray + The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way, + Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play. + Whether his Crimes more excellently shine, + Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine, + And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine. + All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke, + And learn the Language which the Victor spoke. + So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw + His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew. + Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His, + Were _Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_. + + Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame + Are fill'd with larger particles of flame. + Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan, + And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own. + +[_Fletcher_ and _Beaument_] + + _Fletcher_, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine, + Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line. + Who, prodigal of Sense, by _Beaumont's_ care, + Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair. + Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring, + A _bragging Bessus_, or _inconstant King_. + Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise + In his _Amyntors_, and _Aspasia's_. + But _Rome_ and _Athens_ must the Plots produce + With _France_, the Handmaid of the _English_ Muse + +[_Shakespear_.] + + Ev'n _Shakespear_ sweated in his narrow Isle, + And Subject _Italy_ obey'd his Stile. + _Boccace_ and _Cinthio_ must a tribute pay, + T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play. + Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules, + Or borrow Learning from _Athenian_ Schools: + Yet He, with _Plautus_, could instruct and please, + And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease. + By inborn strength so _Theseus_ bent the Pine, + Which cost _the Robber_ many Years Design[2]. + +[2] _See Plutarch's Life of Theseus_. + + Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest + His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest. + Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will, + Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill, + Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain + Of _Æschylus_, or sooth in _Ovid's_ vein. + I feel a Pity working in my Eyes, + When _Desdemona_ by _Othello_ dyes. + When I view _Brutus_ in his Dress appear; + I know not how to call him too severe. + His _rigid Vertue_ there attories for all, + And makes a Sacrifice of _Cæsar's_ Fall. + +[_Cowley_.] + + Nature work'd Wonders then; when _Shakespear_ dy'd + Her _Cowley_ rose, drest in her gaudy Pride. + So from great Ruins a new Life she calls, + And Builds an _Ovid[3]_ when a _Tully_ Falls. + +[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd. + + With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings, + And _David's_ Toils in _David's_ numbers Sings? + Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves, + His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves, + Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear, + _Hermits_ may read them to a Virgin's Ear. + Unstoln _Promethean_ Fire informs his Song, + Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong. + His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply, + Is always flowing-out, but never Dry. + + Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought, + Unjustly is imputed for a Fault. + A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free, + Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea. + Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain + Presuming _Xerxes_ shall pretend to Reign, + And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain. + + Hail _English_ Swan? for You alone could dare + With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air: + And to your Lute _Pindaric_ Numbers call, + Nor fear the Danger of a _threatned Fall_. + O had You liv'd to _Waller's_ Reverend Age, + Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page! + Then _Britain's_ Isle might raise her Trophies high, + And _Solid Rome_, or _Witty Greece_ outvy. + The _Rhine_, the _Tyber_, and _Parisian Sein_, + When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main, + Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse, + Than gentle _Cowley's_ never-dying Verse. + The _Thames_ should sweep his briny way before, + And with his Name salute each distant Shore. + +[_Milton._] + + Then You, like Glorious _Milton_ had been known + To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own. + _Milton_! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies, + While Earth below grows little, as She Flies. + Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight, + Far as the Confines of retreating Light. + Tells the _sindg'd Moor_, how scepter'd Death began + His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man. + Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel, + By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell. + + Now _Seraphs_ crown'd with _Helmets_ I behold, + _Helmets_ of Substance more refin'd than Gold: + The Skies with an united Lustre shine, + And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn. + God's _plated Son, Majestically gay_, + Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way + Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies, + Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes. + O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore, + And transfix d Angels groan upon the _Diamond-Floor_. + Then, wheeling from _Olympus_ Snowy top, + Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop + Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell, + And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell. + + I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere + Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear + New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer. + I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies, + _Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries, + _Despair of better state, and loss of Light + Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night + And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain, + But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign, + And Register the Fate which we Sustain? + Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name + Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame + And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_. + + O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may + Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display, + For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay? + Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View, + Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You. + Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design, + Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine, + All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine. + Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose + Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose. + Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we + Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee. + Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight, + Below was Darkness, but Above was Light: + Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay + In nether Night, and such a want of Day. + But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires + To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires: + Like an unhooded _Hawk_, who, loose to Prey, + With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way. + There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place, + And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race: + Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be + A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee, + There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear, + And rowl with _Homer_ in the brightest Sphere; + To whom _Calliope_ has joyn'd thy Name, + And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame. + +[_Waller_.] + + Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows + In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose. + Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote, + When room is granted to the Speech and Thought. + Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song + Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along. + Like _Waller's_ Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime, + Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime. + His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown + In Numbers sweet and _Courtly_ as his Own. + Who no unmanly _Turns_ of Thought pursues, + Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse. + Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay, + Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away. + In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung, + Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung. + If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall + Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_. + Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings + the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings + _Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main, + Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain, + Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair + With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care, + Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair. + As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill + The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill; + So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such, + No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much. + As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine, + The Substance precious, and the Work Divine: + So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase, + Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace, + A mighty Value in a little Space. + So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old, + When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told. + But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less, + Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success. + O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast, + To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest? + To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove, + In strains lamenting his neglected Love. + Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake, + And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake. + Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline; + And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine. + Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known; + Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone. + + Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew, + And _Waller's_ praise Eternally pursue, + Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel, + So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well. + + But now the forward Muse converts her Eye + To see where _Denham_, and _Roscommon_ fly, + Cautiously daring, and correctly High. + Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace, + Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race. + Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs, + Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares, + With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time, + And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme. + Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence, + Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense, + The _Critick_ judges what the _Muse_ indites, + And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes. + 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size, + But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price. + _Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read, + Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead. + Fam'd _Cooper's Hill_ shall, like _Parnassus_, stand, + And _Denham_ reign, the _Phæbus_ of the Land. + +[4] _Epictetus._ + + Among these sacred and immortal Names, [_Oldham_.] + A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims; + See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play + Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way. + But misty Clouds of unexpected Night, + Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light. + Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just + We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust. + O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose + And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those. + The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay, + In all the Trappings of the flowry _May_. + He set him out unsufferably bright, + And sow'd in every part his beamy Light. + Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon, + For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon. + + His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey, + Like _Satyrs_ Rough, but not Deform'd as they. + His Sense undrest, like _Adam_, free from Blame, + Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame, + True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill, + A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still. + + Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the _Romish_ Crimes, + In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes. + All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue, + And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung. + Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse + Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse. + In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore, + And rose more Beauteous than She was before. + +[_Lee._] + + Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage, + And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page, + When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire, + She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire. + Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul + That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul. + He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast, + Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last. + I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame; + But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame? + +[_Otway._ and _Dryden._] + + Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be, + The moving parts of Tragic Poetry. + If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise; + If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_ deserves the Bays. + We grant a Genius shines in _Jaffeir's_ Part, + And _Roman Brutus_ speaks a Master's Art. + But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase + An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze. + A rising Meteor never was design'd, + T'amaze the sober part of Human kind. + Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse + A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse. + Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go, + Emptily Gay, magnificently Low, + Like Ancient _Rome's_ Religion, Sacrifice and Show. + Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize, + Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes. + The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage, + May please the Young _Sir Foplings_ on the Stage. + But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find + Like _Spencer's_ Giant sunk away in Wind. + It grates judicious Readers when they meet + Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet. + Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these, + Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas. + _Lee_ aim'd to rise above great _Dryden's_ Height, + But lofty _Dryden_ keeps a steddy Flight. + Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care + His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air. + The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name, + By industry he kindled to a Flame. + The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue + To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung. + His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine, + _All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine._ + His _Images_ so strong and lively be, + I hear not Words alone, but Substance see; + Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move + Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love. + I weep to hear fond _Anthony_ complain + In _Shakespear's_ Fancy, but in _Virgil's_ Strain. + + Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer, + Himself[5] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err. + But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim + The sounding Title of a Poem's Name. + For Raillery, and what creates a Smile + Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. + That _Heav'nly Heat_ refuses to be seen + In a Town-Character and Comick Mien. + +[5] See Preface to _Aurengzebe_. + + If we would do him right, we must produce + The _Sophoclean Buskin_; when his Muse + With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear, + And _Peals_ applauding shake the Theater. + + They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise, + Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays. + Is he oblig'd to _France_, who draws from thence + By _English_ Energy, their Captive Sense? + Tho' _Edward_ and fam'd _Henry_ Warr'd in vain, + Subduing what they could not long retain: + Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails, + And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails. + + This does superiour excellence betray; + O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! + If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make + Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake + Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design + She must her Own Originals decline, + And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. + Pardon this just transition to thy Praise, + Which Young _Thalia_ sung in Rural Lays. + + As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain + As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain, + Such _Tityrus's_ charming Number show, + Please like the River, like the River flow. + When his first Years in mighty Order ran, + And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man, + Around his Lips the _Waxen Artists_ hung, + And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. + Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke, + More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. + Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide, + Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide. + + Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains, + Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. + Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares, + Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years. + Yet still, like _Ætna's_ _Mount_, he kept his Fire, + And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier. + He smil'd, like _Phoebus_ in a Stormy Morn, + And sung, like _Philomel_ against a Thorn. + + Here _Syren of sweet Poesy_, receive + That little praise my unknown Muse can give. + Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear + Tho' angry _B----more_ in Heroicks jeer. + + A Bard, who seems to challenge _Virgil's_ Flame, + And would be next in Majesty and Name. + With lofty _Maro_ he at first may please; + The Righteous _Briton_ rises by degrees. + But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows, + And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close, + The _Mantuan_ Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight, + Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight. + Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song + Runs smooth as _Thames's_ River, and as strong. + Like his own _Neptune_ he the Waves confines, + While _Bl----re_ rumbles, like the King of Winds. + His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength, + Jade out our Patience with excessive length. + While Readers, Yawning o'er his _Arthurs_ see + Whole Pages spun on one poor _Simile_. + We grant he labours with no want of Brains, + Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains, + One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat + Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat + A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. + It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise + The _World's_ _Imperial Poem_ in Six Days. + But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay, + Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay: + In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train, + Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain: + Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer, + And call the smiling Angels to his care. + Must sleep less Nights, _Vulcanian_ Labours prove, + Like _Cyclops_, forging Thunder for a _Jove_. + With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style, + Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File. + If You design to make Your Prince appear + As perfect as Humanity can bear. + Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please, + Deaf to the _Syrens_ of alluring ease. + No Terrours Thee, _Achilles_, could invade, + Nor Thee, _Ulysses_, any Charms persuade. + This must be done, if Poets would be Read, + Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead. + + Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains + _Virgilian Addison_ describes _Campaigns_. + Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find, + Not of the _Gyant_, nor the _Pygmy_ kind. + Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song, + Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong. + + This _Congreve_ follows in his Deathless Line, + And the _Tenth Hand_ is put to the Design. + The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil + Claims more than _Shakespear's_ Wit, or _Johnson's_ Oil. + Sing on, _Harmonious Swan_, in weeping strains, + And tell _Pastora's_ Death to mournful Swains. + Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs + Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares. + Or let thy _Satyr_ grin with half a Smile, + And jeer in _Easy Etherege's_ Style. + Let _Manly Wycherly_ chalk out the Way, + And Art direct, where Nature goes astray. + 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings, + The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings. + + The _Teian Muse_ invites Thee from above + To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love. + Let _MONTAGUE_ describe _Boyn's_ swelling Flood + And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood. + O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse! + Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse. + When You _Nassau's_ bright Actions dar'd to see, + _You_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo He_. + But when He read You, and Your Value knew, + _He_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo You_. + Both spoke the Bird in her _Æthereal_ height, + The _Majesty_ was _His_, and _Thine_ the _Flight_. + Both did _Apollo_ in His Glory shew, + The Silver _Harp_ was _Thine_, and _His_ the _Bow_, + + So may _Pierian Clio_ cease to fear, + When _Honour_ deigns to sing, and _Majesty_ to hear! + So may she favour'd live, and always please + Our _Dorset's_, and Judicious _Normanby's_! + + Nor does the _Coronet_ alone defend + The Muses Cause: The _Miter_ is Her Friend. + Can we forget how _Damon's_ lofty Tongue + Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung + When _Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd_ Sung. + How _Mars_ and _Pallas_ wept to see the Day + When _Athens_ by a Plague dispeopled lay. + What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost! + Sung with more Spirit than all _Athens_ lost. + Nor can the _Miter_ now conceal the Bays, + For still we view the _Sacred Poet's_ praise. + So tho' _Eridanus_ becomes a Star + Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar, + Below he loses nothing but his Name, + Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same. + + But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song, + Let _Creech_ be numbred with the Sacred Throng. + Whose daring Muse could with _Manilius_ fly, + And, like an _Atlas_, shoulder up the Sky. + He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace + His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race. + See, how He walks above in mighty strains, + And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains! + He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey, + In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they. + + 'Tis cause of Triumph, when _Rome's_ Genius shines + In nervous _English_, and well-worded Lines. + Two Famous _Latins_[6] our bright Tongue adorn, + And a new _Virgil_[7] is in _England_ born. + An _Æneid_ to translate, and make a new, + Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue. + +[6] _Lucretius_ and _Manilius_. + +[7] Mr. _Dryden's_ _Virgil_. + + For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind + Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind; + Yet a well-languag'd Version will require + An equal _Genius_, and as strong a Fire. + These claim at once our Study and our Praise, + Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase. + These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand + At _Paul's_ or _Cornhill_, _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_. + Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas, + An Ornament to _Foreign Libraries_. + + Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my _Theme_! + O could I write so well as I esteem! + From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise + As a young _Phoenix_ out of Ashes flies + Above what _France_ or _Italy_ can shew, + The Celebrated _Tasso_, or _Boileau_. + + Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find + Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind: + If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men, + You love the _Labour'd Travels_ of the Pen; + Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time + On _Cowley_, or on _Dryden's_ useful Rhyme: + Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse, + The _Tragick, Lyrick_, or _Heroick_ Muse: + For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew + In _Charming Numbers_, what is false, what true, + And teach more good than _Hobbs_ or _Lock_ can do. + + Hail, ye _Poetick Dead_, who wander now + In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. + Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate, + Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! + Whether Intomb'd with _English Kings_ you sleep, + Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep: + There, on each Dawning of the tender Day, + May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay! + There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume + The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb. + + While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear, + Sing on; let _Montague_ and _Dorset_ hear. + In Stately Verse let _William's_ Praise be told, + WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. + No more of _Richelieu's_ Worth: Forget not, Fame, + To change _Augustus_ for Great _William's_ Name. + Who, tho' like _Homer's_ _Jupiter_, he sate, + Musing on something eminently great + And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate; + Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears + The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years. + Whether this Praise to _Stepny's_ Muse belong, + Or _Prior_ claim it for _Pindarick Song_. + The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd, + And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd. + The double Vertue of _Nassovian Fire_ + At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire. + The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung + A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung, + When _Mars_ has Acted, or when _Phoebus_ Sung. + + O cou'd my Muse reach _Milton's_ tow'ring Flight, + Or stretch her Wings to the _Mæonian_ Height! + Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse + His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse. + The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame, + And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name + But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb, + Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome. + Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace + The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race? + What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise? + No Land but _Britain_, must pretend to shine + With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line. + So may this Island a new _Delos_ prove, + Joyn[8] Young _Apollo_ to the _Cretan Jove_! + What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame! + How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame! + How swiftly _Gloster_ in his Bud began! + How the _Green Hero_ blossoms into Man! + Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms, + To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms: + See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War! + Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar, + What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They + Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day. + _Edwards_ and _Harry's_ to his Eyes appear + In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear. + At _Agincourt_ so terrible they stood, + So when _Pictavian_ Fields were dy'd with Blood. + The Royal Youth with Emulation glows, + And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes. + Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky, + Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly. + O'er _England's_ Hopes their flaming Swords they hold, + And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old. + Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep, + But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep. + Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread, + Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed, + Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head. + +[8] _The Duke of_ Glouceiter. _Here the Author laments he +prov'd so bad a Prophet_. + + After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate, + The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait. + The Streams of _Thamisis_, exulting, Ring, + When fair _Augusta's_ lofty _Clio's_ Sing + _Granta_ and _Rhedycina's_ Tuneful Throng + Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song. + + Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time, + Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme. + Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure, + Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure. + But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey, + Till _English_ Sense and Valour shall decay. + Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow, + Or _Cam_ or _Isis_ shall forget to Flow. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry +(1707), by Samuel Cobb + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 14528-8.txt or 14528-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/5/2/14528/ + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry (1707) + From Poems On Several Occasions (1707) + +Author: Samuel Cobb + +Release Date: December 30, 2004 [EBook #14528] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + +<h3>Series Two:<br /> + +<i>Essays on Poetry and Language</i><br /><br /> +No. 1<br /><br /> +</h3> + + +<h1>Samuel Cobb's<br /><br /> + +Discourse on Criticism<br />and<br />of Poetry<br /></h1> + +<h3>from<br /> + +Poems on Several Occasions (1707)<br /><br /> + + + +With an Introduction by<br /> + +Louis I. Bredvold<br /><br /> +</h3> + +<hr /> +<h3>The Augustan Reprint Society<br />July, 1946<br /></h3> + +<p> +Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to +six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. +Address subscriptions and communications to The Augustan Reprint Society +in care of the General Editors: Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan, +Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Edward N. Hooker or H.T. Swedenberg, Jr., +University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Editorial +Advisors: Louis I. Bredvold, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, +Michigan, and James L. Clifford, Columbia University, New York.</p> +<hr /> + + + +<h2>Introduction</h2> + +<p> +What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found +in the brief article in the <i>Dictionary of National Biography</i> by W.P. +Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ's Hospital and +at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., +1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed "under grammar master" at +Christ's Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school +until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and +also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially +cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won +him a mention without honor in Johnson's life of Pope (<i>Lives of the +Poets</i>, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his +poem on "Poetry" aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at +epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves +attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to +fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his +opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as +Dennis, Addison, and Pope. "Of Poetry" belongs to the prolific literary +type of "progress poems," in which the modern student finds illuminating +statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past +literary traditions. The list of Cobb's publications in the <i>Cambridge +Bibliography</i> suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His +volume, <i>Poems on Several Occasions</i>, was published in 1707, and +reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith +of the Preface "On Criticism" and the versified discourse "Of Poetry" is +from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago.</p> + +<p class="i4">Louis I. Bredvold</p> + +<p class="i6">University of Michigan</p> +<hr /> + + + +<h2>A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING.</h2> + + +<h3>In a Letter to <i>Richard Carter</i> Esq; late of the <i>Middle-Temple</i>, now +living in <i>Barbadoes</i>.</h3> + + +<p>SIR,</p> + +<p><i>The</i> Muses <i>are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore +must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a +Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and +particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon +my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe +Death it self can blot out an</i> Idea <i>so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when +it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those +Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as</i> +Temperance, Fortitude <i>and the like, will certainly carry</i> Love <i>and</i> +Gratitude <i>along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World +know what Obligations you have laid upon me.</i></p> + +<p><i>By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have +supply'd) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able +to secure you from the Zeal of a</i> Friend, <i>and the Vanity of a</i> Poet.</p> + + +<p class="verse">For tho' retiring to the <i>Western Isles</i>,<br /> + At the long Distance of five thousand Miles,<br /> + You've chang'd <i>dear London</i> for your Native Seat,<br /> + And think <i>Barbadoes</i> is a safe Retreat;<br /> + You highly err: Nor is the <i>Wat'ry Fence</i><br /> + Sufficient Guard against Impertinence.<br /> + The <i>Muse</i>, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me,<br /> + Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea.<br /> + Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' <i>Atlantick Main</i>,<br /> + Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain.</p> + +<p><i>You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but +knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I +thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer'd my Prose with a +little Verse.</i></p> + +<p><i>After this Preamble, it is presum'd, that one who lives on the Other +side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is +done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn +every where, and particularly in</i> Italy; <i>which Success of our Armies +and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at +home. ——Parties still run between</i> High <i>and</i> Low. <i>I shall make no +Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more +safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather +than peevishly to quarrel with it.</i></p> + +<p><i>But You will cry,</i> Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? +How goes the State of <i>Parnassus</i>? What has the Battle of <i>Ramillies</i> +produc'd? <i>What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I +could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which +had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. +You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us'd to do on +things of a larger Size.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great<br /> + The slippery Danger of exalted State,<br /> + Victorious <i>Marlbrô</i> to <i>Ramilly</i> flies;<br /> + Arm'd with new Lightning from bright <i>ANNA's</i> Eyes.<br /> + Wonders like These, no former Age has seen;<br /> + Subjects are <i>Heroes</i>, where a Saint's the <i>QUEEN</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Mr.</i> Congreve <i>has given the World an Ode, and prefix'd to it a +Discourse on the</i> Pindaric Verse, <i>of which more, when I come to speak +on the same Argument: There are several others on that Subject, and some +which will bear the Test; one particularly, written in imitation of the +Style of</i> Spencer; <i>and goes under the Name of Mr.</i> Prior; <i>I have not +read it through, but</i> ex pede Herculem. <i>He is a Gentleman who cannot +write ill. Yet some of our</i> Criticks <i>have fell upon it, as the Viper +did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism, +which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure +Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every +Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till</i> +Dooms-day. <i>The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its +to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of</i> Self <i>is the +Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our</i> Modern +Censurers, <i>who, when they please to</i> think a Meaning <i>for an Author, +would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their +inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a +plain Evidence of their own Blindness.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">For to display our Candour and our Sence,<br /> + Is to discover some deep <i>Excellence</i>.<br /> + The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free;<br /> + They raise the <i>Mole hill, who want Eyes to see</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires +the Penetration of a</i> Lynceus <i>to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the +secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar +Apprehension.</i></p> + +<p><i>I remember somewhere an Observation of St.</i> Evremont <i>(an Author whom +you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who +would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. +The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, +according to</i> Juvenal; <i> and according to</i> Scripture, <i>the Marks of a</i> +Fool. <i>These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be +witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of +Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Rules they can write, but, like the <i>College Tribe</i>,<br /> + Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe.<br /> + I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool,<br /> + <i>Insipidly</i> correct, and <i>dull</i> by Rule:<br /> + <i>Homer</i>, with all his <i>Nodding</i>, I would chuse,<br /> + Before the more exact <i>Sicilian</i> Muse.<br /> + Who'd not be <i>Dryden</i>; tho' his Faults are great,<br /> + Sooner than our Laborious <i>Laureat</i>?<br /> + Not but a decent Neatness, I confess,<br /> + In <i>Writing</i> is requir'd, as well as <i>Dress</i>.<br /> + Yet still in both the <i>unaffected Air</i><br /> + Will always please the <i>Witty</i> and the <i>Fair</i>.</p> + +<p><i>I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for +there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a</i> Delicate +Taste. <i>Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the +Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we +write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour +of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a</i> Free +Writer. <i>He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, +but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is +timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true +Grammar, and unexceptionable</i> Prosodia, <i>but most stupid Poetry.</i></p> + +<p class="verse">In vitium culpæ ducit fuga, si caret arte.</p> + +<p><i>A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more +inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose +artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains +and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick.</i></p> + +<p><i>Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from +the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their +Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than +Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and +Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would +that Reflection be cast upon the</i> best-natur'd Nation <i>in the World, +that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and +now, being civiliz'd, we expend our Barbarity on one another</i>. Homer +<i>would not be so much the Ridicule of our</i> Beaux Esprits; <i>when, with +all his Sleepiness, he is propos'd as the most exquisite Pattern of +Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. +Nor is</i> Longinus <i>behind hand with</i> Aristotle <i>in his Character of the +same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of</i> Homer's <i>Soul +look'd above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and +hurry'd on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. +A Racer at</i> New-market <i>or the</i> Downs, <i>which has been fed and drest, +and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble +perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of</i> Pegasus <i>bear him o'er +Hills and Mountains,</i></p> + +<p class="verse">Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera—</p> + +<p><i>Such was the Soul of</i> Homer: <i>who is more justly admir'd by those who +understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings +partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his</i> +Heroes; <i>and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his</i> Criticks, +<i>than on</i> Himself: <i>who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule +to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which</i> +Alcibiades <i>gave to</i> Socrates, <i>when he compar'd him to the Statues of +the</i> Sileni, <i>which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; +but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods +and Goddesses.</i></p> + +<p><i>Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those sudden Emotions, +which excite illustrious Men, to act and speak out of the</i> Common Road? +<i>They seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and Bigottry we pay +to</i> Custom, <i>which is no Standard to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules +we receive in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose, to +restrain the</i> Mind; <i>which by reason of the Tenderness of our Age and +the ungovernable Disposition of Young Nature, is apt to start out into +Excess and Extravagance. But when Time has ripen'd us, and Observation +has fortify'd the Soul, we ought to lay aside those common Rules with +our Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free, generous and +manly Spirit. Thus a</i> Good Poet <i>should make use of a Discretionary +Command; like a</i> Good General, <i>who may rightly wave the vulgar Precepts +of the Military School (which may confine an ordinary Capacity, and curb +the Rash and Daring) if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he +find out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success.</i></p> + +<p>Bocalin, <i>the</i> Italian <i>Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has +this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When</i> +Tasso <i>(says he) had presented</i> Apollo <i>with his</i> Poem, <i>call'd</i> +Giurasalemme Liberata; <i>the</i> Reformer <i>of the</i> Delphic Library, <i>to +whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not +written according to the Rules of</i> Aristotle; <i>which affront being +complain'd of,</i> Apollo <i>was highly incens'd, and chid</i> Aristotle <i>for +his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high +Conceptions of the</i> Virtuosi, <i>whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, +enrich'd the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to +enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring +Charms which daily flow'd from the Productions of Poets, who follow the +Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the +28th Advertisement.</i></p> + +<p><i>The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must +wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho'</i> Homer +<i>and</i> Virgil, Pindar <i>and</i> Horace <i>be laid before us as Examples of +exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro' the +Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find +like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that +Nature has furnish'd him with, and his own Observation has improv'd, we +may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority +with the best of the</i> Athenian <i>and</i> Roman <i>Excellencies</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse">Nec minimum meruêre decus vestigia Græca + Ausi deserere.——</p> + +<p><i>It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt +nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern</i> Milo's <i>who have +been wedg'd in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail'd +in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, +would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation +by</i> Hippocrates <i>and</i> Galen <i>well-studied, than by</i> Homer <i>and</i> Virgil +<i>ill-copied?</i></p> + +<p>Horace, <i>who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of +Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish'd Writer on a +pardonable Want of Care, or excus'd them by the Infirmity of Human +Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who +quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform +which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling +Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we +should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater +Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to +praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay +a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, +to clap their Play, or admire their Poem.</i></p> + +<p class="verse"> For noble Scriblers are with Flattery fed,<br /> + And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread.</p> + +<p class="verse"> <i>Dryden's Pers..</i></p> + +<p>Juvenal <i>shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old +disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left +the Town,</i></p> + +<p class="verse"> —Mentiri nescio: librum<br /> + Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere.</p> + +<p><i>To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a +Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault +with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman.</i></p> + +<p><i>Who then is this Critick? You will find him in</i> Quintilius Varus, <i>of</i> +Cremona, <i>who when any Author shew'd him his Composure, laid aside the</i> +Fastus <i>common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen'd on any +Mistake</i>, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc.</p> + +<p><i>Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to +others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another +like him. Our</i> English <i>Criticks having taken away a great deal from the +Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. +Like a certain Nobleman mention'd by my Lord</i> Verulam, <i>who when he +invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the +Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest.</i></p> + +<p><i>The</i> French <i>then seem to me to have a truer Taste of the ancient +Authors than ever</i> Scaliger <i>or</i> Heinsius <i>could pretend to</i>. Rapin, +<i>and above all</i>, Bossu, <i>have done more Justice to</i> Homer <i>and to</i> +Virgil, <i>to</i> Livy <i>and</i> Thucydides, <i>to</i> Demosthenes <i>and to</i> Cicero, +<i>&c. and have bin more beneficial to the Republick of Learning, by their +nice Comparisons and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those +well-meaning Men, who rummage</i> musty Manuscripts <i>for</i> various Lections. +<i>They did not</i> Insistere in ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis +intenti nihil ultra petere, (<i>As</i> Dacier <i>has it</i>) <i>but search'd the +inmost Recesses, open'd their Mysteries, and (as it were) call'd the +Spirit of the Author from the Dead. It is for this</i> Le Clerc <i>(in his</i> +Bibliotheque Choisie, <i>Tom.</i> 9. <i>p.</i> 328.) <i>commends St.</i> Evremont's +<i>Discourses on</i> Salust <i>and</i> Tacitus, <i>as also his Judgment on the +Ancients, and blames the Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste +of Antiquity after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen +to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their Manner of Writing, +which takes Notice only of Words, Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with +a blind Admiration of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and +deters it from the pursuit of the</i> Belles Lettres.</p> + +<p><i>I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an +Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly +of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the</i> Strophe +<i>and</i> Antistrophe; <i>neither do I think it necessary; besides I had +rather err with Mr.</i> Cowley, <i>who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in +the right with others.</i></p> + +<p><i>Mr.</i> Congreve, <i>an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too +hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the +last Olympic has two</i> Monostrophicks <i>of different Measure, and Number +of Lines.</i></p> + +<p><i>The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You +may expect the rest on the</i> Pindaric Style. <i>In the mean time I beg +leave to subscribe myself,</i></p> + +<p class="i4"><i>Sir, Your ever Obedient</i></p> +<p class="i6"><i>and Obliged Servant,</i></p> + +<h2>Samuel Cobb.</h2> + +<hr /> + + +<h2>Of POETRY.</h2> + +<h3>1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement.</h3> + + +<h2>A POEM.</h2> + + + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Antiquity of Poetry</i></span>Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast<br /> + Design'd a Creature to command the rest,<br /> + Of all th' <i>Erected Progeny of Clay</i><br /> + His Noblest Labour was his <i>First Essay</i>.<br /> + There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind<br /> + Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind.<br /> + The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen<br /> + In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien.<br /> + Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught,<br /> + With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought<br /> + To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing,<br /> + And be at once the Poet and the King.<br /> + Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew,<br /> + And saw the Depth of Nature at a View;<br /> + Or, new descending from th' Angelick race,<br /> + Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place.<span class="sidenote">* The Soul according to the Platonists. So <i>Virgil</i>: <i>Aurai +simplicis ig, nem.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame,<br /> + Which lodg'd his <i>Fiery Guest</i>[*], and like the same<br /> + Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense,<br /> + His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.<br /> + Whene're He spoke, from his <i>Seraphick</i> Tongue<br /> + Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young,<br /> + With new <i>Calliopes</i> and <i>Clio's</i> sprung.<br /> + No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind,<br /> + Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd.<br /> + Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain<br /> + Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain.</p> + + + +<p class="verse"> But when He yielded to deluding Charms,<br /> + Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms.<br /> + The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd,<br /> + But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd.<br /> + Yet here and there <i>Celestial Seeds</i> She threw,<br /> + And rain'd <i>melodious Blessings</i> as She flew.<br /> + Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd<br /> + For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd.<br /> + Who, of a <i>Species</i> more sublime, can tame<br /> + The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame.<br /> + When in their breasts th'impetuous <i>Numen</i> rowls,<br /> + And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung,<br /> + And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung.<br /> + He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light,<br /> + Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night.<br /> + How Sin and Shame th' <i>Unhappy Couple</i> knew,<br /> + And thro' affrighted <i>Eden</i>, more affrighted, flew.<br /> + How God advanc'd his Darling <i>Abram's</i> fame,<br /> + In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name.<br /> + On <i>Horeb's</i> Top, or <i>Sinah's</i> flaming Hill<br /> + Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will.<br /> + Unshaken then <i>Seth's</i> stony Column stood,<br /> + Surviving the Destruction of the Flood.<br /> + His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone,<br /> + Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known.<br /> + Thence Divine <i>Moses</i>, with exalted thought,<br /> + In <i>Hebrew</i> Lines the <i>Worlds Beginning</i> wrote.<span class="sidenote"><i>The Progress of Poetry.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,<br /> + Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse.<br /> + Here <i>Deborah</i> in fiery rapture sings,<br /> + The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings.<br /> + Thy Torrent, <i>Kison</i>, shall for ever flow,<br /> + Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe.</p> + +<p class="verse"> With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,<br /> + With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays,<br /> + The Seed of <i>Judah</i> to the Battle flew,<br /> + And Orders of Destroying Angels drew<br /> + To their Victorious side: Who marching round<br /> + Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound,<br /> + By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound.<br /> + So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim<br /> + Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name!</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nor does it here alone it's Magick show,<br /> + But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.<br /> + So powerful is the Muse! When <i>David</i> plaid,<br /> + The Frantick <i>Dæmon</i> heard him, and obey'd.<br /> + No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay<br /> + Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away.<br /> + Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd<span class="sidenote"><i>Orpheus.</i></span><br /> + To <i>Jews</i> alone: For in a Heathen mind<br /> + Some strokes appear: Thus <i>Orpheus</i> was inspir'd,<br /> + Inchanting <i>Syrens</i> at his Song retir'd.<br /> + To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd,<br /> + And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd.<span class="sidenote"><i>Homer.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> But <i>Greece</i> was honour'd with a Greater Name,<br /> + <i>Homer</i> is <i>Greece's</i> Glory and her Shame.<br /> + How could Learn'd <i>Athens</i> with contempt refuse,<br /> + Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse?<br /> + Thee, <i>Colophon</i>, his angry Ghost upbraids,<br /> + While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.<br /> + Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive<br /> + For the Dead <i>Homer</i>, whom they scorn'd Alive.<br /> + So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom!<br /> + To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' <i>Virgil</i> rising under happier Stars,<br /> + Saw <i>Rome</i> succeed in Learning as in Wars.<br /> + When <i>Pollio</i>, like a smiling Planet, shone,<br /> + And <i>Cæsar</i> darted on him, like the Sun.<br /> + Nor did <i>Mecænas</i>, gain a less repute,<br /> + When Tuneful <i>Flaccus</i> touch'd the <i>Roman</i> Lute.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But when, <i>Mecænas</i>, will Thy Star appear<br /> + In our low Orb, and gild the <i>British</i> Sphere?<br /> + Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes<br /> + Dissembled under <i>DORSET's</i> fair Disguise?<br /> + If so; go on, Great <i>Sackvile</i>, to regard<br /> + The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward.<br /> + So to Thy Fame a <i>Pyramid</i> shall rise,<br /> + Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.<br /> + For if a Verse Eternity can claim,<br /> + Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.<br /> + This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain<br /> + <i>Octavius</i> hover'd long, and sought to Reign.<br /> + This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,<br /> + Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.<br /> + Let him his Title to such Glory bring,<br /> + You give as freely, and more nobly sing.<br /> + Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,<br /> + He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.<br /> + <i>Horace</i> and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd,<br /> + The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O Light of <i>England</i>, and her highest Grace!<br /> + Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race!<br /> + Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine<br /> + (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line,<br /> + While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell<br /> + The noblest Poets, and who most excel.<br /> + Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send,<br /> + Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse<br /> + The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse<br /> + On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough,<br /> + And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.<br /> + A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,<br /> + May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,<br /> + Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme<br /> + Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.<br /> + Observe their twenty faces, how they strain<br /> + To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.<br /> + Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,<br /> + Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,<br /> + And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)<br /> + Create a <i>BRITISH PRINCE</i>; as hard a task,<br /> + As would a <i>Cowley</i> or a <i>Milton</i> ask,<br /> + To build a Poem of the vastest price,<br /> + A <i>DAVIDEIS</i>, or <i>LOST PARADISE</i>.<br /> + So tho' a Beauty of <i>Imperial Mien</i><br /> + May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,<br /> + The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,<br /> + Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,<br /> + By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd.<br /> + I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,<br /> + And raise their <i>Airy Babel</i> to the Sky.<br /> + Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,<br /> + Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame,<br /> + Not so the Seat of <i>Phoebus</i> role, which lay<br /> + In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.<br /> + To <i>Britany</i> the Temple was convey'd,<br /> + By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.<br /> + Built from the <i>Basis</i> by a noble Few,<br /> + The stately Fabrick in perfection view.<br /> + While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,<br /> + The Work of many rowling Centuries.</p> + +<p class="verse"> For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise<br /> + An <i>English</i> Poet, meriting the Bays.<br /> + How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known<br /> + For <i>Greek</i> and <i>Latin</i> Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.</p> + +<p class="verse"> As <i>Moors</i> of old, near <i>Guinea's</i> precious Shore,<br /> + For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.<br /> + Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,<br /> + Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.<span class="sidenote"><i>Chaucer</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,<br /> + Till <i>Chaucer</i> rose, and pointed out the Day.<br /> + A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse<br /> + In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.<br /> + Our <i>English Ennius</i> He, who claim'd his part<br /> + In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.<br /> + The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,<span class="sidenote"><i>Spencer</i></span><br /> + And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.<br /> + Which <i>Spencer</i> gather'd, for his Learning known,<br /> + And by successful gleanings made his Own.<br /> + So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,<br /> + Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.<br /> + O had thy Poet, <i>Britany</i>, rely'd<br /> + On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!<br /> + Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,<br /> + <i>Mæanides</i> and <i>Virgil</i> had been Thine!<br /> + Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,<br /> + But <i>Chaucer's</i> steps <i>religiously</i> pursu'd.</p> + +<p class="verse"> He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise<br /> + T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase;<br /> + 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;<br /> + So secred was th' Authority of Age!<br /> + The Coyn must sure for <i>currant Sterling</i> pass,<br /> + Stamp'd with old <i>Chaucer's Venerable Face</i>.<br /> + But <i>Johnson</i> found it of a gross <i>Alloy</i>,<br /> + Melted it down, and slung the Dross away<br /> + He dug pure Silver from a <i>Roman Mine</i>,<br /> + And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.<br /> + We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,<br /> + Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.<br /> + Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,<br /> + Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.<br /> + Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray<br /> + The Sweat of <i>Terence</i>, in thy Glorious way,<br /> + Or <i>Catliine</i> plots better in thy Play.<br /> + Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,<br /> + Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,<br /> + And doubt which merits most, <i>Rome's Cicero</i>, or Thine.<br /> + All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,<br /> + And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.<br /> + So <i>Macedon's Imperial Hero</i> threw<br /> + His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.<br /> + Great <i>Johnson's</i><span class="sidenote"><i>Ben. Johnson</i>.</span> Deeds stand Parallel with His,<br /> + Were <i>Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame<br /> + Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.<br /> + Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan,<br /> + And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.</p> + + + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Fletcher</i> and <i>Beaument</i></span> <i>Fletcher</i>, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,<br /> + Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.<br /> + Who, prodigal of Sense, by <i>Beaumont's</i> care,<br /> + Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.<br /> + Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,<br /> + A <i>bragging Bessus</i>, or <i>inconstant King</i>.<br /> + Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise<br /> + In his <i>Amyntors</i>, and <i>Aspasia's</i>.<br /> + But <i>Rome</i> and <i>Athens</i> must the Plots produce<br /> + With <i>France</i>, the Handmaid of the <i>English</i> Muse</p> + +<p class="verse"> <span class="sidenote"><i>Shakespear</i>.</span> +Ev'n <i>Shakespear</i> sweated in his narrow Isle,<br /> + And Subject <i>Italy</i> obey'd his Stile.<br /> + <i>Boccace</i> and <i>Cinthio</i> must a tribute pay,<br /> + T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.<br /> + Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,<br /> + Or borrow Learning from <i>Athenian</i> Schools:<br /> + Yet He, with <i>Plautus</i>, could instruct and please,<br /> + <span class="sidenote"><i>* See Plutarch's Life of Theseus</i>.</span> + And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.<br /> + By inborn strength so <i>Theseus</i> bent the Pine,<br /> + Which cost <i>the Robber</i> many Years Design[*].</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest<br /> + His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.<br /> + Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,<br /> + Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,<br /> + Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain<br /> + Of <i>Æschylus</i>, or sooth in <i>Ovid's</i> vein.<br /> + I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,<br /> + When <i>Desdemona</i> by <i>Othello</i> dyes.<br /> + When I view <i>Brutus</i> in his Dress appear;<br /> + I know not how to call him too severe.<br /> + His <i>rigid Vertue</i> there attories for all,<br /> + And makes a Sacrifice of <i>Cæsar's</i> Fall.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nature work'd Wonders then; when <i>Shakespear</i> dy'd<br /> + <span class="sidenote"><i>Cowley</i>.</span><span class="sidenote">* <i>Ovid</i> was born the same year in which <i>Cicero</i> dy'd.</span>Her <i>Cowley</i> rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.<br /> + So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,<br /> + And Builds an <i>Ovid[*]</i> when a <i>Tully</i> Falls.</p> + +<p class="verse"> With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,<br /> + And <i>David's</i> Toils in <i>David's</i> numbers Sings?<br /> + Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,<br /> + His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,<br /> + Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,<br /> + <i>Hermits</i> may read them to a Virgin's Ear.<br /> + Unstoln <i>Promethean</i> Fire informs his Song,<br /> + Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.<br /> + His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply,<br /> + Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,<br /> + Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.<br /> + A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,<br /> + Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea.<br /> + Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain<br /> + Presuming <i>Xerxes</i> shall pretend to Reign,<br /> + And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail <i>English</i> Swan? for You alone could dare<br /> + With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air:<br /> + And to your Lute <i>Pindaric</i> Numbers call,<br /> + Nor fear the Danger of a <i>threatned Fall</i>.<br /> + O had You liv'd to <i>Waller's</i> Reverend Age,<br /> + Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page!<br /> + Then <i>Britain's</i> Isle might raise her Trophies high,<br /> + And <i>Solid Rome</i>, or <i>Witty Greece</i> outvy.<br /> + The <i>Rhine</i>, the <i>Tyber</i>, and <i>Parisian Sein</i>,<br /> + When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main,<br /> + Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,<br /> + Than gentle <i>Cowley's</i> never-dying Verse.<br /> + The <i>Thames</i> should sweep his briny way before,<br /> + And with his Name salute each distant Shore.<span class="sidenote"><i>Milton.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Then You, like Glorious +<i>Milton</i> had been known<br /> + To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own.<br /> + <i>Milton</i>! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies,<br /> + While Earth below grows little, as She Flies.<br /> + Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight,<br /> + Far as the Confines of retreating Light.<br /> + Tells the <i>sindg'd Moor</i>, how scepter'd Death began<br /> + His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man.<br /> + Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel,<br /> + By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Now <i>Seraphs</i> crown'd with <i>Helmets</i> I behold,<br /> + <i>Helmets</i> of Substance more refin'd than Gold:<br /> + The Skies with an united Lustre shine,<br /> + And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn.<br /> + God's <i>plated Son, Majestically gay</i>,<br /> + Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way<br /> + Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies,<br /> + Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes.<br /> + O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore,<br /> + And transfix d Angels groan upon the <i>Diamond-Floor</i>.<br /> + Then, wheeling from <i>Olympus</i> Snowy top,<br /> + Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop<br /> + Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,<br /> + And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.</p> + +<p class="verse"> I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere<br /> + Once by the <i>Victor God</i>, begins to fear<br /> + New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.<br /> + I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,<br /> + <i>Was't not enough, Relentless Power</i>! he cries,<br /> + <i>Despair of better state, and loss of Light<br /> + Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night<br /> + And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,<br /> + But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,<br /> + And Register the Fate which we Sustain?<br /> + Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name<br /> + Hence, after Thine, we feel the</i> Poet's <i>Flame<br /> + And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O Soul <i>Seraphick</i>, teach us how we may<br /> + Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,<br /> + For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?<br /> + Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,<br /> + Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.<br /> + Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,<br /> + Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,<br /> + All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.<br /> + Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose<br /> + Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.<br /> + Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we<br /> + Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.<br /> + Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,<br /> + Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:<br /> + Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay<br /> + In nether Night, and such a want of Day.<br /> + But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires<br /> + To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:<br /> + Like an unhooded <i>Hawk</i>, who, loose to Prey,<br /> + With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way.<br /> + There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place,<br /> + And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:<br /> + Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be<br /> + A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee,<br /> + There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,<br /> + And rowl with <i>Homer</i> in the brightest Sphere;<br /> + To whom <i>Calliope</i> has joyn'd thy Name,<br /> + And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows<br /> + In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.<br /> + Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,<br /> + When room is granted to the Speech and Thought.<br /> + Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song<span class="sidenote"><i>Waller</i>.</span><br /> + Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along.<br /> + Like <i>Waller's</i> Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime,<br /> + Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.<br /> + His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown<br /> + In Numbers sweet and <i>Courtly</i> as his Own.<br /> + Who no unmanly <i>Turns</i> of Thought pursues,<br /> + Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.<br /> + Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay,<br /> + Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.<br /> + In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung,<br /> + Like those <i>Seraphick</i> flames of which He Sung.<br /> + If, <i>Cromwel</i>, he laments thy Mighty Fall<br /> + Nature attending Weeps at the <i>Great Funeral</i>.<br /> + Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings<br /> + the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings<br /> + <i>Batavians</i> worsted on the Conquer'd Main,<br /> + Fleets flying, and advent'rous <i>Opdam</i> Slain,<br /> + Then <i>Rome</i> and <i>Athens</i> to his Song repair<br /> + With <i>British</i> Graces smiling on his Care,<br /> + Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.<br /> + As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill<br /> + The <i>Flandrian Plains</i>, and speak no vulgar Skill;<br /> + So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such,<br /> + No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.<br /> + As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine,<br /> + The Substance precious, and the Work Divine:<br /> + So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase,<br /> + Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,<br /> + A mighty Value in a little Space.<br /> + So the <i>Venusian Clio</i> sung of Old,<br /> + When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.<br /> + But <i>Rome's</i> aspiring <i>Lyrick</i> pleas'd us less,<br /> + Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.<br /> + O <i>Sacharissa</i>, what could steel thy Breast,<br /> + To Rob <i>Harmonious Waller</i> of his Rest?<br /> + To send him Murm'ring thro' the <i>Cypress</i>-Grove,<br /> + In strains lamenting his neglected Love.<br /> + Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake,<br /> + And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake.<br /> + Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline;<br /> + And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.<br /> + Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known;<br /> + Like <i>Niobe</i>, a Monument of Stone.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew,<br /> + And <i>Waller's</i> praise Eternally pursue,<br /> + Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,<br /> + So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But now the forward Muse converts her Eye<br /> + To see where <i>Denham</i>, and <i>Roscommon</i> fly,<br /> + Cautiously daring, and correctly High.<br /> + Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,<br /> + Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.<br /> + Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs,<br /> + Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,<br /> + With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time,<br /> + And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.<br /> + Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence,<br /> + Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense,<br /> + The <i>Critick</i> judges what the <i>Muse</i> indites,<br /> + And Rules for <i>Dryden</i>, like a <i>Dryden</i>, Writes.<span class="sidenote"><i>* Epictetus.</i></span><br /> + 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,<br /> + But like the <i>Stoicks</i>[*], of prodigious Price.<br /> + <i>Roscommon's</i> Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,<br /> + Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.<br /> + Fam'd <i>Cooper's Hill</i> shall, like <i>Parnassus</i>, stand,<br /> + And <i>Denham</i> reign, the <i>Phæbus</i> of the Land.<span class="sidenote"><i>Oldham.</i></span></p> + +<p class="verse"> Among these sacred and immortal Names, <br /> + A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims;<br /> + See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play<br /> + Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way.<br /> + But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,<br /> + Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.<br /> + Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just<br /> + We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.<br /> + O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose<br /> + And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.<br /> + The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay,<br /> + In all the Trappings of the flowry <i>May</i>.<br /> + He set him out unsufferably bright,<br /> + And sow'd in every part his beamy Light.<br /> + Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,<br /> + For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon.</p> + +<p class="verse"> His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,<br /> + Like <i>Satyrs</i> Rough, but not Deform'd as they.<br /> + His Sense undrest, like <i>Adam</i>, free from Blame,<br /> + Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame,<br /> + True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,<br /> + A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the <i>Romish</i> Crimes,<br /> + In rugged <i>Satyr</i> and ill-sounding Rhymes.<br /> + All <i>Italy</i> felt his imbitter'd Tongue,<br /> + And trembled less when sharp <i>Lucilius</i> Stung.<br /> + Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse<br /> + Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.<br /> + In <i>Jordan's</i> stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,<br /> + And rose more Beauteous than She was before.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,<br /> + And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,<br /> + When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,<span class="sidenote"><i>Lee.</i></span><br /> + She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.<br /> + Thus <i>Lee</i> by Reason strove not to controul<br /> + That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.<br /> + He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,<br /> + Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.<br /> + I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;<br /> + But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?</p> + +<p class="verse"> Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,<span class="sidenote"><i>Otway.</i></span><br /> + The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.<br /> + If Pity sooths us, <i>Otway</i> claims our Praise;<br /> + If Terrour strikes, then <i>Lee</i> deserves the Bays.<br /> + We grant a Genius shines in <i>Jaffeir's</i> Part,<br /> + And <i>Roman Brutus</i> speaks a Master's Art.<br /> + But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase<br /> + An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze.<br /> + A rising Meteor never was design'd,<br /> + T'amaze the sober part of Human kind.<br /> + Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse<br /> + A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse.<br /> + Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go,<br /> + Emptily Gay, magnificently Low,<br /> + Like Ancient <i>Rome's</i> Religion, Sacrifice and Show.<br /> + Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize,<br /> + Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes.<br /> + The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage,<br /> + May please the Young <i>Sir Foplings</i> on the Stage.<br /> + But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find<br /> + Like <i>Spencer's</i> Giant sunk away in Wind.<br /> + It grates judicious Readers when they meet<br /> + Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet.<br /> + Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,<br /> + Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.<span class="sidenote"><i>Dryden.</i></span><br /> + <i>Lee</i> aim'd to rise above great <i>Dryden's</i> Height,<br /> + But lofty <i>Dryden</i> keeps a steddy Flight.<br /> + Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care<br /> + His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air.<br /> + The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name,<br /> + By industry he kindled to a Flame.<br /> + The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue<br /> + To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung.<br /> + His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine,<br /> + <i>All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.</i><br /> + His <i>Images</i> so strong and lively be,<br /> + I hear not Words alone, but Substance see;<br /> + Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move<br /> + Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love.<br /> + I weep to hear fond <i>Anthony</i> complain<br /> + In <i>Shakespear's</i> Fancy, but in <i>Virgil's</i> Strain.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer,<span class="sidenote">* See Preface to <i>Aurengzebe</i>.</span><br /> + Himself[*] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err.<br /> + But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim<br /> + The sounding Title of a Poem's Name.<br /> + For Raillery, and what creates a Smile<br /> + Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.<br /> + That <i>Heav'nly Heat</i> refuses to be seen<br /> + In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.</p> + +<p class="verse"> If we would do him right, we must produce<br /> + The <i>Sophoclean Buskin</i>; when his Muse<br /> + With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear,<br /> + And <i>Peals</i> applauding shake the Theater.</p> + +<p class="verse"> They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,<br /> + Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays.<br /> + Is he oblig'd to <i>France</i>, who draws from thence<br /> + By <i>English</i> Energy, their Captive Sense?<br /> + Tho' <i>Edward</i> and fam'd <i>Henry</i> Warr'd in vain,<br /> + Subduing what they could not long retain:<br /> + Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,<br /> + And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails.</p> + +<p class="verse"> This does superiour excellence betray;<br /> + O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!<br /> + If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make<br /> + Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake<br /> + Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design<br /> + She must her Own Originals decline,<br /> + And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine.<br /> + Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,<br /> + Which Young <i>Thalia</i> sung in Rural Lays.</p> + +<p class="verse"> As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain<br /> + As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,<br /> + Such <i>Tityrus's</i> charming Number show,<br /> + Please like the River, like the River flow.<br /> + When his first Years in mighty Order ran,<br /> + And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,<br /> + Around his Lips the <i>Waxen Artists</i> hung,<br /> + And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue.<br /> + Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,<br /> + More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke.<br /> + Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide,<br /> + Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains,<br /> + Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains.<br /> + Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares,<br /> + Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years.<br /> + Yet still, like <i>Ætna's</i> <i>Mount</i>, he kept his Fire,<br /> + And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier.<br /> + He smil'd, like <i>Phoebus</i> in a Stormy Morn,<br /> + And sung, like <i>Philomel</i> against a Thorn.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Here <i>Syren of sweet Poesy</i>, receive<br /> + That little praise my unknown Muse can give.<br /> + Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear<br /> + Tho' angry <i>B—— more</i> in Heroicks jeer.</p> + +<p class="verse"> A Bard, who seems to challenge <i>Virgil's</i> Flame,<br /> + And would be next in Majesty and Name.<br /> + With lofty <i>Maro</i> he at first may please;<br /> + The Righteous <i>Briton</i> rises by degrees.<br /> + But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows,<br /> + And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,<br /> + The <i>Mantuan</i> Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,<br /> + Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight.<br /> + Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song<br /> + Runs smooth as <i>Thames's</i> River, and as strong.<br /> + Like his own <i>Neptune</i> he the Waves confines,<br /> + While <i>Bl—— re</i> rumbles, like the King of Winds.<br /> + His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,<br /> + Jade out our Patience with excessive length.<br /> + While Readers, Yawning o'er his <i>Arthurs</i> see<br /> + Whole Pages spun on one poor <i>Simile</i>.<br /> + We grant he labours with no want of Brains,<br /> + Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains,<br /> + One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat<br /> + Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat<br /> + A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.<br /> + It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise<br /> + The <i>World's</i> <i>Imperial Poem</i> in Six Days.<br /> + But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay,<br /> + Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay:<br /> + In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train,<br /> + Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain:<br /> + Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer,<br /> + And call the smiling Angels to his care.<br /> + Must sleep less Nights, <i>Vulcanian</i> Labours prove,<br /> + Like <i>Cyclops</i>, forging Thunder for a <i>Jove</i>.<br /> + With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style,<br /> + Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File.<br /> + If You design to make Your Prince appear<br /> + As perfect as Humanity can bear.<br /> + Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please,<br /> + Deaf to the <i>Syrens</i> of alluring ease.<br /> + No Terrours Thee, <i>Achilles</i>, could invade,<br /> + Nor Thee, <i>Ulysses</i>, any Charms persuade.<br /> + This must be done, if Poets would be Read,<br /> + Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains<br /> + <i>Virgilian Addison</i> describes <i>Campaigns</i>.<br /> + Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find,<br /> + Not of the <i>Gyant</i>, nor the <i>Pygmy</i> kind.<br /> + Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song,<br /> + Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.</p> + +<p class="verse"> This <i>Congreve</i> follows in his Deathless Line,<br /> + And the <i>Tenth Hand</i> is put to the Design.<br /> + The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil<br /> + Claims more than <i>Shakespear's</i> Wit, or <i>Johnson's</i> Oil.<br /> + Sing on, <i>Harmonious Swan</i>, in weeping strains,<br /> + And tell <i>Pastora's</i> Death to mournful Swains.<br /> + Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs<br /> + Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.<br /> + Or let thy <i>Satyr</i> grin with half a Smile,<br /> + And jeer in <i>Easy Etherege's</i> Style.<br /> + Let <i>Manly Wycherly</i> chalk out the Way,<br /> + And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.<br /> + 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings,<br /> + The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.</p> + +<p class="verse"> The <i>Teian Muse</i> invites Thee from above<br /> + To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love.<br /> + Let <i>MONTAGUE</i> describe <i>Boyn's</i> swelling Flood<br /> + And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood.<br /> + O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse!<br /> + Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse.<br /> + When You <i>Nassau's</i> bright Actions dar'd to see,<br /> + <i>You</i> was the <i>Eagle</i>, and <i>Apollo He</i>.<br /> + But when He read You, and Your Value knew,<br /> + <i>He</i> was the <i>Eagle</i>, and <i>Apollo You</i>.<br /> + Both spoke the Bird in her <i>Æthereal</i> height,<br /> + The <i>Majesty</i> was <i>His</i>, and <i>Thine</i> the <i>Flight</i>.<br /> + Both did <i>Apollo</i> in His Glory shew,<br /> + The Silver <i>Harp</i> was <i>Thine</i>, and <i>His</i> the <i>Bow</i>,</p> + +<p class="verse"> So may <i>Pierian Clio</i> cease to fear,<br /> + When <i>Honour</i> deigns to sing, and <i>Majesty</i> to hear!<br /> + So may she favour'd live, and always please<br /> + Our <i>Dorset's</i>, and Judicious <i>Normanby's</i>!</p> + +<p class="verse"> Nor does the <i>Coronet</i> alone defend<br /> + The Muses Cause: The <i>Miter</i> is Her Friend.<br /> + Can we forget how <i>Damon's</i> lofty Tongue<br /> + Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung<br /> + When <i>Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd</i> Sung.<br /> + How <i>Mars</i> and <i>Pallas</i> wept to see the Day<br /> + When <i>Athens</i> by a Plague dispeopled lay.<br /> + What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost!<br /> + Sung with more Spirit than all <i>Athens</i> lost.<br /> + Nor can the <i>Miter</i> now conceal the Bays,<br /> + For still we view the <i>Sacred Poet's</i> praise.<br /> + So tho' <i>Eridanus</i> becomes a Star<br /> + Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar,<br /> + Below he loses nothing but his Name,<br /> + Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same.</p> + +<p class="verse"> But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song,<br /> + Let <i>Creech</i> be numbred with the Sacred Throng.<br /> + Whose daring Muse could with <i>Manilius</i> fly,<br /> + And, like an <i>Atlas</i>, shoulder up the Sky.<br /> + He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace<br /> + His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race.<br /> + See, how He walks above in mighty strains,<br /> + And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains!<br /> + He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey,<br /> + In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they.</p> + +<p class="verse"> 'Tis cause of Triumph, when <i>Rome's</i> Genius shines<span class="sidenote"><i>A. Lucretius</i> and <i>Manilius</i>.</span><br /> + In nervous <i>English</i>, and well-worded Lines.<br /> + Two Famous <i>Latins</i>[A] our bright Tongue adorn,<br /> + And a new <i>Virgil</i>[B]<span class="sidenote">B. Mr. <i>Dryden's</i> <i>Virgil</i>.</span> is in <i>England</i> born.<br /> + An <i>Æneid</i> to translate, and make a new,<br /> + Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.</p> + +<p class="verse"> For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind<br /> + Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind;<br /> + Yet a well-languag'd Version will require<br /> + An equal <i>Genius</i>, and as strong a Fire.<br /> + These claim at once our Study and our Praise,<br /> + Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase.<br /> + These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand<br /> + At <i>Paul's</i> or <i>Cornhill</i>, <i>Fleetstreet</i> or the <i>Strand</i>.<br /> + Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas,<br /> + An Ornament to <i>Foreign Libraries</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my <i>Theme</i>!<br /> + O could I write so well as I esteem!<br /> + From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise<br /> + As a young <i>Phoenix</i> out of Ashes flies<br /> + Above what <i>France</i> or <i>Italy</i> can shew,<br /> + The Celebrated <i>Tasso</i>, or <i>Boileau</i>.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find<br /> + Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind:<br /> + If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men,<br /> + You love the <i>Labour'd Travels</i> of the Pen;<br /> + Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time<br /> + On <i>Cowley</i>, or on <i>Dryden's</i> useful Rhyme:<br /> + Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse,<br /> + The <i>Tragick, Lyrick</i>, or <i>Heroick</i> Muse:<br /> + For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew<br /> + In <i>Charming Numbers</i>, what is false, what true,<br /> + And teach more good than <i>Hobbs</i> or <i>Lock</i> can do.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Hail, ye <i>Poetick Dead</i>, who wander now<br /> + In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow.<br /> + Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,<br /> + Ye blest Partakers of a happier State!<br /> + Whether Intomb'd with <i>English Kings</i> you sleep,<br /> + Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:<br /> + There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,<br /> + May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay!<br /> + There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume<br /> + The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.</p> + +<p class="verse"> While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear,<br /> + Sing on; let <i>Montague</i> and <i>Dorset</i> hear.<br /> + In Stately Verse let <i>William's</i> Praise be told,<br /> + WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold.<br /> + No more of <i>Richelieu's</i> Worth: Forget not, Fame,<br /> + To change <i>Augustus</i> for Great <i>William's</i> Name.<br /> + Who, tho' like <i>Homer's</i> <i>Jupiter</i>, he sate,<br /> + Musing on something eminently great<br /> + And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate;<br /> + Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears<br /> + The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.<br /> + Whether this Praise to <i>Stepny's</i> Muse belong,<br /> + Or <i>Prior</i> claim it for <i>Pindarick Song</i>.<br /> + The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd,<br /> + And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.<br /> + The double Vertue of <i>Nassovian Fire</i><br /> + At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire.<br /> + The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung<br /> + A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,<br /> + When <i>Mars</i> has Acted, or when <i>Phoebus</i> Sung.</p> + +<p class="verse"> O cou'd my Muse reach <i>Milton's</i> tow'ring Flight,<br /> + Or stretch her Wings to the <i>Mæonian</i> Height!<br /> + Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse<br /> + His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.<br /> + The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame,<br /> + And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name<br /> + But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb,<br /> + Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome.<br /> + Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace<br /> + The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race?<br /> + What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?<br /> + No Land but <i>Britain</i>, must pretend to shine<br /> + With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.<span class="sidenote"><i>* The Duke of</i> Glouceiter. <i>Here the Author laments he +prov'd so bad a Prophet</i>.</span><br /> + So may this Island a new <i>Delos</i> prove,<br /> + Joyn[*] Young <i>Apollo</i> to the <i>Cretan Jove</i>!<br /> + What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame!<br /> + How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame!<br /> + How swiftly <i>Gloster</i> in his Bud began!<br /> + How the <i>Green Hero</i> blossoms into Man!<br /> + Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,<br /> + To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms:<br /> + See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!<br /> + Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,<br /> + What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They<br /> + Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.<br /> + <i>Edwards</i> and <i>Harry's</i> to his Eyes appear<br /> + In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.<br /> + At <i>Agincourt</i> so terrible they stood,<br /> + So when <i>Pictavian</i> Fields were dy'd with Blood.<br /> + The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,<br /> + And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.<br /> + Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,<br /> + Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly.<br /> + O'er <i>England's</i> Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,<br /> + And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.<br /> + Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,<br /> + But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep.<br /> + Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,<br /> + Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,<br /> + Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.</p> + +<p class="verse"> After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,<br /> + The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.<br /> + The Streams of <i>Thamisis</i>, exulting, Ring,<br /> + When fair <i>Augusta's</i> lofty <i>Clio's</i> Sing<br /> + <i>Granta</i> and <i>Rhedycina's</i> Tuneful Throng<br /> + Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.</p> + +<p class="verse"> Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time,<br /> + Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme.<br /> + Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,<br /> + Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure.<br /> + But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey,<br /> + Till <i>English</i> Sense and Valour shall decay.<br /> + Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,<br /> + Or <i>Cam</i> or <i>Isis</i> shall forget to Flow.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry +(1707), by Samuel Cobb + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 14528-h.htm or 14528-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/5/2/14528/ + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry (1707) + From Poems On Several Occasions (1707) + +Author: Samuel Cobb + +Release Date: December 30, 2004 [EBook #14528] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + +_Series Two:_ + +_Essays on Poetry and Language_ + + +No. 1 + + + +Samuel Cobb's + +Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry + +from + +Poems on Several Occasions (1707) + + + +With an Introduction by + +Louis I. Bredvold + + + +The Augustan Reprint Society July, 1946 + + +Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to +six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. +Address subscriptions and communications to The Augustan Reprint Society +in care of the General Editors: Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan, +Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Edward N. Hooker or H.T. Swedenberg, Jr., +University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Editorial +Advisors: Louis I. Bredvold, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, +Michigan, and James L. Clifford, Columbia University, New York. + + + + +Introduction + + +What little is known of the life of Samuel Cobb (1675-1713) may be found +in the brief article in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ by W.P. +Courtney. He was born in London, and educated at Christ's Hospital and +at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he obtained the degrees of B.A., +1698, and M.A., 1702. He was appointed "under grammar master" at +Christ's Hospital in 1702 and continued his connection with this school +until his early death. He had a reputation for wit and learning, and +also for imbibing somewhat too freely. In his poetry he especially +cultivated the style of the free Pindaric ode, a predilection which won +him a mention without honor in Johnson's life of Pope (_Lives of the +Poets_, ed. Birkbeck Hill, III, 227). Even the heroic couplets of his +poem on "Poetry" aim rather at pseudo-Pindaric diffuseness than at +epigrammatic concentration of statement. As a critic Cobb deserves +attention in spite of his mediocrity, or even because of it. He helps to +fill out the picture of the literary London of his time, and his +opinions and tastes provide valuable side-lights on such greater men as +Dennis, Addison, and Pope. "Of Poetry" belongs to the prolific literary +type of "progress poems," in which the modern student finds illuminating +statements as to how the eighteenth century surveyed and evaluated past +literary traditions. The list of Cobb's publications in the _Cambridge +Bibliography_ suggests that he enjoyed some degree of popularity. His +volume, _Poems on Several Occasions_, was published in 1707, and +reprinted in enlarged form in 1709 and 1710. The reproduction herewith +of the Preface "On Criticism" and the versified discourse "Of Poetry" is +from a copy of the 1707 edition in the Newberry Library, in Chicago. + +Louis I. Bredvold + +University of Michigan + + + + +A DISCOURSE ON CRITICISM AND THE LIBERTY OF WRITING. + + +In a Letter to _Richard Carter_ Esq; late of the _Middle-Temple_, now +living in _Barbadoes_. + + +SIR, + +_The_ Muses _are said to be the Daughters of Memory: A Poet therefore +must lay down his Title to their Favour, who can be forgetful of a +Friend, like You, whose polite Knowledge, instructive Conversation, and +particulur Generosity to my self, have left such strong Impressions upon +my Mind, as defy the Power of Absence to remove them. I scarce believe +Death it self can blot out an_ Idea _so firmly imprinted. The Soul, when +it leaves this earthly Habitation, and has no more Use for those +Vertues, which were serviceable in the Conduct of human Life, such as_ +Temperance, Fortitude _and the like, will certainly carry_ Love _and_ +Gratitude _along with it to Heaven. This may suffice to let the World +know what Obligations you have laid upon me. + +By this Letter (the room of which, for your sake I could willingly have +supply'd) you will plainly see, that no Place, however remote, is able +to secure you from the Zeal of a_ Friend, _and the Vanity of a_ Poet. + + + For tho' retiring to the _Western Isles_, + At the long Distance of five thousand Miles, + You've chang'd _dear London_ for your Native Seat, + And think _Barbadoes_ is a safe Retreat; + You highly err: Nor is the _Wat'ry Fence_ + Sufficient Guard against Impertinence. + The _Muse_, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me, + Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea. + Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' _Atlantick Main_, + Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain. + +_You see, Sir, I have not left off that rhyming Trick of Youth; but +knowing You to be a Gentleman who loves Variety in every thing, I +thought it would not be ungrateful if I checquer'd my Prose with a +little Verse._ + +_After this Preamble, it is presum'd, that one who lives on the Other +side of the Globe, will expect by every Pacquet-boat to know what is +done on This. Since Your Departure, Affairs have had a surprizing Turn +every where, and particularly in_ Italy; _which Success of our Armies +and Allies abroad, have given a manifest Proof of our wise Counsels at +home.--Parties still run between_ High _and_ Low. _I shall make no +Remarks on either; thinking it always more prudent, as well as more +safe, to live peaceably under the Government in which I was born, rather +than peevishly to quarrel with it._ + +_But You will cry,_ Who expects any thing from the Politicks of a Poet? +How goes the State of _Parnassus_? What has the Battle of _Ramillies_ +produc'd? _What Battles generally do; bad Poets, and worse Criticks. I +could not perswade my self to attempt any thing above six Lines, which +had not been made, were it not at the Request of a Musical Gentleman. +You will look upon them with the same Countenance you us'd to do on +things of a larger Size._ + + Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great + The slippery Danger of exalted State, + Victorious _Marlbro_ to _Ramilly_ flies; + Arm'd with new Lightning from bright _ANNA's_ Eyes. + Wonders like These, no former Age has seen; + Subjects are _Heroes_, where a Saint's the _QUEEN_. + +_Mr._ Congreve _has given the World an Ode, and prefix'd to it a +Discourse on the_ Pindaric Verse, _of which more, when I come to speak +on the same Argument: There are several others on that Subject, and some +which will bear the Test; one particularly, written in imitation of the +Style of_ Spencer; _and goes under the Name of Mr._ Prior; _I have not +read it through, but_ ex pede Herculem. _He is a Gentleman who cannot +write ill. Yet some of our_ Criticks _have fell upon it, as the Viper +did on the File, to the detriment of their Teeth. So that Criticism, +which was formerly the Art of judging well, is now become the pure +Effect of Spleen, Passion and Self-conceit. Nothing is perfect in every +Part. He that expects to see any thing so, must have patience till_ +Dooms-day. _The Worship we pay to our own Opinion, generally leads its +to the Contempt of another's. This blind Idolatry of_ Self _is the +Mother of Errour; and this begets a secret Vanity in our_ Modern +Censurers, _who, when they please to_ think a Meaning _for an Author, +would thereby insinuate how much his Judgment is inferiour to their +inlighten'd Sagacity. When, perhaps, the Failings they expose are a +plain Evidence of their own Blindness._ + + For to display our Candour and our Sence, + Is to discover some deep _Excellence_. + The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free; + They raise the _Mole hill, who want Eyes to see_. + +_Excrescences are easily perceiv'd by an ordinary Eye; but it requires +the Penetration of a_ Lynceus _to discern the Depth of a good Poem; the +secret Artfulness and Contrivance of it being conceal'd from a Vulgar +Apprehension._ + +_I remember somewhere an Observation of St._ Evremont _(an Author whom +you us'd to praise, and whom therefore I admire) that some Persons, who +would be Poets, which they cannot be, become Criticks which they can be. +The censorious Grin, and the loud Laugh, are common and easy things, +according to_ Juvenal; _and according to_ Scripture, _the Marks of a_ +Fool. _These Men are certainly in a deplorable Condition, who cannot be +witty, but at another's Expence, and who take an unnatural kind of +Pleasure in being uneasy at their Own._ + + Rules they can write, but, like the _College Tribe_, + Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe. + I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool, + _Insipidly_ correct, and _dull_ by Rule: + _Homer_, with all his _Nodding_, I would chuse, + Before the more exact _Sicilian_ Muse. + Who'd not be _Dryden_; tho' his Faults are great, + Sooner than our Laborious _Laureat_? + Not but a decent Neatness, I confess, + In _Writing_ is requir'd, as well as _Dress_. + Yet still in both the _unaffected Air_ + Will always please the _Witty_ and the _Fair_. + +_I would not here be thought to be a Patron of slovenly Negligence; for +there is nothing which breeds a greater Aversion in Men of a_ Delicate +Taste. _Yet you know, Sir, that, after all our Care and Caution, the +Weakness of our Nature will eternally mix it self in every thing we +write; and an over curious Study of being correct, enervates the Vigour +of the Mind, slackens the Spirits, and cramps the Genius of a_ Free +Writer. _He who creeps by the Shore, may shelter himself from a Storm, +but likely to make very few Discoveries: And the cautious Writer, who is +timorous of disobliging the captious Reader, may produce you true +Grammar, and unexceptionable_ Prosodia, _but most stupid Poetry._ + + In vitium culpae ducit fuga, si caret arte. + +_A slavish Fear of committing an Oversight, betrays a Man to more +inextricable Errours, than the Boldness of an enterprizing Author, whose +artful Carelesness is more instructive and delightful than all the Pains +and Sweat of the Poring and Bookish Critick._ + +_Some Failings, like Moles in a beautiful Countenance, take nothing from +the Charms of a happy Composure, but rather heighten and improve their +Value. Were our modern Reflecters Masters of more Humanity than +Learning, and of more Discernment than both, the Authors of the Past and +Present Ages, would have no reason to complain of Injustice; nor would +that Reflection be cast upon the_ best-natur'd Nation _in the World, +that, when rude and ignorant, we were unhospitable to Strangers, and +now, being civiliz'd, we expend our Barbarity on one another_. Homer +_would not be so much the Ridicule of our_ Beaux Esprits; _when, with +all his Sleepiness, he is propos'd as the most exquisite Pattern of +Heroic Writing, by the Greatest of Philosophers, and the Best of Judges. +Nor is_ Longinus _behind hand with_ Aristotle _in his Character of the +same Author, when he tells us that the Greatness of_ Homer's _Soul +look'd above little Trifles (which are Faults in meaner Capacities) and +hurry'd on to his Subject with a Freedom of Spirit peculiar to himself. +A Racer at_ New-market _or the_ Downs, _which has been fed and drest, +and with the nicest Caution prepared for the Course, will stumble +perhaps at a little Hillock; while the Wings of_ Pegasus _bear him o'er +Hills and Mountains,_ + + Sub pedibusq; videt nubes & sydera-- + +_Such was the Soul of_ Homer: _who is more justly admir'd by those who +understand him, than he is derided by the Ignorant: Whose Writings +partake as much of that Spirit, as he attributes to the Actions of his_ +Heroes; _and whose Blindness is more truly chargeable on his_ Criticks, +_than on_ Himself: _who, as he wrote without a Rule, was himself a Rule +to succeeding Ages. Who as much deserves that Commendation which_ +Alcibiades _gave to_ Socrates, _when he compar'd him to the Statues of +the_ Sileni, _which to look upon, had nothing beautiful and ornamental; +but open them, and there you might discover the Images of all the Gods +and Goddesses._ + +_Who knows the secret Springs of the Soul, and those sudden Emotions, +which excite illustrious Men, to act and speak out of the_ Common Road? +_They seem irregular to Us by reason of the Fondness and Bigottry we pay +to_ Custom, _which is no Standard to the Brave and the Wise. The Rules +we receive in our first Education, are laid down with this Purpose, to +restrain the_ Mind; _which by reason of the Tenderness of our Age and +the ungovernable Disposition of Young Nature, is apt to start out into +Excess and Extravagance. But when Time has ripen'd us, and Observation +has fortify'd the Soul, we ought to lay aside those common Rules with +our Leading strings; and exercise our Reason with a free, generous and +manly Spirit. Thus a_ Good Poet _should make use of a Discretionary +Command; like a_ Good General, _who may rightly wave the vulgar Precepts +of the Military School (which may confine an ordinary Capacity, and curb +the Rash and Daring) if by a new and surprizing Method of Conduct, he +find out an uncommon Way to Glory and Success._ + +Bocalin, _the_ Italian _Wit, among his other odd Advertisements, has +this remarkable one, which is parallel to the present Discourse. When_ +Tasso _(says he) had presented_ Apollo _with his_ Poem, _call'd_ +Giurasalemme Liberata; _the_ Reformer _of the_ Delphic Library, _to +whose Perusal it was committed, found fault with it, because it was not +written according to the Rules of_ Aristotle; _which affront being +complain'd of,_ Apollo _was highly incens'd, and chid_ Aristotle _for +his Presumption in daring to prescribe Laws and Rules to the high +Conceptions of the_ Virtuosi, _whose Liberty of Writing and Inventing, +enrich'd the Schools and Libraries with gallant Composures; and to +enslave the Wits of Learned Men, was to rob the World of those alluring +Charms which daily flow'd from the Productions of Poets, who follow the +Dint of their own unbounded Imagination. You will find the rest in the +28th Advertisement._ + +_The Moral is instructive; because to judge well and candidly, we must +wean our selves from a slavish Bigotry to the Ancients. For, tho'_ Homer +_and_ Virgil, Pindar _and_ Horace _be laid before us as Examples of +exquisite Writing in the Heroic and Lyric Kind, yet, either thro' the +Distance of Time, or Diversity of Customs, we can no more expect to find +like Capacities, than like Complexions. Let a Man follow the Talent that +Nature has furnish'd him with, and his own Observation has improv'd, we +may hope to see Inventions in all Arts, which may dispute Superiority +with the best of the_ Athenian _and_ Roman _Excellencies_. + + Nec minimum meruere decus vestigia Graeca + Ausi deserere.---- + +_It is another Rule of the same Gentleman, that we should attempt +nothing beyond our Strength: There are some modern_ Milo's _who have +been wedg'd in that Timber which they strove to rend. Some have fail'd +in the Lyric Way who have been excellent in the Dramatic. And, Sir, +would you not think a Physician would gain more Profit and Reputation +by_ Hippocrates _and_ Galen _well-studied, than by_ Homer _and_ Virgil +_ill-copied?_ + +Horace, _who was as great a Master of Judgment, as he was an Instance of +Wit, would have laid the Errours of an establish'd Writer on a +pardonable Want of Care, or excus'd them by the Infirmity of Human +Nature; he would have wondred at the corrupt Palates now a-days, who +quarrel with their Meat, when the Fault is in their Taste. To reform +which, if our Moderns would lay aside the malicious Grin and drolling +Sneer, the Passions and Prejudices to Persons and Circumstances, we +should have better Poems, and juster Criticisms. Nothing casts a greater +Cloud on the Judgment than the Inclination (or rather Resolution) to +praise or condemn, before we see the Object. The Rich and the Great lay +a Trap for Fame, and have always a numerous Crowd of servile Dependants, +to clap their Play, or admire their Poem._ + + For noble Scriblers are with Flattery fed, + And none dare tell their Fault who eat their Bread. + + _Dryden's Pers.._ + +Juvenal _shews his Aversion to this Prepossession, when his old +disgusted Friend gives this among the rest of his Reasons why he left +the Town,_ + + --Mentiri nescio: librum + Si malus est, nequeo laudare & poscere. + +_To conquer Prejudice is the part of a Philosopher; and to discern a +Beauty is an Argument of good Sense and Sagacity; and to find a Fault +with Allowances for human Frailty, is the Property of a Gentleman._ + +_Who then is this Critick? You will find him in_ Quintilius Varus, _of_ +Cremona, _who when any Author shew'd him his Composure, laid aside the_ +Fastus _common to our supercilious Readers; and when he happen'd on any +Mistake_, Corrige sodes Hoc aiebat & hoc. + +_Such is the Critick I would find, and such would I prove my self to +others. I am sorry I must go into my Enemies Country to find out another +like him. Our_ English _Criticks having taken away a great deal from the +Value of their Judgment, by dashing it with some splenetick Reflections. +Like a certain Nobleman mention'd by my Lord_ Verulam, _who when he +invited any Friends to Dinner, always gave a disrelish to the +Entertaiment by some cutting malicious Jest._ + +_The_ French _then seem to me to have a truer Taste of the ancient +Authors than ever_ Scaliger _or_ Heinsius _could pretend to_. Rapin, +_and above all_, Bossu, _have done more Justice to_ Homer _and to_ +Virgil, _to_ Livy _and_ Thucydides, _to_ Demosthenes _and to_ Cicero, +_&c. and have bin more beneficial to the Republick of Learning, by their +nice Comparisons and Observations, than all the honest Labours of those +well-meaning Men, who rummage_ musty Manuscripts _for_ various Lections. +_They did not_ Insistere in ipso cortice, verbisq; interpretandis +intenti nihil ultra petere, (_As_ Dacier _has it_) _but search'd the +inmost Recesses, open'd their Mysteries, and (as it were) call'd the +Spirit of the Author from the Dead. It is for this_ Le Clerc _(in his_ +Bibliotheque Choisie, _Tom._ 9. _p._ 328.) _commends St._ Evremont's +_Discourses on_ Salust _and_ Tacitus, _as also his Judgment on the +Ancients, and blames the Grammarians, because they give us not a Taste +of Antiquity after his Method, which would invite our Polite Gentlemen +to study it with a greater Appetite. Whereas their Manner of Writing, +which takes Notice only of Words, Customs, and chiefly Chronology, with +a blind Admiration of all they read, is unpleasant to a fine Genius, and +deters it from the pursuit of the_ Belles Lettres. + +_I shall say no more at present on this Head, but proceed to give you an +Account of the following Sheets. What I have attempted in them is mostly +of the Pindaric and the Lyric Way. I have not follow'd the_ Strophe +_and_ Antistrophe; _neither do I think it necessary; besides I had +rather err with Mr._ Cowley, _who shew'd us the Way, than be flat and in +the right with others._ + +_Mr._ Congreve, _an ingenious Gentleman, has affirm'd, I think too +hastily, that in each particular Ode the Stanza's are alike, whereas the +last Olympic has two_ Monostrophicks _of different Measure, and Number +of Lines._ + +_The Pacquet-boat is just going off, I am afraid of missing Tide. You +may expect the rest on the_ Pindaric Style. _In the mean time I beg +leave to subscribe myself,_ + + _Sir, Your ever Obedient and + Obliged Servant,_ + + Samuel Cobb. + + + + +_Of POETRY._ + +1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement. + + +A POEM. + +_Antiquity of Poetry_ + + Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast + Design'd a Creature to command the rest, + Of all th' _Erected Progeny of Clay_ + His Noblest Labour was his _First Essay_. + There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind + Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind. + The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen + In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien. + Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught, + With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought + To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing, + And be at once the Poet and the King. + Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew, + And saw the Depth of Nature at a View; + Or, new descending from th' Angelick race, + Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place. + + Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame, + Which lodg'd his _Fiery Guest_[1], and like the same + Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense, + His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence. + Whene're He spoke, from his _Seraphick_ Tongue + Ten Thousand comely Graces, ever young, + With new _Calliopes_ and _Clio's_ sprung. + No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind, + Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd. + Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain + Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain. + +[1] The Soul according to the Platonists. So _Virgil_: _Aurai +simplicis ig, nem._ + + But when He yielded to deluding Charms, + Th'Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms. + The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd, + But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd. + Yet here and there _Celestial Seeds_ She threw, + And rain'd _melodious Blessings_ as She flew. + Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd + For high Employments, and their Clay resin'd. + Who, of a _Species_ more sublime, can tame + The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame. + When in their breasts th'impetuous _Numen_ rowls, + And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls. + + Thus the Companion of the Godhead [Moses] sung, + And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung. + He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light, + Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night. + How Sin and Shame th' _Unhappy Couple_ knew, + And thro' affrighted _Eden_, more affrighted, flew. + How God advanc'd his Darling _Abram's_ fame, + In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name. + On _Horeb's_ Top, or _Sinah's_ flaming Hill + Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will. + Unshaken then _Seth's_ stony Column stood, + Surviving the Destruction of the Flood. + His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone, + Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known. + Thence Divine _Moses_, with exalted thought, + In _Hebrew_ Lines the _Worlds Beginning_ wrote. + +[_The Progress of Poetry._] + + The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews, + Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse. + Here _Deborah_ in fiery rapture sings, + The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings. + Thy Torrent, _Kison_, shall for ever flow, + Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe. + + With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise, + With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays, + The Seed of _Judah_ to the Battle flew, + And Orders of Destroying Angels drew + To their Victorious side: Who marching round + Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound, + By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound. + So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim + Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name! + +[_Orpheus._] + + Nor does it here alone it's Magick show, + But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below. + So powerful is the Muse! When _David_ plaid, + The Frantick _Daemon_ heard him, and obey'd. + No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay + Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away. + Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd + To _Jews_ alone: For in a Heathen mind + Some strokes appear: Thus _Orpheus_ was inspir'd, + Inchanting _Syrens_ at his Song retir'd. + To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd, + And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd. + +[_Homer._] + + But _Greece_ was honour'd with a Greater Name, + _Homer_ is _Greece's_ Glory and her Shame. + How could Learn'd _Athens_ with contempt refuse, + Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse? + Thee, _Colophon_, his angry Ghost upbraids, + While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades. + Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive + For the Dead _Homer_, whom they scorn'd Alive. + So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom! + To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb. + + Tho' _Virgil_ rising under happier Stars, + Saw _Rome_ succeed in Learning as in Wars. + When _Pollio_, like a smiling Planet, shone, + And _Caesar_ darted on him, like the Sun. + Nor did _Mecaenas_, gain a less repute, + When Tuneful _Flaccus_ touch'd the _Roman_ Lute. + + But when, _Mecaenas_, will Thy Star appear + In our low Orb, and gild the _British_ Sphere? + Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes + Dissembled under _DORSET's_ fair Disguise? + If so; go on, Great _Sackvile_, to regard + The Poet, and th'imploring Muse reward. + So to Thy Fame a _Pyramid_ shall rise, + Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies. + For if a Verse Eternity can claim, + Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name. + This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain + _Octavius_ hover'd long, and sought to Reign. + This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight, + Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight. + Let him his Title to such Glory bring, + You give as freely, and more nobly sing. + Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce, + He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse. + _Horace_ and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd, + The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind. + + O Light of _England_, and her highest Grace! + Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race! + Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine + (For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line, + While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell + The noblest Poets, and who most excel. + Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send, + Far as the British Arms or Memory extend. + + But 'twould be vain, and tedious, to reherse + The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse + On barren ground who drag th'unwilling Plough, + And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow. + A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease, + May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease, + Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories. + + Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme + Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime. + Observe their twenty faces, how they strain + To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain. + Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time, + Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime, + And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme) + Create a _BRITISH PRINCE_; as hard a task, + As would a _Cowley_ or a _Milton_ ask, + To build a Poem of the vastest price, + A _DAVIDEIS_, or _LOST PARADISE_. + So tho' a Beauty of _Imperial Mien_ + May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen, + The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain, + Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain. + + Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd, + By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd. + I pity Madmen who attempt to fly, + And raise their _Airy Babel_ to the Sky. + Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name, + Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame, + Not so the Seat of _Phoebus_ role, which lay + In Ruins buried, and a long Decay. + To _Britany_ the Temple was convey'd, + By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid. + Built from the _Basis_ by a noble Few, + The stately Fabrick in perfection view. + While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece, + The Work of many rowling Centuries. + + For Joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise + An _English_ Poet, meriting the Bays. + How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known + For _Greek_ and _Latin_ Tongues, but scorn'd their Own. + + As _Moors_ of old, near _Guinea's_ precious Shore, + For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar. + Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd, + Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud. + +[_Chaucer_ and _Spencer_] + + Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay, + Till _Chaucer_ rose, and pointed out the Day. + A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse + In mouldy words could Solid sense produce. + Our _English Ennius_ He, who claim'd his part + In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art. + The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines, + And golden fragments glitter in his Lines. + Which _Spencer_ gather'd, for his Learning known, + And by successful gleanings made his Own. + So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day, + Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away. + O had thy Poet, _Britany_, rely'd + On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd! + Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design, + _Maeanides_ and _Virgil_ had been Thine! + Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd, + But _Chaucer's_ steps _religiously_ pursu'd. + +[_Ben. Johnson_.] + + He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise + T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase; + 'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page; + So secred was th' Authority of Age! + The Coyn must sure for _currant Sterling_ pass, + Stamp'd with old _Chaucer's Venerable Face_. + But _Johnson_ found it of a gross _Alloy_, + Melted it down, and slung the Dross away + He dug pure Silver from a _Roman Mine_, + And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn. + We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar, + Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before. + Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame, + Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name. + Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray + The Sweat of _Terence_, in thy Glorious way, + Or _Catliine_ plots better in thy Play. + Whether his Crimes more excellently shine, + Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine, + And doubt which merits most, _Rome's Cicero_, or Thine. + All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke, + And learn the Language which the Victor spoke. + So _Macedon's Imperial Hero_ threw + His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew. + Great _Johnson's_ Deeds stand Parallel with His, + Were _Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies_. + + Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame + Are fill'd with larger particles of flame. + Scorning confinement, for more Land they groan, + And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own. + +[_Fletcher_ and _Beaument_] + + _Fletcher_, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine, + Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line. + Who, prodigal of Sense, by _Beaumont's_ care, + Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair. + Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring, + A _bragging Bessus_, or _inconstant King_. + Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise + In his _Amyntors_, and _Aspasia's_. + But _Rome_ and _Athens_ must the Plots produce + With _France_, the Handmaid of the _English_ Muse + +[_Shakespear_.] + + Ev'n _Shakespear_ sweated in his narrow Isle, + And Subject _Italy_ obey'd his Stile. + _Boccace_ and _Cinthio_ must a tribute pay, + T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play. + Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules, + Or borrow Learning from _Athenian_ Schools: + Yet He, with _Plautus_, could instruct and please, + And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease. + By inborn strength so _Theseus_ bent the Pine, + Which cost _the Robber_ many Years Design[2]. + +[2] _See Plutarch's Life of Theseus_. + + Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest + His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest. + Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will, + Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill, + Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain + Of _AEschylus_, or sooth in _Ovid's_ vein. + I feel a Pity working in my Eyes, + When _Desdemona_ by _Othello_ dyes. + When I view _Brutus_ in his Dress appear; + I know not how to call him too severe. + His _rigid Vertue_ there attories for all, + And makes a Sacrifice of _Caesar's_ Fall. + +[_Cowley_.] + + Nature work'd Wonders then; when _Shakespear_ dy'd + Her _Cowley_ rose, drest in her gaudy Pride. + So from great Ruins a new Life she calls, + And Builds an _Ovid[3]_ when a _Tully_ Falls. + +[3] _Ovid_ was born the same year in which _Cicero_ dy'd. + + With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings, + And _David's_ Toils in _David's_ numbers Sings? + Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves, + His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves, + Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear, + _Hermits_ may read them to a Virgin's Ear. + Unstoln _Promethean_ Fire informs his Song, + Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong. + His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply, + Is always flowing-out, but never Dry. + + Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought, + Unjustly is imputed for a Fault. + A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free, + Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea. + Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain + Presuming _Xerxes_ shall pretend to Reign, + And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain. + + Hail _English_ Swan? for You alone could dare + With well-pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air: + And to your Lute _Pindaric_ Numbers call, + Nor fear the Danger of a _threatned Fall_. + O had You liv'd to _Waller's_ Reverend Age, + Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page! + Then _Britain's_ Isle might raise her Trophies high, + And _Solid Rome_, or _Witty Greece_ outvy. + The _Rhine_, the _Tyber_, and _Parisian Sein_, + When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main, + Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse, + Than gentle _Cowley's_ never-dying Verse. + The _Thames_ should sweep his briny way before, + And with his Name salute each distant Shore. + +[_Milton._] + + Then You, like Glorious _Milton_ had been known + To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own. + _Milton_! whose Muse Kisses th' embroider'd Skies, + While Earth below grows little, as She Flies. + Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight, + Far as the Confines of retreating Light. + Tells the _sindg'd Moor_, how scepter'd Death began + His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man. + Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel, + By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell. + + Now _Seraphs_ crown'd with _Helmets_ I behold, + _Helmets_ of Substance more refin'd than Gold: + The Skies with an united Lustre shine, + And Face to Face th' Immortal Armies joyn. + God's _plated Son, Majestically gay_, + Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way + Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies, + Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes. + O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore, + And transfix d Angels groan upon the _Diamond-Floor_. + Then, wheeling from _Olympus_ Snowy top, + Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop + Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell, + And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell. + + I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere + Once by the _Victor God_, begins to fear + New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer. + I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies, + _Was't not enough, Relentless Power_! he cries, + _Despair of better state, and loss of Light + Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night + And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain, + But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign, + And Register the Fate which we Sustain? + Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name + Hence, after Thine, we feel the_ Poet's _Flame + And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame_. + + O Soul _Seraphick_, teach us how we may + Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display, + For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay? + Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View, + Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You. + Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design, + Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine, + All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine. + Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose + Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose. + Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we + Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee. + Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight, + Below was Darkness, but Above was Light: + Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay + In nether Night, and such a want of Day. + But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires + To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires: + Like an unhooded _Hawk_, who, loose to Prey, + With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way. + There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place, + And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race: + Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be + A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee, + There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear, + And rowl with _Homer_ in the brightest Sphere; + To whom _Calliope_ has joyn'd thy Name, + And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame. + +[_Waller_.] + + Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows + In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose. + Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote, + When room is granted to the Speech and Thought. + Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song + Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along. + Like _Waller's_ Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime, + Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime. + His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown + In Numbers sweet and _Courtly_ as his Own. + Who no unmanly _Turns_ of Thought pursues, + Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse. + Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay, + Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away. + In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung, + Like those _Seraphick_ flames of which He Sung. + If, _Cromwel_, he laments thy Mighty Fall + Nature attending Weeps at the _Great Funeral_. + Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings + the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings + _Batavians_ worsted on the Conquer'd Main, + Fleets flying, and advent'rous _Opdam_ Slain, + Then _Rome_ and _Athens_ to his Song repair + With _British_ Graces smiling on his Care, + Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair. + As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill + The _Flandrian Plains_, and speak no vulgar Skill; + So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such, + No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much. + As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine, + The Substance precious, and the Work Divine: + So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts inchase, + Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace, + A mighty Value in a little Space. + So the _Venusian Clio_ sung of Old, + When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told. + But _Rome's_ aspiring _Lyrick_ pleas'd us less, + Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success. + O _Sacharissa_, what could steel thy Breast, + To Rob _Harmonious Waller_ of his Rest? + To send him Murm'ring thro' the _Cypress_-Grove, + In strains lamenting his neglected Love. + Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake, + And Sympathizing Oaks their knotted Branches shake. + Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline; + And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine. + Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known; + Like _Niobe_, a Monument of Stone. + + Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew, + And _Waller's_ praise Eternally pursue, + Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel, + So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well. + + But now the forward Muse converts her Eye + To see where _Denham_, and _Roscommon_ fly, + Cautiously daring, and correctly High. + Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace, + Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race. + Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs, + Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares, + With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time, + And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme. + Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence, + Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense, + The _Critick_ judges what the _Muse_ indites, + And Rules for _Dryden_, like a _Dryden_, Writes. + 'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size, + But like the _Stoicks_[4], of prodigious Price. + _Roscommon's_ Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read, + Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead. + Fam'd _Cooper's Hill_ shall, like _Parnassus_, stand, + And _Denham_ reign, the _Phaebus_ of the Land. + +[4] _Epictetus._ + + Among these sacred and immortal Names, [_Oldham_.] + A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims; + See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play + Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way. + But misty Clouds of unexpected Night, + Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light. + Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just + We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust. + O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose + And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those. + The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay, + In all the Trappings of the flowry _May_. + He set him out unsufferably bright, + And sow'd in every part his beamy Light. + Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon, + For what the Morning warm'd; was scorch'd at Noon. + + His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey, + Like _Satyrs_ Rough, but not Deform'd as they. + His Sense undrest, like _Adam_, free from Blame, + Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame, + True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill, + A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still. + + Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the _Romish_ Crimes, + In rugged _Satyr_ and ill-sounding Rhymes. + All _Italy_ felt his imbitter'd Tongue, + And trembled less when sharp _Lucilius_ Stung. + Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse + Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse. + In _Jordan's_ stream she wash'd the tainted Sore, + And rose more Beauteous than She was before. + +[_Lee._] + + Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage, + And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page, + When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire, + She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire. + Thus _Lee_ by Reason strove not to controul + That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul. + He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast, + Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last. + I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame; + But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame? + +[_Otway._ and _Dryden._] + + Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be, + The moving parts of Tragic Poetry. + If Pity sooths us, _Otway_ claims our Praise; + If Terrour strikes, then _Lee_ deserves the Bays. + We grant a Genius shines in _Jaffeir's_ Part, + And _Roman Brutus_ speaks a Master's Art. + But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase + An Earthly Vapour, or at Mounting Blaze. + A rising Meteor never was design'd, + T'amaze the sober part of Human kind. + Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse + A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse. + Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go, + Emptily Gay, magnificently Low, + Like Ancient _Rome's_ Religion, Sacrifice and Show. + Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize, + Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes. + The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage, + May please the Young _Sir Foplings_ on the Stage. + But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find + Like _Spencer's_ Giant sunk away in Wind. + It grates judicious Readers when they meet + Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet. + Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these, + Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas. + _Lee_ aim'd to rise above great _Dryden's_ Height, + But lofty _Dryden_ keeps a steddy Flight. + Like Daedalus, he times with prudent Care + His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air. + The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name, + By industry he kindled to a Flame. + The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue + To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung. + His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine, + _All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine._ + His _Images_ so strong and lively be, + I hear not Words alone, but Substance see; + Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move + Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love. + I weep to hear fond _Anthony_ complain + In _Shakespear's_ Fancy, but in _Virgil's_ Strain. + + Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer, + Himself[5] the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err. + But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim + The sounding Title of a Poem's Name. + For Raillery, and what creates a Smile + Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style. + That _Heav'nly Heat_ refuses to be seen + In a Town-Character and Comick Mien. + +[5] See Preface to _Aurengzebe_. + + If we would do him right, we must produce + The _Sophoclean Buskin_; when his Muse + With her loud Accents fills the list'ning Ear, + And _Peals_ applauding shake the Theater. + + They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise, + Who think that Foreign Thanks produc'd thy Bays. + Is he oblig'd to _France_, who draws from thence + By _English_ Energy, their Captive Sense? + Tho' _Edward_ and fam'd _Henry_ Warr'd in vain, + Subduing what they could not long retain: + Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails, + And Poets Conquer where the Hero fails. + + This does superiour excellence betray; + O could I Write in thy Immortal Way! + If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make + Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake + Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design + She must her Own Originals decline, + And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine. + Pardon this just transition to thy Praise, + Which Young _Thalia_ sung in Rural Lays. + + As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain + As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain, + Such _Tityrus's_ charming Number show, + Please like the River, like the River flow. + When his first Years in mighty Order ran, + And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man, + Around his Lips the _Waxen Artists_ hung, + And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue. + Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke, + More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke. + Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide, + Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide. + + Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains, + Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains. + Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares, + Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years. + Yet still, like _AEtna's_ _Mount_, he kept his Fire, + And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier. + He smil'd, like _Phoebus_ in a Stormy Morn, + And sung, like _Philomel_ against a Thorn. + + Here _Syren of sweet Poesy_, receive + That little praise my unknown Muse can give. + Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear + Tho' angry _B----more_ in Heroicks jeer. + + A Bard, who seems to challenge _Virgil's_ Flame, + And would be next in Majesty and Name. + With lofty _Maro_ he at first may please; + The Righteous _Briton_ rises by degrees. + But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows, + And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close, + The _Mantuan_ Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight, + Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight. + Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song + Runs smooth as _Thames's_ River, and as strong. + Like his own _Neptune_ he the Waves confines, + While _Bl----re_ rumbles, like the King of Winds. + His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength, + Jade out our Patience with excessive length. + While Readers, Yawning o'er his _Arthurs_ see + Whole Pages spun on one poor _Simile_. + We grant he labours with no want of Brains, + Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains, + One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat + Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat + A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great. + It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise + The _World's_ _Imperial Poem_ in Six Days. + But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay, + Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay: + In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train, + Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain: + Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer, + And call the smiling Angels to his care. + Must sleep less Nights, _Vulcanian_ Labours prove, + Like _Cyclops_, forging Thunder for a _Jove_. + With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style, + Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File. + If You design to make Your Prince appear + As perfect as Humanity can bear. + Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please, + Deaf to the _Syrens_ of alluring ease. + No Terrours Thee, _Achilles_, could invade, + Nor Thee, _Ulysses_, any Charms persuade. + This must be done, if Poets would be Read, + Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead. + + Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains + _Virgilian Addison_ describes _Campaigns_. + Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find, + Not of the _Gyant_, nor the _Pygmy_ kind. + Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song, + Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong. + + This _Congreve_ follows in his Deathless Line, + And the _Tenth Hand_ is put to the Design. + The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil + Claims more than _Shakespear's_ Wit, or _Johnson's_ Oil. + Sing on, _Harmonious Swan_, in weeping strains, + And tell _Pastora's_ Death to mournful Swains. + Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs + Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares. + Or let thy _Satyr_ grin with half a Smile, + And jeer in _Easy Etherege's_ Style. + Let _Manly Wycherly_ chalk out the Way, + And Art direct, where Nature goes astray. + 'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings, + The Noise of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings. + + The _Teian Muse_ invites Thee from above + To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love. + Let _MONTAGUE_ describe _Boyn's_ swelling Flood + And purple Streams fatned with Hostile Blood. + O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse! + Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse. + When You _Nassau's_ bright Actions dar'd to see, + _You_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo He_. + But when He read You, and Your Value knew, + _He_ was the _Eagle_, and _Apollo You_. + Both spoke the Bird in her _AEthereal_ height, + The _Majesty_ was _His_, and _Thine_ the _Flight_. + Both did _Apollo_ in His Glory shew, + The Silver _Harp_ was _Thine_, and _His_ the _Bow_, + + So may _Pierian Clio_ cease to fear, + When _Honour_ deigns to sing, and _Majesty_ to hear! + So may she favour'd live, and always please + Our _Dorset's_, and Judicious _Normanby's_! + + Nor does the _Coronet_ alone defend + The Muses Cause: The _Miter_ is Her Friend. + Can we forget how _Damon's_ lofty Tongue + Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung + When _Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd_ Sung. + How _Mars_ and _Pallas_ wept to see the Day + When _Athens_ by a Plague dispeopled lay. + What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost! + Sung with more Spirit than all _Athens_ lost. + Nor can the _Miter_ now conceal the Bays, + For still we view the _Sacred Poet's_ praise. + So tho' _Eridanus_ becomes a Star + Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar, + Below he loses nothing but his Name, + Still faithful to his Banks, his Stream's the same. + + But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song, + Let _Creech_ be numbred with the Sacred Throng. + Whose daring Muse could with _Manilius_ fly, + And, like an _Atlas_, shoulder up the Sky. + He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace + His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race. + See, how He walks above in mighty strains, + And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains! + He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey, + In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they. + + 'Tis cause of Triumph, when _Rome's_ Genius shines + In nervous _English_, and well-worded Lines. + Two Famous _Latins_[6] our bright Tongue adorn, + And a new _Virgil_[7] is in _England_ born. + An _AEneid_ to translate, and make a new, + Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue. + +[6] _Lucretius_ and _Manilius_. + +[7] Mr. _Dryden's_ _Virgil_. + + For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind + Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind; + Yet a well-languag'd Version will require + An equal _Genius_, and as strong a Fire. + These claim at once our Study and our Praise, + Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase. + These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand + At _Paul's_ or _Cornhill_, _Fleetstreet_ or the _Strand_. + Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas, + An Ornament to _Foreign Libraries_. + + Hail, Glorious Titles! who have been my _Theme_! + O could I write so well as I esteem! + From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise + As a young _Phoenix_ out of Ashes flies + Above what _France_ or _Italy_ can shew, + The Celebrated _Tasso_, or _Boileau_. + + Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find + Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind: + If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men, + You love the _Labour'd Travels_ of the Pen; + Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time + On _Cowley_, or on _Dryden's_ useful Rhyme: + Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse, + The _Tragick, Lyrick_, or _Heroick_ Muse: + For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew + In _Charming Numbers_, what is false, what true, + And teach more good than _Hobbs_ or _Lock_ can do. + + Hail, ye _Poetick Dead_, who wander now + In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. + Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate, + Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! + Whether Intomb'd with _English Kings_ you sleep, + Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep: + There, on each Dawning of the tender Day, + May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay! + There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume + The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb. + + While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear, + Sing on; let _Montague_ and _Dorset_ hear. + In Stately Verse let _William's_ Praise be told, + WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. + No more of _Richelieu's_ Worth: Forget not, Fame, + To change _Augustus_ for Great _William's_ Name. + Who, tho' like _Homer's_ _Jupiter_, he sate, + Musing on something eminently great + And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate; + Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears + The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years. + Whether this Praise to _Stepny's_ Muse belong, + Or _Prior_ claim it for _Pindarick Song_. + The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd, + And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd. + The double Vertue of _Nassovian Fire_ + At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire. + The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung + A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung, + When _Mars_ has Acted, or when _Phoebus_ Sung. + + O cou'd my Muse reach _Milton's_ tow'ring Flight, + Or stretch her Wings to the _Maeonian_ Height! + Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse + His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse. + The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame, + And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name + But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb, + Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome. + Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace + The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race? + What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise? + No Land but _Britain_, must pretend to shine + With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line. + So may this Island a new _Delos_ prove, + Joyn[8] Young _Apollo_ to the _Cretan Jove_! + What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame! + How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame! + How swiftly _Gloster_ in his Bud began! + How the _Green Hero_ blossoms into Man! + Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms, + To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms: + See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War! + Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar, + What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They + Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day. + _Edwards_ and _Harry's_ to his Eyes appear + In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear. + At _Agincourt_ so terrible they stood, + So when _Pictavian_ Fields were dy'd with Blood. + The Royal Youth with Emulation glows, + And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes. + Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky, + Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly. + O'er _England's_ Hopes their flaming Swords they hold, + And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old. + Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep, + But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep. + Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread, + Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed, + Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head. + +[8] _The Duke of_ Glouceiter. _Here the Author laments he +prov'd so bad a Prophet_. + + After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate, + The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait. + The Streams of _Thamisis_, exulting, Ring, + When fair _Augusta's_ lofty _Clio's_ Sing + _Granta_ and _Rhedycina's_ Tuneful Throng + Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song. + + Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time, + Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme. + Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure, + Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure. + But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey, + Till _English_ Sense and Valour shall decay. + Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow, + Or _Cam_ or _Isis_ shall forget to Flow. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourse on Criticism and of Poetry +(1707), by Samuel Cobb + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISCOURSE ON POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 14528.txt or 14528.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/5/2/14528/ + +Produced by David Starner, Robert Ledger and the PG Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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