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diff --git a/old/14528.txt b/old/14528.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..efcb5f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14528.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: 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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