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Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexico's be roof'd with gold.
Exil'd by thee from Earth to deepest Hell,
In brazen bonds shall barbarous Discord dwell:
Gigantic Pride, pale Terrour, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition, shall attend her there:
There purple Vengeance bath'd in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires :
There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain."

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days: The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite, And bring the scenes of opening fate to light: My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, Where Peace descending bids her olive spring, And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing. Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days, Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise; Enough to me, that to the listening swains First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.





DESCEND, ye Nine! descend, and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!

In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:

While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;

Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.

By Music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;

Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balin into the bleeding lover's wounds;

Melancholy lifts ber head, Morpheus rouses from his bed, Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, Listening Envy drops her snakes; Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions hear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charins:
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade:
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound

To arms, to arms, to arms!

But when through all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds,

Love, strong as Death, the poets led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear'd,

O'er all the dreary coasts!
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortur'd ghosts! But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; And see! the tortur'd ghosts respire. See, shady forms advance! Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

The Furies sink upon their iron beds,


And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their

By the streams that ever flow,

By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er the olysian flowers;

By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Ör amaranthine bowers;
By the hero's armed shades,
Glittering through the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and Hell consented
To hear the poet's prayer;
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fain
Thus Song could prevail
O'er Death, and o'er Hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Though Fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet Music and Love were victorious.
But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes:
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

Now under hanging mountains, Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders

All alone,

Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost! Now with Furies surrounded, Despairing, confounded, He trembles, he glows,

Amid t Rhodope's snows:

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals' criesAh see, he dies!

Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung;

Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate's severest rage disarm:
Music can soften pain to ease,

And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,

Th' immortal powers incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
And angels lean from Heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given:
His numbers rais'd a shade from Hell,
Her's lift the soul to Heaven.





YE shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
Where heavenly visions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.


Oh heaven-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral truth and mystic song!

To what new crime, what distant sky, Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly? Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore? Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?


When Athens sinks by fates unjust, When wild Barbarians spurn her dust; Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore Shall cease to blush with stranger's gore: See Arts her savage sons control, And Athens rising near the pole ! Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land.


Ye gods! what justice rules the ball!'
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,

In every age, in every state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.


Qu tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast!
Wisdom and Wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But entering learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which Nature has imprest?

Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and generous breast;


Love's purer flames the gods approve;
The gods and Brutus bend to Love:
Brutus for absent Porcia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust;
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wandering, self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;

Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.


Oh source of every social tye,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary sire he spies,

While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;

Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns
With reverence, hope and love.


Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises; Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises, Dangers, doubts, delays, surprizes į

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ITAL spark of heavenly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:

Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! Ifly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?


ESSAY ON CRITICISM. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1709'. Si quid novisti rectius istis, Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum. Hor.

THE Poem is in one book, but divided into three principal parts or members. The first [to ver.

Mr. Pope told me himself, that the Essay on Criticism was indeed written in 1707, though said 1709 by mistake. J. Richardson.

201.] give rules for the study of the art of criticism; the second [from thence to 'ver. 560.] exposes the causes of wrong judgment; and the third [from thence to the end] marks out the morals of the critic. When the reader hath well considered the whole, and hath observed the regularity of the plan, the masterly conduct of the several parts, the penetration into Nature, and the compass of learning so conspicuous throughout, he should then be told, that it was the work of an author' who had not attained the twentieth year of his age.-A very learned critic has shown, that Horace had the same attention to method in his Art of Poetry.


INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to to the public, ver. 1.

That a true taste is as rare to be found as a true genius, ver. 9 to 18.

That most men are born with some taste, but spoiled by false education, ver. 10 to 25. The multitude of critics, and causes of them, ver. 26 to 45.

That we are to study our own taste, and know the limits of it, ver. 46 to 67.

Nature the best guide of judgment, ver. 68 to 87. Improved by art and rules, which are but methodized nature, ver. 88.

Rules derived from the practice of ancient poets, ver. 88 to 110.

That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a critic, particularly Homer and Virgil, ver. 120 to 138.

Of licences, and the use of them by the ancients, ver. 140 to 180.

Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them, ver. 181, &c.


PART II. VER. 203, &c. Causes hindering a true judgment. 1. Pride, ver. 201. 2. Imperfect learning, ver. 215. 3. Judging by parts, and not by the whole, ver. 233 to 288. Critics in wit, language, versification, only, 288, 305, 339, &c. Being too hard to please, or too apt to admire, ver. 384. 5. Partiality-too much love to a sect, to the ancients or moderns, ver. 394. 6. Prejudice or prevention, ver. 408. 7. Singularity, ver. 424. 8. Inconstancy, ver. 430. 9. Party spirit, ver. 352, &c. 10. Envy, ver. 466. Against envy, and in praise of good-nature, ver. 508, &c. When severity is

chiefly to be used by the critics, ver. 526, &c.

PART III. VER. 560, &c.

Rules for the conduct of manners in a critic. 1. Candour, ver. 563. Modesty, ver. 566. Good-breeding, ver. 572. Sincerity and freedom of advice, ver. 578. 2. When one's counsel is to be restrained, ver. 584. Character of an incorrigible poet, ver. 600; and of an impertinent critic, ver. 610, &c. Character of a good critic, ver. 629. The history of criticism, and characters of the best critics: Aristotle, ver. 645. Horace, ver. 653. Dionysius, ver. 665. Petronius, ver. 667. Quin

tilian, ver. 670, Longinus, ver. 675. Of the decay of criticism, and its revival. Erasmus, ver. 693. Vida, ver. 705. Boileau, ver. 714. Lord Roscommon, &c. ver. 725. Conclusion.



Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;

But of the two, less dangerous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
"Tis with our judgments as our watches; none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,
True taste as seldom is the critic's share;
Both must alike from Heaven derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well:
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not critics to their judgment too?


Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimmering light;
The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn
But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd, [right.
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false learning is good sense defac'd: 25
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for wits, then poets past;
Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal:

To tell them would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.


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But you, who seek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a critie's noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, taste, and learning, go;
Lanch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,
And mark that point where sense and dullness meet.
Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit:
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;
Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
The solid power of understanding fails;
Where beams of warm imagination play,
The memory's soft figures melt away.
One science only will one genius fit;
So vas is art, so narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in those confin'd to single parts.
Like kings, we lose the conquests gain'd before,
By vain ambition still to make them more:
Each might his several province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.


First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. Art from that fund each just supply provides; 74 Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus th' informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; Itself unseen, but in th' effects remains. Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuše, 80 Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's ail, like man and wife: 'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed: The winged courser, like a generous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those rules of old discover'd, not devis'd, Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd: Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain'd By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. Hear ho learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights; High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod: Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize, And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great example given, She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heaven,


Ver. 63. Ed. 1. But cv'n in those, &c.

Between ver. 25 and 26 were these lines, since Ver. 74. omitted by the author:

Many are spoil'd by that pedantic throng,
Who with great pains teach youth to reason
Tutors, like virtuosos, oft inclin'd [wrong:
By strange transfusion to improve the mind,
Draw off the sense we have, to pour in new;
Which yet, with all their skill, they ne'er could do.
Ver. 30, 31. In the first edition thus:

Those hate as rivals all that write; and others
Bnt envy wits, as eunuchs envy lovers.

That art is best, which most resembles her; Which still presides, yet never does appear. Ver. 76. -the secret soul.

Ver. 80.



There are whom Heaven has blest with store of Yet want as much again to manage it. [wit, Ver. 90. Ed. 1. Nature, like Monarchy, &c. Ver. 92. First learned Greece just precepts did indite,

When to repress, and when indulge our fight.

Ver 32. All fools," in the first edition: "All Ver. 98. From great examples useful rules were

such," in edition, 1717; since restored.


The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd:
But following wits from that intention stray'd, 104
Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;
Against the poets their own arms they turn'd
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.
So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art
By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they :
Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made.
These leave the sense, their learning to display, 116
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then, whose judgment the right course would
Know well each ancient's proper character: [steer,
His fable, subject, scope in every page;
Religion, country, genius of his age:
Without all these at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticise.

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Be Homer's works your study and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night;
Thence from your judgment, thence your maxims

And trace the Muses upward to their spring:
Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
When first young Maro, in his boundless mind 130
A work t'outlast immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine every part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.
Convine'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design, 136
And rules as strict his labour'd work contine,
As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy Nature, is to copy themn.

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Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry: in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky license answer to the full Th' intent propos'd, that license is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of Art, Which, without passing thro' the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of Nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. But though the ancients thus their rules invade (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Moderns, beware! or, if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end: Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need; And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.


I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults. Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear, Consider'd singly, or beheld too near, Which, but proportion'd to their light or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His. powers in equal ranks, and fair array, But with th' occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay sometimes seem to fly. 178 Those oft are stratagems which errours seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.


Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; Secure from flames, from Envy's fiercer rage, Destructive War, and all-involving Age. See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring! Hear, in all tongues consenting Paans ring! In praise so just let every voice be join'd, And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound," And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! O may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,

Ver 145. Ed. 1.


And which a master's hand, &c After ver. 158, the first edition reads, But care in poetry must still be had, It asks discretion ev'n in running mad; And though the ancients, &c.

And what are now ver. 159, 160, followed ver. 151. Ver. 178. Ed. 1.

Oft hide his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. Ver. 184. Ed. 1. Destructive War, and all-devouring Age. Ver. 186. Ed. 1.

Hear, in all tongues applauding Pæans ring!

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