What shameful and what monstrous things are these!
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the sage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme,
May keep up sinking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now so much o'errules,
And sense no longer will submit to fools.
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright-airy top
The epic poets so divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below,
Heroic poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of such inestimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth:
Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe
Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather as a two-legg'd beast :
So these gigantic souls amaz'd we find
As much above the rest of humankind:
Nature's whole strength united! endless fame,
And universal shouts attend their name !
Read Homer once, and you can read no more;
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wond'rous piece of skill;
As something of divine the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,
Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;
Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure from some angel he the secret knew,
Who through their labyrinth has lent the clue.
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shown, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak reason's sight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such
Never to say too little or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say ;
Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton, fail,
MR. HOBBES AND HIS WRITINGS.
SUCH is the mode of these censorious days,
The art is lost of knowing how to praise ;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatsoe'er is by vain critics thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.
As strings, alike wound up, so equal prove, That one resounding makes the other move,
From such a cause our satires please so much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur❜d touch;
And as the sharp infection spreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the muse inspires it, who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applause,
Content to suffer in so just a cause.
ELECTION OF A POET-LAUREAT*,
A FAMOUS assembly was summon'd of late:
To crown a new laureat, came Phoebus in state,
With all that Montfaucon himself could desiret,
His bow, laurel, harp, and abundance of fire.
At Bartlemew-fair ne'er did bullies so justle,
No country election e'er made such a bustle :
From garret, mint, tavern, they all post away,
Some thirsting for sack, some ambitious of bay.
All came with full confidence, flush'd with vain hope, From Cibber and Durfey, to Prior and Pope : Phœbus smil❜d on these last, but yet, ne'ertheless, Said, he hop'd they had got enough by the press.'
* Occasioned by the appointment of Eusden to that office, on the death of Rowe.
In allusion probably to the Antiquité expliquée of Montfaucon⚫
With huge mountain-load of heroical lumber,
Which from Tonson to Curll every press had groan'd
under,
[my lays,
Came Blackmore, and cried, 'Look, all these are
But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays.**
Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by-side :
Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings,
But beadles and hangmen were never chose kings.
Steele long had so cunningly manag'd the town,
He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown;
Apollo demur'd as to granting his wish,
But wish'd him good luck in his project of fish.†
Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure ;+
To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.
When Buckingham§ came, he scarce car'd to be seen
Till Phœbus desir'd his old friend to walk in;
But a laureat-peer had never been known,
The commoners claim'd that place as their own.
Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind,
Who of such preferment would only make sport,
And laugh'd at all suitors for places at court.
*Prose Essays upon several Subjects, published in 1716.
+ Steele had obtained a patent for bringing fish to market alive. In the latter years of his life, Congreve was much afflicted with the gout.
Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdown was nam'd, But Apollo with kindness his indolence blam'd, And said he would choose him,but that he should fear An employment of trouble he never could bear.
A prelate,* for wit and for eloquence fam'd, Apollo soon miss'd, and he need not be nam'd; Since amidst a whole bench, of which some are so
No one of them shines so learn'd and polite.
To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,
Since he for the state could the Muses neglect:
But said, in a greater assembly he shin'd,
And places were things he had ever declin❜d.
Trapp, Young, and Vanbrugh, expected reward,
For some things writ well: but Apollo declar'd
That one was too flat, the other too rough,
And the third sure already had places enough.
Pert Budgell came next, and, demanding the bays, Said, 'those works must be good, which had Addison's praise ;'
But Apollo replied, 'Child Eustace, 'tis known,
Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own.'t
When Philips+ came forth as starch as a quaker,
Whose simple profession's a pastoral-maker;
Apollo advis'd him from playhouse to keep,
And pipe to nought else but his dog and his sheep.
Dr. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.
†This may allude to the Epilogue to The Distressed Mother; which, though passing under Budgell's name, is by many supposed to have been written by Addison. See Johnson's Lives of the Poets; also Dr. Drake's Essays illustrative of the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, vol. iii. p. 4. note.
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