The Art of Poetry: an Epistle to the Pisos Part 4

These who hath studied well, will all engage In functions suited to their rank and age.

Respicere exemplar vitae morumque jubebo Doctum imitatorem, et veras hinc ducere voces.

Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, Quam versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae.

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo Musa loqui, praeter laudem, nullius avaris.

Romani pueri longis rationibus a.s.sem Disc.u.n.t in partes centum diducere. Dicat Filius Albini, si de quincunce remota est Uncia, quid superet? poteras dixisse, triens. Eu!

Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit?

On Nature's pattern too I'll bid him look, And copy manners from her living book.

Sometimes 'twill chance, a poor and barren tale, Where neither excellence nor art prevail, With now and then a pa.s.sage of some merit, And Characters sustain'd, and drawn with spirit, Pleases the people more, and more obtains, Than tuneful nothings, mere poetick strains.

_The Sons of Greece_ the fav'ring Muse inspir'd, Inflam'd their souls, and with true genius fir'd: Taught by the Muse, they sung the loftiest lays, And knew no avarice but that of praise.

_The Lads of Rome_, to study fractions bound, Into an hundred parts can split a pound.

"Say, Albin's Hopeful! from five twelfths an ounce, And what remains?"--"a Third."--"Well said, young Pounce!

You're a made man!--but add an ounce,--what then?"

"A Half." "Indeed! surprising! good again!"

Semis. An haec animos aerugo et cura peculi c.u.m semel imbuerit speramus carmina singi Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso?

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetae; Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae.

Quicquid praecipies, es...o...b..evis: ut eito dicta Percipiant animi dociles, tencantque fideles.

Omni supervacuum pleno de pectore manat.

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris: Ne, quodc.u.mque volet, poscat fibi fabula credi; Neu pransea Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo.

Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis: Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes.

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo

From minds debas'd with such a sordid l.u.s.t, Canker'd and eaten up with this vile rust, Can we a verse, that gives the Genius scope, Worthy the Cedar, and the Cypress, hope?

Instruction to convey and give delight, Or both at once to compa.s.s, Poets write: Short be your precepts, and th' impression strong, That minds may catch them quick, and hold them long!

The bosom full, and satisfied the taste, All that runs over will but run to waste.

Fictions, to please, like truths must meet the eye, Nor must the Fable tax our faith too high.

Shall Lamia in our fight her sons devour, And give them back alive the self-same hour?

The Old, if _Moral's_ wanting, d.a.m.n the Play; And _Sentiment_ disgusts the Young and Gay.

He who instruction and delight can blend, Please with his fancy, with his moral mend, Hic meret aera liber Sofiis, hic et mare transit, Et longum noto scriptori prorogat aevum.

Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus.

Nam neque chorda sonum reddit, quem vult ma.n.u.s et mens;

Poscentique gravem persaepe remitt.i.t acutum: Nec semper feriet, quodc.u.mque minabitur, arcus.

Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, Aut humana parum cavit natura quid ergo est?

Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, Quamvis est monitus, venia caret; ut citharoedus Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem; Hits the nice point, and every vote obtains: His work a fortune to the Sosii gains; Flies over seas, and on the wings of Fame Carries from age to age the writer's deathless name.

Yet these are faults that we may pardon too: For ah! the string won't always answer true; But, spite of hand and mind, the treach'rous harp Will sound a flat, when we intend a sharp: The bow, not always constant and the same, Will sometimes carry wide, and lose its aim.

But in the verse where many beauties shine, I blame not here and there a feeble line; Nor take offence at ev'ry idle trip, Where haste prevails, or nature makes a slip.

What's the result then? Why thus stands the case.

As _the Transcriber_, in the self-same place Who still mistakes, tho' warn'd of his neglect, No pardon for his blunders can expect; Or as _the Minstrel_ his disgrace must bring, Who harps for ever on the same false string; Sic mihi qui multum cessat, fit Ch.o.e.rilus ille, Quem bis terve bonum, c.u.m risu miror; et idem Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.

Verum operi longo fas est obrepere somnum.

Ut pictura, poesis: erit quae, si propius stes, Te capiat magis; et quaedam, si longius abstes: Haec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri, Judicis argutum quae non formidat ac.u.men: Haec placuit semel; haec decies repet.i.ta placebit.

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna Fingeris ad r.e.c.t.u.m, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum Tolle memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus _The Poet_ thus, from faults scarce ever free, Becomes a very Chaerilus to me; Who twice or thrice, by some adventure rare, Stumbling on beauties, makes me smile and stare; _Me_, who am griev'd and vex'd to the extreme, If Homer seem to nod, or chance to dream: Tho' in a work of length o'erlabour'd sleep At intervals may, not unpardon'd, creep.

Poems and Pictures are adjudg'd alike; Some charm us near, and some at distance strike: _This_ loves the shade; _this_ challenges the light, Daring the keenest Critick's Eagle sight; _This_ once has pleas'd; _this_ ever will delight.

O thou, my Piso's elder hope and pride!

tho' well a father's voice thy steps can guide; tho' inbred sense what's wise and right can tell, remember this from me, and weigh it well!

In certain things, things neither high nor proud, _Middling_ and _pa.s.sable_ may be allow'd.

Recte concedi: consultus juris, et actor Causarum mediocris, abest virtute diserti Messallae, nec scit quantum Cascellius Aulus; Sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poetis Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae.

Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, Et cra.s.sum unguentum, et Sardo c.u.m melle papaver Offendunt, poterat duci quia coena sine istis; Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis, Si paulum summo decessit, vergit ad imum.

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis; Indoctusque pilae, discive, trochive, quiescit; Ne sp.i.s.sae risum tollant impune coronae: Qui nescit versus, tamen audet fingere. Quid ni?

A _moderate_ proficient in the laws, A _moderate_ defender of a cause, Boasts not Messala's pleadings, nor is deem'd Aulus in Jurisprudence; yet esteem'd: But _middling Poet's, or degrees in Wit,_ Nor men, nor G.o.ds, nor niblick-polls admit.

At festivals, as musick out of tune, Ointment, or honey rank, disgust us soon, Because they're not essential to the guest, And might be spar'd, Unless the very best; Thus Poetry, so exquisite of kind, Of Pleasure born, to charm the soul design'd, If it fall short but little of the first, Is counted last, and rank'd among the worst.

The Man, unapt for sports of fields and plains, From implements of exercise abstains; For ball, or quoit, or hoop, without the skill, Dreading the croud's derision, he sits still: In Poetry he boasts as little art, And yet in Poetry he dares take part: Liber et ingenuus; praesertim census equestrem Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni.

Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva: Id tibi judicium est, ea mens: si quid tamen olim Scripseris, in Metii descendat judicis aures, Et patris, et nostras; nonumque prematur in annum.

Membranis intus positis, delere licebit Quod non edideris: nescit vox missa reverti.

Silvestres homines sacer interpresque Deorum Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus; Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres rabidosque leones.

Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arcis, Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda.

And why not? he's a Gentleman, with clear Good forty thousand sesterces a year; A freeman too; and all the world allows, "As honest as the skin between his brows!"

Nothing, in spite of Genius, YOU'LL commence; Such is your judgment, such your solid sense!

But if you mould hereafter write, the verse To _Metius_, to your _Sire_ to _me_, rehea.r.s.e.

Let it sink deep in their judicious ears!

Weigh the work well; _and keep it back nine years_!

Papers unpublish'd you may blot or burn: A word, once utter'd, never can return.

The barb'rous natives of the s.h.a.ggy wood From horrible repasts, and ads of blood, Orpheus, a priest, and heav'nly teacher, brought, And all the charities of nature taught: Whence he was said fierce tigers to allay, And sing the Savage Lion from his prey, Within the hollow of AMPHION'S sh.e.l.l Such pow'rs of found were lodg'd, so sweet a spell!

Ducere quo vellet suit haec sapientia quondam, publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis; concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis; Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno.

Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque Carminibus venit post hos insignis Homerus Tyrtaeusque mares animos in Martia bella Versibus exacuit dictae per carmina sortes, Et vitae monstrata via est; et gratia regum

That stones were said to move, and at his call, Charm'd to his purpose, form'd the Theban Wall.

The love of Moral Wisdom to infuse _These_ were the Labours of THE ANCIENT MUSE.

"To mark the limits, where the barriers stood 'Twixt Private Int'rest, and the Publick Good; To raise a pale, and firmly to maintain The bound, that fever'd Sacred from Profane; To shew the ills Promiscuous Love should dread, And teach the laws of the Connubial Bed; Mankind dispers'd, to Social Towns to draw; And on the Sacred Tablet grave the Law."

Thus fame and honour crown'd the Poet's line; His work immortal, and himself divine!

Next lofty Homer, and Tyrtaeus strung Their Epick Harps, and Songs of Glory sung; Sounding a charge, and calling to the war The Souls that bravely feel, and n.o.bly dare, In _Verse_ the Oracles their sense make known, In Verse the road and rule of life is shewn; Pieriis tentata modis, ludusque repertus, Et longorum operum finis j ne forte pudori Sit tibi Musa lyne folers, et cantor Apollo,

Natura sieret laudabile carmen, an arte, Quaesitum ess. Ego nec studium sine divite vena, Nec rude quid possit video ingenium: alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice.

Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitque puer; sudavit et alsit; Abstinuit venere et vino, qui Pythia cantat _Verse_ to the Poet royal favour brings, And leads the Muses to the throne of Kings; _Verse_ too, the varied Scene and sports prepares, Brings rest to toil, and balm to all our cares.

deem then with rev'rence of the glorious fire, breath'd by the muse, the mistress of the lyre!

blush not to own her pow'r, her glorious flame; nor think Apollo, lord of song, thy shame!

Whether good verse of Nature is the fruit, Or form'd by Art, has long been in dispute.

But what can Labour in a barren foil, Or what rude Genius profit without toil?

The wants of one the other must supply Each finds in each a friend and firm ally.