The Art of Poetry: an Epistle to the Pisos Part 5

Much has the Youth, who pressing in the race Pants for the promis'd goal and foremost place, Suffer'd and done; borne heat, and cold's extremes, And Wine and Women scorn'd, as empty dreams,

Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque magistrum.

Nunc satis est dixisse, Ego mira poemata pango: Occupet extremum scabies: mihi turpe relinqui est, Et quod non didici, sane nescire sateri.

Ut praeco, ad merces turbam qui cogit emendas; a.s.sentatores jubet ad lucrum ire poeta Dives agris, dives positis in foenore nummis.

Si vero est, unctum qui recte ponere possit, Et spondere levi pro paupere, et eripere artis Litibus implicitum; mirabor, si sciet inter-- Noscere mendacem verumque beatus amic.u.m.

The Piper, who the Pythian Measure plays, In fear of a hard matter learnt the lays: But if to desp'rate verse I would apply, What needs instruction? 'tis enough to cry; "I can write Poems, to strike wonder blind!

Plague take the hindmost! Why leave _me_ behind?

Or why extort a truth, so mean and low, That what I have not learnt, I cannot know?"

As the sly Hawker, who a sale prepares, Collects a croud of bidders for his Wares, The Poet, warm in land, and rich in cash, a.s.sembles flatterers, brib'd to praise his trash.

But if he keeps a table, drinks good wine, And gives his hearers handsomely to dine; If he'll stand bail, and 'tangled debtors draw Forth from the dirty cobwebs of the law; Much shall I praise his luck, his sense commend, If he discern the flatterer from the friend.

Tu seu donaris seu quid donare voles cui; Nolito ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum Laet.i.tiae; clamabit enim, Pulchre, bene, recte!

Pallescet; super his etiam stillabit amicis Ex oculis rorem; saliet; tundet pede terram.

Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dic.u.n.t Et faciunt prope plura dolentibus ex animo: sic Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur.

Reges dic.u.n.tur multis urgere culullis, Et torquere mero quem perspexisse laborant An sit amicitia dignus: si carmina condes, Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.

Quintilio si quid recitares: Corrige sodes Hoc, aiebat, et hoc: melius te posse negares Is there a man to whom you've given aught?

Or mean to give? let no such man be brought To hear your verses! for at every line, Bursting with joy, he'll cry, "Good! rare! divine!"

The blood will leave his cheek; his eyes will fill With tears, and soon the friendly dew distill: He'll leap with extacy, with rapture bound; Clap with both hands; with both feet beat the ground.

As mummers, at a funeral hir'd to weep, More coil of woe than real mourners keep, More mov'd appears the laugher in his sleeve, Than those who truly praise, or smile, or grieve.

Kings have been said to ply repeated bowls, Urge deep carousals, to unlock the souls Of those, whose loyalty they wish'd to prove, And know, if false, or worthy of their love: You then, to writing verse if you're inclin'd, Beware the Spaniel with the Fox's mind!

Quintilius, when he heard you ought recite, Cried, "prithee, alter _this_! and make _that _right!"

Bis terque expertum frustra? delere jubebat, Et male ter natos incudi reddere versus.

Si defendere delictum, quam vortere, malles; Nullum ultra verb.u.m, aut operam insumebat inanem, Quin sine rivali teque et tua folus amares.

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes; Culpabit duros; incomptis allinet atrum Transverso calamo signum; ambitiosa recidet Ornamenta; parum claris lucem dare coget; Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda notabit; Fiet Aristarchus; non dicet, Cur ego amic.u.m Offendam in nugis? Hae migae feria ducent But if your pow'r to mend it you denied, Swearing that twice and thrice in vain you tried; "Then blot it out! (he cried) it must be terse: Back to the anvil with your ill-turn'd verse!"

Still if you chose the error to defend, Rather than own, or take the pains to mend, He said no more; no more vain trouble took; But left you to admire yourself and book.

The Man, in whom Good Sense and Honour join, Will blame the harsh, reprove the idle line; The rude, all grace neglected or forgot, Eras'd at once, will vanish at his blot; Ambitious ornaments he'll lop away; On things obscure he'll make you let in day, Loose and ambiguous terms he'll not admit, And take due note of ev'ry change that's fit, A very ARISTARCHUS he'll commence; Not coolly say--"Why give my friend offence?

These are but trifles!"--No; these trifles lead To serious mischiefs, if he don't succeed; In mala derisum semel, exceptumque sinistre, Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urget, Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana; Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur.

Hic, dum sublimis versus ructatur, et errat, Si veluti menilis intentus decidit auceps In puteum, soveamve; licet, Succurrite, longum Clamet, in cives: non sit qui tollere curet.

Si curet quis opem serre, et demittere sunem; Qui scis, an prudens huc se projecerit, atque Servari nolet? dicam: Siculique poetae Narrabo interitum.

While the poor friend in dark disgrace sits down, The b.u.t.t and laughing-stock of all the town, As one, eat up by Leprosy and Itch, Moonstruck, Posses'd, or hag-rid by a Witch, A Frantick Bard puts men of sense to flight; His slaver they detest, and dread his bite: All shun his touch; except the giddy boys, Close at his heels, who hunt him down with noise, While with his head erect he threats the skies, Spouts verse, and walks without the help of eyes; Lost as a blackbird-catcher, should he pitch Into some open well, or gaping ditch; Tho' he call l.u.s.tily "help, neighbours, help!"

No soul regards him, or attends his yelp.

Should one, too kind, to give him succour hope, Wish to relieve him, and let down a rope; Forbear! (I'll cry for aught that you can tell) By sheer design he jump'd into the well.

He wishes not you should preserve him, Friend!

Know you the old Sicilian Poet's end?

Deus immortalis haberi.

Dum cupit Empedocles, ardeatem frigidus aetnam Infiluit. sit fas, liceatque perire poetis.

Invitum qui fervat, idem facit occidenti.

Nec semel hoc fecit; nec si retractus erit jam, Fiet h.o.m.o, et ponet famosae mortis amorem.

Nec fatis apparet, cur versus fact.i.tet; utrum Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental Moverit incestus: certe furit, ac velut ursus Objectos caveae valuit e srangere clathros,

Empedocles, ambitious to be thought A G.o.d, his name with G.o.dlike honours fought, Holding a worldly life of no account, Lead'p coldly into aetna's burning mount.--- Let Poets then with leave resign their breath, Licens'd and priveleg'd to rush on death!

Who gives a man his life against his will, Murders the man, as much as those who kill.

'Tis not once only he hath done this deed; Nay, drag him forth! your kindness wo'n't succeed: Nor will he take again a mortal's shame, And lose the glory of a death of fame.

Nor is't apparent, _why_ with verse he's wild: Whether his father's ashes he defil'd; Whether, the victim of incestuous love, The Blasted Monument he striv'd to move: Whate'er the cause, he raves; and like a Bear, Burst from his cage, and loose in open air, Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus.

Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo, Non miffura cutem, nisi plena cruroris, hirudo.

Learn'd and unlearn'd the Madman puts to flight, They quick to fly, he bitter to recite!

What hapless soul he seizes, he holds fast; Rants, and repeats, and reads him dead at last: Hangs on him, ne'er to quit, with ceaseless speech.

Till gorg'd and full of blood, a very Leech!

Notes on the EPISTLE to the PISOS Notes

I have referred the Notes to this place, that the reader might be left to his genuine feelings, and the natural impression on reading the Epistle, whether adverse or favourable to the idea I ventured to premise, concerning its Subject and Design. In the address to my learned and worthy friends I said little more than was necessary so open my plan, and to offer an excuse for my undertaking. The Notes descend to particulars, tending to ill.u.s.trate and confirm my hypothesis; and adding occasional explanations of the original, chiefly intended for the use of the English Reader. I have endeavoured, according to the best of my ability, to follow the advice of Roscommon in the lines, which I have ventured to prefix to these Notes. How far I may be ent.i.tled to the _poetical blessing_ promised by the Poet, the Publick must determine: but were I, avoiding arrogance, to renounce all claim to it, such an appearance of _Modesty_ would includes charge of _Impertinence_ for having hazarded this publication._Take pains the_ genuine meaning _to explore!_

There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar: _Search ev'ry comment_, that your care can find; Some here, some there, may hit the Poet's mind: Yet be not blindly guided by the _Throng_; The Mult.i.tude is always in the _Wrong_.

When things appear _unnatural_ or _hard_, _Consult your_ author, _with_ himself compar'd!

Who knows what Blessing Phoebus may bestow, And future Ages to your labour owe?

Such _Secrets_ are not easily found out, But once _discoverd_, leave no room for doubt.

truth stamps _conviction_ in your ravish'd breast, And _Peace_ and _Joy_ attend _the_ glorious guest.

Essay on Translated Verse ART of POETRY, an EPISTLE, &c.

Q. HORATII FLACCI EPISTOLA AD PISONES.

The work of Horace, now under consideration, has been so long known, and so generally received, by the name of The Art of Poetry, that I have, on account of that notoriety, submitted this translation to the Publick, under that t.i.tle, rather than what I hold to be the true one, viz.

Horace's Epistle to The Pisos. The Author of the English Commentary has adopted the same t.i.tle, though directly repugnant to his own system; and, I suppose, for the very same reason.

The t.i.tle, in general a matter of indifference, is, in the present instance, of much consequence. On the t.i.tle Julius Scaliger founded his invidious, and injudicious, attack. De arte quares quid sentiam. Quid?

eqvidem quod de arte, sine arte tradita. To the t.i.tle all the editors, and commentators, have particularly adverted; commonly preferring the Epistolary Denomination, but, in contradiction to that preference, almost universally inscribing the Epistle, the Art of Poetry. The conduct, however, of Jason De Nores, a native of Cyprus, a learned and ingenious writer of the 16th century, is very remarkable. In the year 1553 he published at Venice this work of Horace, accompanied with a commentary and notes, written in elegant Latin, inscribing it, after Quintilian, Q. Horatii Flacci Liber De Arte Poetica. [Foot note: I think it right to mention that I have never seen the 1st edition, published at Venice. With a copy of the second edition, printed in Paris, I was favoured by Dr. Warton of Winchester.] The very-next year, however, he printed at Paris a second edition, enriching his notes with many observations on Dante and Petrarch, and changing the t.i.tle, after mature consideration, to _Q. Horatii Flacii_ EPISTOLA AD PISONES, _de Arte Poetica._ His motives for this change he a.s.signs in the following terms.

_Quare adductum me primum sciant ad inscriptionem operis immutandam non levioribus de causis,& quod formam epistolae, non autem libri, in quo praecepta tradantur, vel ex ipso principio prae se ferat, & quod in vetustis exemplaribus Epistolarum libros subsequatur, & quad etiam summi et praestantissimi homines ita sentiant, & quod minime n.o.bis obstet Quintiliani testimonium, ut nonnullis videtur. Nam si librum appellat Quintilia.n.u.s, non est cur non possit inter epistolas enumerari, c.u.m et illae ab Horatio in libros digestae fuerint. Quod vero DE ARTE POETICA idem Quintilia.n.u.s adjangat, nihil commaveor, c.u.m et in epistolis praecepta de aliqua re tradi possint, ab eodemque in omnibus pene, et in iis ad Scaevam & Lollium praecipue jam factum videatur, in quibus breviter eos inst.i.tuit, qua ratione apud majores facile versarentur._

Desprez, the Dauphin Editor, retains both t.i.tles, but says, inclining to the Epistolary, _Attamen artem poeticam vix appellem c.u.m Quintiliano et aliis: malim vero epistolam nuncupare c.u.m nonnullis eruditis._ Monsieur Dacier inscribes it, properly enough, agreable to the idea of Porphyry, Q. Horatii Flacci DE ARTE POETICA LIBER; feu, EPISTOLA AD PISONES, patrem, et filios._

Julius Scaliger certainly stands convicted of critical malice by his poor cavil at _the supposed t.i.tle_; and has betrayed his ignorance of the ease and beauty of Epistolary method, as well as the most gross misapprehension, by his ridiculous a.n.a.lysis of the work, resolving it into thirty-six parts. He seems, however, to have not ill conceived the genius of the poem, in saying that _it relished satire_. This he has urged in many parts of his Poeticks, particularly in the Dedicatory Epistle to his son, not omitting, however, his constant charge of _Art without Art_. Horatius artem c.u.m inscripsit, adeo sine ulla docet arte, ut satyrae propius totum opus illud esse videatur. This comes almost home to the opinion of the Author of the elegant commentaries on the two Epistles of Horace to the Pisos and to Augustus, as expressed in the Dedication to the latter: With the recital of that opinion I shall conclude this long note. "The genius of Rome was bold and elevated: but Criticism of any kind, was little cultivated, never professed as an _art_, by this people. The specimens we have of their ability in this way (of which the most elegant, beyond all dispute, are the two epistles to _Augustus_ and the _Pisos_) _are slight occasional attempts_, made in the negligence of common sense, _and adapted to the peculiar exigencies of their own taste and learning_; and not by any means the regular productions of _art_, professedly bending itself to this work, and ambitious to give the last finishing to the critical system."

[_Translated from Horace._] In that very entertaining and instructive publication, ent.i.tled _An Essay on the Learning and Genius of Pope_, the Critick recommends, as the properest poetical measure to render in English the Satires and Epistles of Horace, that kind of familiar blank verse, used in a version of Terence, attempted some years since by the Author of this translation. I am proud of the compliment; yet I have varied from the mode prescribed: not because Roscommon has already given such a version; or because I think the satyrical hexameters of Horace less familiar than the irregular lambicks of Terence. English Blank Verse, like the lambick of Greece and Rome, is peculiarly adapted to theatrical action and dialogue, as well as to the Epick, and the more elevated Didactick Poetry: but after the models left by Dryden and Pope, and in the face of the living example of Johnson, who shall venture to reject rhime in the province of Satire and Epistle?

9.--TRUST ME, MY PISOS!] _Credite Pisones!_