The Rape of the Lock and Other Poems Part 8

To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 520 Are mortals urg'd thro' sacred l.u.s.t of praise!

Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost.

Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine. 525

But if in n.o.ble minds some dregs remain Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.

No pardon vile Obscenity should find, 530 Tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind; But Dulness with Obscenity must prove As shameful sure as Impotence in love.

In the fat age of pleasure wealth and ease Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase: 535 When love was all an easy Monarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war: Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ; Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit: The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's play, 540 And not a Mask went unimprov'd away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.

The following licence of a Foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; 545 Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute, Lest G.o.d himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare, 550 And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!

Encourag'd thus, Wit's t.i.tans brav'd the skies, And the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.

These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage, Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! 555 Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.

Learn then what MORALS Critics ought to show, 560 For't is but half a Judge's task, to know.

'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow; but seek your friendship too. 565

Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure own your errors past, 570 And make each day a Critic on the last.

'T is not enough, your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown propos'd as things forgot. 575 Without Good Breeding, truth is disapprov'd; That only makes superior sense belov'd.

Be n.i.g.g.ards of advice on no pretence; For the worst avarice is that of sense.

With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, 580 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.

'T were well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, 585 And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce Tyrant in old tapestry.

Fear most to tax an Honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull; Such, without wit, are Poets when they please, 590 As without learning they can take Degrees.

Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful Satires, And flattery to fulsome Dedicators, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 595 'T is best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain: Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write?

Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, 600 And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.

False steps but help them to renew the race, As, after stumbling, Jades will mend their pace.

What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, 605 Still run on Poets, in a raging vein, Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence.

Such shameless Bards we have; and yet't is true, 610 There are as mad abandon'd Critics too.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. 615 All books he reads, and all he reads a.s.sails.

From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.

With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend, 620 Nay show'd his faults--but when would Poets mend?

No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead: For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. 625 Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, } It still looks home, and short excursions makes; } But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, } And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide. 630

But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?

Unbia.s.s'd, or by favour, or by spite; Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right; Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere, 635 Modestly bold, and humanly severe: Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe?

Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd; A knowledge both of books and human kind: 640 Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were Critics; such the happy few, Athens and Rome in better ages knew.

The mighty Stagirite first left the sh.o.r.e, 645 Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore: He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, Led by the light of the Maeonian Star.

Poets, a race long unconfin'd, and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, 650 Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 't was fit, Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit.

Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense, Will, like a friend, familiarly convey 655 The truest notions in the easiest way.

He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire; His Precepts teach but what his works inspire. 660 Our Critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations By Wits, than Critics in as wrong Quotations.

See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, 665 And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!

Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.

In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find The justest rules, and clearest method join'd: 670 Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command.

Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, 675 And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire.

An ardent Judge, who zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great Sublime he draws. 680

Thus long succeeding Critics justly reign'd, Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd.

Learning and Rome alike in empire grew; And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew; From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom, 685 And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome.

With Tyranny, then Superst.i.tion join'd, As that the body, this enslav'd the mind; Much was believ'd, but little understood, And to be dull was constru'd to be good; 690 A second deluge Learning thus o'er-run, And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun.

At length Erasmus, that great injur'd name, (The glory of the Priesthood, and the shame!) Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age, 695 And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

But see! each Muse, in LEO'S golden days, Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays, Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head. 700 Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive; Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising Temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung.

Immortal Vida: on whose honour'd brow 705 The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shal ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd, Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pa.s.s'd; 710 Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance, But Critic-learning flourish'd most in France: The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys; And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.

But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd, 715 And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd; Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defy'd the Romans, as of old.

Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presum'd, and better knew, 720 Who durst a.s.sert the juster ancient cause, And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws.

Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell, "Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well."

Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good, 725 With manners gen'rous as his n.o.ble blood; To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.

Such late was Walsh--the Muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend; 730 To failings mild, but zealous for desert; The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.

This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, 735 Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries: Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew: 740 Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter, or offend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

AN ESSAY ON MAN

TO H. ST. JOHN LORD BOLINGBROKE

THE DESIGN

Having proposed to write some pieces on Human Life and Manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) _come home to Men's Business and Bosoms_, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering _Man_ in the abstract, his _Nature_ and his _State_; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what _condition_ and _relation_ it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its _being_.

The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a _few clear points_: There are not _many certain truths_ in this world.

It is therefore in the Anatomy of the mind as in that of the Body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The _disputes_ are all upon these last, and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the _wits_ than the _hearts_ of men against each other, and have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory of Morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in pa.s.sing over terms utterly unintelligible, and in forming a _temperate_ yet not _inconsistent_, and a _short_ yet not _imperfect_ system of Ethics.