Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in
vain;
"Ah, Cynthia! ah-though banish'd from thy
Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
[train,
My native shades!-there weep, and murmur
She said, and, melting as in tears she lay, [there!"
In a soft silver stream dissolv'd away.
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she rang'd before,
In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves,
Oit in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The watery landscape of the pendant woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green;
Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering
streams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames,
Thou, too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;
Where towering oaks their growing honours rear,
And future navies on thy shores appear.
Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.
Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which visits Windsor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:
Nor all his stars above a lustre show,
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, 233
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
His sovereign favours, and his country loves:
Happy next him, who to these shades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires,
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Successive study, exercise, and ease.
He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields;
With chymic art exalts the mineral powers,
And draws the aromatic souls of flowers:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:
Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
T' observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow Nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd, Thus Atticus and Trumbull thus retir'd.
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd scenes,
The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye, Muses, sport on Cooper's Hill;
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While last the mountain, or while Thames shall flow)
I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade.
By god-like poets venerable made:
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue,
early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on every note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.
Since Fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice, No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? [strung But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville sings! 'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats, And call the Muses to their ancient seats; To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes, To crown the forests with immortal greens, Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise, And lift her turrets nearer to the skies; To sing those honours you deserve to wear, And add new lustre to her silver star. Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage, Surrey, the Granville of a former age: Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, Bold in the fists, and graceful in the dance: In the same shades the Cupids tun'd his lyre, To the same notes, of love, and soft desire : Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore, What kings first breath'd upon her winding shore, Or raise old warriors, whose ador'd remains In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! With Edward's acts adorn the shining page, Stretch his long triumphs down through every age;
Ver. 267. It stood thus in the MS.
Methinks around your holy scenes I rove,
And hear your music echoing through the grove,
With transport visit each inspiring shade,
By god-like poets venerable made.
What sighs, what murmurs, fill the vocal shore! His tuneful swans were heard to sing no more.
Ver. 290. her silver star.) All the lines that follow were not added to the poem till the year 1713. What immediately follows this, and made the conclusion, were these:
My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains;
Where I obscurely pass my careless days,
Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise,
Enough for me that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise;
Then bow'd, and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressi's glorious field, | The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes
The lilies blazing on the regal shield : [307
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy song shall vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast behind him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps!
Whom not th' extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest,
And blended lie th' oppressor and th' opprest!
Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known:
(Obscure the place, and uninscrib'd the stone)
Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion shed! 321
Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have
She saw her sons with purple deaths expire, [bled!
Her sacred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said, - "Let discord
She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!
In that blest moment from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advane'd his reverend head. 330
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffus'd a golden gleam :
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the Moon, that guides
His swelling waters, and alternate tides;
The figur'd streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold;
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood
Who swell with tributary urns his flood!
First the fam'd authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame:
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent stain'd with Danish blood.
High in the midst, upon his urn reclin'd, (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind)
Ver. 307. Originally thus in the MS.
When brass decays, when trophies lie o'erthrown, And mouldering into dust drops the proud stone. Ver. 321. Originally thus in the MS.
Oh fact accurs'd! oh sacrilegious brood,
Sworn to rebellion, principled in blood!
"Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,
That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!
Though Tyber's streams immortal Rome behold,
Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From Heaven itself the seven-fold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
These now no more shall be the Muses' themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, 363
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train:
Be mine the blessing of a peaceful reign.
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain:
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase:
The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,
And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! th' ascending villas on my side,
Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide.
Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase,
And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace.
I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend !
There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.
"Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their
And half thy forests rush into thy floods; [woods, 385
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rising day:
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe unfold,
And Phœbus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when free as seas or wind
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world lanch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Since that dire morn, what tears has Albion shed! Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
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Oh, stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to
Till conquest cease and slavery be no more; [shore,
Ver. 363. Originally thus in the MS.
Let Venice boast her towers amidst the main,
Where the rough Adrian swells and roars in vain;
Here not a town, but spacious realm shall have
A sure foundation on the rolling wave.
Ver. 385, &c. were originally thus in the MS.
Now shall our fleets the bloody cross display
To the rich regions of the rising day,
Or those green isles, where headlong Titan steefts
His hissing axle in th' Atlantic deeps:
Tempt icy seas, &c.
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.
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY, M DCC VIII.
AND OTHER PIECES POR MUSIC,
ODE FOR MUSIC
ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
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,
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;
Pour's balm 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,
Or 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 crine was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
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.
TWO CHORUSES,
TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
ALTERED FROM SHAKESPEARE BY THE DUKE OF BUCKNGHAM, AT WHOSE DESIRE THESE TWO CHORUSES WERE COMPOSED, TO SUPPLY AS MANY, WANTING IN HIS PLAY. THEY WERE SET MANY YEARS AFTERWARDS BY THE FAMOUS BONONCINI, AND PERFORMED AT BUCKINGHAM-HOUSE.
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! souree of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral truth and mystic song!
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.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL
VITAL 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! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 17091.
Si quid novisti rectius istis,
Çandidus 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.
CONTENTS OF THE ESSAY ON CRITICISM.
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 me thodized 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 11. 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. 4. 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.
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. Charaçter 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
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