Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop A squirrel spend his little rage To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ. Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes You take that for fact which will scarce be The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. AN ODE The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, When Cloe noted2 her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers3 mix my sighs: And whilst sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: 10 8 16 found wit: JOHN GAY (1685-1732) FROM FABLES XLIV. THE HOUND AND THE HUNTSMAN Impertinence at first is borne With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn; The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds, Ringwood, a Dog of little fame, The Huntsman to the clamour flies; "I know the music of my tongue 10 "Spare your comparisons,'' replied "Of all mankind you should not flout us; "When puppies prate,'' the Huntsman cried, "They show both ignorance and pride: Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise, For envy is a kind of praise. Had not thy forward noisy tongue Are sure to make their follies known." XLV. THE POET AND THE ROSE I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature, 6 covered with ridges 7 Understand "do,' 30 10 ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.* 1 Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing: 30 40 This ode, composed in 1708, when Pope was but twenty years of age, is interesting chiefly for comparison with the odes written by Dryden for similar occasions. Pope has drawn freely upon classical mythology-the nine Muses, Morpheus, god of dreams, the voyage of the Argonauts with Orpheus drawing the trees of Mt. Pelion down to the sea by the sweetness of his strain, and especially the sad story of Orpheus' descent into Hades to win back his lost Eurydice only to lose her again and wander forlorn until the jealous and enraged Bacchantes stoned him to death and threw his limbs into the Hebrus. It is pointed out by Mr. W. J. Courthope that Dryden, by weaving in history instead of legend, secured greater human interest. But when our country's cause provokes to arms, While Argo saw her kindred trees 4 But when through all th' infernal bounds, Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, Love, strong as Death, the poet led To the pale nations of the dead, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, O'er all the dreary coasts! 40 50 Sullen moans, Hollow groans, And cries of tortured ghosts! But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; And see! the tortured ghosts respire, See, shady forms advance! Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, And the pale spectres dance! 60 The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurled hang listening round their heads. 5 By the streams that ever flow, By those happy souls who dwell Or amaranthine bowers; He sung, and hell consented To hear the poet's prayer: Thus song could prevail A conquest how hard and how glorious! 6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes; Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters1 move? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. Now under hanging mountains, Beside the fall of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, All alone, Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; 1 The three fates. And calls her ghost. See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies; Hark! Hamus resounds with the Bacchanals' eries Ah see, he dies! Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, 112 First follow Nature and your judgment By her just standard, which is still the same: Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung. One clear, unchanged, and universal light, FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. 'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share; Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others, who themselves excel. And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? ? A mountain of Thrace. 10 70 Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of Art. Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp pre sides; In some fair body thus th' informing1 soul Want as much more to turn it to its use; 81 "Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; And taught the world with reason to admire. But following wits from that intention strayed, Against the poets their own arms they turned, So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art Some drily plain without invention's aid, 120 Know well each ancient's proper character; And trace the Muses upward to their spring. mind in them, seem Moderns beware! or if you must ofiend A work t'outlast immortal Rome designed, 131 Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, 170 Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 |