I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, e'en in them seem faults. Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, Consider'd singly, or beheld too near, Which but proportion'd to their light or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His powers in equal ranks and fair array, But with the' occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. Still green with bays each ancient altar stands Whose honours with increase of ages grow, The last, the meanest, of your sons inspire, PART II. Causes hindering a true judgment.-Pride.-Imperfect learning. Judging by parts, and not by the whole.--Critics in wit, language, versification, only.-Being too hard to please, or too apt to admire.-Partiality-too much love to a sect to the ancients or moderns.-Prejudice or prevention. Singularity.-Inconstancy.-Party spiritEnvy. Against envy, and in praise of good-nature.When severity is chiefly to be used by critics. Of all the causes which conspire to blind She gives in large recruits of needful pride: up What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind: Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: A perfect judge will read each work of wit That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep, Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to the' admiring eyes; Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Once on a time La Mancha's knight, they say, 'What! leave the combat out?' exclaims the knight. Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite.'— 'Not so, by Heaven! (he answers in a rage) Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage.' 'So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.'- Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit, One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit: For works may have more wit than does them good, As bodies perish through excess of blood. Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still the style is excellent;' The sense they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on every place; The face of Nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay; But true expression, like the' unchanging sun, Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon; It gilds all objects, but it alters none. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent as more suitable. A vile conceit in pompous words express'd Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: For different styles with different subjects sort, As several garbs with country, town, and court. |