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Despair alone her pow'r denies;

And, when the sun withdraws his rays,, To the wild beach distracted flies,

Or cheerless through the desart strays;
Or, to the church-yard's horrors led,
While fearful echoes burst around,
On some cold stone he leans his head,
Or throws his body on the ground:
To some such drear and solemn scene,
Some friendly pow'r direct my way,
Where pale misfortune's haggard train,
Sad luxury delight to stray.
Wrapp'd in the solitary gloom,

Retir'd from life's fantastic crew,
Resign'd I'll wait my final doom,
And bid the busy world adieu.
The world has now no joy for me,
Nor can life now one pleasure boast;
Since all my eyes desir'd to see,

My wish, my hope, my all, is lost;
Since she, so form'd to please and bless,
So wise, so innocent, so fair,
Whose converse sweet made sorrow less,
And brighten'd all the gloom of care-
Since she is lost. Ye pow'rs divine,

What have I done, or thought or said? O say, what horrid act of mine

Has drawn this vengeance on my head!

Why should Heaven favor Lycon's claim?
Why are my heart's best wishes cross'd?
What fairer deeds adorn his name?
What nobler merit can he boast ?
What higher worth in him was found
My true heart's service to outweigh?
A senseless fop, a dull compound
Of scarcely animated clay:

He dress'd indeed, he danc'd with ease,
And charm'd her by repeating o'er
Unmeaning raptures in her praise,
That twenty fools had told before:
But I, alas! who thought all art

My passion's force would meanly prove, Could only boast an honest heart,

And claim'd no merit but my love. Have I not sat-ye conscious hours,

Be witness-while my Stella sung From morn to eve, with all my pow'rs Rapt in th' enchantment of her tongue! Ye conscious hours that saw me stand Entrane'd in wonder and surprise, In silent rapture press her hand,

With passion bursting from my eyes Have I not lov'd? O earth and heaven! Where now is all my youthful boast ;; The dear exchange I hop'd was given For slighted fame and fortune lost?

Where now the joys that once were mine?
Where all my hopes of future bliss?
Must I those joys, those hopes, resign?

Is all her friendship come to this?
Must then each woman faithless prove,
And each fond lover be undone?
Are vows no more? Almighty love,
The sad remembrance let me shun! ̧
It will not be my honest heart

The dear sad image still retains;
And, spite of reason, spite of art,
The dreadful memory remains.

Ye Pow'rs divine! whose wond'rous skill Deep in the womb of time can see, Behold, I bend me to your will,

Nor dare arraign your high decree.

Let her be blest with health, with ease,
With all your bounty has in store;
Let sorrow cloud my future days;

Be Stella blest; I ask no more.

But, lo! where high in yonder east

The star of morning mounts apace! Hence! let me fly the unwelcome guest, And bid the Muse's labor cease.

ELEGY II.

WHEN, young, life's journey I began,
The glittering prospect charm'd my eyes,
I saw along the extended plan

Joy after joy successive rise;

And Fame her golden trumpet blew;

And Pow'r display'd her gorgeous charms; And Wealth engag'd my wand'ring view;, And Pleasure woo'd ine to her arms;

To each by turns my vows I paid,

As Folly led me to admire; While Fancy magnified each shade,

And Hope increas'd each fond desire. But soon I found 't was all a dream ;

And learn'd the fond pursuit to shun, Where few can reach their purpos'd aim, And thousands daily are undone:

And Fame, I found, was empty air;

And Wealth and Terror for her guest; And Pleasure's path was strewn with Care; And Pow'r was vanity at best.

Tir'd of the chace, I gave it o'er;

And, in a far sequester'd shade, To Contemplation's sober pow'r

My youth's next services I paid.

There Health and Peace adorn'd the scene;
And oft, indulgent to my prav'r,
With mirthful eye, and frolie thien,

The Muse would deign to visit there.

There

There would she oft delighted rove

The flow'r-enamell'd vale along;
Or wander with me through the grove,
And listen to the woodlark's song:
Or 'mid the forest's awful gloom,
Whilst wild amazement fill'd my eyes,
Recal past ages from the tomb,

And bid ideal worlds arise.
Thus in the Muse's favor blest,

One wish alone my soul could frame,'
And Heaven bestow'd, to crown the rest,
A friend, and Thyrsis was his name:
For manly constancy, and truth,

And worth, unconscious of a stain,
He bloom'd the flow'r of Britain's youth;
The boast and wonder of the plain.
Still with our years our friendship grew ;
No cares did then my peace destroy;
Time brought new blessings as he flew,
And ev'ry hour was wing'd with joy.
But soon the blissful scene was lost,

Soon did the sad reverse appear:
Love came, like an untimely frost,
To blast the promise of my year.
I saw young Daphine's angel form

(Fool that I was! I blest the smart)
And while I gaz'd, nor thought of harm,
The dear infection seis'd my heart.
She was, at least in Damon's eyes,
Made up of loveliness and grace;
Her heart a stranger to disguise,

Her mind as perfect as her face.
To hear her speak, to see her move
(Unhappy I, alas! the while),
H voice was joy, her look was love,

And Heaven was open'd in her smile!
She heard me breathe my amorous prayers,
She listen'd to the tender strain,
She heard my sighs, she saw my tears,

And seem'd at length to share my pain.
She said she lov'd—and I, poor youth!

(How soon, alas! can Hope persuade)
Thought all she said no more than truth;
And all my love was well repaid.
In joys unknown to courts or kings,
With her I sat the livelong day,
And said and look'd such tender things
As none beside can look or say!
How soon can Fortune shift the scene,

And all our earthly bliss destroy!
Care hovers round, and Grief's fell train
Still treads upon the heels of Joy.
My age's hope, my youth's best boast,
My soul's chief blessing and my pride,
In one sad moment all were lost,

And Daphne chang'd, and Thyrsis died!

Oh! who that heard her vows erewhile, Could dream those vows were insincere! Or who could think, that saw her smile,

That fraud could find admittance there! Yet she was false my heart will break! Her fraud, her perjuries were such—. Some other tongue than mine must speak · I have not power to say how much! Ye swains, hence warn'd, avoid the bait, O shun her paths, the trait'ress shun! Her voice is death, her smile is fate; Who hears or sees her is undone. And when Death's hand shall close my eye, (For soon, I know, the day will come) O cheer my spirit with a sigh,

And grave these lines upon my tomb

THE EPITAPH.

CONSIGN'D to dust, beneath this stone,
In manhood's prine, is Damon laid;
Joyless he liv'd, and died unknown,

In bleak misfortune's barren shade.
Lov'd by the Muse, but lov'd in vain,
"Twas beauty drew his ruin on;
He saw young Daphne on the plain;

He lov'd, believ'd, and was undone ! His heart then sunk beneath the storm (Sad meed of unexampled truth!) And Sorrow, like an envious worm, Devour'd the blossom of his youth. Beneath this stone the youth is laidO greet his ashes with a tear! May heaven with blessings crown his shade, And that grant he wanted here! peace

§ 48. An Essay on Poetry. Buckingham. Or all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well : No writing lifts exalted man so high As sacred and soul-moving Poesy: No kind of work requires so nice a touch; And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much. But Heaven forbid we should be so profane, To grace the vulgar with that noble name! 'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes, Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes; Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done; True wit is everlasting, like the sun; [tir'd, Which, though sometimes behind a cloud reBreaks out again, and is by all admir'd. Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound, Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts; And all in vain these superficial parts Contribute to the structure of the whole, Without a genius too, for that 's the soul: A spirit which inspires the work throughout, As that of nature moves the world about; A flame

The Essay on Satire, which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter,

A flame that glows amidst conception fit; Here as in all things else, is most unfit,
Even something of divine, and more than wit; Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown, Such nauseous songs by a late author * made,
Describing all men, but describ'd by none. Call an unwilling censure on his shade.
Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the brain Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain? Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
WhenI,atvacanthours,invainthyabsencemourn, But words obscene too gross to move desire,

Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou

return,

Sometimes with powerful charins to hurry me

away,

From pleasures of the night and business of the
day?

Even now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulness when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgement, fancy is but mad:
And judgement has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the
Reason is that substantial useful part

pen

:

Like heaps of fuel only choke the fire.
On other themes he well dèserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, Elegy, of sweet but solemn voice,
And of a subject grave exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valor, wit, contains;
And there too oft despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-she deserves to be belov'd;
But noisy nonsense and such fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have tried)
Womenhave drawn mywand'ring thoughts aside

Which gains the head, while t'other wins the Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,

heart.

Here I shall all the various sorts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse ;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters and examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;
Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain.
'Tis true, the antients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himselfcan please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for latter faults,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts;
What need has Satire then to live on theft,
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold the fool shall have no cause to fear;
"Tis wit and sense that are the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure;
And those who are so will ev'n this endure.
First then of Songs which now so much abound;
Without his song no fop is to be found;
A most offensive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws:
Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art:

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown

Is not defect in words, or want of wit:
But should this Muse harmonious numbers
And ev'ry complet be with fancy fill'd; [yield,
If yet a just coherence be not made
Between each thought; and thewhole model laid
So right, that ev'ry line may higher rise,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies;
Such trifles may perhaps of late have pass'd,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last;
"Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill,
Not Panegyric, nor a ‡ Cooper's Hill.

}

A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Muses' most unruly horse,
That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest,
He foams at mouth, and moves like one pos-
The poet here must be indeed inspir'd [sess'd.
With fury too as well as fancy fir'd.

Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But sometimes diction mean,orverse ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language still must soft and easy run.
These laws may sound a little too severe:
But judgement yields, and fancy governs here;
Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows,
Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,

In one small ring, and brings the value down-Satire well writ has most successful prov'd,

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So songs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be seen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.

And cures, because the remedy is lov'd,
'Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things said oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we 'll remove
That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chosen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be as the subject rough;
This

The Earl of Rochester-It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascrib

ed to this nobleman were spurious.

↑ Waller's..

Denham's.

This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words con-
vey'd.

What things are these who would be poets
thought,

By nature not inspir'd, nor learning taught?
fail,Some wit they have, and therefore may deserve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgement, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more: for they must look within, to find
Those sceret turns of nature in the mind.
Without this part in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a soul,
All this united yet but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almost lost, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakspeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Consider then, and read them o'er and o'er;
Go see them play'd, then read them as before;
For though in many things they grossly fail,
Over our passions still they so prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are fore'd to feel, the wise to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand sev'ral ways;
This oft, alone, has given success to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultless monster--which the world ne'er saw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve compassion too.

Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot
As if their only business was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satyr from a scold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown:
So while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.
The Laureat here may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mac Fleck noet with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus has borne dead weight,
Rid by some lumpish minister of state.
Here rest my Muse, suspend thy cares awhile;
A more important task attends thy toil.
As some young eagle, that designs to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprise before,
O'er what wide lands and seas she is to soar;
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet incited by some bold design,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last, resolv'd, she cleaves the yielding air;
Away she flies, so strong, so high, so fast,
She lessens to us, and is lost at last :
So (though too weak for such a weighty thing)
The Muse inspires a sharper note to sing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On, then, my Muse; advent'rously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if observ'd, give plays so great a grace,Besides the main design compos'd with art,

Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Less obvious errors of the English stage.

First, then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in passion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend only to tell it us;
Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confesses all §.

Figures of speech, which poets think so fine
(Art's needless varnish to make nature shine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in descriptions only claim a place;
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed; for who can choose but pity
A dying hero miserably witty?

But oh the Dialogues were just and mock
Are held up like a rest at shuttle-cock;
Or else like bells eternally they chime;
They sigh in simile and die in rhyme.

Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not so much were shining thoughts
to place,

As what a man would say in such a case:
Neither in comedy will this suffice,

The player too must be before your eyes; ·
And, though 'tis drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your secret meaning show.
Expose no single fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious: oft we see
A fool derided by as bad as he :
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour:
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow',
Ingredients to compose that precious juice
Which serves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction-this would favor get;
But Falstaff stands inimitable yet.

Mr. Dryden. + A famous satirical Poem of his. § la Philaster, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.

Another

A Poem called the Hind and Panther. The matchless character of Shakspeare.

Another fault which often may befal,
Is, when the wit of some great poet
shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That e'en his fools speak sense, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If ouce the justness of each part be lost,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
That silly thing mien call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd :
Humor is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper thought.

But since the poets we of late have known
Shine in no dress so much as in their own,
The better, by example, to convince,
Cast but a view on this wrong side of sense.
First, a soliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves,
And all in metaphor his passion proves;
But some sad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone;
He straight grows jealous, tho' we know not
why:

Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die:

But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The absent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now

To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who straight appears; but who can fate with-
Too late, alas! to hold his hasty hand, [stand?
That just has given himself the cruel stroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Most sadly mourus at being left behind;
Of such a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
What shameful and what monstrous things
are these!

And then they rail at those they cannot please :
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme
Many keep up sinking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rules,
And sense no longer will submit to fools.

By painful steps at last we labor up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The epic poets so divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

To be the utmost stetch of human sense;
A work of such inestimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought
forth!

Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe
Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast,
So these gigantic souls, ainaz'd, we find
As much above the rest of human kind!

Nature's whole strength united! endless fame,
And universal shouts, attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still
Like Indians view'd this wond'rous piece of
skill;

As something of divine the work admir'd,
Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,
Has shown where all the mighty magic lies;
Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure from some angel he the secret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clew.
But what, alas! avails it mankind
poor
To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shown, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak Reason's sight,
And yet has judgement to direct it right?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such,
Never to say too little or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say ;
Must above Tasso's lofty flight prevail,
Succeed where Spenser and ev'n Milton fail.
§. 49. The Chace. Somerville.
BOOK I.

mans.

THE ARGUMENT.

The subject proposad. Address to his Royal Highness the Prince. The origin of hunting, The rude and unpolished manners of the first hunters. Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice. The grant made by God to man of the beasts, &c. The regular manner of hunting first brought to this island by the NorThe best rounds and best horses bred here. The advantage of this exercise to us, as islanders. Address to gentlemen of estates. Situation of the kennel, and its several courts. The diversion and employment of hounds in the kennel. The different sorts of hounds for each different chace. Description of a perfecthound. Of sizing and sorting of hounds; the middle-sized hound recommended. Of the large deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter. Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland. A physical account of scents. Of good and bad scenting days. A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.

THE Chace I sing, hounds, and their various
breed,

And no less various use. O thou, great Prince!
Whom Cambria's tow'ring hills proclaim their

lord,

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