Music resembles Poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. 145 If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky Licence answer to the full Th' intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.

Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 May boldly deviate from the common track; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And s.n.a.t.c.h a grace beyond the reach of art, Which without pa.s.sing thro' the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. 155 In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend. 160 But tho' the Ancients thus their rules invade, (As Kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Moderns, beware! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its End; Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need; 165 And have, at least, their precedent to plead.

The Critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults. 170 Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd 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 175 His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array.

But with th' occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.

Those oft are stratagems which error seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180

Still green with bays each ancient Altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage, Destructive War, and all-involving Age.

See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring! 185 Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring!

In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd, And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.

Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! 190 Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!

Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 195 The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) To teach vain Wits a science little known, T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own! 200

Of all the Causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is _Pride_, the never-failing voice of fools.

Whatever nature has in worth denied, 205 She gives in large recruits of needful pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind: Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty Void of sense. 210 If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.

Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.

A _little learning_ is a dang'rous thing; 215 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.

Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 220 While from the bounded level of our mind Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise!

So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, 225 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthen'd way, 230 Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit With the same spirit that its author writ: Survey the WHOLE, nor seek slight faults to find 235 Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.

But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, 240 That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep, We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.

In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, 245 But the joint force and full result of all.

Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprize, All comes united to th' admiring eyes; 250 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; The Whole at once is bold, and regular.

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, 255 Since none can compa.s.s more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spight of trivial faults, is due; As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: 260 Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays, For not to know some trifles, is a praise.

Most Critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the Whole depend upon a Part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, 265 And all to one lov'd Folly sacrifice.

Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; 270 Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.

Our Author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his Play, and begg'd the Knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, 275 The manners, pa.s.sions, unities; what not?

All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a Combat in the lists left out.

"What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. 280 "Not so, by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage), "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."

So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.

"Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

Thus Critics, of less judgment than caprice, 285 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, Form short Ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to _Conceit_ alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; 290 Pleas'd 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 ev'ry part, 295 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 convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. 300 As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.

For works may have more wit than does 'em good, As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.

Others for Language all their care express, 305 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, 310 False Eloquence, like the prismatic gla.s.s, Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place; The face of Nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay: But true expression, like th' unchanging Sun, 315 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, 320 Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort, As several garbs with country, town, and court.

Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; 325 Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.

Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, } These sparks with awkward vanity display } What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; } 330 And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest.

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 335 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

But most by Numbers judge a Poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 340 Who haunt Parna.s.sus but to please their ear, } Not mend their minds; as some to Church repair, } Not for the doctrine, but the music there. } These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowe's tire; 345 While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes; Where-e'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 350 In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:"

If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"

The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep:"

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 355 A needless Alexandrine ends the song That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, 360 Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an Echo to the sense: 365 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding sh.o.r.e, The hoa.r.s.e, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 370 The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.

Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprize, And bid alternate pa.s.sions fall and rise! 375 While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love, Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 380 And the world's victor stood subdu'd by Sound!

The pow'r of Music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is DRYDEN now.

Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. 385 At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.

Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move; 390 For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we thro' mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize. 395 Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd To one small sect, and all are d.a.m.n'd beside.

Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 400 But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; Tho' each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days. 405 Regard not then if Wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the Town; They reason and conclude by precedent, 410 And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.

Some judge of author's names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

Of all this servile herd the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with Quality, 415 A constant Critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.

What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?

But let a Lord once own the happy lines, 420 How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

The Vulgar thus through Imitation err; As oft the Learn'd by being singular; 425 So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong; So Schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but d.a.m.n'd for having too much wit.

Some praise at morning what they blame at night; 430 But always think the last opinion right.

A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd, This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. 435 Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.

We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow, Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.

Once School-divines this zealous isle o'er-spread; 440 Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read; Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane. 445 If Faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn, What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?

Oft', leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe, 450 Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.

Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. 455

Parties in Wit attend on those of State, And public faction doubles private hate.

Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus; But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past; 460 For rising merit will buoy up at last.

Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise: Nay should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead. 465 Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue; But like a shadow, proves the substance true; For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own, When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays, 470 It draws up vapours which obscure its rays; But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays, till all commend. 475 Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.

No longer now that golden age appears, When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, 480 And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.

So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright Idea of the master's mind, 485 Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, 490 And each bold figure just begins to live, The treach'rous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!

Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. 495 In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost: Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies.

That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.

What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? 500 The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 505 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools't is hated, and by knaves undone!

If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo, Ah let not Learning too commence its foe!

Of old, those met rewards who could excel, 510 And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well: Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too, Now, they who reach Parna.s.sus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; 515 And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill Author is as bad a Friend.