Make sacred Charles’s tomb for ever known
(Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone); 320
Oh fact accurs’d! what tears has Albion shed,
Heav’ns! what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involv’d in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars, 325
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
At length great ANNA said, ‘Let discord cease!’
She said! the world obey’d, and all was peace!
In that blest moment from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanced his rev’rend head; 330
His tresses dropp’d with dews, and o’er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:
Graved on his urn appear’d the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver roll’d, 335
And on her banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood:
First the famed authors of his ancient name;
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame; 340
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown’d;
The Lodden 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; 345
The gulfy 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), 350
The God appear’d: he turn’d his azure eyes
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.
‘Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days, 355
That Thames’s glory to the stars shall raise!
Tho’ Tiber’s streams immortal Rome behold,
Tho’ foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From Heav’n itself tho’ sev’nfold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; 360
These now no more shall be the Muse’s themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga’s banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
Let barb’rous Ganges arm a servile train, 365
Be mine the blessings 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; 370
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 375
Project long shadows o’er the crystal tide;
Behold! Augusta’s glitt’ring 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! 380
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 woods, 385
And half thy forests rush into my floods,
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; 390
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 infold, 395
And Phœbus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all man-kind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide; 400
Earth’s distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch 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 405
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves; 410
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof’d with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest Hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb’rous Discord dwell:
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, 415
And mad Ambition shall attend her there:
There purple Vengeance, bathed in gore, retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel: 420
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, 425
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 olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dovelike wing. 430
Ev’n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleas’d in the silent shade with empty praise;
Enough for me that to the list’ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM
Composed in heroic couplets, this poem first appeared in 1711, though many of its ideas had appeared in Pope’s prose works from as early as 1706. It is a verse essay written in the Horatian mode, primarily concerned with exploring how writers and critics were operating in the contemporary age. In the poem’s opening couplets Pope argues that bad criticism does greater harm than bad writing, believing that literature requires worthy criticism. Pope then delineates the common faults of critics. Throughout the poem, Pope refers to ancient writers such as Virgil, Homer, Aristotle, and Horace, stressing his belief that the “Imitation of the ancients” is the ultimate standard for taste. As is usual in Pope’s poems, the Essay concludes with a reference to himself.
At the time the poem was published, the heroic couplet style was a moderately new genre of poetry, which Pope used to define his own style as a poet and critic. The poem was said to be a response to an ongoing debate on the question of whether poetry should be natural, or written according to predetermined artificial rules inherited from the classical past. An Essay on Criticism was fiercely attacked by John Dennis, who is mentioned mockingly in the work. Consequently, Dennis also appeared in Pope’s later satire, The Dunciad.
CONTENTS
An Essay on Criticism: Part I
An Essay on Criticism: Part II
An Essay on Criticism: Part III
An Essay on Criticism: Part I
INTRODUCTION.
That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgement. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.
‘T IS 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; 5
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
‘T is with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic’s share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel, 15
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, ‘t is true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind: 20
Nature affords at least a glimm’ring light;
The lines, tho’ touch’d but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col’ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced: 25
Some are bewilder’d in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write, 30
Or with a rival’s or an eunuch’s spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo’s spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write. 35
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass’d;
Turn’d Critics next, and prov’d plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn’d witlings, numerous in our isle, 40
As half-form’d insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation’s so equivocal;
To tell them would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain Wit’s, that might a hundred tire. 45
But you who seek to give and merit fame,
And justly bear a Critic’s noble name,
Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
How far your Genius, Taste, and Learning go,
Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50
And mark that point where Sense and Dulness meet.
Nature to all things fix’d the limits fit,
And wisely curb’d proud man’s pretending wit.
As on the land while here the ocean gains,
In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; 55
Thus in the soul while Memory prevails,
The solid power of Understanding fails;
Where beams of warm Imagination play,
The Memory’s soft figures melt away.
One Science only will one genius fit; 60
So vast is Art, so narrow human wit:
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in those confin’d to single parts.
Like Kings we lose the conquests gain’d before,
By vain ambition still to make them more: 65
Each might his sev’ral province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.
First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same;
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70
One clear, unchanged, and universal light,
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 presides. 75
In some fair body thus th’ informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole;
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains,
Itself unseen, but in th’ effects remains.
Some, to whom Heav’n in wit has been profuse, 80
Want as much more to turn it to its use;
For Wit and Judgment often are at strife,
Tho’ meant each other’s aid, like man and wife.
‘T is more to guide than spur the Muse’s steed,
Restrain his fury than provoke his speed: 85
The winged courser, like a gen’rous horse,
Shows most true mettle when you check his course.
Those rules of old, discover’d, not devised,
Are Nature still, but Nature methodized;
Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain’d 90
By the same laws which first herself ordain’d.
Hear how learn’d Greece her useful rules indites
When to repress and when indulge our flights:
High on Parnassus’ top her sons she show’d,
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; 95
Held from afar, aloft, th’ immortal prize,
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise.
Just precepts thus from great examples giv’n,
She drew from them what they derived from Heav’n.
The gen’rous Critic fann’d the poet’s fire, 100
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then Criticism the Muse’s handmaid prov’d,
To dress her charms, and make her more belov’d:
But following Wits from that intention stray’d:
Who could not win the mistress woo’d the maid; 105
Against the Poets their own arms they turn’d,
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn’d.
So modern ‘pothecaries, taught the art
By doctors’ bills to play the doctor’s part,
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, 110
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey;
Nor time nor moths e’er spoil’d so much as they;
Some drily plain, without invention’s aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made; 115
These leave the sense their learning to display,
And those explain the meaning quite away.
You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
Know well each ancient’s proper character;
His fable, subject, scope in every page; 120
Religion
, country, genius of his age:
Without all these at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticise.
Be Homer’s works your study and delight,
Read them by day, and meditate by night; 125
Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
And trace the Muses upward to their spring.
Still with itself compared, his text peruse;
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.
When first young Maro in his boundless mind 130
A work t’ outlast immortal Rome design’d,
Perhaps he seem’d above the critic’s law,
And but from Nature’s fountains scorn’d to draw;
But when t’ examine ev’ry part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. 135
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design,
And rules as strict his labour’d work confine
As if the Stagyrite o’erlook’d each line.
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
To copy Nature is to copy them. 140
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
For there ‘s a happiness as well as care.
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 license answer to the full
Th’ intent proposed, that license is a rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150
May boldly deviate from the common track.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of Art, 155
Which, without passing thro’ the judgment, gains
The heart, and all its end at once attains.
In prospects thus some objects please our eyes,
Which out of Nature’s common order rise,
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. 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
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 15