Occasioned by Four Satirical Verses on Women Wits, in the Rape of the Lock
‘The four verses,’ says Ward, ‘are apparently Canto IV. vv. 59–62. The Countess of Winchilsea, a poetess whom Rowe hailed as inspired by ‘more than Delphic ardour,’ replied by some pretty lines, where she declares that “disarmed with so genteel an air,” she gives over the contest.’
IN vain you boast poetic names of yore,
And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:
Fate doom’d the fall of every female wit;
But doom’d it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confess’d, 5
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia’s throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay:
Ev’n while you write, you take that praise away. 10
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
It was long rumored that this poem was literally founded on fact: that the unfortunate lady was a maiden with whom Pope was in love, and from whom he was separated. The fact seems to be that the poem’s only basis in truth lay in Pope’s sympathy for an unhappy married woman about whom he wrote to Caryll in 1712. The verses were not published till 1717, but were probably written several years earlier.
WHAT beck’ning ghost along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
‘T is she! — but why that bleeding bosom gor’d?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5
Is it, in Heav’n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes,
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, ‘t is true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage;
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20
Like eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confin’d to their own palace, sleep.
From these, perhaps (ere Nature bade her die),
Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow, 25
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 30
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 35
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say
(While the long funerals blacken all the way), 40
Lo! these were they whose souls the furies steel’d,
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow 45
For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.
What can atone, O ever injured shade!
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier; 50
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d.
What tho’ no friends in sable weeds appear, 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho’ no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face? 60
What tho’ no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress’d,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had Beauty, Titles, Wealth and Fame. 70
How lov’d, how honour’d once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
‘T is all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, 75
Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; 80
Life’s idle bus’ness at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov’d no more!
Messiah
1712.
ADVERTISEMENT
In reading several passages of the prophet Isaiah, which foretell the coming of Christ, and the felicities attending it, I could not but observe a remarkable parity between many of the thoughts and those in the Pollio of Virgil. This will not seem surprising, when we reflect that the Eclogue was taken from a Sibylline prophecy on the same subject. One may judge that Virgil did not copy it line by line, but selected such ideas as best agreed with the nature of Pastoral Poetry, and disposed them in that manner which served most to beautify his piece. I have endeavoured the same in this imitation of him, though without admitting any thing of my own; since it was written with this particular view, that the reader, by comparing the several thoughts, might see how far the images and descriptions of the Prophet are superior to those of the Poet. But as I fear I have prejudiced them by my management, I shall subjoin the passages of Isaiah, and those of Virgil, under the same disadvantage of a literal translation.
YE Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heav’nly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and th’ Aonian maids,
Delight no more — O Thou my voice inspire 5
Who touch’d Isaiah’s hallow’d lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun:
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son! 1
From Jesse’s 2 root behold a branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies; 10
Th’ ethereal spirit o’er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic dove.
Ye Heav’ns! 3 from high the dewy nectar pour,
&n
bsp; And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
The sick 4 and weak the healing plant shall aid, 15
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Returning Justice 5 lift aloft her scale;
Peace o’er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from Heav’n descend. 20
Swift fly the years, and rise th’ expected morn!
O spring to light, auspicious babe! be born.
See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 6
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon 7 his head advance, 25
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise,
And Carmel’s flow’ry top perfumes the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; 8
Prepare the way! 9 a God, a God appears! 30
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply;
The Rocks proclaim th’ approaching Deity.
Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies!
Sink down, ye Mountains, and, ye valleys, rise;
With heads declin’d, ye Cedars, homage pay; 35
Be smooth, ye Rocks; ye rapid floods, give way;
The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold!
Hear him, 10 ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day: 40
‘T is he th’ obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th’ unfolding ear:
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, 45
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In 11 adamantine chains shall Death be bound,
And Hell’s grim tyrant feel th’ eternal wound.
As the good Shepherd 12 tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 50
Explores the lost, the wand’ring sheep directs,
By day o’ersees them, and by night protects;
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 55
The promis’d Father 13 of the future age.
No more shall 14 nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover’d o’er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 60
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful 15 son
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 65
And the same hand that sow’d shall reap the field:
The swain in barren 16 deserts with surprise
See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; 17
And start, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear
New falls of water murm’ring in his ear. 70
On rifted rocks, the dragon’s late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods;
Waste 18 sandy valleys, once perplex’d with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flow’ring palms succeed, 75
And od’rous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs 19 with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flow’ry bands the tiger lead; 20
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents 21 lick the pilgrim’s feet; 80
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleas’d, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem, 22 rise! 23 85
Exalt thy tow’ry head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race 24 thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 90
See barb’rous nations 25 at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
See thy bright altars throng’d with prostrate kings,
And heap’d with products of Sabæan 26 springs;
For thee Idume’s spicy forests blow, 95
And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains glow;
See Heav’n its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun 27 shall gild the morn,
Nor ev’ning Cynthia fill her silver horn; 100
But lost, dissolv’d in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O’erflow thy courts: the light himself shall shine
Reveal’d, and God’s eternal day be thine!
The seas 28 shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 105
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix’d his word, his saving power remains; —
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!
Prologue to Mr. Addison’s Cato
This prologue was written in 1713, after Addison had given Pope two of the main causes which led to their estrangement; and itself led the way for the third. Addison’s faint praise of the Pastorals, and disagreement with Pope as to the advisability of revising The Rape of the Lock, had not as yet led to their estrangement. But when not long after the presentation of Cato, Pope ventured to become its champion against the attacks of John Dennis, Addison’s quiet disclaimer of responsibility for his anonymous defender cut Pope to the quick.
TO wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, 5
Commanding tears to stream thro’ ev’ry age:
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder’d how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The Hero’s glory, or the Virgin’s love; 10
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen’rous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws.
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 15
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes:
Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav’n itself surveys, 20
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country’s cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev’ry deed? 25
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev’n when proud Cæsar, midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show’d Rome her Cato’s figure drawn in state; 30
As her dead father’s rev’rend image past,
The pomp was darken’d, and the day o’ercast;
The triumph ceas’d, tears gush’d from ev’ry eye,
&n
bsp; The world’s great Victor pass’d unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d, 35
And honour’d Cæsar’s less than Cato’s sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv’d,
And show you have the virtue to be mov’d.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato view’d
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 40
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm’d with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British ear 45
As Cato’s self had not disdain’d to hear.
Epilogue to Mr. Rowe’s Jane Shore
Designed for Mrs. Oldfield
Nicholas Rowe’s play was acted at Drury Lane in February, 1714. Mrs. Oldfield played the leading part, but Pope’s Epilogue was not used.
PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep’d in your fans, been serious, thus, and cried, —
‘The play may pass — but that strange creature, Shore, 5
I can’t — indeed now — I so hate a whore!’
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
‘How strangely you expose yourself, my dear! 10
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We ‘d be the best good-natured things alive.’
There are, ‘t is true, who tell another tale, 15
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In some close corner of the soul they sin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. 20
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.
Well, if our author in the Wife offends, 25
He has a Husband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving;
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon’d breach of vows;
Stern Cato’s self was no relentless spouse. 30
Plu — Plutarch, what ‘s his name that writes his life,
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 19