Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  You said the same; and are you discontent

  With laws to which you gave your own assent? 30

  Nay, worse, to ask for verse at such a time!

  D’ ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?

  In Anna’s wars a Soldier, poor and old,

  Had dearly earn’d a little purse of gold:

  Tired in a tedious march, one luckless night 35

  He slept, (poor dog!) and lost it to a doit.

  This put the man in such a desp’rate mind,

  Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join’d

  Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,

  He leap’d the trenches, scaled a castle wall, 40

  Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.

  ‘Prodigious well!’ his great commander cried,

  Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.

  Next pleas’d His Excellence a town to batter

  (Its name I know not, and ‘t is no great matter); 45

  ‘Go on, my friend (he cried), see yonder walls!

  Advance and conquer! go where Glory calls!

  More honours, more rewards, attend the brave.’

  Don’t you remember what reply he gave? —

  ‘D’ ye think me, noble Gen’ral, such a sot? 50

  Let him take castles who has ne’er a groat.’

  Bred up at home, full early I begun

  To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus’ son:

  Besides, my father taught me from a lad

  The better art, to know the good from bad 55

  (And little sure imported to remove,

  To hunt for truth in Maudlin’s learned grove).

  But knottier points we knew not half so well,

  Deprived us soon of our paternal cell;

  And certain laws, by suff’rers thought unjust, 60

  Denied all posts of profit or of trust.

  Hopes after hopes of pious papists fail’d,

  While mighty William’s thund’ring arm prevail’d;

  For right hereditary tax’d and fin’d

  He stuck to poverty with peace of mind; 65

  And me, the Muses help’d to undergo it;

  Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet.

  But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive,

  Indebted to no prince or peer alive,

  Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, 70

  If I would scribble rather than repose.

  Years foll’wing years steal something ev’ry day,

  At last they steal us from ourselves away;

  In one our frolics, one amusements end,

  In one a Mistress drops, in one a Friend. 75

  This subtle thief of life, this paltry time,

  What will it leave me if it snatch my rhyme?

  If ev’ry wheel of that unwearied mill

  That turn’d ten thousand verses, now stands still?

  But, after all, what would ye have me do, 80

  When out of twenty I can please not two?

  When this Heroics only deigns to praise,

  Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?

  One likes the pheasant’s wing, and one the leg;

  The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg: 85

  Hard task to hit the palate of such guests,

  When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests!

  But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,

  Again to rhyme, can London be the place?

  Who there his muse, or self, or soul attends, 90

  In Crowds, and Courts, Law, Bus’ness, Feasts, and Friends?

  My counsel sends to execute a deed:

  A poet begs me I will hear him read.

  In Palace yard at nine you ‘ll find me there —

  At ten, for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury-square — 95

  Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on —

  There ‘s a rehearsal, Sir, exact at one. —

  ‘Oh! but a Wit can study in the streets,

  And raise his mind above the mob he meets.’

  Not quite so well, however, as one ought: 100

  A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought,

  And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,

  God knows, may hurt the very ablest head.

  Have you not seen, at Guildhall’s narrow pass,

  Two Aldermen dispute it with an Ass? 105

  And Peers give way, exalted as they are,

  Ev’n to their own s-r-v — nce in a car?

  Go, lofty Poet, and in such a crowd

  Sing thy sonorous verse — but not aloud.

  Alas! to grottos and to groves we run, 110

  To ease and silence, ev’ry Muse’s son:

  Blackmore himself, for any grand effort

  Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl’s-court.

  How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar?

  How match the bards whom none e’er match’d before? 115

  The man who, stretch’d in Isis’ calm retreat,

  To books and study gives sev’n years complete,

  See! strew’d with learned dust, his nightcap on,

  He walks an object new beneath the sun!

  The boys flock round him, and the people stare: 120

  So stiff, so mute; some Statue you would swear

  Stept from its pedestal to take the air!

  And here, while town, and court, and city roars,

  With Mobs, and Duns, and Soldiers, at their doors,

  Shall I, in London, act this idle part, 125

  Composing songs for fools to get by heart?

  The Temple late two brother sergeants saw,

  Who deem’d each other oracles of law;

  With equal talents these congenial souls,

  One lull’d th’ Exchequer, and one stunn’d the Rolls; 130

  Each had a gravity would make you split,

  And shook his head at Murray as a wit;

  ‘T was, ‘Sir, your law’ — and ‘Sir, your eloquence,’

  ‘Yours, Cowper’s manner’ — and ‘Yours, Talbot’s sense.’

  Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, 135

  Yours Milton’s genius, and mine Homer’s spirit.

  Call Tibbald Shakespeare, and he ‘ll swear the Nine,

  Dear Cibber! never match’d one ode of thine.

  Lord! how we strut thro’ Merlin’s Cave, to see

  No poets there but Stephen, you, and me. 140

  Walk with respect behind, while we at ease

  Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please.

  ‘My dear Tibullus! (if that will not do)

  Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:

  Or, I ‘m content, allow me Dryden’s strains, 145

  And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.’

  Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace

  This jealous, waspish, wronghead, rhyming race;

  And much must flatter, if the whim should bite

  To court applause by printing what I write: 150

  But let the fit pass o’er; I ‘m wise enough

  To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

  In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,

  They treat themselves with most profound respect;

  ‘T is to small purpose that you hold your tongue, 155

  Each, prais’d within, is happy all day long:

  But how severely with themselves proceed

  The men who write such verse as we can read?

  Their own strict judges, not a word they spare

  That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care; 160

  Howe’er unwillingly it quits its place,

  Nay, tho’ at Court (perhaps) it may find grace.

  Such they ‘ll degrade; and, sometimes in its stead,

  In downright charity revive the dead;

  Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, 165

  Bright thro’ the rubbish of some hundred years;

  Command old
words, that long have slept, to wake,

  Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;

  Or bid the new be English ages hence

  (For Use will father what ‘s begot by Sense); 170

  Pour the full tide of eloquence along,

  Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,

  Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue;

  Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,

  But show no mercy to an empty line; 175

  Then polish all with so much life and ease,

  You think ‘t is Nature, and a knack to please;

  But ease in writing flows from Art, not Chance,

  As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.

  If such the plague and pains to write by rule, 180

  Better (say I) be pleas’d, and play the fool;

  Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,

  It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.

  There lived in primo Georgii (they record)

  A worthy member, no small fool, a Lord; 185

  Who, tho’ the House was up, delighted sate,

  Heard, noted, answer’d, as in full debate:

  In all but this a man of sober life,

  Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;

  Not quite a madman tho’ a pasty fell, 190

  And much too wise to walk into a well.

  Him the damn’d doctors and his friends immured,

  They bled, they cupp’d, they purged; in short they cured;

  Whereat the gentleman began to stare —

  ‘My friends! (he cried) pox take you for your care! 195

  That, from a patriot of distinguish’d note,

  Have bled and purged me to a simple vote.’

  Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate:

  Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late.

  There is a time when poets will grow dull: 200

  I ‘ll ev’n leave verses to the boys at school.

  To rules of poetry no more confin’d,

  I ‘ll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind,

  Teach ev’ry thought within its bounds to roll,

  And keep the equal measure of the soul. 205

  Soon as I enter at my country door,

  My mind resumes the thread it dropt before;

  Thoughts which at Hyde-park Corner I forgot,

  Meet and rejoin me in the pensive grot:

  There all alone, and compliments apart, 210

  I ask these sober questions of my heart:

  If, when the more you drink the more you crave,

  You tell the doctor; when the more you have

  The more you want, why not, with equal ease,

  Confess as well your folly as disease? 215

  The heart resolves this matter in a trice,

  ‘Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.

  When golden angels cease to cure the evil,

  You give all royal witchcraft to the devil:

  When servile Chaplains cry, that birth and place 220

  Endue a Peer with Honour, Truth, and Grace,

  Look in that breast, most dirty D[uke]! be fair,

  Say, can you find out one such lodger there?

  Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach,

  You go to church to hear these flatt’rers preach. 225

  Indeed, could wealth bestow or Wit or Merit,

  A grain of Courage, or a spark of Spirit,

  The wisest man might blush, I must agree,

  If D[evonshire] lov’d sixpence more than he.

  If there be truth in law, and use can give 230

  A property, that ‘s yours on which you live.

  Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford

  Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord:

  All Worldly’s hens, nay, partridge, sold to town,

  His venison too, a guinea makes your own: 235

  He bought at thousands what with better wit

  You purchase as you want, and bit by bit:

  Now, or long since, what diff’rence will be found?

  You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

  Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men, 240

  Lords of fat E’sham, or of Lincoln Fen,

  Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat,

  Buy every pullet they afford to eat;

  Yet these are wights who fondly call their own

  Half that the Devil o’erlooks from Lincoln town. 245

  The laws of God, as well as of the land,

  Abhor a perpetuity should stand:

  Estates have wings, and hang in Fortune’s power,

  Loose on the point of ev’ry wav’ring hour,

  Ready by force, or of your own accord, 250

  By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.

  Man? and for ever? Wretch! what wouldst thou have?

  Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.

  All vast possessions (just the same the case

  Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chase), 255

  Alas, my BATHURST! what will they avail?

  Join Cotswood hills to Saperton’s fair dale;

  Let rising granaries and temples here,

  There mingled farms and pyramids, appear;

  Link towns to towns with avenues of oak, 260

  Enclose whole towns in walls; ‘t is all a joke!

  Inexorable death shall level all,

  And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall.

  Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high,

  Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye, 265

  There are who have not — and, thank Heav’n, there are

  Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.

  Talk what you will of Taste, my friend, you ‘ll find

  Two of a face as soon as of a mind.

  Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one 270

  Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun,

  The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,

  All Townshend’s turnips, and all Grosvenor’s mines:

  Why one, like Bubb, with pay and scorn content,

  Bows and votes on in Court and Parliament; 275

  One, driv’n by strong benevolence of soul,

  Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole;

  Is known alone to that directing Power

  Who forms the genius in the natal hour;

  That God of Nature, who, within us still, 280

  Inclines our action, not constrains our will;

  Various of temper, as of face or frame,

  Each individual: His great end the same.

  Yes, Sir, how small soever be my heap,

  A part I will enjoy as well as keep. 285

  My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace

  A man so poor would live without a place;

  But sure no statute in his favour says,

  How free or frugal I shall pass my days;

  I who at some times spend, at others spare, 290

  Divided between carelessness and care.

  ‘T is one thing, madly to disperse my store;

  Another, not to heed to treasure more;

  Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,

  And pleas’d, if sordid want be far away. 295

  What is ‘t to me (a passenger, God wot)

  Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?

  The ship itself may make a better figure,

  But I that sail, am neither less nor bigger.

  I neither strut with ev’ry fav’ring breath, 300

  Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth;

  In Power, Wit, Figure, Virtue, Fortune, placed

  Behind the foremost, and before the last.

  ‘But why all this of Av’rice? I have none.’

  I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone: 305

  But does no other lord it at this hour,

  As wild a
nd mad? the avarice of Pow’r?

  Does neither Rage inflame nor Fear appall?

  Not the black fear of Death, that saddens all?

  With terrors round, can Reason hold her throne, 310

  Despise the known, nor tremble at th’ unknown?

  Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,

  In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?

  Pleas’d to look forward, pleas’d to look behind,

  And count each birthday with a grateful mind? 315

  Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?

  Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?

  Has age but melted the rough parts away,

  As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?

  Or will you think, my friend! your bus’ness done, 320

  When of a hundred thorns you pull out one?

  Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;

  You ‘ve play’d and lov’d, and ate and drank, your fill.

  Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age

  Comes titt’ring on, and shoves you from the stage; 325

  Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,

  Whom Folly pleases, and whose follies please.

  Satires of Dr. John Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s, Versified

  Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes

  Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit

  Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes

  Mollius?

  HORACE.

  The paraphrases of Donne were, by Pope’s statement, done several years before their publication in 1735.

  Satire II

  YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew

  This town, I had the sense to hate it too;

  Yet here, as ev’n in Hell, there must be still

  One giant vice, so excellently ill,

  That all beside one pities, not abhors; 5

  As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.

  I grant that Poetry ‘s a crying sin;

  It brought (no doubt) th’ excise and army in:

  Catch’d like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,

  But that the cure is starving, all allow. 10

  Yet like the Papist’s is the Poet’s state,

  Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your hate!

  Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give

  Himself a dinner, makes an actor live:

  The thief condemn’d, in law already dead, 15

  So prompts and saves a rogue who cannot read.

  Thus as the pipes of some carv’d organ move,

  The gilded puppets dance and mount above,

  Heav’d by the breath th’ inspiring bellows blow:

  Th’ inspiring bellows lie and pant below. 20

  One sings the Fair; but songs no longer move;

  No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love:

  In Love’s, in Nature’s spite the siege they hold,