Involves a vast involuntary throng,
Who gently drawn, and struggling less and less,
Roll in her vortex, and her power confess.
Not those alone who passive own her laws, 85
But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause:
Whate’er of Dunce in College or in Town
Sneers at another, in toupee or gown;
Whate’er of mongrel no one class admits,
A Wit with Dunces, and a Dunce with Wits. 90
Nor absent they, no members of her state,
Who pay her homage in her sons, the Great;
Who, false to Phœbus, bow the knee to Baal,
Or impious, preach his word without a call:
Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, 95
Withhold the pension, and set up the head;
Or vast dull Flatt’ry in the sacred gown,
Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown;
And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit,
Without the soul, the Muse’s hypocrite. 100
There march’d the Bard and Blockhead side by side,
Who rhymed for hire, and patronized for pride.
Narcissus, prais’d with all a parson’s power,
Look’d a white lily sunk beneath a shower.
There moved Montalto with superior air; 105
His stretch’d-out arm display’d a volume fair;
Courtiers and Patriots in two ranks divide,
Thro’ both he pass’d, and bow’d from side to side;
But as in graceful act, with awful eye,
Composed he stood, bold Benson thrust him by: 110
On two unequal crutches propt he came,
Milton’s on this, on that one Johnston’s name.
The decent knight retired with sober rage,
Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page:
But (happy for him as the times went then) 115
Appear’d Apollo’s mayor and aldermen,
On whom three hundred gold-capp’d youths await,
To lug the pond’rous volume off in state.
When Dulness, smiling—’Thus revive the Wits!
But murder first, and mince them all to bits; 120
As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!)
A new edition of old Æson gave;
Let standard authors thus, like trophies borne,
Appear more glorious as more hack’d and torn.
And you, my Critics! in the chequer’d shade, 125
Admire new light thro’ holes yourselves have made.
Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone,
A page, a grave, that they can call their own;
But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick,
On passive paper, or on solid brick. 130
So by each Bard an Alderman shall sit,
A heavy Lord shall hang at every Wit,
And while on Fame’s triumphal car they ride,
Some slave of mine be pinion’d to their side.’
Now crowds on crowds around the Goddess press, 135
Each eager to present the first address.
Dunce scorning Dunce beholds the next advance,
But Fop shows Fop superior complaisance.
When lo! a spectre rose, whose index hand
Held forth the virtue of the dreadful wand; 140
His beaver’d brow a birchen garland wears,
Dropping with infants’ blood and mothers’ tears.
O’er ev’ry vein a shudd’ring horror runs,
Eton and Winton shake thro’ all their sons.
All flesh is humbled, Westminster’s bold race 145
Shrink, and confess the Genius of the place:
The pale boy-senator yet tingling stands,
And holds his breeches close with both his hands.
Then thus: ‘Since man from beast by words is known,
Words are man’s province, words we teach alone. 150
When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter,
Points him two ways, the narrower is the better.
Placed at the door of learning, youth to guide,
We never suffer it to stand too wide.
To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, 155
As Fancy opens the quick springs of Sense,
We ply the Memory, we load the Brain,
Bind rebel wit, and double chain on chain,
Confine the thought, to exercise the breath,
And keep them in the pale of words till death. 160
Whate’er the talents, or howe’er design’d,
We hang one jingling padlock on the mind:
A poet the first day he dips his quill;
And what the last? a very poet still.
Pity! the charm works only in our wall, 165
Lost, lost too soon in yonder house or hall.
There truant Wyndham ev’ry Muse gave o’er,
There Talbot sunk, and was a Wit no more!
How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast!
How many Martials were in Pulteney lost! 170
Else sure some bard, to our eternal praise,
In twice ten thousand rhyming nights and days,
Had reach’d the work, the all that mortal can,
And South beheld that masterpiece of man.
‘O (cried the Goddess) for some pedant reign! 175
Some gentle James, to bless the land again:
To stick the doctor’s chair into the throne,
Give law to words, or war with words alone,
Senates and Courts with Greek and Latin rule,
And turn the Council to a grammar school! 180
For sure if Dulness sees a grateful day,
‘T is in the shade of arbitrary sway.
O! if my sons may learn one earthly thing,
Teach but that one, sufficient for a King;
That which my priests, and mine alone, maintain, 185
Which, as it dies, or lives, we fall, or reign:
May you, may Cam, and Isis, preach it long!
‘“The right divine of Kings to govern wrong.”’
Prompt at the call, around the Goddess roll
Broad hats, and hoods, and caps, a sable shoal: 190
Thick and more thick the black blockade extends,
A hundred head of Aristotle’s friends.
Nor wert thou, Isis! wanting to the day
(Tho’ Christ Church long kept prudishly away):
Each stanch polemic, stubborn as a rock, 195
Each fierce logician, still expelling Locke,
Came whip and spur, and dash’d thro’ thin and thick,
On German Crousaz, and Dutch Burgersdyck.
As many quit the streams that murm’ring fall
To lull the sons of Marg’ret and Clare Hall, 200
Where Bentley late tempestuous wont to sport
In troubled waters, but now sleeps in port.
Before them march’d that awful Aristarch;
Plough’d was his front with many a deep remark;
His hat, which never veil’d to human pride, 205
Walker with rev’rence took, and laid aside.
Low bow’d the rest; he, kingly, did but nod;
So upright Quakers please both man and God.
‘Mistress! dismiss that rabble from your throne;
Avaunt — is Aristarchus yet unknown? 210
Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains
Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton’s strains.
Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain,
Critics like me shall make it prose again.
Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better; 215
Author of something yet more great than letter;
While tow’ring o’er your alphabet, like Saul,
Stands our Digamma, and o’ertops them all.
‘T is true, on words is still our whole debate,
Disputes of me or te, of aut or
at, 220
To sound or sink in cano, O or A,
Or give up Cicero to C or K.
Let Friend affect to speak as Terence spoke,
And Alsop never but like Horace joke:
For me what Virgil, Pliny, may deny, 225
Manilius or Solinus shall supply:
For Attic phrase in Plato let them seek,
I poach in Suidas for unlicens’d Greek.
In ancient sense if any needs will deal,
Be sure I give them fragments, not a meal; 230
What Gellius or Stobæus hash’d before,
Or chew’d by blind old scholiasts o’er and o’er.
The critic eye, that microscope of wit,
Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit.
How parts relate to parts, or they to whole, 235
The Body’s harmony, the beaming Soul,
Are things which Kuster, Burman, Wasse shall see;
When man’s whole frame is obvious to a flea.
‘Ah, think not, Mistress! more true dulness lies
In Folly’s cap, than Wisdom’s grave disguise. 240
Like buoys, that never sink into the flood,
On learning’s surface we but lie and nod.
Thine is the genuine head of many a house,
And much divinity without a nous.
Nor could a Barrow work on ev’ry block, 245
Nor has one Atterbury spoil’d the flock!
See! still thy own, the heavy Canon roll,
And metaphysic smokes involve the pole.
For thee we dim the eyes, and stuff the head
With all such reading as was never read: 250
For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it,
And write about it, Goddess, and about it:
So spins the silkworm small its slender store,
And labours till it clouds itself all o’er.
‘What tho’ we let some better sort of fool 255
Thrid ev’ry science, run thro’ ev’ry school?
Never by tumbler thro’ the hoops was shown
Such skill in passing all, and touching none.
He may indeed (if sober all this time)
Plague with Dispute, or persecute with Rhyme. 260
We only furnish what he cannot use,
Or, wed to what he must divorce, a Muse:
Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once,
And petrify a Genius to a Dunce:
Or, set on metaphysic ground to prance, 265
Show all his paces, not a step advance.
With the same cement, ever sure to bind,
We bring to one dead level ev’ry mind:
Then take him to develop, if you can,
And hew the Block off, and get out the Man. 270
But wherefore waste I words? I see advance
Whore, pupil, and laced governor from France.
Walker! our hat!’ —— nor more he deign’d to say,
But stern as Ajax’ spectre strode away.
In flow’d at once a gay embroider’d race, 275
And titt’ring push’d the pedants off the place:
Some would have spoken, but the voice was drown’d
By the French horn or by the opening hound.
The first came forwards with as easy mien,
As if he saw St. James’s and the Queen. 280
When thus th’ attendant orator begun:
‘Receive, great Empress! thy accomplish’d son;
Thine from the birth, and sacred from the rod,
A dauntless infant! never scared with God.
The sire saw, one by one, his Virtues wake; 285
The mother begg’d the blessing of a Rake.
Thou gavest that ripeness, which so soon began,
And ceas’d so soon, he ne’er was boy nor man.
Thro’ school and college, thy kind cloud o’ercast,
Safe and unseen the young Æneas past: 290
Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down,
Stunn’d with his giddy larum half the town.
Intrepid then, o’er seas and lands he flew;
Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too.
There all thy gifts and graces we display, 295
Thou, only thou, directing all our way!
To where the Seine, obsequious as she runs,
Pours at great Bourbon’s feet her silken sons;
Or Tyber, now no longer Roman, rolls,
Vain of Italian arts, Italian souls: 300
To happy convents, bosom’d deep in vines,
Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines:
To isles of fragrance, lily-silver’d vales,
Diffusing languor in the panting gales:
To lands of singing, or of dancing, slaves, 305
Love-whisp’ring woods, and lute-resounding waves.
But chief her shrine where naked Venus keeps,
And Cupids ride the lion of the deeps;
Where, eas’d of fleets, the Adriatic main
Wafts the smooth eunuch and enamour’d swain. 310
Led by my hand, he saunter’d Europe round,
And gather’d ev’ry vice on Christian ground;
Saw every Court, heard every King declare
His royal sense of Op’ras or the Fair;
The Stews and Palace equally explored, 315
Intrigued with glory, and with spirit whored;
Tried all hors-d’œuvres, all liqueurs defined,
Judicious drank, and greatly daring dined;
Dropp’d the dull lumber of the Latin store,
Spoil’d his own language, and acquired no more; 320
All classic learning lost on classic ground;
And last — turn’d Air, the Echo of a Sound!
See now, half-cured, and perfectly well-bred,
With nothing but a solo in his head;
As much estate, and principle, and wit, 325
As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber shall think fit;
Stol’n from a Duel, follow’d by a Nun,
And, if a borough choose him not, undone;
See, to my country happy I restore
This glorious youth, and add one Venus more. 330
Her too receive (for her my soul adores);
So may the sons of sons of sons of whores
Prop thine, O Empress! like each neighbour Throne,
And make a long posterity thy own.’
Pleas’d, she accepts the Hero and the Dame, 335
Wraps in her veil, and frees from sense of shame:
Then look’d, and saw a lazy lolling sort,
Unseen at Church, at Senate, or at Court,
Of ever listless loit’rers, that attend
No cause, no trust, no duty, and no friend. 340
Thee, too, my Paridell! she mark’d thee there,
Stretch’d on the rack of a too easy chair,
And heard thy everlasting yawn confess
The pains and penalties of Idleness.
She pitied! but her pity only shed 345
Benigner influence on thy nodding head.
But Annius, crafty seer, with ebon wand,
And well-dissembled em’rald on his hand,
False as his gems, and canker’d as his coins,
Came, cramm’d with capon, from where Pollio dines. 350
Soft, as the wily fox is seen to creep,
Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep,
Walk round and round, now prying here, now there,
So he, but pious, whisper’d first his prayer:
‘Grant, gracious Goddess! grant me still to cheat! 355
O may thy cloud still cover the deceit!
Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed,
But pour them thickest on the noble head.
So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes,
See other Cæsars, other Homers rise; 360
Thro’ twilight ages hunt th’ Athenian fowl,
Which Chalcis, Gods, an
d Mortals call an owl;
Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops clear,
Nay, Mahomet! the pigeon at thine ear;
Be rich in ancient brass, tho’ not in gold, 365
And keep his Lares, tho’ his House be sold;
To heedless Phœbe his fair bride postpone,
Honour a Syrian prince above his own;
Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true;
Bless’d in one Niger, till he knows of two.’ 370
Mummius o’erheard him; Mummius, fool renown’d,
Who, like his Cheops, stinks above the ground,
Fierce as a startled adder, swell’d and said,
Rattling an ancient Sistrum at his head:
‘Speak’st thou of Syrian Princes? traitor base! 375
Mine, Goddess! mine is all the horned race.
True, he had wit to make their value rise;
From foolish Greeks to steal them was as wise;
More glorious yet, from barb’rous hands to keep,
When Sallee rovers chased him on the deep. 380
Then taught by Hermes, and divinely bold,
Down his own throat he risk’d the Grecian gold,
Receiv’d each demigod, with pious care,
Deep in his entrails — I revered them there,
I bought them, shrouded in that living shrine, 385
And, at their second birth, they issue mine.’
‘Witness, great Ammon! by whose horns I swore
(Replied soft Annius), this our paunch before
Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat,
Is to refund the Medals with the Meat. 390
To prove me, Goddess! clear of all design,
Bid me with Pollio sup as well as dine:
There all the learn’d shall at the labour stand,
And Douglas lend his soft obstetric hand.’
The Goddess, smiling, seem’d to give consent; 395
So back to Pollio hand in hand they went.
Then thick as locusts black’ning all the ground,
A tribe with weeds and shells fantastic crown’d,
Each with some wondrous gift approach’d the Power,
A nest, a toad, a fungus, or a flower. 400
By far the foremost two, with earnest zeal
And aspect ardent, to the throne appeal.
The first thus open’d: ‘Hear thy suppliant’s call,
Great Queen, and common Mother of us all!
Fair from its humble bed I rear’d this flower, 405
Suckled, and cheer’d, with air, and sun, and shower.
Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread,
Bright with the gilded button tipp’d its head,
Then throned in glass, and named it CAROLINE.
Each maid cried, “Charming!” and each youth, “Divine!” 410
Did Nature’s pencil ever blend such rays,
Such varied light in one promiscuous blaze?
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 58