by Homer
E’er Pallas issued from the Thund’rer’s head,
Dulness o’er all possess’d her antient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night:
Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave,
Gross as her, sire, and as her mother grave,
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,
She rul’d, in native anarchy, the mind.
Still her old empire to confirm, she tries,
For born a Goddess, Dulness never dies.
Where wave the tatter’d ensigns of Rag-Fair,
A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;
Keen, hollow winds howl thro’ the bleak recess,
Emblem of music caus’d by emptiness:
Here in one bed two shiv’ring sisters lye,
The cave of Poverty and Poetry.
This, the Great Mother dearer held than all
The clubs of Quidnunc’s, or her own Guild-hall:
Here stood her Opium, here she nurs’d her Owls,
And destin’d here th’ imperial seat of fools.
Hence springs each weekly muse, the living boast
Of C…l’s chaste press, and L…t’s rubric post;
Hence hymning Tyburn’s elegiac lay,
Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia’s day,
Sepulchral lyes our holy walls to grace,
And New-year-Odes, and all the Grubstreet race.
’Twas here in clouded majesty she shone;
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne;
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger, and who thirst for scribling sake:
Prudence, whose glass presents th’ approaching jayl;
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale;
Where in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep,
Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
‘Till genial Jacob, or a warm third-day
Calls forth each mass, a poem or a play.
How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie;
How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry;
Maggots half-form’d, in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.
Here one poor Word a hundred clenches makes,
And ductile dulness new meanders takes;
There motley Images her fancy strike,
Figures ill-pair’d, and Similes unlike.
She sees a mob of Metaphors advance,
Pleas’d with the madness of the mazy dance:
How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;
How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;
How Time himself stands still at her command,
Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land.
Here gay Description Aegypt glads with showers,
Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;
Glitt’ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,
Fast by, fair vallies of eternal green,
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these and more, the cloud-compelling Queen
Beholds thro’ fogs, that magnify the scene;
She, tinfel’d o’er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views,
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.
’Twas on the day, when Tho…d, rich and grave,
Like Cimon triumph’d both on land and wave,
(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,
Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broadfaces)
Now night descending, the proud scene was o’er,
Yet liv’d, in Settle’s numbers, one day more.
Now May’rs and Shrieves in pleasing flumbers lay,
And eat in dreams the custard of the day:
But pensive poets painful vigils keep;
Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
Much to her mind the solemn feast recalls,
What city-Swans once sung within the walls,
Much she revolves their arts, their antient praise,
And sure succession down from Heywood’s days.
She saw with joy the line immortal run,
Each sire imprest and glaring in his son;
So watchful Bruin forms with plastic care
Each growing lump, and brings it to a Bear.
She saw in N…n all his father shine,
And E…n eke out Bl…’s endless line;
She saw slow P…s creep like T…te’s poor page,
And furious D…n foam in Wh…’s rage.
In each, she marks her image full exprest,
But chief, in Tibbald’s monster-breeding breast,
Sees Gods with Daemons in strange league ingage,
And earth, and heav’n, and hell, her battels wage!
She ey’d the Bard where supperless he fate,
And pin’d, unconscious of his rising fate;
Studious he sate, with all his books around,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound?
Plung’d for his sense, but found no bottom there:
Then writ, and flounder’d on, in mere despair.
He roll’d his eyes that witness’d huge dismay,
Where yet unpawn’d, much learned lumber lay,
Volumes, whose size the space exactly fill’d;
Or which fond authors were so good to gild;
Or where, by Sculpture made for ever known,
The page admires new beauties, not its own.
Here swells the shelf with Ogleby the great,
There, stamp’d with arms, Newcastle shines compleat,
Here all his suff’ring brotherhood retire,
And ‘scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire;
A Gothic Vatican! of Greece and Rome
Well-purg’d, and worthy W…y, W…s, and Bl…
But high above, more solid Learning shone,
The Classicks of an age that heard of none;
There Caxton slept, with Wynkin at his side,
One clasp’d in wood, and one in strong cow-hide:
There sav’d by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Old Bodies of philosophy appear:
De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,
And there, the groaning Shelves Philemon bends.
Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeem’d from tapers and defrauded pyes,
Inspir’d he seizes: These an altar raise:
An hecatomb of pure, unsully’d lays
That altar crowns; a folio Common-place
Founds the whole pyle, of all his works the base:
Quarto’s, octavo’s, shape the lessening pyre,
And last, a little Ajax tips the spire.
Then heª Great Tamer of all human art!
First in my care, and nearest at my heart!
Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my muse began, with whom shall end!
Oh thou! of business the directing soul,
To human heads like byass to the bowl,
Which as more pond’rous makes their aim more true,
Obliquely wadling to the mark in view.
O ever gracious to perplex’d mankind!
Who spread a healing mist before the mind,
And, lest we err by wit’s wild, dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Ah! still o’er Britain stretch that peaceful wand,
Which lulls th’ Helvetian and Batavian land,
Where ‘gainst thy throne if rebel Science rise,
She do
es but show her coward face and dies:
There, thy good scholiasts with unweary’d pains
Make Horace flat, and humble Maro’s strains;
Here studious I unlucky Moderns save,
Nor sleeps one error in its father’s grave,
Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,
And crucify poor Shakespear once a week.
For thee I dim these eyes, and stuff this head,
With all such reading as was never read;
For thee supplying, in the worst of days,
Notes to dull books, and Prologues to dull plays;
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.
Not that my pen to criticks was confin’d,
My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;
So written precepts may successless prove,
But sad examples never fail to move.
As forc’d from wind-guns, lead it self can fly,
And pond’rous slugs cut swiftly thro’ the sky;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,
The wheels above urg’d by the load below;
Me, Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,
And were my Elasticity, and Fire.
Had heav’n decreed such works a longer date,
Heav’n had decreed to spare the Grubstreet-state.
But see great Settle to the dust descend,
And all thy cause and empire at an end!
Cou’d Troy be sav’d by any single hand,
His gray-goose-weapon must have made her stand.
But what can I•my Flaccus cast aside,
Take up th’ Attorney’s (once my better) guide?
Or rob the Roman geese of all their glories,
And save the state by cackling to the Tories?
Yes, to my country I my pen consign,
Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine,
And rival, Curtius! of thy fame and zeal,
O’er head and ears plunge for the public weal.
Adieu my children! better thus expire
Un-stall’d, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire
Fair without spot; than greas’d by grocer’s hands,
Or shipp’d with W… to ape and monkey lands,
Or wafting ginger, round the streets to go,
And visit alehouse where ye first did grow.
With that, he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,
And thrice he dropt it from his quiv’ring hand:
Then lights the structure, with averted eyes;
The rowling smokes involve the sacrifice.
The opening clouds disclose each work by turns,
Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,
In one quick slash see Proserpine expire,
And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire.
Then gush’d the tears, as from the Trojan’s eyes
When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.
Rowz’d by the light, old Dulness heav’d the head,
Then snatch’d a sheet of Thulè from her Bed,
Sudden she flies, and whelms it o’er the pyre;
Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire.
Her ample presence fills up all the place;
A veil of fogs dilates her awful face,
Great in her charms! as when on Shrieves and May’rs
She looks, and breathes herself into their airs.
She bids him wait her to the sacred Dome;
Well-pleas’d he enter’d, and confess’d his home:
So spirits, ending their terrestrial race,
Ascend, and recognize their native place:
Raptur’d, he gazes round the dear retreat,
And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.
Here to her Chosen all her works she shows;
Prose swell’d to verse, Verse loitring into prose:
How random thoughts now meaning chance to find,
Now leave all memory of sense behind;
How Prologues into Prefaces decay,
And those to Notes are fritter’d quite away:
How Index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the eel of science by the Tail:
How, with less reading than makes felons ‘scape;
Less human genius than God gives an ape,
Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,
A past, vamp’d, future, old, reviv’d, new piece,
‘Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Congreve, and Corneille,
Can make a C…r, Jo…n, or O…ll.
The Goddess then, o’er his anointed head,
With mystic words the sacred Opium shed;
And lo! her Bird (a monster of a fowl!
Something betwixt a H… and Owl)
Perch’d on his crown. All hail! and hail again
My son! the promis’d land expects thy reign.
Know Settle, cloy’d with custard and with praise,
Is gather’d to the Dull of antient days,
Safe, where no criticks damn, no duns molest,
Where G…n, B…, and high-born H… rest!
I see a King! who leads my chosen sons
To lands that flow with clenches and with puns:
‘Till each fam’d theatre my empire own,
Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne.
I see! I see! — Then rapt, she spoke no more.
God save King Tibbald! Grubstreet alleys roar.
So when Jove’s block descended from on high,
(As sings thy great fore-father, Ogilby,)
Hoarse thunder to its bottom shook the bog,
And the loud nation croak’d, God save King Log!
End of the first Book.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Solitude
Alexander Pope (1688–1744)
HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 10
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please 15
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie. 20
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
On a Certain Lady at Court (Henrietta Howard, Countess of Suffolk)
Alexander Pope (1688–1744)
I KNOW a thing that’s most uncommon
(Envy, be silent, and attend);
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warped by passion, awed by rumour, 5
Not grave through pride, or gay through folly;
An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible soft melancholy.
‘Has she no faults then,’ Envy says, ‘Sir?’
Yes, she has one, I must aver: 10
When all the world conspires to praise her
The woman’s deaf, and does not hear!
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
An Essay on Man: the Design
To H. St. John, L. Bolingbroke
Alexander Pope
(1688–1744)
HAVING proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my lord Bacon’s expression) came home to men’s business and bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering Man in the abstract, his nature and his state; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being. 1
The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are all upon these last, and I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice, more than advanced the theory of morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly unintelligible, and in forming a temperate yet not inconsistent, and a short yet not imperfect, system of ethics. 2
This I might have done in prose; but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons. The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or precepts so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but it is true; I found I could express them more shortly this way than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail, without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically, without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning. If any man can unite all these without any diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity. 3
What is now published, is only to be considered as a general map of Man, marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connection, but leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which are to follow. Consequently, these Epistles in their progress (if I have health and leisure to make any progress) will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament. I am here only opening the fountains, and clearing the passage. To deduce the rivers, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable.