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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. Sonnet 116 ~ William Shakespeare [1564 - 1616] |
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On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? 
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott. 
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. |
Alfred, Lord Tennyson [1809 – 1892]
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott." There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott. 
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. 
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." [ The Lady of Shalott] |
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Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face [Crossing the bar] |
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Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. [ He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven ] Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air, Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, And make my soul before my pate is bare. And get a comfortable wife and house To rid me of the devil in my shoes, Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, And the worse devil that is between my thighs. And though I'd marry with a comely lass, She need not be too comely -- let it pass, Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, But there's a devil in a looking-glass. Nor should she be too rich, because the rich Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch, Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, And cannot have a humorous happy speech. And there I'll grow respected at my ease, And hear among the garden's nightly peace, Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle geese. [ Beggar to Beggar Cried ] His chosen comrades thought at school He must grow a famous man; He thought the same and lived by rule, All his twenties crammed with toil; `What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?' Everything he wrote was read, After certain years he won Sufficient money for his need, Friends that have been friends indeed; `What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?' All his happier dreams came true - A small old house, wife, daughter, son, Grounds where plum and cabbage grew, Poets and Wits about him drew; `What then?' sang Plato's ghost. `What then?' `The work is done,' grown old he thought, `According to my boyish plan; Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught, Something to perfection brought'; But louder sang that ghost, `What then?' [ What Then? ] When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. [ When You are Old ] |
William Butler Yeats [1865–1939]
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Can rules or tutors educate The semigod who we await? He must be musical Tremulous, impressional Alive to greater influence Of landscape and of sky And tender to the spirit-touch Of man's or maiden's eye But, to his native centre fast Shall into Future fuse the Past And the world's flowing fates In his own mould recast. [ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ 1803-1882 ] I see all human wits Are measured but a few; Unmeasured still my Shakespeare sits, Lone as the blessed Jew. [Shakespeare] |
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nothing is more criminal ~ than love ~ it steals hours from the day ~ dreams from my head ~ the sun ~ from the sky ~ perhaps it shone today ~ i don't recall ~ i distilled all your words ~ and made my own climate [Isobel Thrilling ~ 1803-1882 ] 
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Edward Lear [1812 – 1888]
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. 
[ The Owl and the Pussycat ] |
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Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1827]
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see - we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud. As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt - A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? Whith thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 
[ To A Skylark ] |
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She is standing on my lids And her hair is in my hair She has the colour of my eye She has the body of my hand In my shade she is engulfed As a stone against the sky She will never close her eyes And she does not let me sleep And her dreams in the bright day Make the suns evaporate And me laugh cry and laugh Speak when I have nothing to say [L'amoureuse] |
Paul Éluard [1895-1952]
Éluard ~ Picasso |
Elle est debout sur mes paupières Et ses cheveux sont dans les miens, Elle a la forme de mes mains, Elle a la couleur de mes yeux, Elle s'engloutit dans mon ombre Comme une pierre sur le ciel. Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts Et ne me laisse pas dormir. Ses rêves en pleine lumière Font s'évaporer les soleils, Me font rire, pleurer et rire, Parler sans avoir rien à dire [L'amoureuse] |
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If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile - her look - her way Of speaking gently -- for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -- For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, -- and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry -- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose the love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. [Sonnets from the Portuguese] |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806 – 1861]
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It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; -- And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. She was a child and I was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love -- I and my Annabel Lee -- With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud by night Chilling my Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me: -- Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling And killing my Annabel Lee. But our love is was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we -- Of many far wiser than we -- And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; -- For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea -- In her tomb by the side of the sea. [Annabel Lee] Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore - While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating: " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" - Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, "I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never - nevermore'. " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining with the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - on this home by Horror haunted, - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - By that heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting - "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! [The Raven] |
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Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon clondy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwyman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butt a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter. The landlord's red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say- "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the west. He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say-- Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. 
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death. He turned. He spurred to the west, he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway. Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highway man comes riding-- Riding--riding-- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. And he taps with his whip on th shutters, but all is locked and barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 
[The Highwayman] |
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Alexander Pope [higher than reason - the greatest English poet] |
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An Essay on Criticism
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill Appear in Writing or in Judging ill But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense Some few in that, but Numbers err in this Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss A Fool might once himself alone expose Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose. 'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In Poets as true Genius is but rare True Taste as seldom is the Critick'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 excell And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true But are not Criticks to their Judgment too? |
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind 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 trac'd Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd. 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 Criticks in their own Defence. Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite. All Fools have still an Itching to deride And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight There are, who judge still worse than he can write |
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Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past Turn'd Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at last Some neither can for Wits nor Criticks pass As heavy Mules are neither Horse or Ass. Those half-learn'd Witlings, num'rous in our Isle As half-form'd Insects on the Banks of Nile Unfinish'd Things, one knows now what to call Their Generation's so equivocal To tell 'em, wou'd a hundred Tongues require Or one vain Wit's, that might a hundred tire. |
But you who seek to give and merit Fame And justly bear a Critick's noble Name Be sure your self and your own Reach to know. How far your Genius, Taste, and Learning go Launch not beyond your Depth, but be discreet 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 Thus in the Soul while Memory prevails The solid Pow'r of Understanding fails Where Beams of warm Imagination play The Memory's soft Figures melt away. One Science only will one Genius fit 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 Each might his sev'ral Province well command Wou'd all but stoop to what they understand. |
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First follow NATURE, and your Judgment frame By her just Standard, which is still the same Unerring Nature, still divinely bright One clear, unchang'd 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 In some fair Body thus th' informing Soul With Spirits feeds, with Vigour fills the whole Each Motion guides, and ev'ry Nerve sustains It self unseen, but in th' Effects, remains. Some, to whom Heav'n in Wit has been profuse. 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. 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's Steed Restrain his Fury, than provoke his Speed The winged Courser, like a gen'rous Horse Shows most true Mettle when you check his Course. |
Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd Are Nature still, but Nature Methodiz'd Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain'd 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 Held from afar, aloft, th' Immortal Prize And urg'd the rest by equal Steps to rise Just Precepts thus from great Examples giv'n She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n The gen'rous Critick fann'd the Poet's Fire 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 cou'd not win the Mistress, woo'd the Maid 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 Doctor's Bills to play the Doctor's Part Bold in the Practice of mistaken Rules 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 dryly plain, without Invention's Aid Write dull Receits how Poems may be made These leave the Sense, their Learning to display And theme explain the Meaning quite away |
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You then whose Judgment the right Course wou'd steer Know well each ANCIENT's proper Character His Fable, Subject, Scope in ev'ry Page Religion, Country, Genius of his Age Without all these at once before your Eyes Cavil you may, but never Criticize. Be Homer's Works your Study, and Delight Read them by Day, and meditate by Night Thence form your Judgment, thence your Maxims bring And trace the Muses upward to their Spring Still with It self compar'd, his Text peruse And let your Comment be the Mantuan Muse. |
When first young Maro in his boundless Mind A Work t' outlast Immortal Rome design'd Perhaps he seem'd above the Critick'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 Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold Design And Rules as strict his labour'd Work confine As if the Stagyrite o'er looked each Line. Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem To copy Nature is to copy Them. |
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Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare For there's a Happiness as well as Care. Musick resembles Poetry, in each Are nameless Graces which no Methods teach And which a Master-Hand alone can reach. If, where the Rules not far enough extend (Since Rules were made but to promote their End) Some Lucky LICENCE answers to the full Th' Intent propos'd, that Licence is a Rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take May boldly deviate from the common Track. Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not mend From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder part And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art 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. 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 And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead. The Critick else proceeds without Remorse Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force. |
I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts Those Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, seem Faults Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear Consider'd singly, or beheld too near Which, but proportion'd to their Light, or Place Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace. A prudent Chief not always must display His Pow'rs in equal Ranks, and fair Array But with th' Occasion and the Place comply Conceal his Force, nay seem sometimes to Fly. Those oft are Stratagems which Errors seem Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream. |
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Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer Rage Destructive War, and all-involving Age. See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incense bring Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring! In Praise so just, let ev'ry Voice be join'd And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind! Hail Bards Triumphant! born in happier Days Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise! Whose Honours with Increase of Ages grow As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow! Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found! Oh may some Spark of your Coelestial Fire The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire (That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) To teach vain Wits a Science little known T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own! |
Of all the Causes which conspire to blind Man's erring Judgment, and misguide the Mind What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules Is Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools. Whatever Nature has in Worth deny'd She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we find What wants in Blood and Spirits, swell'd with Wind Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence And fills up all the mighty Void of Sense! If once right Reason drives that Cloud away , Truth breaks upon us with resistless Day Trust not your self; but your Defects to know Make use of ev'ry Friend--and ev'ry Foe. |
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A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first Sight with what the Muse imparts In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts While from the bounded Level of our Mind Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind But more advanc'd, behold with strange Surprize New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise! So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky Th' Eternal Snows appear already past And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last But those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise! |
A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit With the same Spirit that its Author writ Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight The gen'rous Pleasure to be charm'd with Wit. But in such Lays as neither ebb, nor flow Correctly cold, and regularly low That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep. In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts Is nor th' Exactness of peculiar Parts 'Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we Beauty call But the joint Force and full Result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportion'd Dome, The World's just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome!) No single Parts unequally surprize All comes united to th' admiring Eyes No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular. |
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Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's End Since none can compass more than they Intend And if the Means be just, the Conduct true Applause, in spite of trivial Faults, is due. As Men of Breeding, sometimes Men of Wit T' avoid great Errors, must the less commit Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick lays For not to know some Trifles, is a Praise. Most Criticks, fond of some subservient Art Still make the Whole depend upon a Part They talk of Principles, but Notions prize And All to one lov'd Folly Sacrifice. |
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say A certain Bard encountring on the Way Discours'd in Terms as just, with Looks as Sage As e'er cou'd Dennis, of the Grecian Stage Concluding all were desp'rate Sots and Fools Who durst depart from Aristotle's Rules. Our Author, happy in a Judge so nice Produc'd his Play, and beg'd the Knight's Advice Made him observe the Subject and the Plot The Manners, Passions, Unities, what not? All which, exact to Rule were brought about Were but a Combate in the Lists left out. What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. Not so by Heav'n (he answers in a Rage) Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the Stage. So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain. Then build a New, or act it in a Plain. |
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Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice Curious, not Knowing, not exact, but nice Form short Ideas; and offend in Arts (As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts. Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine And glitt'ring Thoughts struck out at ev'ry Line Pleas'd with a Work where nothing's just or fit ; One glaring Chaos and wild Heap of Wit Poets like Painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked Nature and the living Grace With Gold and Jewels cover ev'ry Part , And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art. True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest What oft was Thought, but ne'er so well Exprest Something, whose Truth convinc'd at Sight we find That gives us back the Image of our Mind As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light So modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit For Works may have more Wit than does 'em good As Bodies perish through Excess of Blood. |
Others for Language all their Care express And value Books, as Women Men, for Dress Their Praise is still--The Stile is excellent The Sense, they humbly take upon Content. Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found. False Eloquence, like the Prismatic Glass Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev'ry place The Face of Nature was no more Survey All glares alike, without Distinction gay But true Expression, like th' unchanging Sun Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon It gilds all Objects, but it alters none. Expression is the Dress of Thought, and still Appears more decent as more suitable A vile Conceit in pompous Words exprest Is like a Clown in regal Purple drest For diff'rent Styles with diff'rent Subjects sort As several Garbs with Country, Town, and Court. Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence Ancients in Phrase, meer Moderns in their Sense! Such labour'd Nothings, in so strange a Style Amaze th'unlearn'd, and make the Learned Smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the Play These Sparks with aukward Vanity display What the Fine Gentleman wore Yesterday! And but so mimick ancient Wits at best As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets treat. In Words, as Fashions, the same Rule will hold Alike Fantastick, if too New, or Old Be not the first by whom the New are try'd Nor yet the last to lay the Old aside. |
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But most by Numbers judge a Poet's Song And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong In the bright Muse tho' thousand Charms conspire Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire Who haunt Parnassus but to please their Ear Not mend their Minds; as some to Church repair Not for the Doctrine, but the Musick there. These Equal Syllables alone require Tho' oft the Ear the open Vowels tire While Expletives their feeble Aid do join And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line While they ring round the same unvary'd Chimes With sure Returns of still expected Rhymes. Where-e'er you find the cooling Western Breeze In the next Line, it whispers thro' the Trees If Chrystal Streams with pleasing Murmurs creep The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with Sleep. Then, at the last, and only Couplet fraught With some unmeaning Thing they call a Thought A needless Alexandrine ends the Song That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow And praise the Easie Vigor of a Line Where Denham's Strength, and Waller's Sweetness join. True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not Chance As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance 'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense. Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers flows But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore The hoarse, rough Verse shou'd like the Torrent roar. When Ajax strives, some Rocks' vast Weight to throw The Line too labours, and the Words move slow Not so, when swift Camilla scours the Plain Flies o'er th'unbending Corn, and skims along the Main. Hear how Timotheus' vary'd Lays surprize And bid Alternate Passions fall and rise! While, at each Change, the Son of Lybian Jove Now burns with Glory, and then melts with Love Now his fierce Eyes with sparkling Fury glow Now Sighs steal out, and Tears begin to flow Persians and Greeks like Turns of Nature found And the World's Victor stood subdu'd by Sound! The Pow'rs of Musick all our Hearts allow And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. |
Avoid Extreams; and shun the Fault of such Who still are pleas'd too little, or too much. At ev'ry Trifle scorn to take Offence That always shows Great Pride, or Little Sense Those Heads as Stomachs are not sure the best Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay Turn thy Rapture move For Fools Admire, but Men of Sense Approve As things seem large which we thro' Mists descry Dulness is ever apt to Magnify. Some foreign Writers, some our own despise The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize (Thus Wit, like Faith by each Man is apply'd To one small Sect, and All are damn'd beside.) Meanly they seek the Blessing to confine And force that Sun but on a Part to Shine Which not alone the Southern Wit sublimes But ripens Spirits in cold Northern Climes Which from the first has shone on Ages past Enlights the present, and shall warm the last (Tho' each may feel Increases and Decays And see now clearer and now darker Days) Regard not then if Wit be Old or New But blame the False, and value still the True. |
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Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own But catch the spreading Notion of the Town They reason and conclude by Precedent And own stale Nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of Authors' Names, not Works, and then Nor praise nor blame the Writings, but the Men. Of all this Servile Herd the worst is He That in proud Dulness joins with Quality A constant Critick at the Great-man's Board To fetch and carry Nonsense for my Lord. What woful stuff this Madrigal wou'd be To some starv'd Hackny Sonneteer, or me? But let a Lord once own the happy Lines How the Wit brightens! How the Style refines! Before his sacred Name flies ev'ry Fault And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought! |
The Vulgar thus through Imitation err As oft the Learn'd by being Singular So much they scorn the Crowd, that if the Throng By Chance go right, they purposely go wrong So Schismatics the plain Believers quit And are but damn'd for having too much Wit. Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night But always think the last Opinion right. A Muse by these is like a Mistress us'd This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify'd 'Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side. Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still, they say And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day. We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once School-Divines this zealous Isle o'erspread Who knew most Sentences was deepest read Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed And none had Sense enough to be Confuted. Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane. If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn? Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit The current Folly proves the ready Wit And Authors think their Reputation safe Which lives as long as Fools are pleas'd to Laugh. |
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Some valuing those of their own, Side or Mind Still make themselves the measure of Mankind Fondly we think we honour Merit then When we but praise Our selves in Other Men. Parties in Wit attend on those of State And publick Faction doubles private Hate. Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose In various Shapes of Parsons, Criticks, Beaus But Sense surviv'd, when merry Jests were past For rising Merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our Eyes New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise Nay shou'd great Homer lift his awful Head Zoilus again would start up from the Dead. Envy will Merit as its Shade pursue But like a Shadow, proves the Substance true For envy'd Wit, like Sol Eclips'd, makes known Th' opposing Body's Grossness, not its own. When first that Sun too powerful Beams displays It draws up Vapours which obscure its Rays But ev'n those Clouds at last adorn its Way Reflect new Glories, and augment the Day. |
Be thou the first true Merit to befriend His Praise is lost, who stays till All commend Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes. No longer now that Golden Age appears When Patriarch-Wits surviv'd thousand Years Now Length of Fame (our second Life) is lost And bare Threescore is all ev'n That can boast Our Sons their Fathers' failing language see And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful Pencil has design'd Some bright Idea of the Master's Mind Where a new World leaps out at his command And ready Nature waits upon his Hand When the ripe Colours soften and unite And sweetly melt into just Shade and Light When mellowing Years their full Perfection give And each Bold Figure just begins to Live The treach'rous Colours the fair Art betray And all the bright Creation fades away! |
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Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things Attones not for that Envy which it brings. In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost! Like some fair Flow'r the early Spring supplies, That gaily Blooms, but ev'n in blooming Dies. What is this Wit which must our Cares employ? The Owner's Wife, that other Men enjoy Then most our Trouble still when most admir'd And still the more we give, the more requir'd Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with Ease Sure some to vex, but never all to please 'Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous shun By Fools 'tis hated, and by Knaves undone! |
If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe! Of old, those met Rewards who cou'd excel And such were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too. Now, they who reached Parnassus' lofty Crown Employ their Pains to spurn some others down And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools But still the Worst with most Regret commend For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend. To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways Are Mortals urg'd thro' Sacred Lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost! Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine. |
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But if in Noble Minds some Dregs remain Not yet purg'd off, of Spleen and sow'r Disdain Discharge that Rage on more Provoking Crimes Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious Times. No Pardon vile Obscenity should find Tho' Wit and Art conspire to move your Mind But Dulness with Obscenity must prove As Shameful sure as Importance in Love. In the fat Age of Pleasure, Wealth, and Ease Sprung the rank Weed, and thriv'd with large Increase When Love was all an easie Monarch's Care Seldom at Council, never in a War Jilts rul'd the State, and Statesmen Farces writ Nay Wits had Pensions, and young Lords had Wit The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's Play And not a Mask went un-improv'd away The modest Fan was liked up no more And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before-- The following Licence of a Foreign Reign Did all the Dregs of bold Socinus drain Then Unbelieving Priests reform'd the Nation And taught more Pleasant Methods of Salvation Where Heav'ns Free Subjects might their Rights dispute Lest God himself shou'd seem too Absolute. Pulpits their Sacred Satire learn'd to spare, And Vice admir'd to find a Flatt'rer there! Encourag'd thus, Witt's Titans brav'd the Skies And the Press groan'd with Licenc'd Blasphemies-- These Monsters, Criticks! with your Darts engage Here point your Thunder, and exhaust your Rage! Yet shun their Fault, who, Scandalously nice Will needs mistake an Author into Vice All seems Infected that th' Infected spy As all looks yellow to the Jaundic'd Eye. |
LEARN then what MORALS Criticks ought to show For 'tis but half a Judge's Task, to Know. 'Tis not enough, Taste, Judgment, Learning, join; In all you speak, let Truth and Candor shine That not alone what to your Sense is due All may allow; but seek your Friendship too. Be silent always when you doubt your Sense And speak, tho' sure, with seeming Diffidence Some positive persisting Fops we know Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so But you, with Pleasure own your Errors past An make each Day a Critick on the last. 'Tis not enough your Counsel still be true Blunt Truths more Mischief than nice Falsehood do Men must be taught as if you taught them not And Things unknown propos'd as Things forgot Without Good Breeding, Truth is disapprov'd That only makes Superior Sense belov'd. Be Niggards of Advice on no Pretence For the worst Avarice is that of Sense With mean Complacence ne'er betray your Trust Nor be so Civil as to prove Unjust Fear not the Anger of the Wise to raise Those best can bear Reproof, who merit Praise. |
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'Twere well, might Criticks still this Freedom take But Appius reddens at each Word you speak And stares, Tremendous! with a threatning Eye Like some fierce Tyrant in Old Tapestry! Fear most to tax an Honourable Fool Whose Right it is, uncensur'd to be dull Such without Wit are Poets when they please. As without Learning they can take Degrees. Leave dang'rous Truths to unsuccessful Satyrs And Flattery to fulsome Dedicators Whom, when they Praise, the World believes no more Than when they promise to give Scribling o'er. 'Tis best sometimes your Censure to restrain And charitably let the Dull be vain Your Silence there is better than your Spite For who can rail so long as they can write? Still humming on, their drowzy Course they keep And lash'd so long, like Tops, are lash'd asleep. False Steps but help them to renew the Race As after Stumbling, Jades will mend their Pace. What Crouds of these, impenitently bold In Sounds and jingling Syllables grown old Still run on Poets in a raging Vein Ev'n to the Dregs and Squeezings of the Brain Strain out the last, dull droppings of their Sense And Rhyme with all the Rage of Impotence! |
Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true, There are as mad, abandon'd Criticks too. The Bookful Blockhead, ignorantly read With Loads of Learned Lumber in his Head With his own Tongue still edifies his Ears And always List'ning to Himself appears. All Books he reads, and all he reads assails From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him, most Authors steal their Works, or buy Garth did not write his own Dispensary. Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's Friend Nay show'd his Faults--but when wou'd Poets mend? No Place so Sacred from such Fops is barr'd Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Church-yard Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. Distrustful Sense with modest Caution speaks It still looks home, and short Excursions makes But ratling Nonsense in full Vollies breaks And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering Tyde! |
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But where's the Man, who Counsel can bestow Still pleas'd to teach, and not proud to know? Unbiass'd, or by Favour or by Spite Not dully prepossest, nor blindly right Tho' Learn'd well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere Modestly bold, and Humanly severe? Who to a Friend his Faults can freely show And gladly praise the Merit of a Foe? Blest with a Taste exact, yet unconfin'd A Knowledge both of Books and Humankind Gen'rous Converse; a Sound exempt from Pride And Love to Praise, with Reason on his Side? |
Such once were Criticks, such the Happy Few Athens and Rome in better Ages knew. The mighty Stagyrite first left the Shore Spread all his Sails, and durst the Deeps explore He steer'd securely, and discover'd far Led by the Light of the Maeonian Star. Poets, a Race long unconfin'd and free , Still fond and proud of Savage Liberty Receiv'd his Laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit Who conquer'd Nature, shou'd preside o'er Wit. |
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Horace still charms with graceful Negligence And without Method talks us into Sense Will like a Friend familarly convey The truest Notions in the easiest way. He, who Supream in Judgment, as in Wit , Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ Yet judg'd with Coolness tho' he sung with Fire His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire. Our Criticks take a contrary Extream They judge with Fury, but they write with Fle'me Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations By Wits, than Criticks in as wrong Quotations. See Dionysius Homer's Thoughts refine And call new Beauties forth from ev'ry Line! |
Fancy and Art in gay Petronius please The Scholar's Learning, with the Courtier's Ease. In grave Quintilian's copious Work we find The justest Rules, and clearest Method join'd Thus useful Arms in Magazines we place All rang'd in Order, and dispos'd with Grace But less to please the Eye, than arm the Hand Still fit for Use, and ready at Command. Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire And bless their Critick with a Poet's Fire. An ardent Judge, who Zealous in his Trust With Warmth gives Sentence, yet is always Just Whose own Example strengthens all his Laws And Is himself that great Sublime he draws. |
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Thus long succeeding Criticks justly reign'd Licence repress'd, and useful Laws ordain'd Learning and Rome alike in Empire grew And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew From the same Foes, at last, both felt their Doom And the same Age saw Learning fall, and Rome. With Tyranny, then Superstition join'd As that the Body, this enslav'd the Mind Much was Believ'd, but little understood And to be dull was constru'd to be good A second Deluge Learning thus o'er-run And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun. At length, Erasmus, that great, injur'd Name (The Glory of the Priesthood, and the Shame!) Stemm'd the wild Torrent of a barb'rous Age. And drove those Holy Vandals off the Stage. |
But see! each Muse, in Leo's Golden Days Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither'd Bays! Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its Ruins spread Shakes off the Dust, and rears his rev'rend Head! Then Sculpture and her Sister-Arts revive Stones leap'd to Form, and Rocks began to live With sweeter Notes each rising Temple rung A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung! Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd Brow The Poet's Bays and Critick's Ivy grow Cremona now shall ever boast thy Name As next in Place to Mantua, next in Fame! |
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But soon by Impious Arms from Latium chas'd Their ancient Bounds the banish'd Muses past Thence Arts o'er all the Northern World advance But Critic Learning flourish'd most in France. The Rules, a Nation born to serve, obeys And Boileau still in Right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, Foreign Laws despis'd And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd Fierce for the Liberties of Wit, and bold We still defy'd the Romans as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder Few Of those who less presum'd, and better knew Who durst assert the juster Ancient Cause And here restor'd Wit's Fundamental Laws. Such was the Muse, whose Rules and Practice tell Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well. Such was Roscomon--not more learn'd than good With Manners gen'rous as his Noble Blood To him the Wit of Greece and Rome was known And ev'ry Author's Merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh,--the Muse's Judge and Friend Who justly knew to blame or to commend To Failings mild, but zealous for Desert The clearest Head, and the sincerest Heart. This humble Praise, lamented Shade! receive This Praise at least a grateful Muse may give! The Muse, whose early Voice you taught to Sing Prescrib'd her Heights, and prun'd her tender Wing (Her Guide now lost) no more attempts to rise But in low Numbers short Excursions tries Content, if hence th' Unlearned their Wants may view The Learn'd reflect on what before they knew Careless of Censure, not too fond of Fame Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame Averse alike to Flatter, or Offend Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend. |
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He clockworked aimlessly a while, Stopped, back bunched and glistening
Ears plastered down on his knobbed skull, Insidiously listening. [Seamus Heaney]
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jane@tangerinedoodles.co.uk