Where common shores a lulling murmur keep, Whose torrents rush from Holbourn's fatal steep : Pensive through idleness, tears flow'd apace, Which eas'd his loaded heart, and wash'd his face; At length he fighing cry'd; That boy was blest, Whose infant lips have drain'd a mother's breast; But happier far are those, (if such be known) Whom both a father and a mother own: But I, alas! hard fortune's utmost scorn, Who ne'er knew parent, was an orphan born! Some boys are rich by birth beyond all wants, Belov'd by uncles, and kind good old aunts; When times comes round, a Chrifimas box they bear, And one day makes them rich for all the year. Had I the precepts of a father learn'd, Perhaps I then the coachman's fare had earn'd, For lesser boys can drive; I thirsty stand And fee the double flaggon charge their hand, See them puff off the froth, and gulp amain, While with dry tongue I lick my lips in vain.
While thus he fervent prays, the heaving tide In widen'd circles beats on either fide; The Goddess rose amid the inmost round, With wither'd turnip-tops her temples crown'd; Low reach'd her dripping tresses, lank, and black As the smooth jet, or glossy raven's back.; Around her waist a circling eel was twin'd, Which bound her robe that hung in rags behind. Now beck'ning to the boy; the thus begun; Thy prayers are granted; weep no more, my fon : Go thrive. At some frequented corner stand, This brush I give thee, grasp it in thy hand. "Temper the foot within this vase of oil, And let the little tripod aid thy toil; On this methinks I see the walking crew, At thy request support the miry shoe, The foot grows black that was with dirt embrown'd, And in thy pocket gingling halfpence found. The Goddess plunges swift beneath the flood, And dashes all around her show'rs of mud; The youth ftraight chose his post; the labour ply'd, Where branching streets from Charing-cross divide;
His treble voice resounds, along the Meuse, And Whitehall echoes - Clean your honcur's shoes.
Episodes, and poetical fictions, properly introduc'd, have a most admirable effect in preceptive poetry; for they take off the attention of the mind, when fatigued with dry precepts, and lead it to subjects that are entertaining. They may, in this respect, be compared to inns placed at proper distances on the road, where, when a man is tired, he may stop to refresh himself.
But the humour and art of this author is so powerful, that he can make us laugh even at circumstances that should excite a different sensation; as will appear by the following description.
O roving muse, recal that wondrous year, When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air; When hoary Thames, with frosted osiers crown'd, Was three long moons in icy fetters bound, The waterman, forlorn along the shore, Penfive reclines upon his useless oar, See harness'd steeds defert the ftony town; And wander roads unstable, not their own: Wheels o'er the harden'd waters smoothly glide, And raise with whiten'd tracks the flipp'ry tide. Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire, And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire. Booths fudden hide the Thames, long streets appear, And num'rous games proclaim the crouded fair, So when a gen'ral bids the martial train Spread their incampment o'er the spacious plain; Thick-rifing tents a canvas city build, And the loud dice resound thro' all the field.
'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate: Let elegiac lay the woe relate, Soft as the breath of distant flutes, at hours When filent ev'ning closes up the flow'rs; Lulling as falling water's hollow noise; Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.
Doll ev'ry day had walk'd these treach'rous roads; Her neck grew wrapt beneath autumnal loads
Of various fruits; she now a basket bore, That head alas! shall basket bear no more. Each booth she frequent past, in quest of gain, And boys with pleasure heard her shrilling strain. Ah Doll! all mortals must resign their breath, And industry itself submit to death!
The cracking crystal yields, she sinks, she dies, Her head chopt off, from her lost shoulders flies; Pippins the cry'd, but death her voice confounds, And Pip pip-pip along the ice refounds.
We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have anticipated our design, and render'd any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this work. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients, who wrote precepts for poetry in verse, at least his epistle to the Pifo's is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired, which the reader will find, occafionally mentioned in different parts of this volume.
We are now to speak of those precepts that respect criticism; and here we shall be obliged to draw all our examples from Mr. Pope, who is, perhaps, the only author that has laid down rules in this manner for the direction of the judgment. His essay is of a mix'd nature, and may not improperly be called the Art of Poetry as well as Criticism. This, however, is not to be confidered as a blemish, but a beauty in his production.
Mr. Pope introduces his poem with this very juft obfervation, that it is as great a fault to judge ill, as to write ill, and more dangerous to the publick. He then proceeds to shew, that a true taste is as difficult to be found as a true genius; and observes, that tho' most men are born with some taste, yet it is generally spoiled by a false education. He takes notice of the multitude of critics, and tells us in the following lines that we ought to study our
own taste, and know the limits of our genius, and judgment, before we attempt to criticise on others.
But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet, And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.
And in the following beautiful lines he refers us to nature as the best, and indeed, the only unerring guide to the judgment.
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 univerfal 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 foul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains; Itself unfeen, but in th' effects, remains.
But the judgment, he observes, may be improved by the rules of art, which rules, if just and fit, are only nature methodised; and as these rules are derived from the practice of the ancient poets, the ancients, particularly Homer and Virgil, ought to be study'd by the critic.
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 itself compar'd, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan muse.
He then speaks of the licences allow'd to poetry, and of the use of them by the ancients; which is thus happily expressed.
Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Mufick 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 critics dare not mend; From vulgar bounds with brave diforder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. Which, without passing thro' the judgment, gains The heart, and all its ends at once attains. In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rife, The shapelefs rock, or hanging precipice. But care in poetry must still be had, It afks difcretion ev'n in running mad: And 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 critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts uts his laws in force.
I know there are, to whose prefumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults. Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear, Confider'd fingly, or beheld too near,
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