He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields;
With chemic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatic souls of flow'rs:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:
Or, wand'ring thoughtful in the silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
T'observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd;
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus, retir'd.

Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd scenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye, Muses, sport on Cooper's Hill
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall
flow):

I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
By godlike poets venerable made:
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's
O early lost! what tears the river shed, [tongue.
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly
voice,

No more the forests ring, or grovés rejoice; Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung

His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville sings?
'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient seats;
To paint anew the flow'ry sylvan scenes,
To crown the forests with immortal greens;
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honors you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.

Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance.
In the same shades the Cupids tun'd his lyre,
To the same notes of love, and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor
bore,
[shore;
What kings first breath'd upon her winding

Or raise old warriors, whose ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains ;
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through ev'ry

age;

Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressi's glorious The lilies blazing on the regal shield: [field, Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colors fall, And leave inanimate the naked wall, [pear, Still in thy song should vanquish'd France apAnd bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here'o'er the Martyr King the marble weeps, And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps: Whom not th' extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main, The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' opprest.

Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known (Obscure the place, and uninscrib'd the stone): Oh fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion shed! Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!

She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,
Her sacred domes involv'd in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
Atlength, great Anna said-"Let discord cease!"
She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that blest moment, from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head;
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffus'd a golden gleam:
Grav'd on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figur'd streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold;
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood:
First, the fam'd authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whose clear streams his flow'ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.

High in the midst, upon his urn reclin'd, (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind,) The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets

rise!

Then bow'd, and spoke; the winds forgot to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.

Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise! Tho' Tyber's streams immortal Rome behold, Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, [flows, From heav'n itself though seven-fold Nilus And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;

VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!'
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?
The world recedes, it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! Ifly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?

O Death! where is thy sting?

Pope.

Pope.

$9. 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 mislead 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 judgements, 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 Critic'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 excel, And censure freely who have written well: Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true; But are not Critics to their judgement too?

Yet, if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the seeds of judgement in their mind: Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light; [right. The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd, Is by ill-coloring 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 Critics 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 would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,

There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass;
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. [isle,
Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal:

To tell 'em would 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 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 discreet,
And mark that point where sense and dullness

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 several province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand. First follow Nature, and your judgement

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 pre-
sides:

In some fair body thus th' informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th' effects remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse,
Want as much more to turn it to its use;
For wit and judgement often are at strife,
Though 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 methodis'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 given,
She drew from them what they deriv'd from
heaven.

The gen'rous Critic 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 be-
lov'd:

But following wits from that intention stray'd; Who could 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 So modern 'Pothecaries taught the art [learn'd: By Doctors' 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 drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. These leave the sense, their learning to display; And those explain the meaning quite away.

You, then, whose judgement the right course

would 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 criticise.

Be Homer's works your study and delight; Read them by day, and meditate by night: Thence form your judgement, 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.

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd, Perhaps he seem'd above the Critic'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 labor'd work confine, As if the Stagyrite o'erlook'd each line.

Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; To copy nature is to copy them.

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare; For there's a happiness as well as care: Music 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 answer 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;
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,

ment, 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.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend.
But though 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 his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous
thoughts

Those freer beauties, e'en 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.
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 Paans 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 honors 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!

O may some spark of your celestial fire,

The last, the meanest, of your sons inspire,

If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry friend-and ev'ry foe.
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 surprise,
New distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first the tow'ring 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 labors of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring 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 tenor keep;
We cannot blame indeed-but we may sleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts
Is not 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,
[Rome!
The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O`
No single parts unequally surprise;
All comes united to th' admiring eyes:
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length