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Alexander Popes Homer translations are probably alongside his poem "An Essay on Man“ from the year 1734 his most famous works.
Personally, I like his essay on criticism from the years 1707 to 1711 best, and that's why I'm including it here. The following two quotes are probably the best known:
"To err is human, to forgive divine."
Alexander Pope, An essay on criticism (1711)
"A little learning is a dangerous thing."
Alexander Pope, An essay on criticism (1711)
An essay on criticism
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appearance 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 expose himself alone,
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 excell themselves,
And censor freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not critics to their judgment too?Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Minds;
Nature affords at least a glimmering light;
The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest sketch, if just trac'd,
Is by ill coloring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false learning is good sense defac'd.
Some are wilder'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 into their own defence.
Everyone 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 Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
There are who judge still worse than he can writeSome have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
Turn'd Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at last;
Some neither can pass for wits nor critics,
As heavy Mules are neither Horse nor Ass.
Those half-learn'd Whitings, num'rous in our Isle,
As half-form'd Insects on the Banks of Nile:
Unfinished things, one knows now what to call,
Their generation's so equivocal:
To tell 'em, wou'd require a hundred tongues,
Or one vain Wit's, that might a hundred tires.But ye who seek to give and merit Fame,
And just 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 power 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 is Human Wit;
Not only bound to peculiar arts,
But often 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.First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame
By her just standard, which is still the same:
Unringing Nature, still divinely bright,
One clear, unchang'd and Universal Light,
Life, Force, and Beauty, must all impart,
At once the Source, and End, and Test of Art
Kind from that Fund each just Supply provides,
Works without show, and without pomp awards:
In some fair Body thus th' informing Soul
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole,
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains;
It self unseen, but in the Effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heav'n in Wit hath 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, rather 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 derived 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 awayYe then whose Judgment the right Course wou'd steer,
Know well each ANCIENT's proper Character,
His Fable, Subject, Scope in every 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,
Then form thy judgment, then thy Maxims bring,
And trace the Muses upward to their Spring;
Still with It self compared, 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 every 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'er looked each Line.
Learn henceforth for Ancient Rules a just Esteem;
To copy Nature is to copy Them.Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
For there's 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 do not extend far enough,
(Since Rules were made but to promote their End)
Some Lucky LICENSE answers to the full
Th' Intent propos'd, that License 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 come;
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 skirt, or hanging Precipice.
But tho' the Ancients thus invade their Rules,
(As Kings dispense with Laws Themselves have made)
Modern, 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 otherwise proceeds without Remorse,
Seizes thy fame, and puts his Laws in force.I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
Those Freer Beauties, possibly in Them, seem Faults:
Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportioned 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 comply with the occasion and the place,
Conceal his Force, nay sometimes seem to fly.
Those often 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 bring their Incense;
Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring!
In praise so just, let every voice be join'd,
And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind!
Hail Bard's Triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise!
Whose Honors with Increase of Ages grow,
As streams roll down, increasing as they flow!
Nations unborn thy mighty Names shall sound,
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some spark of thy celestial 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 gain 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.A little learning is a dang'rous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow Drafts 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 advanced, behold with strange surprise
New, distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleas'd at first, the towing 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 Labor 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 every Work of Wit
With the same Spirit that its Author writes,
Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find,
Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind;
Nor loose, 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 nor the 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 see some well-proportion'd Dome,
The World's just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome!)
No single parts unequally surprised;
All comes united to the admiring Eyes;
No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear;
The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular.Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regarding 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 commit less,
Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critic lays,
For not knowing 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 loved Folly Sacrifice.Once upon a time La Mancha's Knight, they say,
A certain Bard encountering 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 thirst departs 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 the stage.
So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain.
Then build a new one, or act it in a plain.Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice,
Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice,
Form short Ideas; and open in Arts
(As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts.Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
And glit'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 every part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,
What often 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 express all their care,
And worth 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 colors spreads on every place;
The Face of Nature was no more survey,
All glares alike, without distinction gay:
But true Expression, like the 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 express,
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 Pretense;
Ancients in Phrase, more Moderns in their Sense!
Such labor'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 UK 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.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 haunts Parnassus but to please their Ear,
Not coming from their Minds; as some to Church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These Equal Syllables alone require,
Tho' often the Ear the open Vowels tire,
While Expletives their feeble Aid do join,
And ten low words often 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 ease of 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 learned to dance,
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream flows in smoother numbers;
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 labour, and the words move slowly;
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!
Meanwhile, at each change, the Son of Libyan 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 Timothy was, is Dryden now.avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleas'd too little, or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offense,
That always shows Great Pride, or Little Sense;
Those Heads as Stomachs are not sure the best
Which nauseates 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 hath shone on Ages past,
Enlightens 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 still value the True.Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading message 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 tolerance joins with Quality,
A constant Critick at the Great-man's Board,
To fetch and carry Nonsense for my Lord.
What wonderful 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 every Fault,
And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought!The Vulgar thus through Imitation err;
As often the Learn'd by being Singular;
So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throne
By chance go right, they purposely go wrong;
So schismatics quit the plain believers,
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 are fools, so we grow wise;
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 nobody had sense enough to be confused.
Scotists and Thomists, now, remain in peace,
Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck Lane.
If Faith it self has worn different dresses,
What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn?
Often, 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.Some valuing those of their own, Side or Mind,
Still make themselves the measure of Mankind;
Fondly we think we honor Merit then,
When we but praise Our selves in Other Men.
Parties in Wit attend on those of State,
And public 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 pursue Merit as its Shade,
But like a Shadow, the Substance proves true;
For envy'd Wit, like Sol Eclips'd, makes known
Th' opposing Body's Grossness, not its own.
When first that Sun displays too powerful Beams,
It draws up Vapors 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 remains 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 be Dryden.
So when the faithful Pencil hath 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 colors soften and unite,
And sweetly melts into just shade and light,
When mellowing years give their full perfection,
And each bold figure just begins to live;
The treach'rous Colors the fair Art betray,
And all the bright creation fades away!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 Wi 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 required;
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 undergo so much from Ign'rance,
Ah let not Learning too begin its Foe!
Of old, those met Rewards who cou'd excel,
And such were praised who but endeavored well:
Tho' Triumphs were to Generals only due,
Crowns were reserved to grace the Soldiers too.
Now, they who reached Parnassus' lofty crown,
employ their pains to spur 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 every 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 always join;
To err is humane; to Forgive, Divine.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 thy Mind;
But tolerance with obscenity must prove
As Shameful sure as Importance in Love.
In the fat Age of Pleasure, Wealth, and Ease,
jump the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase;
When Love was all in easy 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 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 smile'd at what they blush'd before —
The following License 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,
Read 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 brave'd the Skies,
And the Press groan'd with Licenc'd Blasphemies —
These monsters, critics! with your darts engage,
Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!
Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
Will mistake needs 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 helped 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 difference:
Some positive persisting Fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will need to be always so;
But you, with pleasure own your errors past,
An make each day a critic 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 disapproved;
That only makes Superior Sense belov'd.Be niggards of advice on no pretense;
For the worst Avarice is that of Sense:
With mean complacence ne'er betray thy trust,
Nor be so civil as to prove unjust;
fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
Those best can bear proof, who merit praise.'Twere well, might Criticks still take this Freedom;
But Appius reddens at each word you speak,
And stares, Tremendous! with a threatening eye
Like some fierce Tyrant in Old Tapestry!
Fear most to tax an Honorable 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 fluttery 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 censorship to restrain,
And charitably let the Dull be vain:
Your silence there is better than your Spite,
For who can rail as 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 crowds 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 drops of their Sense,
And Rhyme with all the Rage of Impotence!Such shameless bars we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics 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 makes short excursions;
But ratling nonsense in full Vollies breaks;
And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering Tyde!But where's the Man, who Counsel can bestow,
Still pleas'd to teach, and not proud to know?
Unbias'd, or by Favor, or by Spite;
Not dully prepossessed, 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 show,
And gladly praise the Merit of a Foe?
Blest with a button exact, yet unconfin'd;
A Knowledge of both Books and Humankind;
Gen'rous Converse; a Sound exempt from Pride;
And Love to Praise, with Reason on his Side?Such once were critics, such the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite first left the shore,
Spread all his Sails, and thirst 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,
Received his Laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit
Who conquer'd Nature, shou'd preside o'er Wit.Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without Method talks us into Sense,
Will like a Friend family convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
Hey, who Supreme in Judgment, as in Wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly write,
Yet judg'd with Coolness tho' he sung with Fire;
His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire.
Our critics take a contrary extreme,
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 ever 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.Thus long succeeding Criticks justly reign'd,
License 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 believed, but little understood,
And to be dull was constru'd to be good;
A second guess Learning thus o'er-run,
And the Monks finish'd what the Goths began.At length, Erasmus, that great, hurt'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 song!
Immortal Vida! on whose honor'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!But soon by Impious Arms from Lazio chas'd,
Alexander Pope, An essay on criticism (1711)
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 knew less presum'd, and better,
Who thirst assert the juster Ancient Cause,
And here restored Wit's Fundamental Laws.
Such was the Muse, whose Rules and Practice tell,
Nature's chief masterpiece 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 just knew to blame or to commend;
To failings mildly, but zealously 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 censorship, not too fond of fame,
Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
Averse alike to Flutter, or Offend,
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.