Nor breath'd its spirit to congenial skies.
racter of arrogance, which is wrought up to much more perfection: it was this they all laboured at. Capaneus is so far blinded with his own admiration, that he still fancies himself the conqueror: though the odds appeared visibly against him: so apt is pride to magnify. This is superadded to the characters in Homer and Virgil: and I think it a most natural improve-stars (ab ipsis astris, stellisque are his words);
Or to congenial stars more literally, according to the philosophy of Pythagoras. The wicked, says Lactantius, were punished by their
the good enjoyed their light for ever. For a farther explication of this ancient doctrine, I refer the reader to Servius and Ruæus's notes deris in numerum, &c. See also Plato in
The mountain-cypress thus, that firmly stood upon the 227th line of Virgil's 4th Georgic, SyFrom age to age
Ille autem Alpini veluti regina cupressus
Verticis-
I have read in one of our modern critics, or in some book of travels, that no cypresses grow upon the Alps. The author upon this takes occasion to fall foul upon an eminent Roman poet, and wonders at his ignorance. It is no matter where I met with this remark, it not being of much consequence: yet I thought fit to leave out Alpinus; and added a more indefinite epithet.
Since my writing this note, I chanc'd to read Bernartius's comment upon Statius. He is much chagrined at this oversight. As a specimen of his humanity and taste for criticism, I shall transcribe his own words at length: "Attigit ut videtur Papinius hic guttam è flumine Lethes. Nam in Alpibus nusquam cupressi : nisi forte speciem pro gènere posuit, quod non inepte affirmare possumus.
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Statius seems to have copied this simile from the combat of Hercules and Achelöus in the ninth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. I shall pleasure the reader with them both. And first Ovid;
Non aliter vidi fortes concurrere tauros, Cum pretium pugnæ, toto nitidissima saltu Expetitur conjux: spectant armenta, paventque Nescia quem tanti maneat victoria regni.
Non sic ductores gemini gregis, horrida tauri Bella movent: medio conjux stat candida prato Victorem expectans; rumpunt obnixa surentes Pectora
The latter in my opinion is far more natural than the former. There is a beautiful contrast, or variation of numbers, very tender and flowing,
So Hercules, who long had toil'd in vain,
Heav'd huge Anthë us. v. 1040.
I cannot but admire this noble simile; besides the parity of circumstances, the savage character of Antheus suits admirably well with the brutal fury of Agyllens: nor is it a small compliment to little Tydeus, to compare him with Hercules for strength. I fancy Spenser drew the story of Maleger at large from this picture. I am the more inclined to think so, because in the combat of prince Arthur, and Pyrrhocles, he translates almost literally from Statius those verses that describe Agylleus after his fall: though it must be owned, he has interwoven a simile that much improves them :
Nought booted it the Paynim then to strive,
But as a bittour in an eagle's claw,
That may not hope by flight to 'scape alive,
Still hopes for death, with dread and trembling
So he now subject to the victor's law, {awe :
Did not once move, nor upwards cast his eye.
Here end the funeral games, which are put off (as in Virgil) by a prodigy, foreboding that none of the seven captains should return, except Adrastus: as that in Virgil foretold the burning of the ships by the Trojan matrons.
To conclude, whosoever will read the original impartially, will find Statius to be a much better poet than the world imagines. What the translation is, I know not: nor can the notes be extraordinary, when no body has written any thing tolerable before me. The reader may believe, or disbelieve them as he pleases; I deliver conjectures, not doctrines. If my present version has the fortune to please, I may perhaps proceed farther: if not, I cannot but think myself happy in reviving at least so fine a piece of poetry. I have but just given the sketch of a picture, it remains for others to deepen the strokes, and finish the whole. Whoever can take such pains, will oblige me, as much as the world.
To the reverend Mr. Hildrop, master of Marleborough-School, (under whom I had the
honour of receiving my education) these Divine | Incredible to thought. There tow'rs of oak Poems are humbly dedicated by his
and obedient servant, W. HARTE.
AWAKE my soul! in hallow'd raptures praise
Th' Almighty God, who in th' empyreal height
Majestic shines, too glorious to behold.
Methinks the broad expansion of the sky
O'erspreads thy throne: in air thy chambers
hang
Eternal, and unmov'd. Clouds roll'd on clouds
Thy chariot form; in thund'rings wrapt and fires
Thou walk'st, incumbent on the wings of wind.
Active as flames, all intellect, God forms
Angels of essence pure, whose finer parts
Invisible, and half dissolv'd in light, [hand
Should fleet through worlds of air. Th' Almighty
Fixt earth's eternal basis, and prescrib'd
Its utmost limits to the raging main.
Forth from their deeps a world of waters rose
And delug'd earth. He spoke, the waves obey'd
In peace, subsiding to their ancient springs.
Part murmur headlong down the mountain's
sides:
Part through the vales in slow mæanders play,
As pleas'd, yet loth to leave the flow'ry scene.
Thither by instinct savage beasts repair
To slake their thirst. Along the margin trees
Wave in the watry gleam, amid whose boughs
The winged songsters chant their Maker's pow'r.
God with prolific dews, and genial rain
Impregnates earth, then crowns the smiling fields
With lively green: the vegetative juice
Flows briskly through the trees; the purple grape
Swells with nectareous wines t' inspire the soul.
With verdant fruits the clust'ring olive bends
Whose spritely liquor smooths the shining face.
On Lebanon the sacred cedar waves,
And spiry fir-tree, where the stork conceals
Her clam'rous young. The rocks bare, unadorn'd,
Have uses too: there goats in quest of food
Hang pendulous in air, there rabbits form
Their mazy cells-in constant course the Moon
Nocturnal sheds her kindly influence down,
Marks out the circling year, and rules the
In constant regularity the Sun Purples the rosy east, or leaves the skies. Then awful night o'er all the globe extends Her sable shades: the woods and deserts ring With hideous yell, what time the lions roar And tear their prey; but when the glimm'ring
Dawns o'er the hills, their depredations cease
And sacred silence reigns. The painful man
Commences with the Sun his early toil,
With him retires to rest. O Pow'r supreme!
How wonderful thy works! the bounteous earth
Pours from its fruitful surface plants and herbs
Adapt for ev'ry use: its bowels hold
Rich veins of silver, and the golden ore.
Unnumber'd wonders in the deeps appear,
Float o'er the surges; there enormous whales
In awkward gainbols play, th' inferior fry
Sportive through groves of shining coral glide.
These with observance due, when hunger calls
Expect their meat from God, who sometimes
A just sufficiency, or more profuse [gives
Show'rs down his bounty with a copious hand.
When God withholds his all-sustaining care,
To dust, their former principle, they fall.
Then thy prolific spirit forms anew
Each undecaying species. Mighty God!
How great, how good thy pow'r; that was, and
And e'er shall be immutably the same!
Earth at thy look with reverential fear Ev'n to the centre shakes: the mountains blaze Beneath thy touch. Hail awful pow'r of Heav'n, Eternal three and one! The slaves of vice
Thy vengeance, like a sudden whirlwind's rage, Sweeps from mankind. My Muse, thrice glo
While my blest eyes behold the cheerful Sun,
While life shall animate this mortal frame,
In Heav'nly flights shall spread a bolder wing,
And sing to Him, who gave her first to sing!
PSALM THE CVIIth,
PARAPHRASED.
MORTALS, rejoice! with raptures introduce
Your grateful songs, and tell what mercies God
Deigus to bestow on man: but chiefly you
The progeny of David, whom the Lord
Selected from each region of the globe
Beneath the arctic or antarctic pole:
Or where the purple Sun with orient beams
Strikes parallel on Earth, or prone descends
T'illumine worids beyond th' Hesperian main.
With weary feet, and mournful eyes they
pass'd
Erroneous through the dreary waste of plains,
Immeas'rable: the broad expanse of Heav'n
Their canopy, the ground, of damp malign,
Their bed nocturnal. Thus in wild despair
Anxious they sought some hospitable town.
In shame and bitterness of soul once more
They recognized the Lord, and trembling cry'd
"Have mercy on us!" he, the source of
mercy,
Kindly revisited his fav'rite race,
Consol'd their woes, and led the weary train
Through barren wilds to the long-promis'd land,
Then plac'd 'em there in peaceful habitations.
"O that the sons of men in grateful songs, Wou'd praise th' unbounded goodness of the Lord,
Declare his miracles, and laud his pow'r!"
He cheers the sad, and bids the famish'd soul
Luxuriant feast till nature craves no more.
He often saves th' imprison'd wretch that lies
Tortur'd in iron chains, no more to see
The cheerful light, or breathe the purer air.
(The due reward imperious mortals find, [pise
When swell'd with earthly grandeur, they des
The Pow'r supreme) thus Jesse's sacred seed,
Elated with the num'rous gifts of Heav'n,
Slighted the giver: then the wrathful Lord
With-held his hand. They, impotent to save
Their forfeit lives, in piercing accents cry'd,
"Help Lord, we die!" he soon with aspect mild
Commiserates their anguish, and reliev'd
Those limbs, which sedentary numbness e'rst
Had crampt, when they in doleful shades of
death
Sate inconsolable-"O then that men [Lord,
Wou'd praise th' unbounded goodness of the
Declare his miracles, and laud his pow'r !"
Man, thoughtless of his end, in anguish reaps The fruits of folly, and voluptuous life. Sated with luxury his stomach loaths Most palatable meats: with heavy pain His eyes roll slowly; if he drops to rest, He starts delirious, and still seems to see Horrible fiends, that tear him from mankind.
His flushing cheeks now glow like flames of fire: Now chill'd, he trembles with extremes of cold That shoot, like darts of ice, through every vein. Ev'n then, when art was conquer'd, pray'rs
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Speak well their anguish, and desire to live. Shock'd by each bursting wave that whirls 'em round,
They stagger in amaze, like reeling men
Intoxicated with the fumes of wine,
Yet when they cry to God, his saving pow'r
Hushes the winds, and bids the main subside.
Instead of storms the whisp'ring zephyrs fan
The silent deep, and wave their pendent sails.
Then ev'ry heart exults: joyous repose
Dismisses each terrific thought, when once
(At Heav'n's command) the weary vessel makes
Her long-expected haven.-" O that men
Would praise th' unbounded goodness of the
Lord,
Declare his miracles, and laud his pow'r !"
To him once more address your songs of praise In ev'ry temple sacred to his name, Or where the rev'rend senators conven'd In council sit. He turns the limpid streams, And flow'ry meadows to a dreary waste. Where corn has grown, and fragrant roses fill'd The skies with odoriferous sweets, he bids The baleful aconite up-lift its head (The curse of impious nations): and again In lonely deserts at his high behests Soft-purling rills in sportive mazes glide Mæander'd through the valleys: there he bids The hungry souls increase and multiply. [down His bounteous hand the while pours goodness Ineffable, and guards their num'rous herds. Though thousands fall, his mercy still renews The never-ending race.-When tyrants, proud
Of arrogated greatness, without law
Unpeople realms, and breathe but to destroy;
Then God his high prerogative asserts,
Resumes his pow'r, and blasts their guilty heads:
Then raises from the dust the humble soul
Who meekly bore indignities and woe.
FAR from mankind, my weary soul, retire,
Still follow truth, contentment still desire.
Who climbs on high, at best his weakness shows,
Who rolls in riches, all to fortune owes.
Read well thy self, and mark thy early ways,
Vain is the Muse, and envy waits on praise.
Wav'ring as winds the breath of fortune blows,
No pow'r can turn it, and no pray'rs compose.
Deep in some hermit's solitary cell
Repose and ease and contemplation dwell.
Let conscience guide thee in the days of need;
Judge well thy own, and then thy neighbour's
deed.
What Heav'n bestows with thankful eyes receive;
First ask thy heart, and then through faith be
Slowly we wander o'er a toilsome way, [lieve.
Shadows of life, and pilgrims of a day.
"Who wrestles in this world, receives a fall;
Look up on high, and thank thy God for all!"
AN ESSAY ON SATIRE: PARTICULARLY ON THE DUNCIAD. PRINTED 1730.
I. The origin and use of satire. The excellency of epic satire above others, as adding example to precept, and animating by fable and sensible images. Epic satire compared with epic poem, and wherein they differ of their extent, action, unities, episodes, and the nature of their morals. Of parody: of the style, figures and wit, proper to this sort of poem, and the superior talents requisite to excel in it.
II. The characters of the several authors of satire. 1. The ancients; Homer, Simonides, Archilochus, Aristophanes, Menippus, Ennius, Lucilius, Varro, Horace, Persius, Petronius, Juvenal, Lucian, the emperor Julian. 2. The moderns: Tassone, Coccaius, Rabelais, Regnier, Boileau, Dryden, Garth, Pope.
III. From the practice of all the best writers and men in every age and nation, the moral justice of satire in general, and of this sort in particular, is vindicated. The necessity of it shown in this age more especially, and why bad wri ters are at present the most proper objects of satire. The true causes of bad writers. Characters of several sorts of them now abounding. Envious critics, furious pedants, secret libellers, obscene poetesses, advocates for corruption,
scoffers at religion, writers for deism, desitical | And similies, like meteors of the night,
and Arian clergymen.
Just give one flash of momentary light.
Application of the whole discourse to the Dunciad, concluding with an address to the author
T'EXALT the soul, or make the heart sincere,
To arm our lives with honesty severe,
To shake the wretch beyond the reach of law,
Deter the young, and touch the bold with awe,
To raise the fallen, to hear the sufferer's cries,
And sanctify the virtues of the wise,
Old Satire rose from probity of mind,
The noblest ethics, to reform mankind.
As Cynthia's orb excels the gems of night,
So epic satire shines, distinctly bright.
Here genius lives, and strength in ev'ry part,
And lights and shades, and fancy fix'd by art.'
A second beauty in its nature lies,
It gives not things, but beings to our eyes,
Life, substance, spirit animate the whole :
Fiction and fable are the sense and soul.
The common dulness of mankind array'd
In pomp, here lives and breathes, a wond'rous
maid:
The poet decks her with each unknown grace,
Clears her dull brain, and brightens her dark
face.
See! father Chaos o'er his first-born nods,
And mother Night, in majesty of gods.
See Querno's throne, by hands pontific rise,
And a fools' pandæmonium strike our eyes.
Ev'n what on Curl the public bounteous pours
Is sublimated here to golden show'rs.
A Dunciad or a Lutrin is compleat,
And one in action; ludicrously great.
Each wheel rolls round in due degrees of force;
Ev'n episodes are needful, and of course:
Of course when things are virtually begun
E'er the first ends, the father and the son!
Or else so needful, and exactly grac'd,
That nothing is ill-suited, or ill-plac❜d.
True epic's a vast world, and this a small,
One has its proper beauties, and one all.
Like Cynthia, one in thirty days appears;
Like Saturn, one rolls round in thirty years.
There opens a wide tract, a length of floods,
A height of mountains, and a waste of woods:
Here but one spot: nor leaf nor green depart
From rules; e'en Nature seems the child of Art.
As unities in epic works appear,
So must they shine in full distinction here,
Ev'n the warm Iliad moves with slower pow'rs;
That forty days demands, this forty hours.
Each other satire humbler arts has known,
Content with meaner beauties, though its own:
Enough for that, if rugged in its course
The verse but rolls with vehemence and force;
Or nicely pointed in th' Horatian way,
Wounds keen, like Sirens mischievously gay.
Here all has wit, yet must that wit be strong
Beyond the turns of epigram or song.
The thought must rise, exactly from the vice,
Sudden, yet finish'd; clean, and yet concise.
One harmony must first with last unite:
As all true paintings have their place and light.
Transition must be quick, and yet design'd,
Not made to fill, but just retain the mind;
As thinking makes the soul, low things exprest
In high-rais'd terms, define a Dunciad best.
Books and the man, demand as much, or more,
Than he who wander'd on the Latian shore:
For here (eternal grief to Duns's soul,
And B's thin ghost) the part contains the
whole:
Since in mock-epic none succeeds, but he
Who tastes the whole of epic poesy.
The moral must be clear and understood;
But finer still, if negatively good :
Blaspheming Capaneus obliquely shows
T'adore those gods Eneas fears and knows,
A fool's the hero: but the poets end
Is to be candid, modest, and a friend.
Let classic learning sanctify each part,
Not only show your reading, but your art.
The charms of parody, like those of wit,
If well contrasted, never fail to hit ;
One half in light, and one in darkness drest,
(For contraries oppos'd still shine the best.)
When a cold pause half breaks the writer's heart,
By this, it warms, and brightens into art.
When rhet'ric glitters with too pompous pride,
By this, like Circe, 'tis undeify'd.
So Berecynthia, while her offspring vie
In homage to the mother of the sky, [flow'rs,
(Deck'd in rich robes of trees, and plants, and
And crown'd illustrious with a hundred tow'rs)
O'er all Parnassus casts her eyes at once,
And sees an hundred sons-and each a dunce.
The language next: from hence new pleasure
springs:
For styles are dignified as well as things.
Tho' sense subsists, distinct from phrase or sound,
Yet gravity conveys a surer wound.
The chymic secret which your pains would find,
Breaks out, unsought for, in Cervantes' mind:
And Quixote's wildness, like that king's of old,
Turns all he touches into pomp and gold.
Yet in this pomp discretion must be had:
Though grave, not stiff; though whimsical, not
mad:
In works like these if fustain might appear,
Mock-epics, Blackmore, would not cost thee
We grant, that Butler ravishes the heart,
As Shakespeare soar'd beyond the reach of art:
(For Nature form'd those poets without rules
To fill the world with imitating fools.)
What burlesque could, was by that genius done;
Yet faults it has, impossible to shun:
Th' unchanging strain for want of grandeur cloys,
And gives too oft the horse-laugh mirth of boys:
The short-legg'd verse, and double-gingling sound,
So quick surprise us, that our heads run round:
Yet in this work peculiar life presides,
And wit, for all the world to glean besides.
Here pause, my Muse, too daring and too
young,
Nor rashly aim at precepts yet unsung."
Can man the master of the Dunciad teach?
And these new bays what other hopes to reach?
"Twere better judg'd, to study and explain
Each ancient grace he copies not in vain:
To trace thee, Satire, to thy utmost spring,
Thy form, thy changes, and thy authors sing.
All nations with this liberty dipense, And bid us shock the man that shocks good sense. Great Homer first the mimic sketch design'd: What grasp'd not Homer's comprehensive mind? By him who virtue prais'd, was folly curst, And who Achilles sung, drew Dunce the first'. Next him Simouides, with lighter air In beasts, and apes, and vermin, paints the fair: The good Scriblerus in like forms displays The reptile rhymsters of these later days.
More fierce, Archilochus, thy vengeful flame: Fools read, and died: for blockheads then had shame.
The comic satirist attack'd his age, And found low arts, and pride, among the sage: See learned Athens stand attentive by, And stoics learn their foibles from the eye.
Tassone shone fantastic, but sublime:
And be, who form'd the Macaronic-rhyme.
Then westward too by slow degrees confest, Where boundless Rabelais made the world his jest:
Marot had nature, Regnier force and flame,
But swallow'd all in Boileau's matchless fame !
Extensive soul! who rang'd all learning o'er,
Present and past-and yet found room for more.
Full of new sense, exact in ev'ry page,
Unbounded, and yet sober in thy rage.
Strange fate! Thy solid sterling of two lines,
Drawn to our tinsel, thro' whole pages shines 9.
In Albion then, with equal lustre bright,
Great Dryden rose, and steer'd by Nature's light.
Two glimm'ring orbs he just observ'd from far,
The ocean wide, and dubious either star.
Latium's fifth Homer3 held the Greeks in Donne teem'd with wit, but all was maim'd and
Solid, though rough, yet incorrect as new.
Lucilius, warm'd with more than mortal flame,
Rose next, and held a torch to ev'ry shame.
See stern Menippus, cynical, unclean;
And Grecian centos, inannerly obscene.
Add the last efforts of Pacuvius' rage,
And the chaste decency of Varro's page.
See Horace next, in each reflection nice,
Learn'd, but not vain: the foe of fools, not vice.
Each page instructs, each sentiment prevails,
All shines alike, he rallies, but ne'er rails:
With courtly ease conceals a master's art,
And least expected steals upon the heart.
Yet Cassius felt the fury of his rage,
(Cassius, the Welsted of a former age);
And sad Alpinus ignorantly read,
Who murder'd Memnon, tho' for ages dead.
Then Persius came: whose line tho' roughly
wrought,
His sense o'erpaid the stricture of his thought.
Here in clear light the stoic-doctrine shines,
Truth all subdues, or patience all resigns.
A mind supreme: impartial, yet severe:
Pure in each act, in each recess sincere!
Yet rich ill poets urg'd the stoic's frown,
And bade him strike at dulness and a crown 5.
The vice and luxury Petronius drew
In Nero meet th' imperial point of view:
The Roman Wilmot, that could vice chastise,
Pleas'd the mad king be serv'd to satirise.
The next in satire felt a nobler rage,
What honest heart could bear Domitian's age?
See his strong sense, and numbers masculine!
His soul is kindled, and he kindles mine:
Scornful of vice, and fearless of offence,
He flows a torrent of impetuous sense.
So savage tyrants who blasphem'd their god, Turn suppliants now, and gaze at Julian's rod?. Lucian, severe, but in a gay disguise, Attacks old faith, or sports in learned lyes $; Sets heroes and philosophers at odds; And scourges mortals, and dethrones the gods. Then all was right-But Satire rose once more Where Medici and Leo arts restore.
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The periods endless, and the sense confus'd:
Oldham rush'd on, impetuous and sublime,
But lame in language, harmony and rhyme:
These (with new graces) vig'rous Nature join'd
In one, and center'd them in Dryden's mind.
How full thy verse! Thy meaning how severe!
How dark thy theme! Yet made exactly clear.
Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage,
Yet mercy softens, or contracts each page.
Dread bard! instruct us to revere thy rules,
And hate like thee, all rebels, and all fools.
His spirit ceas'd not (in strict truth) to be:
For dying Dryden breath'd, O Garth, on thee,
Bade thee to keep alive his genuine rage,
Half sunk in want, oppression and old age :
Then, when thy pious hands repos'd his head,
When vain young lords and ev'n the flamen fled.
For well thou knewst his merit and bis art,
His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart.
Ev'n Pope himself (who sees no virtue bleed
But bears th' affliction) envies thee the deed,
O Pope! instructor of my studious days,
Who fix'd my steps in virtue's early ways;
On whom our labours, and our hopes depend,
Thou more than patron, and ev'n more than
Above all flattery, all thirst of gain, [friend!
And mortal but in sickness, and in pain!
Thou taught'st old Satire nobler fruits to bear,
And check'd her licence with a moral care,
Thou gav'st the thought new beauties not its own,
And touch'd the verse with graces yet unknown;
Each lawless branch thy level eye survey'd,
And still corrected Nature as she stray'd:
Warm'd Boileau's sense with Britain's genuine
fire,
And added softness to Tassone's lyre.
Yet mark the hideous nonsense of the And thou thyself the subject of its rage. So in old times, round godlike Scæva ran Rome's dastard sons, a million, and a man. Th' exalted merits of the wise and good Are seen, far off, and rarely understood. The world's a father to a dunce unknown, And much he thrives, for, Dulness! he's thy own. No hackney brethren e'er condemn'd him twice: He fears no enemies, but dust and mice.
9 Roscommon, reversed.
19 Dr. Garth took care of Mr. Dryden's funeral, which some noblemen, who undertook it, had neglected.
|
