There would fhe oft delighted rove
The flow'r-enamell'd vale along;
Or wander with me through the grove,
And liften to the woodlark's fong:
Or 'mid the foreft's awful gloom,
Whilft wild amazement fill'd my eyes,
Recal paft ages from the tomb,
And bid ideal worlds arife.
Thus in the Mufe's favour bleft,
One with alone my foul could frame,
And Heaven bestow'd, to crown the reft,
A friend, and Thyrfis was his name:
For manly conftancy and truth,
And worth, unconscious of a stain,
He bloom'd the flow'r of Britain's youth;
The boaft and wonder of the plain.
Still with our years our friendship grew;
No cares did then my peace destroy;
Time brought new bleflings as he flew,
And ev'ry hour was wing'd with joy.
But foon the blissful scene was loft,
Soon did the fad reverie appear;
Love came, like an untimely frost,
To blast the promise of my year.
I faw young Daphne's angel form
(Fool that I was! I blett the smart)
And while I gaz'd, nor thought of harm,
The dear infection feiz'd my heart.
She was, at least in Damon's eyes,
Made up of loveliness and grace;
Her heart a ftranger to difguife,
Her mind as perfect as her face.
To hear her fpeak, to fee her move
(Unhappy Î, alas! the while),
Her voice was joy, her look was love,
And Heaven was open'd in her fmile!
She heard me breathe my amorous prayers,
She liften'd to the tender ftrain,
She heard my fighs, the faw my tears,
And feem'd at length to share my pain.
She faid the lov'd-and I, poor youth!
(How foon, alas! can hope perfuade)
Thought all the faid no more than truth;
And all my love was well repaid.
In joys unknown to courts or kings,
With her I fat the livelong day,
And faid and look'd fuch tender things
As none befide could look or say!
How foon can Fortune fhift the scene,
And all our earthly blifs deftroy!
Care hovers round, and Grief's fell train
Still treads upon the heels of Joy.
My age's hope, my youth's best boast,
My foul's chief bleffing and my pride,
In one fad moment all were loft,'
And Daphne chang'd, and Thyrfis died!
Oh! who that heard her vows erewhile,
Could dream thofe vows were infincere!
Or who could think, that faw her fmile,
That fraud could find admittance there!
Yet fhe was falfe my heart will break!
Her fraud, her perjuries were fuch-
Some other tongue than mine must speak→
I have not power to fay how much!
Ye fwains, hence warn'd, ayoid the bait,
O shun her paths, the trait'ress shun !
Her voice is death, her fmile is fate;
Who hears or fees her is undone.
And when Death's hand fhall close my eye,
(For foon, I know, the day will come)
O cheer my fpirit with a figh,
And grave these lines upon my tomb:
THE EPITAPH.
CONSIGN'D to duft, beneath this ftone,
In manhood's prime, is Damon laid;
Joylefs he liv'd, and died unknown,
In bleak misfortune's barren hade.
Lov'd by the Mufe, but lov'd in vain,
'Twas beauty drew his ruin on;
He faw young Daphne on the plain;
He lov'd, believ'd, and was undone!
His heart then funk beneath the ftorm
(Sad meed of unexampled truth!)
And, Sorrow, like an envious worm,
Devour'd the blossom of his youth.
Beneath this stone the youth is laid-
O greet his afhes with a tear!
May heaven with bleffings crown his fhade,
And grant that peace he wanted here!
50. An Efay on Poetry. Buckingham
Or all thofe arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief mafter-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man fo high
As facred and foul-moving Poefy:
No kind of work requires fo nice a touch;
And, if well finish'd, nothing thines fo much.
But Heaven forbid we fhould be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name!
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which fometimes,
Dazzling ourminds, fets off the flightest rhymess
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True wit is everlafting, like the fun; [tir'd,
Which, though fometimes behind a cloud re-
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious found
Which not the niceft ear with harfhness wound,
Are neceffary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts
Contribute to the ftructure of the whole,
Without a genius too, for that's the foul:
A fpirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame
The Effay on Satire, which was written by this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among
A fare that glows amidft conceptions fit;
Even fomething of divine, and more than wit;
Itfelf unfeen, yet all things by it shewn,
Defcribing all men, but defcrib'd by none.
Where doit thou dwell? what caverns of the brain
Can fach a vast and mighty thing contain?
WhenI,atvacant hours,invainthyabfencemourn,
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why doft thou
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away,
From pleatures of the night and business of the
day?
Even now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy courfe, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulnefs when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
Bet on the world, on manners, and on men ;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen:
Redon is that fubftantial useful part
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the
Here I fhall all the various forts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry, rehearse;
But who that talk would after Horace do ?
The bek of masters and examples too!
Echoes at beft, all we can fay is vain;
Del the defign, and fruitless were the pain.
Ta tree, the ancients we may rob with eafe;
But who with that mean fhift himself can pleafe,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for latter faults,
And new abfurdities infpire new thoughts;
Wet ned has Satire then to live on theft,
When to much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold the fool fhall have no caufe to fear;
"Tis wit and fenfe that are the fubject here:
Defects of witty men deferve a cure;
And those who are fo will ev'n this endure.
First then of Songs which now fo much abound,
Wrhout his fong no fop is to be found;
A moft offenfive weapon, which he draws
On all be meets, against Apollo's laws:
Though nothing feems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art:
For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
May a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The leaft of which defects is plainly fhewn
Here as in all things elfe, is most unfit,
Bareribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such naufeous songs by a late author * made,
Call an unwilling cenfure on his fhade.
Not that warm thoughts of the tranfporting joy
Can fhock the chatteft, or the nicest cloy;
But words obfcene, too grofs to move delire,
Like heaps of fuel only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deferves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of fweet but folemn voice,
And of a subject grave exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit, contains;
And there too oft defpairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-the deferves to be belov'd;
But noify nonfenfe, and fuch fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic fex.
This to the praife of those who better knew ;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have tried)
Women have drawn mywand'ringthoughtsafide.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit:
But fhould this Mufe harmonious numbers
And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd; [yield,
If yet a juft coherence be not made
Between each thought; and the whole model laid
So right, that ev'ry line may higher rife,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies;
Such trifles may perhaps of late have pafs'd,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never laft;
Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill,
Not Panegyric, nor a ‡ Cooper's Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Mufes' most unruly horse,
That bounds fo fierce, the rider has no reft,
He foams at mouth, and moves like one pof-
The poet here must be indeed infpir'd [fefs'd.
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boaft to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But fometimesdiction mean,or verfe ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Though all appear in heat and fury done,
The language ftill muft foft and easy run.
Thefe laws may found a little too fevere:
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here;
Which, though extravagant, this Mufe allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shews.
Of all the ways that wifeft men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
kone fmall ring, and brings the value down-Satire well writ has most fuccefsful prov'd,
bfongs should be to juft perfection wrought;
Yet where can one be feen without a fault?
It propriety of words and thought;
Expreffion eafy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not feem to creep, nor this to fly;
Sowords tranfpos'd, but in fuch order all,
As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall.
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.
'Tis hard to write on fuch a fubject more,
Without repeating things faid oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That ftain a beauty which we fo much love.
Of chofen words fome take not care enough,
And think they should be as the subject rough;
This
• The Earl of Rochester-It may be observed, however, that many of the worst fongs afcribed thas nobleman were fpurious.
This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpeft thoughts in smootheft words con-
vey'd.
Some think, if fharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bufinefs was to rail;
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Diftinguishes a fatyr from a fcold.
Rage you muit hide, and prejudice lay down;
A latyr's fmile is fharper than his frown:
So while you feem to light fome rival youth,
Malice itself may pafs fometimes for truth.
The Laureat here may juftly claim our praife,
Crown'd by Mac Flecknoet with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegafus † has borne dead weight,
Rid by fome lumpish minifter of state.
Here reft my Mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile;
A more important task attends thy toil.
As fome young eagle, that defigns to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dangerous enterprife before,
O'er what wide lands and feas the is to foar;
Doubts her own ftrength fo far, and justly fears
The lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet incited by fome bold defin,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last, refolv'd, fhe cleaves the yielding air;
Away the flies, fo ftrong, fo high, fo fast,
She leffens to us, and is loft at last:
So (though too weak for fuch a weighty thing)
The Mufe infpires a fharper note to fing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On, then, my Mufe; advent'rously engage
To give inftructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if obferv'd, give plays fo great a grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From ricer faults to purge the prefent age,
Lefs obvious errors of the English ftage.
First, then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and fpoke in paffion too.
Our lovers talking to themfelves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They truft a friend, only to tell it us;
Th'occafion fhould as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confeffes all §.
Figures of fpeech, which poets think fo fine
(Art's needlefs varnish to make nature fhine)
All are but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in defcriptions only claim a place :
But, to make rage declaim, and grief difcourfe,
From lovers in defpair fine things to force,
Muft needs fucceed; for who can chooie but pity
A dying hero miferably witty?
But oh! the Dialogues, where jeft and mock
Are held up like a reft at fhuttle-cock;
Or else like bells eternally they chime;
They figh in fimile and die in rhyme.
What things are thefe who would be poets
By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore may deferve
A better courfe than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more: for they must look within, to find
Thofe fecret turns of nature in the mind.
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a toul,
All this united yet but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almoft loft, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehender fince but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakefpear and Fletcher are the wonders now;
Confider then, and read them o`er and o'er;
Go fee them play'd, then read them as before;
For though in many things they grossly fail,
Over our paffions ftill they fo prevail,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forced to feel, the wife to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults;
Firit, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand fevral ways i
This oft, alone, has given fuccefs to plays.
Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no fuch thing in nature, and you'll draw
A faultlefs monfter-which the world ne'er faw,
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew
But fuch as may deferve compaffion too.
Befides the main defign compos'd with art,
Each moving fcene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters first chalk out the future face;
Yet he not fondly your own flave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amifs.
Think not fo much where thining thoughts
to place,
As what a man would fay in fuch a cafe:
Neither in comedy will this fuffice,
The player too must be before your eyes;
And, though "tis drudgery to ftoop fo low,
To him you muft your fecret meaning fhew.
Expofe no fingle fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious: oft we fee
A fool derided by as bad as he:"
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour:
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compofe that precious juice
Which ferves the world for pleasure and for ufe,
In fpite of faction-this would favour get;
But Falstaff ftands inimitable yet.
A famous fatirical Poem of his. In Philafter, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher.
↑ A poem called the Hind and Panther. The matchiefs character of Shakespear.
Another fault which often may befall,
Ls, when the wit of fome great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all,
That e'en his fools fpeak fenfe, as if poffeft,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If once the juftnefs of each part be loft,
Well may we laugh, but at the poet's coft.
That filly thing men call theer-wit avoid,
With which our age fo naufeously is cloy'd:
Humour is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably fome proper thought.
But since the poets we of late have known
Shine in no drefs so much as in their own,
The better, by example, to convince,
Caft but a view on this wrong fide of sense.
First, a feliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reafon is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, moft opportunely comes
See hero frighted at the noife of drums;
For her fweet fake, whom at first fight he loves,
And all in metaphor his paffion proves;
But fome fad accident, though yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the fwain alone;
He straight grows jealous, tho' we know not
why:
The to oblige his rival, needs will die
But he makes a fpeech, wherein he tells
The infent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who ftraight appears; but who can fate with
Too late, alas! to hold his hafty hand, [itand?
That juft has given himself the cruel ftroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Madly mourns at being left behind;
Of fuch a death prefers the pleafing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
What thameful and what monstrous things are
these !
And then they rail at those they cannot pleafe:
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And gradge the fign of old Ben Jonfon's head;
When the intrinfic value of the stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian fongs, and rhyme
May keep up finking nonfenfe for a time;
But that mult fail,which nowfo much o'er-rules,
Aad fenfe no longer will fubmit to fools.
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnaffus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The epic poets fo divinely fhew,
And with juft pride behold the reft below,
Heroic poems have a juft pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of fuch inestimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought
forth!
Homer and Virgil! with what facred awe
Do those mere founds theworld's attention draw!
Jaft as a changeling feems below the reft
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beaft,
to these gigantic fouls, amaz'd, we find
As much above the rest of human kind !
Nature's whole ftrength united! endless fame,
And univerfal fhouts, attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books elfe appear to mean, so poor,
Verfe will feem profe; but ftill perfift to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Boffu never writ, the world had still
Like Indians view'd this wond'rous piece of
fkill;
As fomething of divine the work admir'd,
Not hop'd to be inftructed, but infpir'd:
But he, difclofing facred myfteries,
Has fhewn where all the mighty magic lies;
Defcrib'd the feeds, and in what order fown,
That have to fuch a vast proportion grown.
Sure from fome angel he the fecret knew,
Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind To fee this promis'd land, yet stay behind? The way is fhewn, but who has strength to go! Who can all fciences profoundly know? Whofe fancy flies beyond weak Reafon's fight, And yet has judgment to direct it right? Whofe juft difcernment, Virgil-Hike, is such, Never to fay too little or too much? Let fuch a man begin without delay; But he muft do beyond what I can fay; Muft above Taffo's lofty flights prevail, Succeed where Spenfer and ev'n Milton fail.
$51. The Chace. Somerville. BOOK I.
THE ARGUMENT.
The fubje& propofed. Address to his Royal Highness the Prince. The origin of hunting. The rude andenpolished manners of the first hunters. Beafts at firft hunted for food and facrifice. The grant made by God to man of the beafts, &c. The regular manner of hunting firft brought into this ifland by the Normans. The best bounds and best borfes bred here. The advantage of this exercife to us, as iflanders. Adirefs to gentlemen of eftates. Situation of the kennel, and its feveral courts. The diverfion and employment of bounds in the kennel. The different forts of bounds for each different chace. Defcription of a perfect bound. Of fixing and forting of bounds; the middle fized bound recommended. Of the large deep-mouthed bound for bunting the flag and otter. Of the lime-bound; their ufe on the borders of England and Scotland. A phyfical ac count of fcents. Of good and bad feenting days. A fbort admonition to my brethren of the couples. THE Chace I fing, hounds, and their various breed,
And no lefs various ufe. O thou, great Prince! Whom Cambria's tow'ring hills proclaim their
Thy way with flow'rs, and as the Royal Youth
Paffing they view, admire, and figh in vain;
While crowded theatres, too fondly proud
Of their exotic minstrels and shrill pipes,
The price of manhood, hail thee with a fong,
Andairs foft warbling; my hoarse-foundinghorn
Invites thee to the Chace, the fport of kings;
Image of war without its guilt. The Mule
Aloft on wing fhall foar, conduct with care
Thy foaming courfer o'er the steepy rock,
Or on the river bank receive thee fafe.
Light bounding o'er the wave from shore tofhore,
Be thou our great protector, gracious Youth:
And if, in future times, fome envious prince,
Careless of right, and guileful, thould invade
Thy Britain's commerce, or fhould strive in vain
To wreft the balance from thy equal hand,
Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green array'd
(Aband undaunted, and inur'd to toils),
Shall compass thee around, die at thy feet.
Or hew thy paffage thro' th' embattled foe,
And clear thy way to fame: infpir'd by thee,
The nobler chace of glory fhall purfue
Thro' fire, and fmoke, and blood, and fields of
death.
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Nature, in her productions flow, afpires
By just degrees to reach perfection's height;
So minic Art works leifurely, till Time
Improve the piece, or wife Experience give
The proper finishing. When Nimrod bold,
That mighty hunter! first made war on beafts,
And ftain'd the woodland green with purple dye,
New and unpolifh'd was the huntfman's art;
No ftated rule, his wanton will his guide.
With clubs and ftones, rude implements of war!
He arm'd his favage bands, a multitude
Untrain'd: of twining ofiers form'd, they pitch
Their artlefs toils, then range the defert hills,
And scour the plains below: the trembling herd
Start at th' unufual found, and clam'rous thout
Unheard before; furpris'd, alas! to find [lord,
Man now their foe, whom erft they deem'd their
But mild and gentle, and by whom as yet
Secure they graz'd. Death ftretches o'er the plain
Wide wafting,and grim Slaughter,red withblood,
Urg'd on by hunger keen, they wound, they kill;
Their rage licentious knows no bound; at laft,
Encumber'd with their spoils, joyful they bear
Upon their fhoulders broad the bleeding prey.
Part on their altars smokes, a facrifice [hand
To that all-gracious Pow'r whofe bounteous
Supports his wide creation; what remains,
On living coals they broil, inelegant
Of tafte, nor skill'd as yet in nicer arts
Of pamper'd luxury. Devotion pure,
And ftrong neceffity, thus firft began
The chace of beafts; tho' bloody was the deed,
Yet without guilt: for the green herbalone
Unequal to fuftain man's lab'ring race,
Now ev'ry moving thing that liv'd on earth
Was granted him for food. So juft is Heav'n,
To give us in proportion to our wants.
Or chance or industry in after times
Some few improvements made, but short as yet
Of due perfection. In this ifle remote
Our painted ancestors were flow to learn:
To arms devote, in the politer arts
Nor skill'd nor ftudious; till from Neuftria'scoafts
Victorious William to more decent rules
Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak
The proper dialect, with horn and voice
To cheer the bufyhound, whofe well-known cry
His lift ning peers approve with joint acclaim.
From him fucceffive huntsmen learn'd to join
In bloody focial leagues the multitude
Difpers'd, to fize, to fort their various tribes;
To rear, feed, hunt, and difcipline the pack.
Hail, happy Britain! highly favour'd ille,
And Heaven's peculiar care! to thee 'tis given
To train the fprightly steed, more fleet than those
Begot by winds, or the celeftial breed
That bore the great Pelides thro' the press
Of heroes arm'd, and broke their crowded ranks,
Which proudly neighing, with the fun begins
Cheerful his course, and, ere his beams decline,
Has measur'd half thy furface unfatigued.
In thee alone, fair land of Liberty!
Is bred the perfect hound, in fcent and speed
As yet unrivall'd, while in other climes
Their virtue fails, a weak degen'rite race.
In vain malignant steams and winter fogs
Load the dull air, and hover round our coafts;
The huntfman, ever gay, robuft, and bold,
Defies the noxious vapour, and confides
In this delightful exercise to raise
His drooping head, and cheer his heart with joy.
Ye vig'rous yonths! by fmiling Fortune bleft
With large demefnes, hereditary wealth,
Heap'd copious by your wife forefathers' care,
Hear and attend! while I the means reveal
T'enjoy thefe pleasures, for the weak too strong,
Too coftly for the poor: to rein the steed
Swift ftretching o'er the plain, to cheer the pack
Op'ning in concerts of harmonious joy,
But breathing death. What tho' the gripe fevere
Of brazen-fifted Time, and flow Difeafe
Creeping thro' ev'ry vein, and nerve unftrung,
Afflict my fhatter'd frame, undaunted ftill,
Fix'd as a mountain-afh that braves the bolts
Of angry Jove, tho' blafted, yet unfallen;
Still can my foul in Fancy's mirror view
Deeds glorious once, recall the joyous scene
In all its fplendours deck'd, o'er the full bow!
Recount my triumphs paft, urge others on
With hand and voice, andpoint the winding way;
Pleas'd with that focial fweet garrulity,
The poor difbanded veteran's fole delight.
First let the kennel be the huntsman's care,
Upon fome little eminence erect,
And fronting to the ruddy lawn; its courts
On either hand wide op'ning to receive [fhines,
The fun's all-cheering beams, when mild he
And gilds the mountain tops: for much the pack
(Rous dfrom theirdark alcoves) delight toftretch
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