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9413-8.txt
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THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE
VOL. I.
With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes
by THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN
M.DCCC.LVI
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PASTORALS--
Spring, the First Pastoral, or Damon
Summer, the Second Pastoral, or Alexis
Autumn, the Third Pastoral, or Hylas and Ægon
Winter, the Fourth Pastoral, or Daphne
MESSIAH
AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM--
Part First
Part Second
Part Third
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK--
Canto I.
Canto II.
Canto III.
Canto IV.
Canto V.
WINDSOR-FOREST
ODE ON ST CECILIA'S DAY
TWO CHORUSES TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS--
Chorus of Athenians
Chorus of Youths and Virgins
TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED SUCCESSIO
ODE ON SOLITUDE
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL
ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY
PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO
IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS--
Chaucer
Spenser--
The Alley,
Waller--
Of a Lady Singing to her Lute
On a Fan of the Author's Design
Cowley--
The Garden
Weeping
Earl of Rochester--
On Silence
Earl of Dorset--
Artemisia
Phryne
Dr Swift--
The Happy Life of a Country Parson
THE TEMPLE OF FAME
ELOISA TO ABELARD
EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER
EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
EPISTLE TO MR JERVAS
EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT
EPISTLE TO MRS TERESA BLOUNT
TO MRS M.B. ON HER BIRTHDAY
TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN, ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742
TO MR JOHN MOORE
TO MR C., ST JAMES'S PLACE
EPITAPHS--
On Charles Earl of Dorset
On Sir William Trumbull
On the Hon. Simon Harcourt
On James Craggs, Esq.
Intended for Mr Rowe
On Mrs Corbet
On the Monument of the Honourable Robert Digby, and his Sister Mary
On Sir Godfrey Kneller
On General Henry Withers
On Mr Elijah Fenton
On Mr Gay
Intended for Sir Isaac Newton
On Dr Francis Atterbury
On Edmund Duke of Buckingham
For One who would not be Buried in Westminster Abbey
Another, on the same
On two Lovers struck dead by Lightning
AN ESSAY ON MAN--
Epistle I.
Epistle II.
Epistle III.
Epistle IV.
EPISTLE TO DR AKBUTHNOT; OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES
SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED--
Satire I. To Mr Fortescue
Satire II. To Mr Bethel
THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE--
To Lord Bolingbroke
THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE--
To Mr Murray
THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE--
To Augustus
THE SECOND EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE--
Book I. Epistle VII.
Book II. Satire VI.
Book IV. Ode I.
Part of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book
THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN VERSIFIED--
Satire II.
Satire IV.
EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES: IN TWO DIALOGUES--
Dialogue I.
Dialogue II.
POPE'S POETICAL WORKS.
PREFACE.[2]
I am inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers
of them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations.
The first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they
produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please
them at any rate. Methinks, as on the one hand, no single man is born
with a right of controlling the opinions of all the rest; so, on the
other, the world has no title to demand that the whole care and time of
any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertainment.
Therefore I cannot but believe that writers and readers are under equal
obligations for as much fame, or pleasure, as each affords the other.
Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection
in any work of man: and yet one would think the contrary was taken for
granted, by the judgment commonly passed upon poems. A critic supposes
he has done his part, if he proves a writer to have failed in an
expression, or erred in any particular point: and can it then be
wondered at, if the poets in general seem resolved not to own themselves
in any error? For as long as one side will make no allowances, the other
will be brought to no acknowledgments.
I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill-placed; poetry and
criticism being by no means the universal concern of the world, but only
the affair of idle men who write in their closets, and of idle men who
read there.
Yet sure, upon the whole, a bad author deserves better usage than a bad
critic; for a writer's endeavour, for the most part, is to please his
readers, and he fails merely through the misfortune of an ill judgment;
but such a critic's is to put them out of humour,--a design he could
never go upon without both that and an ill temper.
I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad poets.
What we call a genius, is hard to be distinguished by a man himself from
a strong inclination: and if his genius be ever so great, he cannot at
first discover it any other way than by giving way to that prevalent
propensity which renders him the more liable to be mistaken. The only
method he has is to make the experiment by writing, and appealing to the
judgment of others: now if he happens to write ill (which is certainly
no sin in itself) he is immediately made an object of ridicule. I wish
we had the humanity to reflect, that even the worst authors might, in
their endeavour to please us, deserve something at our hands. We have no
cause to quarrel with them but for their obstinacy in persisting to
write; and this too may admit of alleviating circumstances. Their
particular friends may be either ignorant or insincere; and the rest of
the world in general is too well bred to shock them with a truth which
generally their booksellers are the first that inform them of. This
happens not till they have spent too much of their time to apply to any
profession which might better fit their talents, and till such talents
as they have are so far discredited as to be but of small service to
them. For (what is the hardest case imaginable) the reputation of a man
generally depends upon the first steps he makes in the world; and people
will establish their opinion of us from what we do at that season when
we have least judgment to direct us.
On the other hand, a good poet no sooner communicates his works with the
same desire of information, but it is imagined he is a vain young
creature given up to the ambition of fame; when perhaps the poor man is
all the while trembling with the fear of being ridiculous. If he is made
to hope he may please the world, he falls under very unlucky
circumstances: for, from the moment he prints, he must expect to hear no
more truth than if he were a prince, or a beauty. If he has not very
good sense (and indeed there are twenty men of wit for one man of
sense), his living thus in a course of flattery may put him in no small
danger of becoming a coxcomb: if he has, he will consequently have so
much diffidence as not to reap any great satisfaction from his praise;
since, if it be given to his face, it can scarce be distinguished from
flattery, and if in his absence, it is hard to be certain of it. Were he
sure to be commended by the best and most knowing, he is as sure of
being envied by the worst and most ignorant, which are the majority; for
it is with a fine genius as with a fine fashion, all those are
displeased at it who are not able to follow it: and it is to be feared
that esteem will seldom do any man so much good as ill-will does him
harm. Then there is a third class of people, who make the largest part
of mankind, those of ordinary or indifferent capacities; and these (to a
man) will hate, or suspect him: a hundred honest gentlemen will dread
him as a wit, and a hundred innocent women as a satirist. In a word,
whatever be his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up all
the reasonable aims of life for it. There are indeed some advantages
accruing from a genius to poetry, and they are all I can think of: the
agreeable power of self-amusement when a man is idle or alone; the
privilege of being admitted into the best company; and the freedom of
saying as many careless things as other people, without being so
severely remarked upon.
I believe, if any one, early in his life, should contemplate the
dangerous fate of authors, he would scarce be of their number on any
consideration. The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth; and the
present spirit of the learned world is such, that to attempt to serve it
(any way) one must have the constancy of a martyr, and a resolution to
suffer for its sake. I could wish people would believe, what I am pretty
certain they will not, that I have been much less concerned about fame
than I durst declare till this occasion, when methinks I should find
more credit than I could heretofore: since my writings have had their
fate already, and it is too late to think of prepossessing the reader in
their favour. I would plead it as some merit in me, that the world has
never been prepared for these trifles by prefaces, biased by
recommendations, dazzled with the names of great patrons, wheedled with
fine reasons and pretences, or troubled with excuses. I confess it was
want of consideration that made me an author; I writ because it amused
me; I corrected because it was as pleasant to me to correct as to write;
and I published because I was told I might please such as it was a
credit to please. To what degree I have done this, I am really ignorant;
I had too much fondness for my productions to judge of them at first,
and too much judgment to be pleased with them at last. But I have reason
to think they can have no reputation which will continue long, or which
deserves to do so: for they have always fallen short, not only of what I
read of others, but even of my own ideas of poetry.
If any one should imagine I am not in earnest, I desire him to reflect
that the ancients (to say the least of them) had as much genius as we:
and that to take more pains, and employ more time, cannot fail to
produce more complete pieces. They constantly applied themselves not
only to that art, but to that single branch of an art, to which their
talent was most powerfully bent; and it was the business of their lives
to correct and finish their works for posterity. If we can pretend to
have used the same industry, let us expect the same immortality: though
if we took the same care, we should still lie under a further
misfortune: they writ in languages that became universal and
everlasting, while ours are extremely limited both in extent and in
duration. A mighty foundation for our pride! when the utmost we can hope
is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside at the end of
one age.
All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imitation of
the ancients; and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest
character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have
been most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very good
sense must have been common sense in all times; and what we call
learning is but the knowledge of the sense of our predecessors.
Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own, because they
resemble the ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own,
because they are like our fathers: and indeed it is very unreasonable
that people should expect us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us
so.
I fairly confess that I have served myself all I could by reading; that
I made use of the judgment of authors dead and living; that I omitted no
means in my power to be informed of my errors, both by my friends and
enemies: but the true reason these pieces are not more correct, is owing
to the consideration how short a time they and I have to live: one may
be ashamed to consume half one's days in bringing sense and rhyme
together; and what critic can be so unreasonable as not to leave a man
time enough for any more serious employment, or more agreeable
amusement?
The only plea I shall use for the favour of the public is, that I have
as great a respect for it as most authors have for themselves; and that
I have sacrificed much of my own self-love for its sake, in preventing
not only many mean things from seeing the light, but many which I
thought tolerable. I would not be like those authors who forgive
themselves some particular lines for the sake of a whole poem, and _vice
versâ_ a whole poem for the sake of some particular lines. I believe no
one qualification is so likely to make a good writer as the power of
rejecting his own thoughts; and it must be this (if anything) that can
give me a chance to be one. For what I have published, I can only hope
to be pardoned; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be praised. On
this account the world is under some obligation to me, and owes me the
justice in return to look upon no verses as mine that are not inserted
in this collection. And perhaps nothing could make it worth my while to
own what are really so, but to avoid the imputation of so many dull and
immoral things as, partly by malice, and partly by ignorance, have been
ascribed to me. I must further acquit myself of the presumption of
having lent my name to recommend any miscellanies or works of other men;
a thing I never thought becoming a person who has hardly credit enough
to answer for his own.
In this office of collecting my pieces, I am altogether uncertain
whether to look upon myself as a man building a monument, or burying the
dead. If time shall make it the former, may these poems (as long as they
last) remain as a testimony that their author never made his talents
subservient to the mean and unworthy ends of party or self-interest; the
gratification of public prejudices or private passions; the flattery of
the undeserving or the insult of the unfortunate. If I have written
well, let it be considered that 'tis what no man can do without good
sense,--a quality that not only renders one capable of being a good
writer, but a good man. And if I have made any acquisition in the
opinion of any one under the notion of the former, let it be continued
to me under no other title than that of the latter.
But if this publication be only a more solemn funeral of my remains, I
desire it may be known that I die in charity and in my senses, without
any murmurs against the justice of this age, or any mad appeals to
posterity. I declare I shall think the world in the right, and quietly
submit to every truth which time shall discover to the prejudice of
these writings; not so much as wishing so irrational a thing, as that
every body should be deceived merely for my credit. However, I desire it
may then be considered that there are very few things in this collection
which were not written under the age of five-and-twenty: so that my
youth may be made (as it never fails to be in executions) a case of
compassion. That I was never so concerned about my works as to vindicate
them in print; believing, if any thing was good, it would defend itself,
and what was bad could never be defended. That I used no artifice to
raise or continue a reputation, depreciated no dead author I was obliged
to, bribed no living one with unjust praise, insulted no adversary with
ill language: or, when I could not attack a rival's works, encouraged
reports against his morals. To conclude, if this volume perish, let it
serve as a warning to the critics, not to take too much pains for the
future to destroy such things as will die of themselves; and a _memento
mori_ to some of my vain cotemporaries the poets, to teach them that,
when real merit is wanting, it avails nothing to have been encouraged by
the great, commended by the eminent, and favoured by the public in
general.
November 10, 1716.
VARIATIONS IN THE AUTHOR'S MANUSCRIPT PREFACE.
After the words 'severely remarked on,' p. 2, l. 41, it followed
thus--For my part, I confess, had I seen things in this view at first,
the public had never been troubled either with my writings, or with this
apology for them. I am sensible how difficult it is to speak of one's
self with decency: but when a man must speak of himself, the best way is
to speak truth of himself, or, he may depend upon it, others will do it
for him. I'll therefore make this preface a general confession of all my
thoughts of my own poetry, resolving with the same freedom to expose
myself, as it is in the power of any other to expose them. In the first
place, I thank God and nature that I was born with a love to poetry; for
nothing more conduces to fill up all the intervals of our time, or, if
rightly used, to make the whole course of life entertaining: _Cantantes
licet usque_ (_minus via laedet_). 'Tis a vast happiness to possess the
pleasures of the head, the only pleasures in which a man is sufficient
to himself, and the only part of him which, to his satisfaction, he can
employ all day long. The Muses are _amicae omnium horarum_; and, like
our gay acquaintance, the best company in the world as long as one
expects no real service from them. I confess there was a time when I was
in love with myself, and my first productions were the children of
Self-Love upon Innocence. I had made an epic poem, and panegyrics on all
the princes in Europe, and thought myself the greatest genius that ever
was. I can't but regret those delightful visions of my childhood, which,
like the fine colours we see when our eyes are shut, are vanished for
ever. Many trials and sad experience have so undeceived me by degrees,
that I am utterly at a loss at what rate to value myself. As for fame, I
shall be glad of any I can get, and not repine at any I miss; and as for
vanity, I have enough to keep me from hanging myself, or even from
wishing those hanged who would take it away. It was this that made me
write. The sense of my faults made me correct.
After the words 'angry to find us so,' p. 3, l. 36, occurred the
following--In the first place I own that I have used my best endeavours
to the finishing these pieces. That I made what advantage I could of the
judgment of authors dead and living; and that I omitted no means in my
power to be informed of my errors by my friends and by my enemies. And
that I expect no favour on account of my youth, business, want of
health, or any such idle excuses. But the true reason they are not yet
more correct is owing to the consideration how short a time they and I
have to live. A man that can expect but sixty years may be ashamed to
employ thirty in measuring syllables and bringing sense and rhyme
together. To spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to
enjoy them when we are old; and when we are old, we find it is too late
to enjoy any thing. I therefore hope the wits will pardon me, if I
reserve some of my time to save my soul; and that some wise men will be
of my opinion, even if I should think a part of it better spent in the
enjoyments of life than in pleasing the critics.
PASTORALS,
WITH A DISCOURSE ON PASTORAL POETRY.[3]
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCIV.
Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes,
Flumina amem, sylvasque, inglorius!
VIRG.
There are not, I believe, a greater number of any sort of verses than of
those which are called Pastorals; nor a smaller, than of those which are
truly so. It therefore seems necessary to give some account of this kind
of poem; and it is my design to comprise in this short paper the
substance of those numerous dissertations the critics have made on the
subject, without omitting any of their rules in my own favour. You will
also find some points reconciled, about which they seem to differ, and a
few remarks which, I think, have escaped their observation.
The original of poetry is ascribed to that age which succeeded the
creation of the world: and as the keeping of flocks seems to have been
the first employment of mankind, the most ancient sort of poetry was
probably _pastoral_. It is natural to imagine, that the leisure of those
ancient shepherds admitting and inviting some diversion, none was so
proper to that solitary and sedentary life as singing; and that in their
songs they took occasion to celebrate their own felicity. From hence a
poem was invented, and afterwards improved to a perfect image of that
happy time; which, by giving us an esteem for the virtues of a former
age, might recommend them to the present. And since the life of
shepherds was attended with more tranquility than any other rural
employment, the poets chose to introduce their persons, from whom it
received the name of "pastoral."
A pastoral is an imitation of the action of a shepherd, or one
considered under that character. The form of this imitation is dramatic,
or narrative, or mixed of both; the fable simple, the manners not too
polite nor too rustic: the thoughts are plain, yet admit a little
quickness and passion, but that short and flowing: the expression
humble, yet as pure as the language will afford; neat, but not florid;
easy and yet lively. In short, the fable, manners, thoughts, and
expressions are full of the greatest simplicity in nature.
The complete character of this poem consists in simplicity, brevity, and
delicacy; the two first of which render an eclogue natural, and the last
delightful.
If we would copy nature, it may be useful to take this idea along with
us, that pastoral is an image of what they call the Golden Age. So that
we are not to describe our shepherds as shepherds at this day really
are, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of
men followed the employment. To carry this resemblance yet further, it
would not be amiss to give these shepherds some skill in astronomy, as
far as it may be useful to that sort of life. And an air of piety to the
gods should shine through the poem, which so visibly appears in all the
works of antiquity: and it ought to preserve some relish of the old way
of writing; the connexion should be loose, the narrations and
descriptions short, and the periods concise. Yet it is not sufficient,
that the sentences only be brief, the whole eclogue should be so too.
For we cannot suppose poetry in those days to have been the business of
men, but their recreation at vacant hours.
But with respect to the present age, nothing more conduces to make these
composures natural than when some knowledge in rural affairs is
discovered. This may be made to appear rather done by chance than on
design, and sometimes is best shown by inference; lest by too much study
to seem natural, we destroy that easy simplicity from whence arises the
delight. For what is inviting in this sort of poetry, proceeds not so
much from the idea of that business, as of the tranquility of a country
life.
We must therefore use some illusion to render a pastoral delightful; and
this consists in exposing the best side only of a shepherd's life, and
in concealing its miseries. Nor is it enough to introduce shepherds
discoursing together in a natural way; but a regard must be had to the
subject--that it contain some particular beauty in itself, and that it
be different in every eclogue. Besides, in each of them a designed scene
or prospect is to be presented to our view, which should likewise have
its variety. This variety is obtained in a great degree by frequent
comparisons, drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by
interrogations to things inanimate; by beautiful digressions, but those
short; sometimes by insisting a little on circumstances; and lastly, by
elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers extremely sweet and
pleasing. As for the numbers themselves, though they are properly of the
heroic measure, they should be the smoothest, the most easy and flowing
imaginable.
It is by rules like these that we ought to judge of pastorals. And since
the instructions given for any art are to be delivered as that art is in
perfection, they must of necessity be derived from those in whom it is
acknowledged so to be. It is therefore from the practice of Theocritus
and Virgil (the only undisputed authors of pastoral) that the critics
have drawn the foregoing notions concerning it.
Theocritus excels all others in nature and simplicity. The subjects of
his 'Idyllia' are purely pastoral; but he is not so exact in his
persons, having introduced reapers and fishermen as well as shepherds.
He is apt to be too long in his descriptions, of which that of the cup
in the first pastoral is a remarkable instance. In the manners he seems
a little defective, for his swains are sometimes abusive and immodest,
and perhaps too much inclining to rusticity; for instance, in his fourth
and fifth 'Idyllia.' But 'tis enough that all others learnt their
excellencies from him, and that his dialect alone has a secret charm in
it, which no other could ever attain.
Virgil, who copies Theocritus, refines upon his original: and in all
points where judgment is principally concerned, he is much superior to
his master.
Though some of his subjects are not pastoral in themselves, but only
seem to be such, they have a wonderful variety in them, which the Greek
was a stranger to. He exceeds him in regularity and brevity, and falls
short of him in nothing but simplicity and propriety of style; the first
of which perhaps was the fault of his age, and the last of his language.
Among the moderns, their success has been greatest who have most
endeavoured to make these ancients their pattern. The most considerable
genius appears in the famous Tasso, and our Spenser. Tasso in his
'Aminta' has as far excelled all the pastoral writers, as in his
'Gierusalemme' he has outdone the epic poets of his country. But as this
piece seems to have been the original of a new sort of poem--the
pastoral comedy--in Italy, it cannot so well be considered as a copy of
the ancients. Spenser's Calendar, in Mr Dryden's opinion, is the most
complete work of this kind which any nation has produced ever since the
time of Virgil. Not but that he may be thought imperfect in some few
points. His Eclogues are somewhat too long, if we compare them with the
ancients. He is sometimes too allegorical, and treats of matters of
religion in a pastoral style, as the Mantuan had done before him. He has
employed the lyric measure, which is contrary to the practice of the old
poets. His stanza is not still the same, nor always well chosen. This
last may be the reason his expression is sometimes not concise enough:
for the Tetrastic has obliged him to extend his sense to the length of
four lines, which would have been more closely confined in the couplet.
In the manners, thoughts, and characters, he comes near to Theocritus
himself; though, notwithstanding all the care he has taken, he is
certainly inferior in his dialect: for the Doric had its beauty and
propriety in the time of Theocritus; it was used in part of Greece, and
frequent in the mouths of many of the greatest persons: whereas the old
English and country phrases of Spenser were either entirely obsolete, or
spoken only by people of the lowest condition. As there is a difference
betwixt simplicity and rusticity, so the expression of simple thoughts
should be plain, but not clownish. The addition he has made of a
Calendar to his Eclogues, is very beautiful; since by this, besides the
general moral of innocence and simplicity, which is common to other
authors of pastoral, he has one peculiar to himself--he compares human
life to the several seasons, and at once exposes to his readers a view
of the great and little worlds, in their various changes and aspects.
Yet the scrupulous division of his pastorals into months has obliged him
either to repeat the same description, in other words, for three months
together; or, when it was exhausted before, entirely to omit it: whence
it comes to pass that some of his Eclogues (as the sixth, eighth, and
tenth, for example) have nothing but their titles to distinguish them.
The reason is evident--because the year has not that variety in it to
furnish every month with a particular description, as it may every
season.
Of the following eclogues I shall only say, that these four comprehend
all the subjects which the critics upon Theocritus and Virgil will allow
to be fit for pastoral: that they have as much variety of description,
in respect of the several seasons, as Spenser's: that, in order to add
to this variety, the several times of the day are observed, the rural
employments in each season or time of day, and the rural scenes or
places proper to such employments; not without some regard to the
several ages of man, and the different passions proper to each age.
But after all, if they have any merit, it is to be attributed to some
good old authors, whose works as I had leisure to study, so I hope I
have not wanted care to imitate.
SPRING.
THE FIRST PASTORAL, OR DAMON.
TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.[4]
First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.
You that, too wise for pride, too good for power,
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And, carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost! 10
Oh, let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the nightingale to rest removes,
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,
But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings,
And all the aërial audience clap their wings.
Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Two swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse,
Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair: 20
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephou thus replied.
DAPHNIS.
Hear how the birds, on every bloomy spray,
With joyous music wake the dawning day!
Why sit we mute when early linnets sing,
When warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
Why sit we sad, when Phosphor[5] shines so clear,
And lavish Nature paints the purple year?
STREPHON.
Sing then, and Damon shall attend the strain,
While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain. 30
Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow;
Here western winds on breathing roses blow.
I'll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays,
And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.
DAPHNIS.
And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines:
Four Figures rising from the work appear,
The various Seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie? 40
DAMON.
Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring;
Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground:
Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.
STREPHON.
Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise,
With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays!
A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand,
That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.
DAPHNIS.
O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
And make my tongue victorious as her eyes; 50
No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart,
Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart.
STREPHON.
Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
But feigns a laugh, to see me search around,
And by that laugh the willing fair is found.
DAPHNIS.
The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green,
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen;
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,
How much at variance are her feet and eyes! 60
STREPHON.
O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here, my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.
DAPHNIS.
Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves;
If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade.
STREPHON.
All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers,
Hush'd are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers; 70
If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.
DAPHNIS.
All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vanquish'd Nature seems to charm no more.
STREPHON.
In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. 80
DAPHNIS.
Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Even spring displeases, when she shines not here;
But, blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.
STREPHON.
Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears,
A wondrous tree[6] that sacred monarchs bears?
Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes.
DAPHNIS.
Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields
The thistle[7] springs, to which the lily[8] yields? 90
And then a nobler prize I will resign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia shall be thine.
DAMON.
Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree,
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee:
Blest swains, whose nymphs in every grace excel;
Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well!
Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bowers,
A soft retreat from sudden vernal showers;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd.
While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around. 100
For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend.
* * * * *
VARIATIONS
VER. 36. And clusters lurk beneath the curling vines.
VER. 49-52. Originally thus in the MS.--
Pan, let my numbers equal Strephon's lays,
Of Parian stone thy statue will I raise;
But if I conquer and augment my fold,
Thy Parian statue shall be changed to gold.
VER. 61-64. It stood thus at first--
Let rich Iberia golden fleeces boast,
Her purple wool the proud Assyrian coast,
Blest Thames's shores, &c.
VER. 61-68 Originally thus in the MS.--
Go, flowery wreath, and let my Sylvia know,
Compared to thine how bright her beauties show;
Then die; and dying teach the lovely maid
How soon the brightest beauties are decay'd.
DAPHNIS.
Go, tuneful bird, that pleased the woods so long,
Of Amaryllis learn a sweeter song;
To Heaven arising then her notes convey,
For Heaven alone is worthy such a lay.
VER 69-73. These verses were thus at first--
All nature mourns, the birds their songs deny,
Nor wasted brooks the thirsty flowers supply;
If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.
VER. 99, 100, was originally--
The turf with country dainties shall be spread,
And trees with twining branches shade your head.
* * * * *
SUMMER,
THE SECOND PASTORAL, OR ALEXIS.
TO DR GARTH.
A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sunbeams on the waters play'd,
And verdant alders form'd a quivering shade.
Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show:
The Naïads wept in every watery bower,
And Jove consented in a silent shower.
Accept, O Garth[9] the Muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays; 10
Hear what from love unpractised hearts endure:
From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing,
'The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.'[10]
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay;
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parch'd with heat, and I inflamed by thee. 20
The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.
Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal spring I view my face,
Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass;
But since those graces please thy eyes no more,
I shun the fountains which I sought before. 30
Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew,
And every plant that drinks the morning dew;
Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other swains attend the rural care,
Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear:
But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Inspired when living, and bequeath'd in death; 40
He said, 'Alexis, take this pipe--the same
That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name:'
But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree,
For ever silent, since despised by thee.
Oh! were I made by some transforming power
The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy listening ears employ,
And I those kisses he receives, enjoy.
And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song: 50
The Nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring;
Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain.
On you their gifts are all bestow'd again.
For you the swains the fairest flowers design,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are comprised in one.
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending gods have found Elysium here. 60
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers,
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield;
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. 70
Oh, deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh, how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise!
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the Powers above. 80
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!
But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends: 90
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
* * * * *
VARIATIONS.
VER. 1-4 were thus printed in the first edition--
A faithful swain, whom Love had taught to sing,
Bewail'd his fate beside a silver spring;
Where gentle Thames his winding waters leads
Through verdant forests, and through flowery meads.
VER. 3, 4. Originally thus in the MS.--
There to the winds he plain'd his hapless love,
And Amaryllis fill'd the vocal grove.
VER. 27-29--
Oft in the crystal spring I cast a view,
And equall'd Hylas, if the glass be true;
But since those graces meet my eyes no more
I shun, &c.
VER. 79, 80--
Your praise the tuneful birds to heaven shall bear,
And listening wolves grow milder as they hear.
VER. 91--
Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay.
AUTUMN.
THE THIRD PASTORAL, Or HYLAS AND ÆGON.
TO MR WYCHERLEY.[11]
Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays;
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love.
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing.
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms! 10
Oh, skill'd in Nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores, 20
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feather'd choirs neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love? 30
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Die every flower, and perish all but she.
What have I said? Where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flowers arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, 40
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds,
Delia, each care and echoing rock rebounds. 50
Ye Powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!--Now cease, my lay,
And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admired;
Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspired.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjured Doris, dying I complain:
Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies: 60
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat:
While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carved her amorous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay. 70
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?