art behind; They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks The hero's presence deep impression makes; The scenes his soul and body reunite, Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight; Make our contemporary him that stood High in renown, perhaps before the flood; Make Nestor to this age advice afford, And Hector for our service draw his sword. More glory to an author what can bring, Whence nobler service to his country spring, Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, Possess him with a passion for the right? With honest magic make the knave inclin'd To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, And with her wants and anguish fall in love? Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan, And does not wish the glorious pain his own? Lend but your understanding, and their skill Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast. How often have I seen the generous bowl With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, And steal a truth, which every sober hour (The prose of life) had kept within her power! The grape victorious often has prevail'd, When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; But mourn'd too late, no longer could deny, And on her own confession charge the lie. Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love Of goodness here, or mercy from above, Or fear of future pains, or human laws Could render advocates in virtue's cause, Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd Their wonted disposition of the mind: By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale, As circling glasses on our senses steal; Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd, The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd, They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage, Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage, Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring, Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king. How can they cool to villains? how subside To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride? To spoiling orphans how to day return, Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn? In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit To govern, and control the world of wit, As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known? Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own; He in the lap of elegance was bred, And trac'd the muses to their fountain head: But much we hope, he will enjoy at home What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome. Nor fear I mention of the court of France, When I the British genius would advance; There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste; Yet still we dare invite him to our feast: For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress Of Oroonoko, and presume him less: What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe Waters those bays that shall for ever grow. Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, The drama glories in the British muse. The French are delicate, and nicely lead Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread; Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, Our strength can make the great plain action shine: They raise a great curiosity indeed, From his dark maze to see the hero freed; We rouse th' affections, and that hero show Gasping beneath some formidable blow: They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care We heighten into terror and despair; Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch, Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much. What's great in nature we can greatly draw, Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law. The fate of Caesar is a tale too plain The fickle Gallic taste to entertain; Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove The golden arras with gay flowers of love: We know heaven made him a far greater man Than any Caesar, in a human plan, And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd, To stand affected with what heaven design'd. To claim attention, and the heart invade, Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made. Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays, 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise; On nature's surer aid Britannia calls, None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls; Then with a sigh returns our audience home, From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. France yields not to the glory of our lines, But manly conduct of our strong designs; That oft they think more justly we must own, Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown: Greece thought but justly, they think justly too; We sometimes err by striving more to do. So well are Racine's meanest persons taught, But change a sentiment, you make a fault; Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame: When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame. And yet in Shakespeare something still I find, That makes me less esteem all human kind; He made one nature, and another found, Both in his page with master strokes abound: His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle. Bid us no longer at our nurses smile; Of lost historians we almost complain, Nor think it the creation of his brain. Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance? With his great Talbot(62) too he conquer'd France. Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one; And him, my lord, permit me not to name, But in kind silence spare his rival's shame:— Yet I in vain that author would suppress, What can't be greater, cannot be made less: Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim, And to himself great Agamemnon name. Should Shakespeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile, E'en Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle: But if that reigning star propitious shine, And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine; E'en I, by far the meanest of your age, Shall not repent my passion for the stage. Thus did the will almighty disallow, No human force could pluck the golden bough, Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command, And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand. Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write To you, the muses' glory and delight; Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise, And mortify an author with your praise: Praise wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due, But censure's self will please, my lord, from you; Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend To point them out, and teach us how to mend. What though the great man set his coffers wide, That cannot gratify the poet's pride; Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good, Is best rewarded, when best understood. The muses write for glory, not for gold, 'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold: The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves To speak a sense of what the muse deserves; The muse which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong, Best judge, as well as subject, of her song. Should this great theme allure me further still, And I presume to use your patience ill, The world would plead my cause, and none but you Will take disgust at what I now pursue: Since what is mean my muse can't raise, I'll choose A theme that's able to exalt my muse. For who, not void of thought, can Granville name, Without a spark of his immortal flame? Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend, Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend; Whether we choose to love or to admire, You melt the tender, and th'ambitious fire. Such native graces without thought abound, And such familiar glories spread around, As more incline the stander by to raise His value for himself, than you to praise. Thus you befriend the most heroic way, Bless all, on none an obligation lay; So turn'd by nature's hand for all that's well, 'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel. Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien, You to be happy want not to be seen; Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone, Nor court an approbation but your own: In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please; You, were all blind, would still deserve applause; The world's your glory's witness, not its cause; That lies beyond the limits of the day, Angels behold it, and their God obey. You take delight in others' excellence; A gift, which nature rarely does dispense: Of all that breathe 'tis you, perhaps, alone Would be well pleas'd to see yourself outdone. You wish not those, who show your name respect, So little worth, as might excuse neglect; Nor are in pain lest merit you should know; Nor shun the well deserver as a foe; A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame. You wish your country's good; that told so well Your powers are known, th' event I need not tell. When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd; That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd: And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought. When you, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat, No crowds around for pleasure, or for state, You are not cast upon a stranger land, And wander pensive o'er the barren strand; Nor are you by receiv'd example taught, In toys to shun the discipline of thought; But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, You choose companions from all human race; Converse with those the deluge swept away, Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. Books not so much inform, as give consent To those ideas your own thoughts present; Your only gain from turning volumes o'er, Is finding cause to like yourself the more: In Grecian sages you are only taught With more respect to value your own thought: Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew Those precepts we behold alive in you: Your life is so adjusted to their schools, It makes that history they meant for rules. What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, When, in each learned page that you unfold, You find some part of your own conduct told! So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, AEneas stood, And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, When far from Trojan shores the hero spied His story shining forth in all its pride; Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand The praise and wonder of a foreign land. He knows not half his being, who's confin'd In converse, and reflection on mankind: Your soul, which understands her charter well, Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell; Ranges eternity without the leave Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave. When pains eternal, and eternal bliss, When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss, In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend, And for your ease to deathless fame descend. Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand, Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.(63) Behold the glories of your life complete! Still at a flow, and permanently great; New moments shed new pleasures as they fly, And yet your greatest is, that you must die. Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat Of honour, and confess'd her servant great; Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful fame Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name; Though you in modesty the title wear, Your name shall be the title of your heir; Farther than ermine, make his glory known, And cast in shades the favour of a throne. From thrones the beam of high distinction springs; The soul's endowments from the King of kings, Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers! Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years; Anna, be thou content to fix the fate Of various kingdoms, and control the great; But O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine! To him that great prerogative resign, Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher, His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire. Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame, That I grow thus familiar with your name. He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice: Vice has he none, or such as none wish less, But friends indeed, good-nature in excess. You cannot boast the merit of a choice, In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice, Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood, Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood; Similitude of manners, such a mind As makes you less the wonder of mankind. Such ease his common converse recommends, As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force Of all beneath the sun, to bend his course.(64) Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, Flatters the motions of the wanton air; Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd: The pliant branches dance in every wind: But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains, And all the fury of the north disdains. How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend! Alas! with me the joys of friendship end; O Harrison! I must, I will complain; Tears soothe the soul's distress, tho' shed in vain; Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?— Thy task was early done, and I must own Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone. But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn, The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn; Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive, They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave. With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, I night to day in painful journey join'd, When first inform'd of his approaching fate; But reach'd the partner of my soul too late: 'Twas past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain, Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again: Each art of life, in which he bore a part, Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power, But more to load that most unhappy hour? Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind; That, not in health, or life itself confin'd, Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, Mounted to joy, and smil'd in death's embrace. His spirit now just ready to resign, No longer now his own, no longer mine, He grasps my hand, his swimming eyeballs roll, My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul: Then with a groan—Support me, O! beware Of holding worth, however great, too dear!(65) Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief, That in untimely freedom seeks relief; To better fate your love I recommend, O! may you never lose so dear a friend! May nothing interrupt your happy hours; Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers: Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn; To make the muse immortal, you was born. Sing; and in latest time, when story's dark, This period your surviving fame shall mark; Save from the gulf of years this glorious age, And thus illustrate their historian's page. The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung: That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, When this great man was first saluted lord.



TWO EPISTLES TO MR. POPE

Concerning the Authors of the Age. 1730.



Epistle I.

Whilst you at Twickenham plan the future wood, Or turn the volumes of the wise and good, Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl, And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall; So rushing tides bring things obscene to light, Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns, And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains. Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, Where speculation roosted near the sky; Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And all the garret thunders on the throng! O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain; I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain: Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer; I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour, Shan't I return the vengeance in my power? For who can write the true absurd like me?—— Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee? Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style, The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file; Merit less solid, less despite had bred; They had not bit, and then they had not bled. Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys, But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; With fame, in just proportion, envy grows; The man that makes a character, makes foes: Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise, As a bright day awakes the world of flies; With hearty malice, but with feeble wing, (To show they live) they flutter, and they sting: But as by depredations wasps proclaim The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame. Shall we not censure all the motley train, Whether with ale irriguous, or champaign? Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb, And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme; The college sloven, or embroider'd spark; The purple prelate, or the parish clerk; The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig; The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig; Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; Whether extremely witty, or quite mad; Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite; Men that read well, or men that only write; Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds, And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds; For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut, As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut. His hammer this, and that his trowel quits, And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits. By thriving men subsists each other trade; Of every broken craft a writer's made: Thus his material, paper, takes its birth From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth. Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong Millions of wits, and brokers in old song: Thee well a land of liberty we name, Where all are free to scandal and to shame; Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please; Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence: Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires; Their verse immoral kindles loose desires: Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime, Our sport and pity, punishment and crime. What glorious motives urge our authors on, Thus to undo, and thus to be undone? One loses his estate, and down he sits, To show (in vain!) he still retains his wits: Another marries, and his dear proves keen; He writes as an hypnotic for the spleen: Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt; Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet; Through private pique some do the public right, And love their king and country out of spite: Another writes because his father writ, And proves himself a bastard by his wit. Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound: His belly, not his brains, this impulse give; He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live: He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, With no provision made, but of his theme; Perhaps a title has his fancy smit, Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit: He writes, in inspiration puts his trust, Tho' wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just; Genius directly from the gods descends, And who by labour would distrust his friends? Thus having reason'd with consummate skill, In immortality he dips his quill: And, since blank paper is denied the press, He mingles the whole alphabet by guess: In various sets, which various words compose, Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows. So sounds spontaneous from the sibyl broke, Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke; The priests found out the meaning, if they could; And nations star'd at what none understood. Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole And great concern of an immortal soul!) Oft have I said, "Awake! exist! and strive For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!" As oft I overheard the demon say, Who daily met the loit'rer in his way, "I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth replies, "I'll meet thee there," and falls his sacrifice; His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare To ev'ry bribe, and blind to ev'ry snare: Clodio for bread his indolence must quit, Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit. Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake; How must Spain tremble, and the German shake! Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; Ev'n George's praise is dated from the mint. In arms contemptible, in arts profane, Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign. Reform your lives before you thus aspire, And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire. O the just contrast! O the beauteous strife! 'Twixt their cool writings, and pindaric life: They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. I reverence misfortune, not deride; I pity poverty, but laugh at pride: For who so sad, but must some mirth confess At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat. These, nature's commoners, who want a home, Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; They make a private study of the street; And, looking full on every man they meet, Run souse against his chaps; who stands amaz'd To find they did not see, but only gaz'd. How must these bards be rapt into the skies! you need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Will they persist? 'Tis Madness; Lintot, run, See them confin'd—"O that's already done." Most, as by leases, by the works they print, Have took, for life, possession of the mint. If you mistake, and pity these poor men, est Ulubris, they cry, and write again. Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, And then pronounce just judges learning's foes; O frail conclusion; the reverse is true; If foes to learning, they'd be friends to you: Treat them, ye judges! with an honest scorn, And weed the cockle from the generous corn: There's true good nature in your disrepect; In justice to the good, the bad neglect: For immortality, if hardships plead, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool, But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull? 'Tis sad experience takes the censor's part, Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. a virgin author, recent from the press, The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success; Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed, Those in his hand, and glory in his head; 'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight! His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night: But rising the next morn to clasp his fame, He finds that without sleeping he could dream: So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, And find next day the devil in their stead. In vain advertisements the town o'erspread; They're epitaphs, and the work is dead. Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; 'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays. A famous author visits a great man, Of his immortal work displays the plan, And says, "Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss; Your glory, and my own, shall live by this; Your power is fixt, your fame thro' time convey'd, And Britain Europe's queen—if I am paid." A statesman has his answer in a trice: "Sir, such a genius is beyond all price; What man can pay for this?"—Away he turns; His work is folded, and his bosom burns: His patron he will patronize no more; But rushes like a tempest out of door. Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! Out comes the piece, another, and the same; For A, his magic pen evokes an O, And turns the tide of Europe on the foe: He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff; But 'tis so very foul, it wont go off: Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; But when once publish'd, they are heard no more. Thus distant bugbears fright, but, nearer draw, The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are such? No; every party's tainted by their touch. Infected persons fly each public place; And none, or enemies alone, embrace: To the foul fiend their every passion's sold: They love, and hate, extempore, for gold: What image of their fury can we form? Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm. Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly: Write they with rage? The tempest quickly flags; A state Ulysses tames 'em with his bags; Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew: For Christian ministers of state are few. Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, That pours his politics through pipes of lead, Which far and near ejaculate, and spout O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout: But when they have bespatter'd all they may, The statesman throws his filthy squirts away! With golden forceps, these, another takes, And state elixirs of the vipers makes. The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay A servile sycophant, if well they weigh How much it costs the wretch to be so base; Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, Enough chastise, such prostitute applause, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause. But are our writers ever in the wrong? Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's self they fight; Still in the wrong, tho' champions for the right: Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; From the same hand how various is the page! What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare; Say, is this lunacy?—I wish it were. If such our writers, startled at the sight, Felons may bless their stars they cannot write! How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit The monstrous changes of a modern wit! Now, such a gentle stream of eloquence As seldom rises to the verge of sense; Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, Which yet fit engines, well applied, can tame; Now, on immodest trash, the swine obscene, Invites the town to sup at Drury Lane; A dreadful lion, now he roars at power, Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower; He's now a serpent, and his double tongue Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung; What knot can bind him, his evasion such? One knot he well deserves, which might do much. The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake, Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make: The snake reigns most; snakes, Pliny says, are bred When the brain's perish'd in a human head. Ye grov'ling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings! Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you, curst To scribble in the dust, was snake the first. What if the figure should in fact prove true! It did in Elkenah, why not in you? Poor Elkenah, all other changes past, For bread in Smithfield dragons hist at last, Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape, And found his manners suited to his shape: Such is the fate of talents misapplied; So liv'd your prototype; and so he died. Th' abandon'd manners of our writing train May tempt mankind to think religion vain; But in their fate, their habit, and their mien, That gods there are is eminently seen: Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen, And marks the murderers of fame from men: Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth: Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt, And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt. The transient vestments of these frugal men, Hastens to paper for our mirth again: Too soon (O merry melancholy fate!) They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate: The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight; The friend through pity gives, the foe through spite; And though full conscious of his injur'd purse, Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse. So fare the men, who writers dare commence Without their patent, probity, and sense. From these, their politics our quidnuncs seek, And Saturday's the learning of the week: These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways, With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays; Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull; And hem at every thump upon your skull: These staunch bred writing hounds begin the cry, And honest folly echoes to the lie. O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see, Thanking a villain for his probity; Who stretches out a most respectful ear, With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer: It tickles thro' my soul to hear the cock's Sincere encomium on his friend the fox, Sole patron of his liberties and rights! While graceless Reynard listens—till he bites. As when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded state Discharges all her poor and profligate; Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield, And prisons pour their filth into the field; Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men, Compose the black militia of the pen.



Epistle II.

From Oxford.

All write at London; shall the rage abate Here, where it most should shine, the muses' seat? Where, mortal or immortal, as they please, The learn'd may choose eternity, or ease? Has not a (66)royal patron wisely strove To woo the muse in her Athenian grove? Added new strings to her harmonious shell, And given new tongues to those who spoke so well? Let these instruct, with truth's illustrious ray, Awake the world, and scare our owls away. Meanwhile, O friend! indulge me, if I give Some needful precepts how to write, and live! Serious should be an author's final views; Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. An author! 'tis a venerable name! How few deserve it, and what numbers claim! Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind? Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause? That sole proprietor of just applause. Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, With whom would you consult to gain the bays?— With those great authors whose fam'd works you read? 'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade. What answer will the laurell'd shade return? Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn The noblest works his envied genius writ, That boast of nought more excellent than wit. If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread, Woe to the page which has not that to plead! Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote, The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, Condemn the charm of ages to the flame: And in one point is all true wisdom cast, To think that early we must think at last. Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws, Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, (Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? In prose 'tis blameable, in verse 'tis worse, Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse: His sacred influence never should be sold: 'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold: 'Tis immortality should fire your mind; Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind. If bribes you seek, know this, ye writing tribe! Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe: All's on the party of the virtuous man; The good will surely serve him, if they can; The bad, when interest, or ambition guide, And 'tis at once their interest and their pride: But should both fail to take him to their care, He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. Letters to man uncommon light dispense; And what is virtue, but superior sense? In parts and learning you who place your pride, Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double dyed. What is a scandal of the first renown, But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown? 'Tis harder far to please than give offence; The least misconduct damns the brightest sense; Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. Flagitious manners make impressions deep On those, that o'er a page of Milton sleep: Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. Wits are a despicable race of men, If they confine their talents to the pen; When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, And play the fool, because they're men of sense. What instances bleed recent in each thought, Of men to ruin by their genius brought! Against their wills what numbers ruin shun, Purely through want of wit to be undone! Nature has shown, by making it so rare, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; With that we drive the most substantial trade. Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays; A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; A certain snare to miseries immense; A gay prerogative from common sense; Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And break to paths of virtue and of fame. But grant your judgment equal to the best, Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal; As it is great to seize the golden prize Of place or power; but greater to despise. If still you languish for an author's name, Think private merit less than public fame, And fancy not to write is not to live; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative. But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost, To write one page which you may justly boast. Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press; Who write, an awful character profess; The world as pupil of their wisdom claim, And for their stipend an immortal fame: Nothing but what is solid or refin'd, Should dare ask public audience of mankind. Severely weigh your learning, and your wit: Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Much trust example, but reflection more: More had the ancients writ, they more had taught; Which shows some work is left for modern thought. This weigh'd, perfection know; and known, adore; Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more; Above, beneath it, the just limits fix; And zealously prefer four lines to six. Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen. Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays. Much time for immortality to pay, Is just and wise; for less is thrown away. Time only can mature the labouring brain; Time is the father, and the midwife pain: The same good sense that makes a man excel, Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well. Downright impossibilities they seek; What man can be immortal in a week? Excuse no fault; though beautiful, 'twill harm; One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm. Our age demands correctness; Addison And you this commendable hurt have done. Now writers find, as once Achilles found, The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound. He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best, Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest: Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, We praise for what you burn, and what you spare: The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine, And is as incense to the part divine. Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; Men may too oft, though not too much, excel. A few good works gain fame; more sink their price; Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice: They granted you writ well, what can they more, Unless you let them praise for giving o'er? Do boldly what you do, and let your page Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. So faintly Lucius censures and commends, That Lucius has no foes, except his friends. Let satire less engage you than applause; It shows a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws: Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end, Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; The public glory by your own beget; Run nations, run posterity, in debt. And since the fam'd alone make others live, First have that glory you presume to give. If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high; Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Good breeding sends the satire to the heart. Painters and surgeons may the structure scan; Genius and morals be with you the man: Defaults in those alone should give offence! Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. My narrow minded satire can't extend To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend: Himself should publish that (the world agree) Before his works, or in the pillory. Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that. Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence, 'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense. Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, 'Tis printing what was publish'd long before. If nought peculiar through your labours run, They're duplicates, and twenty are but one. Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn; To nurse with quick reflection be your strife, Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life: When most unsought, such inspirations rise, Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise: Expect peculiar fame from these alone; These make an author, these are all your own. Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er; Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. True, all men think of course, as all men dream; And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same. Letters admit not of a half renown; They give you nothing, or they give a crown. No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can, But what did honour to the name of man. Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, Clear be the style, the very sound of force; Easy the conduct, simple the design, Striking the moral, and the soul divine: Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed; O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed: Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow; Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau: And when your genius exquisitely shines, Live up to the full lustre of your lines: Parts but expose those men who virtue quit; A fallen angel is a fallen wit; And they plead Lucifer's detested cause, Who for bare talents challenge our applause. Would you restore just honours to the pen? From able writers rise to worthy men. "Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would restrain? Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain? Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt, And challenge all mankind to find one fault? With huge examens overwhelm my page, And darken reason with dogmatic rage? As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme, In prose a duller could excuse the crime: Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing Is gravely to harangue on what we sing. At that tribunal stands the writing tribe, Which nothing can intimidate or bribe: Time is the judge; time has nor friend nor foe; False fame must wither, and the true will grow. Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy; For if I fall, by my own pen I die; While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain To wound immortals, or to slay the slain. Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head, Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain, Of recent form, to serve me this campaign: And safely hope to quit the dreadful field Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray In all his might, and damns me—for a day. As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite, So war their quills, when sons of dulness write.



AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

By Mr. Doddington, Afterwards Lord Melcombe.

—Quae censet amiculus, ut si Caecus iter monstrare velit

—HOR.

Though strength of genius, by experience taught, Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, To trace the various workings of the mind, And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind; (Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend Can aught of use impart, though void of skill, And win attention by sincere good-will; For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies, The heart may furnish what the head denies. As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, To grace old ocean's court, in triumph rides, Tho' rich his source, he drains a thousand springs, Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings. So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. When first a generous mind surveys the great, And views the crowds that on their fortune wait; Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) He only seeks the power, to do the good; Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose, And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; That every grant sincere affection wins, And where our wants have end, our love begins: But those who long the paths of state have trod, Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates besiege, 'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, The chief perfection of the statesman's art, To give to fair assent a fairer face, Or soften a refusal into grace: But few there are that can be truly kind, Or know to fix their favours on the mind; Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend, And, while they make the fortune, lose the friend; Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow; For great men want not, what to give, but how. The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true, Think all they get, and more than all, their due; Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts, And measure by their interest, not their parts: From this mistake so many men we see But ill become the thing they wish'd to be; Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise, More power, more favour in the great man's eyes; All feel a want, though none the cause suspects, But hate their patron, for their own defects; Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts, And, when he gives them places, gives them parts. As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great May sell their favour at too dear a rate; When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd, And long attachment waits among the herd; When no distinction, where distinction 's due, Marks from the many the superior few; When strong cabal constrains them to be just, And makes them give at last—because they must; What hopes that men of real worth should prize, What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys? The man who justly o'er the whole presides, His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides; Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance, Nor gives through importunity or chance; But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd, When favours are extorted, not bestow'd. When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd Surround the great, importunate, and loud; Through such a tumult, 'tis no easy task To drive the man of real worth to ask: Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show, 'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow; From hence so few are skill'd, in either case, To ask with dignity, or give with grace. Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; Till we forget the hand that made us great, And grow to envy, not to emulate: To emulate, a generous warmth implies, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; But envy wears a mean malignant face, And aims not at their virtues—but their place. Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence! When every favour is a fresh offence, By which superior power is still implied, And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; But those who hate from envy, hate indeed. "Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?" Methinks I hear thee cry—The brave and just; The man by no mean fears or hopes controll'd, Who serves thee from affection, not for gold. We love the honest, and esteem the brave, Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave; No show of parts the truly wise seduce, To think that knaves can be of real use. The man, who contradicts the public voice, And strives to dignify a worthless choice, Attempts a task that on that choice reflects, And lends us light to point out new defects. One worthless man, that gains what he pretends, Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends: And since no art can make a counterpass, Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass, When princes to bad ore their image join, They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. Be thine the care, true merit to reward And gain the good—nor will that task be hard; Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend, An honest man is more than half thy friend. Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, shall sway, Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray: Ambition, here, shall at due distance stand Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand: Besides, if failings at the bottom lie, We view those failings with a lover's eye; Though small his genius, let him do his best, Our wishes and belief supply the rest. Let others barter servile faith for gold, His friendship is not to be bought or sold: Fierce opposition he, unmov'd, shall face, Modest in favour, daring in disgrace, To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend; In power, a servant; out of power, a friend. Here pour thy favours in an ample flood, Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good: Nor think that good to him alone confin'd; Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind. If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe, And make him tremble when he strikes the blow; While honour, gratitude, affection join To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline; (Illustrious doom!) the great, when this displac'd, With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd, In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul. No doubt, to genius some reward is due, (Excluding that, were satirizing you;) But yet, believe thy undesigning friend, When truth and genius for thy choice contend, Tho' both have weight when in the balance cast, Let probity be first, and parts the last. On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, And check the growth of folly and deceit; When party rage shall droop thro' length of days, And calumny be ripen'd into praise, Then future times shall to thy worth allow That fame, which envy would call flattery now. Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit, Has pointed out the rocks where others split; By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine, And negligent of any fame—but thine, I take the friendly, but superfluous part; You act from nature what I teach from art.



THE OLD MAN'S RELAPSE.

Verses Occasioned by the Foregoing Epistle.

Sopitos suscita ignes.

—VIRG.

From man's too curious and impatient sight, The future, Heaven involves in thickest night. Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast, Some least perform, what they determine most. What sudden changes our resolves betray! To-morrow is the satire on to-day, And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe, When constantly themselves, themselves deceive?

Long had I bid my once-loved muse adieu; You warm old age; my passion burns anew. How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind! What power of words! what skill in dark mankind! Polite the conduct; generous the design; And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line. Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset; Your wit has caught them in its golden net.

But what strikes home with most exalted grace Is, haughty genius taught to know its place; And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend, With zeal devoted to that godlike end. When we discern so rich a vein of sense, Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence; 'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold.

But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece? The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece; The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim, And slowly take possession of the fame. But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ, Enough for me that 'tis from human wit; That soothes my pride: all glory in the pen Which has done honour to the race of men.

But this have others done; a like applause An ancient and a modern Horace draws.(67) But they to glory by degrees arose, Meridian lustre you at once disclose. 'Tis continence of mind, unknown before, To write so well, and yet to write no more. More bright renown can human nature claim, Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame?

Next to the godlike praise of writing well, Is on that praise with just delight to dwell. O, for some God my drooping soul to raise! That I might imitate, as well as praise; For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess; Nor would Augustus' age have priz'd it less; An age, which had not held its pride so long, But for the want of so complete a song.

A golden period shall from you commence: Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; Whether your genius or your rank they view, The muses find their Halifax in you. Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own; For lofty stations are but golden snares, Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares.

I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, And, to commend you most, commend no more.

Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast Erelong I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, And think of immortality and thee— My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine; Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine.



VERSES

Sent by Lord Melcombe to Dr. Young, Not Long Before His Lordship's Death.(68)

Kind companion of my youth, Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth! Take what friendship can impart, Tribute of a feeling heart; Take the muse's latest spark,(69) Ere we drop into the dark. He, who parts and virtue gave, Bad thee look beyond the grave Genius soars, and virtue guides; Above, the love of God presides. There's a gulf 'twixt us and God; Let the gloomy path be trod: Why stand shivering on the shore? Why not boldly venture o'er? Where unerring virtue guides, Let us have the winds and tides: Safe, through seas of doubts and fears, Rides the bark which virtue steers.

The End



FOOTNOTES

1 The Duke of Marlborough.

2 Westminster Abbey.

3 Founders of New College, Corpus Christi, and All Souls, in Oxford; of all which the author was a member.

4 Here she embraces them.

5 Val. Max.

6 Horace.

7 A famous statue.

8 A famous tailor.

9 This refers to the first satire.

10 The name of a tulip.

11 Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.

12 Milton.

13 A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle.

14 Lap-dog.

15 Shakespeare.

16 ——Solem quis dicere falsum Audeat?

Virg.

17 Shakespeare.

18 Milton.

19 Amphitryon.

20 The king in danger by sea.

21 Hom. Il. lib. I.

22 Ecce Deus ramum Lethaeo rore madentem, &c.

Virg.

23 A new fund for Greenwich hospital, recommended from the throne.

24 Written soon after King George the First's accession.

25 It is disputed amongst the critics who was the author of the book of Job; some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favour the former of those opinions; which arguments I have flung into the following notes, where little else is to be expected.

26 The Almighty's speech, chapter xxxviii. &c. which is what I paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder than a whisper. In order to set this distinguished part of the poem in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I have abridged the preceding and subsequent parts of the poem, and joined them to it; so that this piece is a sort of an epitome of the whole book of Job.

I use the word paraphrase, because I want another which might better answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other parts, are entirely added: those upon the peacock, the lion, &c. are much enlarged; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suited to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole.

Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shows that they contribute much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made up of them. Interrogation seems indeed the proper style of majesty incensed. It differs from other manner of reproof, as bidding a person execute himself does from a common execution; for he that asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass sentence on himself.

27 The book of Job is well known to be dramatic, and, like the tragedies of old Greece, is fiction built on truth. Probably this most noble part of it, the Almighty speaking out of the whirlwind, (so suitable to the after-practice of the Greek stage, when there happened dignus vindice nodus,) is fictitious; but is a fiction more agreeable to the time in which Job lived, than to any since. Frequent before the law were the appearances of the Almighty after this manner, Exod. c. xix. Ezek. c. i. &c. Hence is he said to "dwell in thick darkness: and have his way in the whirlwind."

28 There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and ungovernable ocean receiving commands, and punctually obeying them; to find it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in sublimity to that of "Let there be light," &c., so much only as the absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it.

29 Another argument that Moses was the author, is, that most of the creatures here mentioned are Egyptian. The reason given why the raven is particularly mentioned as an object of the care of Providence, is, because by her clamorous and importunate voice, she particularly seems always calling upon it; thence [Greek: korasso, a korax], AElian. l. ii. c. 48, is "to ask earnestly." And since there were ravens on the bank of the Nile more clamorous than the rest of that species, those probably are meant in that place.

30 There are many instances of this bird's stupidity: let two suffice. First, it covers its head in the reeds, and thinks itself all out of sight,

Stat lumine clauso Ridendum revoluta caput, creditque latere Quae non ipsa videt.

Claud.

Secondly, they that go in pursuit of them, draw the skin of an ostrich's neck on one hand, which proves a sufficient lure to take them with the other.

They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred heads for his supper.

Here we may observe, that our judicious as well as sublime author, just touches the great points of distinction in each creature, and then hastens to another. A description is exact when you cannot add, but what is common to another thing; nor withdraw, but something peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A likeness is lost in too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration.

31 Here is marked another peculiar quality of this creature, which neither flies nor runs directly, but has a motion composed of both, and, using its wings as sails, makes great speed.

Vasta velut Libyae venantum vocibus ales Cum premitur, calidas cursu transmittit arenas, Inque modum veli sinuatis flamine pennis Pulverulenta volat.

Claud. in Eutr.

32 Xenophon says, Cyrus had horses that could overtake the goat and the wild ass; but none that could reach this creature. A thousand golden ducats, or a hundred camels, was the stated price of a horse that could equal their speed.

33 Though this bird is but just mentioned in my author, I could not forbear going a little farther, and spreading those beautiful plumes (which are there shut up) in half a dozen lines. The circumstance I have marked of his opening his plumes to the sun is true. Expandit colores adverso maxime sole, quia sic fulgentius radiant. Plin. l. x. c. 20.

34 Thyanus (de Re Accip.) mentions a hawk that flew from Paris to London in a night.

And the Egyptians, in regard to its swiftness, made it their symbol for the wind; for which reason we may suppose the hawk, as well as the crow above, to have been a bird of note in Egypt.

35 The eagle is said to be of so acute a sight, that when she is so high in air that man cannot see her, she can discern the smallest fish under water. My author accurately understood the nature of the creatures he describes, and seems to have been a naturalist as well as a poet, which the next note will confirm.

36 The meaning of this question is, Knowest thou the time and circumstances of their bringing forth? For to know the time only was easy, and had nothing extraordinary in it; but the circumstances had something peculiarly expressive of God's providence, which makes the question proper in this place. Pliny observes, that the hind with young is by instinct directed to a certain herb called Seselis, which facilitates the birth. Thunder also (which looks like the more immediate hand of Providence) has the same effect. Ps. xxix. In so early an age to observe these things, may style our author a naturalist.

37 Pursuing their prey by night is true of most wild beasts, particularly the lion. Ps. cvi. 20. The Arabians have one among their five hundred names for the lion, which signifies "the hunter by moonshine."

38 Cephissi glaciale caput, quo suetus anhelam Ferre sitim Python, amnemque avertere ponto.

Stat. Theb. vii. 349.

Qui spiris tegeret montes, hauriret hiatu Flumina, &c. Claud. Pref. in Ruf.

Let not then this hyperbole seem too much for an eastern poet, though some commentators of name strain hard in this place for a new construction, through fear of it.

39 The taking the crocodile is most difficult. Diodorus says, they are not to be taken but by iron nets. When Augustus conquered Egypt, he struck a medal, the impress of which was a crocodile chained to a palm-tree, with this inscription, Nemo antea religavit.

40 This alludes to a custom of this creature, which is, when sated with fish, to come ashore and sleep among the reeds.

41 The crocodile's mouth is exceeding wide. When he gapes, says Pliny, sic totum os. Martial says to his old woman,

Cum comparata rictibus tuis ora Niliacus habet crocodilus angusta.

So that the expression there is barely just.

42 This too is nearer the truth than at first view may be imagined. The crocodile, say the naturalists, lying long under water, and being there forced to hold its breath, when it emerges, the breath long represt is hot, and bursts out so violently, that it resembles fire and smoke. The horse suppresses not his breath by any means so long, neither is he so fierce and animated; yet the most correct of poets ventures to use the same metaphor concerning him:

Collectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem.

By this and the foregoing note I would caution against a false opinion of the eastern boldness, from passages in them ill understood.

43 "His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning." I think this gives us as great an image of the thing it would express as can enter the thought of man. It is not improbable that the Egyptians stole their hieroglyphic for the morning, which is the crocodile's eye, from this passage, though no commentator, I have seen, mentions it. It is easy to conceive how the Egyptians should be both readers and admirers of the writings of Moses, whom I suppose the author of this poem.

I have observed already that three or four of the creatures here described are Egyptian; the two last are notoriously so, they are the river-horse and the crocodile, those celebrated inhabitants of the Nile; and on these two it is that our author chiefly dwells. It would have been expected from an author more remote from that river than Moses, in a catalogue of creatures produced to magnify their Creator, to have dwelt on the two largest works of his hand, viz. the elephant and the whale. This is so natural an expectation, that some commentators have rendered behemoth and leviathan, the elephant and whale, though the descriptions in our author will not admit of it; but Moses being, as we may well suppose, under an immediate terror of the hippopotamus and crocodile, from their daily mischiefs and ravages around him, it is very accountable why he should permit them to take place.

44 Though the report was propagated without the least truth, it may be sufficient ground to justify a poetical fancy's enlarging on it.

45 Lord Aubrey Beauclerk was the eighth son of the Duke of St. Albans, who was one of the sons of King Charles the Second. He was born in the year 1711; and, being regularly bred to the sea service, in 1731 he was appointed to the command of his majesty's ship the Ludlow Castle; and he commanded the Prince Frederick at the attack of the harbour of Carthagena, March 24, 1741. This young nobleman was one of the most promising commanders in the king's service. When on the desperate attack of the castle of Bocca Chica, at the entrance of the said harbour, he lost his life, both his legs being first shot off. The prose part of the inscription on his monument was the production of Mrs. Mary Jones of Oxford; who also wrote a poem on his death, printed in her Miscellanies, 8vo, 1752.—R.

46 Lord Sommers procured a pension for Mr. Addison, which enabled him to prosecute his travels.—R.

47 The publication of his Works.

48 The invader affects the character of Charles XII. of Sweden.

49 Mrs. M——.

50 Whilst the author was writing this, he received the news of Mr. Samuel Richardson's death, who was then printing the former part of the poem.

51 Mrs. Montague.

52 Mrs. Montague.

53 Mrs. Montague. Mrs Carter.

54 Candide.

55 Second Part.

56 Ephes. vi. 17.

57 Which his romance ridicules.

58 Isaiah lvii. 15.

59 Letter to Lord Lyttelton.

60 Alluding to Prussia.

61 Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter.

62 An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.—Young.

63 See his lordship's tragedy entitled "Heroic Love." —Young.

64 His lordship's nephew, who took orders.—Young.

65 The author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of New-College, Oxon.—Young. [See a more particular account of him in the Supplement to Swift.]

66 His late majesty's benefaction for modern languages.

67 Boileau.

68 A Poetical Epistle from the late Lord Melcombe to the Earl of Bute, with corrections by the author of the Night Thoughts, was published in 4to, 1776.

69 See Mr. Cust's Life of Young.

THE END