FullReads

But most by numbers judge a poet’s song
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong.
In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds, as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine but the music there
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join;
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes,
Where’er you find “the cooling western breeze,”
In the next line it “whispers through the trees”
If crystal streams “with pleasing murmurs creep”
The reader’s threatened (not in vain) with “sleep”
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song [356]
That, like a wounded snake drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What’s roundly smooth or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line,
Where Denham’s strength, and Waller’s sweetness join. [361]
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance
‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, [366]
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows,
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar,
When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. [373]
Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise, [374]
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove [376]
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world’s victor stood subdued by sound? [381]
The power of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleased too little or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offense,
That always shows great pride, or little sense:
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
As things seem large which we through mist descry,
Dullness is ever apt to magnify. [393]

Some foreign writers, some our own despise,
The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one small sect, and all are damned beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that sun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes.
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last,
Though each may feel increases and decays,
And see now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some ne’er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town,
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne’er invent.
Some judge of authors names not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writing, but the men.
Of all this servile herd the worst is he
That in proud dullness joins with quality
A constant critic at the great man’s board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starved hackney sonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!