English Poets of the Eighteenth Century. Various

And value books, as women, men, for dress:

       Their praise is still—the style is excellent;

       The sense, they humbly take upon content.

       Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,

       Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.

       False eloquence, like the prismatic glass,

       Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;

       The face of nature we no more survey,

       All glares alike, without distinction gay:

       But true expression, like th' unchanging sun,

       Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon,

       It gilds all objects, but it alters none.

       Expression is the dress of thought, and still

       Appears more decent, as more suitable;

       A vile conceit in pompous words expressed,

       Is like a clown in regal purple dressed:

       For different styles with different subjects sort,

       As several garbs with country, town, and court.

       Some by old words to fame have made pretence,

       Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;

       Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style,

       Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learnèd smile.

       Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,

       These sparks with awkward vanity display

       What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;

       And but so mimic ancient wits at best,

       As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dressed.

       In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;

       Alike fantastic, if too new, or old:

       Be not the first by whom the new are tried,

       Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

      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,

       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 vigour of a line,

       Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.

       True ease in writing comes from art, not chance.

       As those move easiest who have learned to dance.

       'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,

       The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

       Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,

       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 labours, and the words move slow;

       Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,

       Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.

       Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,

       And bid alternate passions fall and rise!

       While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove

       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!

       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 offence,

       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 mists descry,

       Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

      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 author's names, not works, and then

       Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

       Of all this servile herd, the worst is he

       That in proud dulness 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