English Poets of the Eighteenth Century. Various

sonneteer, 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!

      * * * * *

      Learn then what morals critics ought to show,

       For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know,

       'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join;

       In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:

       That not alone what to your sense is due

       All may allow; but seek your friendship too.

      Be silent always when you doubt your sense;

       And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:

       Some positive, persisting fops we know,

       Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;

       But you, with pleasure own your errors past,

       And make each day a critic on the last.

      'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true;

       Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;

       Men must be taught as if you taught them not,

       And things unknown proposed as things forgot.

       Without good breeding, truth is disapproved;

       That only makes superior sense beloved.

      * * * * *

      The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,

       With loads of learnèd lumber in his head,

       With his own tongue still edifies his ears,

       And always listening to himself appears.

       All books he reads, and all he reads assails,

       From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.

       With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;

       Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

       Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend,

       Nay, showed his faults—but when would poets mend?

       No place so sacred from such fops is barred,

       Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:

       Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead:

       For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

       Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,

       It still looks home, and short excursions makes;

       But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks,

       And never shocked, and never turned aside,

       Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide.

      But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,

       Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know?

       Unbiassed, or by favour, or by spite;

       Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right;

       Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere,

       Modestly bold, and humanly severe:

       Who to a friend his faults can freely show,

       And gladly praise the merit of a foe?

       Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined;

       A knowledge both of books and human kind:

       Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;

       And love to praise, with reason on his side?

      THE RAPE OF THE LOCK

      AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM

      CANTO II

      Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain,

       The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,

       Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams

       Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames.

       Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone,

       But every eye was fixed on her alone.

       On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,

       Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

       Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,

       Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those;

       Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;

       Oft she rejects, but never once offends.

       Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,

       And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.

       Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,

       Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide;

       If to her share some female errors fall,

       Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

      This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,

       Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind

       In equal curls, and well conspired to deck

       With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck.

       Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,

       And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.

       With hairy springes, we the birds betray,

       Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,

       Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

       And beauty draws us with a single hair.

      Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired;

       He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired.

       Resolved to win, he meditates the way,

       By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;

       For when success a lover's toil attends,

       Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends.

      For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored

       Propitious Heaven, and every power adored,

       But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built,

       Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.

       There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves,

       And all the trophies of his former loves;

       With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre,

       And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire.

       Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes

       Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize.

       The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer;

       The rest the winds dispersed in empty air.

      But now secure the painted vessel glides,

       The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides;

       While melting music steals upon the sky,

       And softened sounds along the waters die;

       Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,

       Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay.

       All but the sylph—with careful thoughts oppressed,

       Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.

       He summons straight his denizens of air;

       The lucid squadrons