Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!
But to this Genius, join'd with so much Art,
Such various learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
And yet so wonderful, sublime a thing
As the great ILIAD, scarce could make me sing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good Companion, and as firm a Friend.
One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed
Can all desert in Sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways,. But a much greater to give Merit praise.
ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA,
Wife of Daniel, second Earl of Winchelsea and Nottingham, distinguished herself by her poem on the Spleen, printed in Gildon's Miscellany, 1701. She also wrote a Tragedy, never acted, called Aristomenes. Her poems were printed in London, 1713. Octavo.*
The following complimentary verses to Pope are omitted in the editions of Warburton, Warton, and Bowles; but having been given by Pope in the first edition of his Poems, in 1717, are here reprinted from that edition.
THE Muse of every heavenly gift allow'd
To be the chief, is public, tho' not proud.
* Swift has addressed her in an Impromptu, under the name of Ardelia; v. Swift's Works, Sir Walter Scott's ed. vol. xiii. p. 344.
Widely extensive is the Poet's aim,
And in each verse he draws a bill on fame.
For none have writ (whatever they pretend)
Singly to raise a Patron, or a Friend;
But whatsoe'er the theme or object be,
Some commendations to themselves foresee.
Then let us find, in your foregoing page,
The celebrating Poems of the age;
Nor by injurious scruples think it fit
To hide their judgments who applaud your wit.
But let their pens to yours, the heralds prove,
Who strive for you as Greece for Homer strove.
Whilst he who best your poetry asserts,
Asserts his own, by sympathy of parts.-
Me panegyric verse does not inspire,
Who never well can praise what I admire;
Nor in those lofty trials dare appear,
But gently drop this counsel in your ear.
Go on, to gain applauses by desert,
Inform the head, whilst you dissolve the heart;
Inflame the soldier with harmonious rage,
Elate the young, and gravely warm the sage.
Allure with tender verse, the female race,
And give their darling passion, courtly grace;
Describe the forest still in rural strains,
With vernal sweets fresh breathing from the plains.
Your Tales be easy, natural, and gay,
Nor all the Poet in that part display;
Nor let the Critic, there his skill unfold,
For Boccace thus, and Chaucer Tales have told.
Sooth, as you only can, each differing taste,
And for the future charm as in the past.
Then should the verse of ev'ry artful hand,
Before your numbers eminently stand;
In you no vanity could thence be shewn,
Unless, since short in beauty, of your own,
Some envious scribbler might in spite declare,
That for comparison you plac'd them there.
But envy could not against you succeed,
'Tis not from friends that write, or foes that read; Censure or praise must from ourselves proceed.
THE following lines by Wycherley afford a very favourable specimen of his poetical talents; insomuch that Dennis and others contended that Pope was himself the author of them; a charge which Pope thought it worth his while to refute, by stating that "the first brouillon of them, and the second copy with corrections, were both extant in Wycherley's own hand-writing." They were written in 1708, before the publication of the pastorals; and are repeatedly referred to in Wycherley's Letters to Pope; in one of which he "I have made a damn'd compliment in verse upon says, the printing your pastorals, which you shall see when you see me,'
TO MR. POPE, ON HIS PASTORALS.
In these more dull, as more censorious days,
When few dare give, and fewer merit praise,
A Muse sincere, that never Flatt'ry knew,
Pays what to friendship and desert is due.
Young, yet judicious; in your verse are found
Art strength'ning Nature, sense improv'd by sound.
Unlike those Wits, whose numbers glide along So smooth, no thought e'er interrupts the song: Laboriously enervate they appear,
And write not to the head, but to the ear:
Our minds unmov'd and unconcern'd they lull,
And are at best most musically dull:
So purling streams with even murmurs creep,
And hush the heavy hearers into sleep.
As smoothest speech is most deceitful found,
The smoothest numbers oft are empty sound.
But Wit and Judgment join at once in you,
Sprightly as youth, as age consummate too:
Your strains are regularly bold, and please
With unforc'd care, and unaffected ease,
With proper thoughts, and lively images:
Such as by Nature to the Ancients shewn,
Fancy improves, and judgment makes your own:
For great men's fashions to be follow'd are,
Altho' disgraceful 'tis their clothes to wear.
Some in a polish'd style write Pastoral,
Arcadia speaks the language of the Mall;
Like some fair Shepherdess, the Sylvan Muse
Should wear those flow'rs her native fields produce;
And the true measure of the Shepherd's wit
Should, like his garb, be for the Country fit:
Yet must his pure and unaffected thought
More nicely than the common swains be wrought.
So, with becoming art, the Players dress
In silks, the shepherd and the shepherdess;
Yet still unchang'd the form and mode remain,
Shap'd like the homely russet of the swain.
Your rural Muse appears to justify
The long lost graces of simplicity:
So rural beauties captivate our sense
With virgin charms, and native excellence.
Yet long her modesty those charms conceal'd,
'Till by men's envy to the world reveal'd;
For Wits industrious to their trouble seem,
And needs will envy what they must esteem.
Live and enjoy their spite! nor mourn that fate, Which would, if Virgil liv'd, on Virgil wait; Whose Muse did once, like thine, in plains delight; Thine shall, like his, soon take a higher flight; So Larks, which first from lowly fields arise, Mount by degrees, and reach at last the skies. W. WYCHERLEY.
THE following lines were addressed to Mr. Pope, from Killala, in the county of Mayo, in Ireland, (a circumstance which serves to explain the allusion at the commencement of them); and were dated June 7, 1715. They were printed in the first edition of the works of Pope, where some lines appear which have been judiciously omitted in the subsequent editions.
TO MR. POPE, ON HIS WINDSOR FOREST.
HAIL, Sacred Bard! a Muse unknown before
Salutes thee from the bleak Atlantic shore.
To our dark world thy shining page is shown,
And Windsor's gay retreat becomes our own.
The Eastern pomp had just bespoke our care,
And India pour'd her gaudy treasures here:
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