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$170. An Essay upon unnatural Flights in Poetry. LANDSDOWNE.

As when some image of a charming face, In living paint, an artist tries to trace, He carefully consults each beauteous line, Adjusting to his object his design; We praise the piece, and give the painter fame, But as the bright resemblance speaks the dame: Poets are limneis of another kind, To copy out ideas in the mind;

Words are the paint by which their thoughts are shown,

And Nature is their object to be drawn:
The written picture we applaud or blame
But as the just proportions are the same.
Who, driven with ungovernable fire,
Or void of art, beyond these bounds aspire,
Gigantic forins and monstrous births alone
Produce, which Nature shock'd disdains

own.

By true reflection I would see my face;
Why brings the fool a magnifying glass?
"But poetry in fiction takes delight,
And mounting in bold figures out of sight,
Leaves truth behind in her audacious flight:
Fables and metaphors that always lie,
And rash hyperboles that soar so high,
And every ornament of verse must die."

to

Mistake me not: no figures I exclude,
And but forbid intemperance, not food.
Who would with care some happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very same;
Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's scorn,
But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn.
Important truths still let your fables hold,
And moral mysteries with art unfold:
Ladies and beaux to please is all the task;
But the sharp critic will instruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear, when right applied;
When thro' the phrase we plainly see the sense,
Truth with such obvious meanings will dispense.
The reader what is reason's due believes,
Nor can we call that false which not deceives:
Hyperboles, so daring and so bold,
Disdaining bounds, are yet by rules controll'd;
Above the clouds, but yet within our sight,
They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring
flight;

Presenting things impossible to view,
They wander through incredible to true.
Falsehoods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd;
And Truth, like silver, leaves the dross behind.
Thus Poetry has ample space to soar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore;
Such vaunts as his, who can with patience read,
Who thus describes his hero when he's dead-
"In heat of action slain, yet scorns to fall,
But still maintains the war, and fights at-
All?"

The noisy culverin, o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And bursts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And nature suffers in the wild extreme.
The captive cannibal, opprest with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains;
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He bids defiance to the gaping crowd;
And spent at last, and speechless, as he lies,
With fiery glances mocks their rage, and dies.
This is the utmost stretch that nature can,
And all beyond is fulsome, false and vain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different sides,
I would condemn, but that in spite of sense,
The admiring world still stands in his defence:
The gods permitting traitors to succeed,
Become not parties in an impious deed;
And by the tyrant's murder, we may find
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with such preposterous
praise,

Our characters we lessen when we'd raise:
Like castles built by magic art in air,

That vanish at approach, such thoughts appear;
But, rais'd on truth by some judicious hand,
As on a rock they shall for ages stand.
Our king return'd, and banish'd peace restor'd,
The Muse ran mad to see her exil'd lord;
On the crack'd stage the Bedlam heroes roar'd,
And scarce could speak one reasonable word :
Dryden himself, to please a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgement stoop to rage:
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Complied to custom, but not err'd thro' choice.

Deem then the people's, not the writer's sin,
Almansor's rage, and rants of Maximin;
That fury spent in each elaborate piece,
Hevies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Roscommon first, then Mulgrave rose, like
light,

To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight:
With steady judgement, and in lofty sounds,
They gave us patterns, and they set us bounds.
The Stagyrite and Horace laid aside:
Inform'd by them, we need no foreign guide.
Who seek from poetry a lasting name,
May from their lessons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be sure
That every line the test of truth endure;
On this foundation may the fabric rise,
Firm and unshaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from
love,

Abandon'd Truth seeks shelter in the grove:
Cherish, ye Muses, the forsaken fair,

And take into your train this beauteous wanderer.

A strict integrity, devoid of art;

The sweetest manners, and sincerest heart;
A soul, where depth of sense and fancy meet;
A judgement brighten'd by the beams of wit-
Were ever yours: be what you were before,
Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.

§ 172. The Inquiry. Written in the last Century.

AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: "Tell me," said I, in deep distress, "Where may I find my shepherdess?" "Thou fool," said Love, "know'st thou not this?

In every thing that's good, she is;
In yonder tulip go and seek,
There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek;
In enamell'd pansy
yon
by,

There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,

There wave the streamers of her blood;

$171. To Mr. Spence, prefixed to the Essay In brightest lilies that there stand,

on Pope's Odyssey.

PITT.

'Tis done-restor'd by thy immortal pen, The critic's noble name revives again : Once more that great, that injur'd name we see Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.

Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast, And feed on scraps refus'd by every guest; From the old Thracian dog they learn'd the

way

To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey: As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they feel,

Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.

Such their inverted taste, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect.
So the fell snake rejects the fragrant flow'rs,
And every poison of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,

You read your poet with a poet's flame;

With his, your gen'rous raptures still aspire; The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.

The emblems of her whiter hand;
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell:
'Tis true," said he. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a sudden all was gone.
Fond man, resemblances of thee;
With that I stopp'd. Said Love, "These be,
E'en in the twinkling of an eye;
And as these flow'rs thy joy shall die,
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets that knit together."

$173. The Diverting History of John Gilpin; showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again. COWPER.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

But when some lame, some limping line de- A train-band captain eke was he

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Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
Though wedded we have been
No holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair,

My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we.

* Zoilus, so called by the ancients.

He soon replied, I do admire

Of woman kind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go.

Quoth Mistress Gilpin, That's well said;
And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish'd with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;
O'erjoy'd was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allow'd

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,
Where they did all get in,
Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

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Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,

Were never folk so glad;

The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seiz'd fast the flowing mane:
And up he got in haste to ride,
But soon came down again :
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,
His journey to begin,

When turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it griev'd him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind;
When Betty screaming came down stairs,
"The wine is left behind!"
Good lack quoth he-yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.
Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul!
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she lov'd,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true;
Then over all, that he might be

Equipp'd from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw.

Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,
Up flew the windows all:
And ev'ry soul cried out, Well done!
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he ;
His fame soon spread around-
He carries weight! he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound.

And still as fast as he drew near

"Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight,
With leathern girdle brac'd;
For all might see the bottles' necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
And till he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.

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Or a wild-goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife
From balcony espied

Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house-
They all at once did cry:

The dinner waits, and we are tir'd:
Said Gilpin-So am I.

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclin'd to tarry there;

For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend's the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amaz'd to see

His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:

What news? what news? your tidings tell,
Tell me you must and shall—

Say why bare-headed you are come,
Or why you come at all!

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And lov'd a timely joke ;
And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke :

I came because your horse would come,
And, if I well forebode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road.

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Return'd him not a single word,
But to the house went in.

When straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flow'd beliind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus show'd his ready wit:
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.

Said John, It is my wedding day;
And all the world would stare,

If wife should dine at Edmonton,

And I should dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said,
I am in haste to dine:

'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear:
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar ;

And gallop'd off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why? they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half a crown:

And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell,
This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear,
They rais'd the hue and cry :

Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town,
Nor stopp'd till where he first got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to sec!

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THE curfew tolls the hour of closing gates; With jarring sounds the porterturns the key; Then in his dreary mansion slumb'ring waits, And slowly, sternly, quits it though for me. | Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, And through the cloisters peace and silence reign;

Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune, Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain; Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room, Where sleeps a student in profound repose, Oppress'd with ale, wide echoes thro' the gloom The droning music of his vocal nose.

Within those walls, where through the glimmering shade

Appear the pamphlets in a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow bed till morning laid,

The peaceful fellows of the college sleep. The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray'rs,

The noisy servants rattling o'er their head, The calls of business, and domestic cares, Ne'er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed.

No chattering females crowd their social fire, No dread have they of discord and of strife; Unknown the names of husband and of sire, Unfelt the plagues`of matrimonial life.

Oft have they bask'd beneath the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight,

How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate!

O! let not temperance, too disdainful, hear How long their feasts, how long their dinners last:

Nor let the fair, with a contemptuous sneer,

On these unmarried men reflections cast! The splendid fortune and the beauteous face (Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan)

Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace;
These sons of science shine in black alone.

Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault,
If these no feats of gaiety display,
Where through proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing
vault

Melodious Frasi trills her quavering lay.

Say, is the sword well suited to the band? Does broider'd coat agree with sable gown? Can Mechlin laces shade a churchman's hand? Or learning's votaries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tottering walls reside

Some who were once the darling of the fair, Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Control the manager, and awe the player.

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Enclos'd by doors of glass in Doric style, On polish'd pillars rais'd with bronzes deck'd, They claim the passing tribute of a smile.

Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound, Mis-spelt by blundering binders' want of And many a catalogue is strew'd around, [care, To tell the admiring guest what books are there.

For who, to thoughtless ignorance a prey, Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book? Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,

And on those cases casts a lingering look? Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes;

For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries, Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require;

And Sense and Nature Grandison desire. For thee, who, inindful of thy lov'd compeers, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, with prying search, in future years, Some antiquarian should inquire thy fate;

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