230 To grace the mansion of our earthly gods;
Nor all his stars above a lustre show
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
His sovereign favours, and his country loves:
Happy next him, who to these shades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
240 Successive study, exercise, and ease.
He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields:
With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,
And draws the aromatic souls of flowers;
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O’er figured worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learnèd store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o’er:
Or wand’ring thoughtful in the silent wood,
250 Attends the duties of the wise and good,
T’ observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow Nature, and regard his end;
Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admired;
Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired.
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
260 Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, O bear me to sequestered scenes,
The bow’ry mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames’s banks, which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper’s Hill.
(On Cooper’s Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.)
I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove;
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
270 By godlike poets venerable made:
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flowed from Cowley’s tongue.
Oh early lost! what tears the river shed
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on every note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse’s lyre.
Since fate relentless stopped their heavenly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley strung
280 His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these revived, or is it Granville sings?
’Tis yours, my Lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient seats;
To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,
To crown the forests with immortal greens,
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honours you deserve to wear,
290 And add new lustre to her silver star!
Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance;
In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre
To the same notes, of love, and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then filled the groves, as heavenly Myra now.
Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
300 What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallowed earth contains!
With Edward’s acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through every age,
Draw monarchs chained, and Cressi’s glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield;
Then, from her roofs when Verrio’s colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy song should vanquished France appear,
310 And bleed for ever under Britain’s spear.
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.
Here o’er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast beside him, once-feared Edward sleeps:
Whom not th’ extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where ev’n the great find rest,
And blended lie th’ oppressor and th’ oppressed!
Make sacred Charles’s tomb for ever known
320 (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone);
Oh fact accurst! what tears has Albion shed,
Heavens! what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said, ‘Let discord cease!’
She said! the world obeyed, and all was peace!
In that blest moment from his oozy bed
330 Old father Thames advanced his reverend head;
His tresses dropped with dews, and o’er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:
Graved on his urn appeared the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver rolled,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood.
First the famed authors of his ancient name,
340 The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame;
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned;
The Lodden slow, with verdant alders crowned;
Cole, whose dark streams his flow’ry islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave;
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stained with Danish blood.
High in the midst, upon his urn reclined
350 (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind),
The god appeared: he turned his azure eyes
Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets rise;
Then bowed and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hushed waves glide softly to the shore.
‘Hail, sacred peace! hail, long-expected days,
That Thames’s glory to the stars shall raise!
Though Tiber’s streams immortal Rome behold,
Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From Heaven itself though sev’nfold Nilus flows,
360 And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
These now no more shall be the Muse’s themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.
Let Volga’s banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine;
Let barb’rous Ganges arm a servile train,
Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber’s sands, or Ister’s foaming flood;
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
> 370 Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase;
The trumpets sleep while cheerful horns are blown,
And arms employed on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! th’ ascending villas on my side
Project long shadows o’er the crystal tide;
Behold! Augusta’s glittering spires increase,
And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace.
I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
380 Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world’s great oracle in times to come;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.
‘Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,
And half thy forests rush into my floods,
Bear Britain’s thunder, and her cross display
To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
390 Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
400 And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth’s distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feathered people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
410 Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roofed with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest Hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb’rous Discord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition shall attend her there;
There purple Vengeance, bathed in gore, retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel,
420 And Persecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.’
Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallowed lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion’s golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville’s verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
430 And scatters blessings from her dovelike wing.
Ev’n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise;
Enough for me, that to the list’ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.
Prologue to Mr Addison’s Tragedy of Cato
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o’er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through ev’ry age;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wondered how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
10 The hero’s glory, or the virgin’s love;
In pitying love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen’rous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws;
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confessed in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your sight displays,
20 But what with pleasure Heav’n itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country’s cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev’ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev’n when proud Caesar, midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
30 Showed Rome her Cato’s figure drawn in state;
As her dead father’s rev’rend image passed,
The pomp was darkened, and the day o’ercast;
The triumph ceased, tears gushed from ev’ry eye;
The world’s great victor passed unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome adored,
And honoured Caesar’s less than Cato’s sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,
And show you have the virtue to be moved.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed
40 Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warmed with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato’s self had not disdained to hear.
The Rape of the Lock
An Heroi-Comical Poem
To Mrs Arabella Fermor
Madam,
It will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since I dedicate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness, it was intended only to divert a few young ladies, who have good sense and good humour enough to laugh not only at their sex’s little unguarded follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the air of a secret, it soon found its way into the world. An imperfect copy having been offered to a bookseller, you had the good nature, for my sake, to consent to the publication of one more correct: this I was forced to, before I had executed half my design, for the machinery was entirely wanting to complete it.
The machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons are made to act in a poem: for the ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies; let an action be never so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the utmost importance. These machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd foundation, the Rosicrucian doctrine of spirits.
I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but ’tis so much the concern of a poet to have his works understood, and particularly by your sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or three difficult terms.
The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The best account I know of them is in a French book called Le Comte de Gabalis, which, both in its title and size, is so like a novel that many of the fair sex have read it for on
e by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the four elements are inhabited by spirits, which they call sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders. The gnomes, or demons of earth, delight in mischief; but the sylphs, whose habitation is in the air, are the best-conditioned creatures imaginable; for, they say, any mortal may enjoy the most intimate familiarities with these gentle spirits, upon a condition very easy to all true adepts, an inviolate preservation of chastity.
As to the following cantos, all the passages of them are as fabulous as the vision at the beginning, or the transformation at the end (except the loss of your hair, which I always mention with reverence). The human persons are as fictitious as the airy ones; and the character of Belinda, as it is now managed, resembles you in nothing but in beauty.
If this poem had as many graces as there are in your person, or in your mind, yet I could never hope it should pass through the world half so uncensured as you have done. But let its fortune be what it will, mine is happy enough, to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I am, with the truest esteem, Madam, Your most obedient, humble servant,
A. Pope
The Rape of the Lock
Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos;
Sed juvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.
Canto I
What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
I sing – This verse to Caryll, Muse! is due:
This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
A well-bred lord t’ assault a gentle belle?
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
10 Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?
In tasks so bold can little men engage,
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?
Sol through white curtains shot a tim’rous ray,
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day.
Now lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,
And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake;
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,
And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed,
20 Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy rest:
The Rape of the Lock and Other Major Writings Page 7
