Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series

by Alexander Pope

  From Gods above no more compassion find;

  If such inclemency in Heav’n can dwell,

  Yet why must unoffending Argos feel 770

  The vengeance due to this unlucky steel?

  On me, on me, let all thy fury fall,

  Nor err from me, since I deserve it all:

  Unless our desert cities please thy sight,

  Or funeral flames reflect a grateful light. 775

  Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend,

  And to the shades a ghost triumphant send:

  But for my country let my fate atone;

  Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own.”

  ‘Merit distress’d impartial Heav’n relieves: 780

  Unwelcome life relenting Phœbus gives;

  For not the vengeful Power, that glow’d with rage,

  With such amazing virtue durst engage.

  The clouds dispers’d, Apollo’s wrath expired,

  And from the wond’ring God th’ unwilling youth retired. 785

  Thence we these altars in his temple raise,

  And offer annual honours, feasts, and praise;

  These solemn feasts propitious Phœbus please;

  These honours, still renew’d, his ancient wrath appease.

  ‘But say, illustrious guest! (adjoin’d the King) 790

  What name you bear, from what high race you spring?

  The noble Tydeus stands confess’d, and known

  Our neighbour prince, and heir of Calydon:

  Relate your fortunes, while the friendly night

  And silent hours to various talk invite.’ 795

  The Theban bends on earth his gloomy eyes,

  Confused, and sadly thus at length replies: —

  ‘Before these altars how shall I proclaim,

  O gen’rous Prince! my nation or my name,

  Or thro’ what veins our ancient blood has roll’d? 800

  Let the sad tale for ever rest untold!

  Yet if, propitious to a wretch unknown,

  You seek to share in sorrows not your own,

  Know then from Cadmus I derive my race,

  Jocasta’s son, and Thebes my native place.’ 805

  To whom the King (who felt his gen’rous breast

  Touch’d with concern for his unhappy guest)

  Replies—’Ah! why forbears the son to name

  His wretched father, known too well by Fame?

  Fame, that delights around the world to stray, 810

  Scorns not to take our Argos in her way.

  Ev’n those who dwell where suns at distance roll,

  In northern wilds, and freeze beneath the pole,

  And those who tread the burning Libyan lands,

  The faithless Syrtes, and the moving sands; 815

  Who view the western sea’s extremest bounds,

  Or drink of Ganges in their eastern grounds;

  All these the woes of Œdipus have known,

  Your fates, your furies, and your haunted town.

  If on the sons the parents’ crimes descend, 820

  What prince from those his lineage can defend?

  Be this thy comfort, that ‘t is thine t’ efface,

  With virtuous acts, thy ancestors’ disgrace,

  And be thyself the honour of thy race.

  But see! the stars begin to steal away, 825

  And shine more faintly at approaching day;

  Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays

  Once more resound the great Apollo’s praise.’

  ‘O father Phœbus! whether Lycia’s coast

  And snowy mountains thy bright presence boast; 830

  Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair,

  And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair;

  Or pleas’d to find fair Delos float no more,

  Delight in Cynthus and the shady shore;

  Or choose thy seat in Ilion’s proud abodes, 835

  The shining structures rais’d by lab’ring Gods:

  By thee the bow and mortal shafts are borne;

  Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn;

  Skill’d in the laws of secret Fate above,

  And the dark counsels of almighty Jove. 840

  ‘T is thine the seeds of future war to know,

  The change of sceptres and impending woe,

  When direful meteors spread thro’ glowing air

  Long trails of light, and shake their blazing hair.

  Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire 845

  T’ excel the music of thy heav’nly lyre;

  Thy shafts avenged lewd Tityus’ guilty flame,

  Th’ immortal victim of thy mother’s fame;

  Thy hand slew Python, and the dame who lost

  Her numerous offspring for a fatal boast. 850

  In Phlegyas’ doom thy just revenge appears,

  Condemn’d to furies and eternal fears;

  He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye,

  The mould’ring rock that trembles from on high.

  Propitious hear our prayer, O Power divine! 855

  And on thy hospitable Argos shine;

  Whether the style of Titan please thee more,

  Whose purple rays th’ Achæmenes adore;

  Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain

  In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain; 860

  Or Mitra, to whose beams the Persian bows,

  And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows;

  Mitra! whose head the blaze of light adorns,

  Who grasps the struggling heifer’s lunar horns.’

  Imitations of English Poets

  Chaucer

  These imitations, with the exception of Silence (Lintot, 1712), were not published till 1727. Pope says, however, that they were ‘done as early as the translations, some of them at fourteen and fifteen years old.’ The Happy Life of a Country Parson must have been written later than the rest, as Pope did not know Swift till 1713.

  WOMEN ben full of ragerie,

  Yet swinken not sans secresie.

  Thilke Moral shall ye understond,

  From schoole-boy’s Tale of fayre Irelond;

  Which to the Fennes hath him betake, 5

  To filche the grey Ducke fro the Lake.

  Right then there passen by the way

  His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway.

  Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,

  Not to be spied of ladies gent. 10

  ‘But ho! our Nephew,’ crieth one;

  ‘Ho!’ quoth another, ‘Cozen John;’

  And stoppen, and lough, and callen out —

  This sely Clerke full low doth lout:

  They asken that, and talken this, 15

  ‘Lo, here is Coz, and here is Miss.’

  But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,

  The Ducke sore tickleth his Erse-roote:

  Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest,

  Forth thrust a white neck and red crest. 20

  ‘Te-hee,’ cried ladies; clerke nought spake;

  Miss stared, and grey Ducke crieth ‘quaake.’

  ‘O Moder, Moder!’ quoth the Daughter,

  ‘Be thilke same thing Maids longen a’ter?

  Bette is to pine on coals and chalke, 25

  Then trust on Mon whose yerde can talke.’

  Spenser: The Alley

  IN ev’ry Town where Thamis rolls his tyde,

  A narrow pass there is, with houses low,

  Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,

  And many a boat soft sliding to and fro:

  There oft are heard the notes of Infant Woe, 5

  The short thick Sob, loud Scream, and shriller Squall:

  How can ye, Mothers, vex your children so?

  Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,

  And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

  And on the broken pavement, here and there, 10

  Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie
;

  A brandy and tobacco shop is neare,

  And hens, and dogs, and hogs, are feeding by;

  And here a sailor’s jacket hangs to dry.

  At ev’ry door are sunburnt matrons seen, 15

  Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;

  Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between;

  Scolds answer foul-mouth’d Scolds; bad neighbourhood I ween.

  The snappish cur (the passengers’ annoy)

  Close at my heel with yelping treble flies; 20

  The whimp’ring Girl, and hoarser screaming Boy,

  Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;

  The scolding Quean to louder notes doth rise,

  And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;

  To her full pipes the grunting hog replies; 25

  The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,

  And Curs, Girls, Boys, and Scolds, in the deep bass are drown’d.

  Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,

  Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days

  Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch, 30

  Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:

  There learn’d she speech from tongues that never cease.

  Slander beside her like a magpie chatters,

  With Envy (spitting cat), dread foe to peace;

  Like a curs’d cur, Malice before her clatters, 35

  And vexing ev’ry wight, tears clothes and all to tatters.

  Her dugs were mark’d by ev’ry Collier’s hand,

  Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:

  She scratchëd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,

  And bitch and rogue her answer was to all. 40

  Nay, ev’n the parts of shame by name would call:

  Yea, when she passëd by or lane or nook,

  Would greet the man who turn’d him to the wall,

  And by his hand obscene the porter took,

  Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look. 45

  Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,

  Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;

  Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,

  And Twick’nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,

  Grots, statues, urns, and Jo — n’s dog and bitch. 50

  Ne village is without, on either side,

  All up the silver Thames, or all adown;

  Ne Richmond’s self, from whose tall front are eyed

  Vales, spires, meand’ring streams, and Windsor’s tow’ry pride.

  Waller: On a Lady Singing to Her Lute

  FAIR Charmer, cease! nor make your Voice’s prize

  A heart resign’d the conquest of your Eyes:

  Well might, alas! that threaten’d vessel fail,

  Which winds and lightning both at once assail.

  We were too bless’d with these enchanting lays, 5

  Which must be heav’nly when an Angel plays:

  But killing charms your lover’s death contrive,

  Lest heav’nly music should be heard alive.

  Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree,

  Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he; 10

  A poet made the silent wood pursue;

  This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.

  Waller: On a Fan of the Author’s Design

  In Which Was Painted the Story of Cephalus and Procris, with the Motto ‘Aura Veni’

  COME, gentle air! th’ Æolian shepherd said,

  While Procris panted in the secret shade;

  Come, gentle air! the fairer Delia cries,

  While at her feet her swain expiring lies.

  Lo, the glad gales o’er all her beauties stray, 5

  Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play;

  In Delia’s hand this toy is fatal found,

  Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:

  Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;

  Alike both lovers fall by those they love. 10

  Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,

  At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives;

  She views the story with attentive eyes,

  And pities Procris while her lover dies.

  Cowley: The Garden

  FAIN would my Muse the flow’ry treasures sing,

  And humble glories of the youthful Spring;

  Where op’ning roses breathing sweets diffuse,

  And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;

  Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white, 5

  The thin undress of superficial light;

  And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,

  Blushing in bright diversities of day.

  Each painted flow’ret in the lake below

  Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; 10

  And pale Narcissus, on the bank in vain

  Transformëd, gazes on himself again.

  Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,

  And mount the hill in venerable rows;

  There the green infants in their beds are laid, 15

  The garden’s hope, and its expected shade.

  Here orange trees with blooms and pendants shine,

  And Vernal honours to their Autumn join;

  Exceed their promise in the ripen’d store,

  Yet in the rising blossom promise more. 20

  There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,

  By laurels shielded from the piercing day;

  Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,

  Still from Apollo vindicates her shade;

  Still turns her beauties from th’ invading beam, 25

  Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.

  The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,

  At once a shelter from her boughs receives,

  Where summer’s beauty midst of winter stays,

  And winter’s coolness spite of summer’s rays. 30

  Cowley: Weeping

  WHILE Celia’s tears make sorrow bright,

  Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;

  The sun, next those the fairest light,

  Thus from the ocean first did rise:

  And thus thro’ mists we see the sun, 5

  Which else we durst not gaze upon.

  These silver drops, like morning dew,

  Foretell the fervor of the day:

  So from one cloud soft showers we view,

  And blasting lightnings burst away. 10

  The stars that fall from Celia’s eye

  Declare our doom is drawing nigh.

  The baby in that sunny sphere

  So like a Phaëton appears,

  That Heav’n, the threaten’d world to spare, 15

  Thought fit to drown him in her tears;

  Else might th’ ambitious nymph aspire

  To set, like him, Heav’n too on fire.

  Earl of Rochester: On Silence

  SILENCE! coeval with Eternity,

  Thou wert ere Nature’s self began to be,

  ‘T was one vast nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.

  Thine was the sway ere Heav’n was form’d, or earth,

  Ere fruitful thought conceiv’d Creation’s birth, 5

  Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

  Then various elements against thee join’d,

  In one more various animal combin’d,

  And framed the clam’rous race of busy humankind.

  The tongue mov’d gently first, and speech was low, 10

  Till wrangling Science taught its noise and show,

  And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

  But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain;

  Lost in the maze of words he turns again,

  And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign. 15

  Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free,

  Oppress’d with argumental tyranny,

  And route
d Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

  With thee in private modest Dulness lies,

  And in thy bosom lurks in thought’s disguise; 20

  Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

  Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;

  Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,

  And ‘t is in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.

  Silence, the knave’s repute, the whore’s good name, 25

  The only honour of the wishing dame;

  The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame.

  But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free,

  How Church and State should be obliged to thee!

  At Senate and at Bar how welcome wouldst thou be! 30

  Yet speech, ev’n there, submissively withdraws

  From rights of subjects, and the poor man’s cause;

  Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy Laws.

  Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,

  What fav’rites gain, and what the nation owes, 35

  Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

  The country wit, religion of the town,

  The courtier’s learning, policy o’ th’ gown,

  Are best by thee express’d, and shine in thee alone.

  The parson’s cant, the lawyer’s sophistry, 40

  Lord’s quibble, critic’s jest, all end in thee;

  All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

  Earl of Dorset: Artemisia

  THO’ Artemisia talks by fits

  Of councils, classics, fathers, wits,

  Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke,

  Yet in some things methinks she fails:

  ‘T were well if she would pare her nails, 5

  And wear a cleaner smock.

  Haughty and huge as High Dutch bride,

  Such nastiness and so much pride

  Are oddly join’d by fate:

  On her large squab you find her spread, 10

  Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

  That lies and stinks in state.

  She wears no colours (sign of grace)

  On any part except her face;

  All white and black beside: 15

  Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,

  Her voice theatrically loud,

  And masculine her stride.

  So have I seen, in black and white,

  A prating thing, a magpie hight, 20

  Majestically stalk;

  A stately worthless animal,

  That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,

  All flutter, pride, and talk.

  Earl of Dorset: Phryne

  PHRYNE had talents for mankind;

  Open she was and unconfin’d,