And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflamed with Glory’s charms:
Each chief his sev’nfold shield display’d, 45
And half unsheath’d the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!
IV
But when thro’ all th’ infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 50
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear’d,
O’er all the dreary coasts! 55
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans, 60
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortured ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre,
And see! the tortured ghosts respire!
See, shady forms advance! 65
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance;
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl’d hang list’ning round their heads. 70
V
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O’er th’ Elysian flowers;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of Asphodel, 75
Or Amaranthine bowers:
By the heroes’ armed shades,
Glitt’ring thro’ the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wand’ring in the myrtle grove, 80
Restore, restore Eurydice to life!
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and Hell consented
To hear the Poet’s prayer:
Stern Proserpine relented, 85
And gave him back the Fair.
Thus song could prevail
O’er Death and o’er Hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
Tho’ fate had fast bound her, 90
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.
VI
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? 95
No crime was thine, if ‘t is no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders, 100
All alone,
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost! 105
Now with Furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope’s snows.
See, wild as the winds, o’er the desert he flies! 110
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries —
Ah see, he dies!
Yet ev’n in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue;
Eurydice the woods, 115
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
VII
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate’s severest rage disarm:
Music can soften pain to ease, 120
And make despair and madness please:
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker’s praise confin’d the sound. 125
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th’ immortal Powers incline their ear;
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,
And Angels lean from Heav’n to hear. 130
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell;
To bright Cecilia greater power is giv’n:
His numbers rais’d a shade from Hell,
Hers lift the soul to Heav’n.
Argus
Written in 1709 and sent in a letter to Henry Cromwell in 1711.
WHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss’d,
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends, and ev’n his Queen unknown,
Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares, 5
Furrow’d his rev’rend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forc’d to ask his bread,
Scorn’d by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew,
The faithful Dog alone his rightful master knew! 10
Unfed, unhous’d, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant now cashier’d, he lay;
Touch’d with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw he rose, and crawl’d to meet, 15
(‘T was all he could) and fawn’d and kiss’d his feet,
Seiz’d with dumb joy; then falling by his side,
Own’d his returning lord, look’d up, and died!
The Balance of Europe
Now Europe balanc’d, neither side prevails:
For nothing’s left in either of the scales.
The Translator
‘Egbert Sanger,’ says Warton, ‘served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet Street. Lintot printed Ozell’s translation of Perrault’s Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau’s Lutrin, recommended by Rowe, in 1709.’
OZELL, at Sanger’s call, invoked his Muse —
For who to sing for Sanger could refuse?
His numbers such as Sanger’s self might use.
Reviving Perrault, murd’ring Boileau, he
Slander’d the ancients first, then Wycherley; 5
Which yet not much that old bard’s anger rais’d,
Since those were slander’d most whom Ozell prais’d.
Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,
Had not sage Rowe pronounc’d it entertaining;
How great must be the judgment of that writer, 10
Who The Plain Dealer damns, and prints The Biter!
On Mrs. Tofts, a Famous Opera-Singer
Katharine Tofts was an English opera-singer popular in London between 1703 and 1709.
SO bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along:
But such is thy av’rice, and such is thy pride,
That the beasts must have starv’d, and the poet have died.
Epistle to Mrs. Blount, with the Works of Voiture
To Teresa Blount. First published in Lintot’s Miscellany, in 1712.
IN these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
And all the writer lives in ev’ry line;
His easy Art may happy Nature seem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate, 5
Who without flatt’ry pleas’d the Fair and Great;
Still with esteem no less convers’d than read,
With wit well-natured, and with books well-bred:
His heart his mistress and his friend did share,
His time the Muse, the witty, and the fair. 10
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play’d the trifle, Life, away;
Till Fate scarce felt his gentle breath supprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
Ev’n
rival Wits did Voiture’s death deplore, 15
And the gay mourn’d who never mourn’d before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav’d with sighs,
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The Smiles and Loves had died in Voiture’s death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe. 20
Let the strict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and serious Comedy;
In ev’ry scene some Moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and preach.
Let mine an innocent gay farce appear, 25
And more diverting still than regular,
Have Humour, Wit, a native Ease and Grace,
Tho’ not too strictly bound to Time and Place:
Critics in Wit, or Life, are hard to please,
Few write to those, and none can live to these. 30
Too much your Sex is by their forms confin’d,
Severe to all, but most to Womankind;
Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide;
Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride;
By Nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, 35
Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame;
Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase;
But sets up one, a greater, in their place;
Well might you wish for change by those accurst,
But the last tyrant ever proves the worst. 40
Still in constraint your suff’ring Sex remains,
Or bound in formal, or in real chains:
Whole years neglected, for some months ador’d,
The fawning Servant turns a haughty Lord.
Ah, quit not the free innocence of life, 45
For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife;
Nor let false shows, or empty titles please;
Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease.
The Gods, to curse Pamela with her pray’rs,
Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares, 50
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.
She glares in Balls, front Boxes, and the Ring,
A vain, unquiet, glitt’ring, wretched thing!
Pride, Pomp, and State but reach her outward part; 55
She sighs, and is no Duchess at her heart.
But, Madam, if the fates withstand, and you
Are destin’d Hymen’s willing victim too;
Trust not too much your now resistless charms,
Those Age or Sickness soon or late disarms: 60
Good humour only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past;
Love, rais’d on Beauty, will like that decay,
Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day;
As flow’ry bands in wantonness are worn, 65
A morning’s pleasure, and at evening torn;
This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.
Thus Voiture’s early care still shone the same,
And Montausier was only changed in name; 70
By this, ev’n now they live, ev’n now they charm,
Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm.
Now crown’d with myrtle, on th’ Elysian coast,
Amid those lovers, joys his gentle Ghost:
Pleas’d, while with smiles his happy lines you view, 75
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse;
The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, ‘t is our Author’s pride
Still to charm those who charm the world beside. 80
The Dying Christian to His Soul
This Ode was written, we find [in 1712], at the desire of Steele; and our Poet, in a letter to him on that occasion, says,—’You have it, as Cowley calls it, just warm from the brain; it came to me the first moment I waked this morning; yet you ‘ll see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of Hadrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.’ It is possible, however, that our Author might have had another composition in his head, besides those he here refers to: for there is a close and surprising resemblance between this Ode of Pope, and one of an obscure and forgotten rhymer of the age of Charles the Second, Thomas Flatman. (Warton). Pope’s version of the Adriani morientis ad Animam was written at about this date, and sent to Steele for publication in The Spectator. It ran as follows: —
‘Ah, fleeting Spirit! wand’ring fire,
That long hast warm’d my tender breast,
Must thou no more this frame inspire,
No more a pleasing cheerful guest?
Whither, ah whither, art thou flying,
To what dark undiscover’d shore?
Thou seem’st all trembling, shiv’ring, dying,
And Wit and Humour are no more!’
I
VITAL spark of heav’nly flame,
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 5
And let me languish into life!
II
Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 10
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?
III
The world recedes; it disappears;
Heav’n opens on my eyes; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring: 15
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?
Epistle to Mr. Jervas
With Dryden’s Translation of Fresnoy’s Art of Painting
Charles Jervas was an early and firm friend of Pope’s, and, himself an indifferent painter, at one time gave Pope some instruction in painting. Dryden’s translation of Fresnoy appears to have been a hasty and perfunctory piece of work. The poem was first published in 1712.
THIS verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at ev’ry line,
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour’d mass, 5
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy’s close Art and Dryden’s native Fire;
And reading wish like theirs our fate and fame,
So mix’d our studies, and so join’d our name; 10
Like them to shine thro’ long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.
Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite, 15
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While summer suns roll unperceiv’d away!
How oft our slowly growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art! 20
How oft review; each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame, and something to commend.
What flatt’ring scenes our wand’ring fancy wrought,
Rome’s pompous glories rising to our thought!
Together o’er the Alps methinks we fly, 25
Fired with ideas of fair Italy.
With thee on Raphael’s monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro’s urn:
With thee repose where Tully once was laid,
Or seek
some ruin’s formidable shade: 30
While Fancy brings the vanish’d piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye;
A fading fresco here demands a sigh;
Each heav’nly piece unwearied we compare, 35
Match Raphael’s grace with thy lov’d Guido’s air,
Carracci’s strength, Correggio’s softer line,
Paulo’s free stroke, and Titian’s warmth divine.
How finish’d with illustrious toil appears
This small well-polish’d Gem, the work of years, 40
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the painter’s breast!
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies 45
An Angel’s sweetness, or Bridgewater’s eyes.
Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform’d with purer fire; 50
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, 55
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower, that ev’ry season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill’s race shall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worsley’s eyes; 60
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,
And soft Belinda’s blush for ever glow.
O, lasting as those colours may they shine,
Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display, 65
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay!
Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains,
And finish’d more thro’ happiness than pains.
The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 70
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev’ry face;
Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
With Zeuxis’ Helen thy Bridgewater vie, 75
And these be sung till Granville’s Myra die;
Alas! how little from the grave we claim!
Thou but preserv’st a Face and I a Name!
Impromptu to Lady Winchilsea
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 18
