And each ferocious feature grim with ooze.
Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares;
Then thus the wonders of the deep declares,
First he relates, how smking to the chin,
Smit with his mien, the Mudnymphs suck’d him in,
How young Lutetia softer than the down,
Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown,
Vy’d for his love in jetty bow’rs below;
As Hylas fair was ravish’d long ago.
Then sung how, shown him by the nutbrown maids
A branch of Styx here rises from the Shades,
That tinctur’d as it runs with Lethe’s streams,
And wafting vapors from the Land of Dreams,
(As under seas Alphaeus’ sacred sluice
Bears Pisa’s offerings to his Arethuse)
Pours into Thames: Each City-bowl is full
Of the mixt wave, and all who drink grow dull.
How to the banks where bards departed doze,
They led him soft; how all the bards arose;
Taylor, sweet bird of Thames, majestic bows,
And Sh… nods the poppy on his brows;
While M…n there, deputed by the rest,
Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest;
And “Take (he said) these robes which once were mine,
“Dulness is sacred in a sound Divine.
He ceas’d, and show’d the robe; the crowd confess
The rev’rend Flamen in his lengthen’d dress.
Slow mov’d the Goddess from the silver flood,
(Her Priest preceding) thro’ the gates of Lud.
Her Criticks there she summons, and proclaims
A gentler exercise to close the games.
Hear you! in whose grave heads, as equal scales,
I weigh what author’s heaviness prevails,
Which most conduce to sooth the soul in slumbers,
My H…’s periods, or my Bl…’s numbers?
Attend the trial we propose to make:
If there be man who o’er such works can wake,
Sleep’s all-subduing pow’r who dares defy,
And boasts Ulysses’ ear with Argus’ eye;
To him we grant our amplest pow’rs to fit
Judge of all present, past, and future wit,
To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong,
Full, and eternal privilege of tongue.
Three Cambridge Sophs and three pert Templars came,
The same their talents, and their tastes the same;
Each prompt to query, answer, and debate,
And smit with love of poesie and prate.
The pond’rous books two gentle Readers bring;
The heroes sit; the vulgar form a ring.
The clam’rous crowd is hush’d with mugs of Mum,
‘Till all tun’d equal, send a general hum.
Then mount the Clerks; and in one lazy tone,
Thro’ the long, heavy, painful page, drawl on,
Soft creeping words on words the sense compose,
At e’vry line, they stretch, they yawn, they doze.
As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low
Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow,
Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline,
As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine.
And now to this side, now to that, they nod,
As verse, or prose, infuse the drowzy God.
Thrice B…l aim’d to speak, but thrice supprest
By potent Arthur, knock’d his chin and breast.
C…s and T…d, prompt at Priests to jeer,
Yet silent bow’d to Christ’s no kingdom here.
Who sate the nearest, by the word’s o’ercome
Slept first, the distant nodded to the hum.
Then down are roll’d the books; stretch’d o’er ‘em+lies
Each gentle clerk, and mutt’ring seals his eyes.
As what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes,
One circle first, and then a second makes,
What dulness dropt among her sons imprest
Like motion, from one circle to the rest;
So from the mid-most the nutation spreads
Round, and more round, o’er all the sea of heads.
At last C…re felt her voice to fail,
And himself unfinish’d left his Tale.
T…s and T… the church and state gave o’er,
Nor talk’d, nor S… whisper’d more.
Ev’n N…n, gifted with his mother’s tongue,
Tho’ born at Wapping, and from Daniel sprung,
Ceas’d his loud bawling breath, and dropt the head;
And all was hush’d, as Folly’s self lay dead.
Thus the soft gifts of Sleep conclude the day,
And stretch’d on bulks, as usual, Poets lay.
Why should I sing what bards the Nightly Muse
Did slumbring visit, and convey to stews?
Or prouder march’d, with magistrates in state,
To some fam’d round-house, ever open gate!
How E… lay inspir’d beside a sink,
And to mere mortals seem’d a Priest in drink?
All others timely, to the neighbouring Fleet
(Haunt of the Muses) made their safe retreat.
End of the Second Book.
THREE BOOK DUNCIAD. BOOK THE THIRD.
BUT in her Temple’s last recess inclos’d,
On Dulness’ lap th’ Anointed head repos’d.
Him close she curtain’d round with vapors blue,
And soft besprinkled with Cimmerian dew.
Then Raptures high the seat of sense o’erflow,
Which only heads refin’d from reason know:
Hence from the straw where Bedlam’s Prophet nods,
He hears loud Oracles, and talks with Gods;
Hence the Fool’s paradise, the Statesman’s scheme,
The air-built Castle, and the golden Dream,
The Maids romantic wish, the Chymists flame,
And Poets vision of eternal fame.
And now, on Fancy’s easy wing convey’d,
The King descended to th’ Elyzian shade.
There in a dusky vale where Lethe rolls,
Old Bavius sits, to dip poetic souls,
And blunt the sense, and fit it for a skull
Of solid proof, impenetrably dull.
Instant when dipt, away they wing their flight,
Where Brown and Mears unbar the gates of Light,
Demand new bodies, and in Calf’s array
Rush to the world, impatient for the day.
Millions and millions on these banks he views,
Thick as the Stars of night, or morning dews,
As thick as bees o’er vernal blossoms fly,
As thick as eggs at W…d in pillory.
Wond’ring he gaz’d: When lo! a Sage appears,
By his broad shoulders known, and length of ears,
Known by the band and suit which Settle wore,
(His only suit) for twice three years before.
All as the Vest, appear’d the wearers frame,
Old in new state, another, yet the same.
Bland and familiar as in life, begun
Thus the great Father to the greater Son.
Oh! born to see what none can see awake!
Behold the wonders of th’ Oblivious Lake.
Thou, yet unborn, hast touch’d this sacred shore,
The hand of Bavius drench’d thee o’er and o’er.
But blind to former, as to future, Fate,
What mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Who knows how long, thy transmigrating soul
Did from Boeotian to Boeotian roll?
How many Dutchmen she vouchsaf’d to thrid?
How many stages thro’ old Monks she rid?
And all who since, in mild benighted days,
Mix’d the Owl’s ivy with the
Poet’s bays?
As Man’s maeanders to the vital spring
Roll all their tydes, then back their circles bring;
Or whirligigs, twirl’d round by skilful swain,
Suck the thread in, then yield it out again:
All nonsense thus, of old or modern date,
Shall in thee centre, from thee circulate.
For this, our Queen unfolds to vision true
Thy mental eye, for thou hast much to view:
Old scenes of glory, times long cast behind,
Shall first recall’d, rush forward to thy mind;
Then stretch thy sight o’er all her rising reign,
And let the past and future fire thy brain.
Ascend this hill, whose cloudy point commands
Her boundless Empire over seas and lands.
See round the Poles where keener spangles shine,
Where spices smoke beneath the burning Line,
(Earths wide extreams) her fable flag display’d;
And all the nations cover’d in her shade!
Far Eastward cast thy eye, from whence the Sun
And orient Science at a birth begun.
One man immortal all that pride confounds.
He, whose long Wall the wand’ring Tartar bounds.
Heav’ns! what a pyle? whole ages perish there:
And one bright blaze turns Learning into air.
Thence to the South as far extend thy eyes;
There rival flames with equal glory rise,
From shelves to shelves see greedy Vulcan roll,
And lick up all their Physick of the Soul.
How little, see! that portion of the ball,
Where faint at best the beams of science fall!
Against her throne, from Hyperborean skies,
In dulness strong, th’ avenging Vandals rise;
Lo where Moeotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais thro’ a waste of snows,
The North by myriads pours her mighty sons,
Great nurse of Goths, of Alans, and of Huns.
See Alaric’s stern port, the martial frame
Of Genseric, and Attila’s dread name!
See! the bold Ostrogoths on Latium fall;
See! the fierce Visigoths on Spain and Gaul.
See! where the morning gilds the palmy shore,
(The soil that arts and infant letters bore)
His conq’ring tribes th’ Arabian prophet draws.
And saving Ignorance enthrones by Laws.
See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep;
And all the Western World believe and sleep.
Lo Rome herself, proud mistress now no more
Of arts, but thund’ring against Heathen lore;
Her gray-hair’d Synods damning books unread,
And Bacon trembling for his brazen Head.
Lo statues, temples, theatres o’erturn’d,
Oh glorious ruin! and burn’d.
See’st thou an Isle, by Palmers, Pilgrims trod,
Men bearded, bald, cowl’d, uncowl’d, shod, unshod,
Peel’d, patch’d, and pieball’d, linsey-woolsey brothers
Grave mummers, sleeveless some, and shirtless others.
That once was Britain — Happy! had she seen
No fiercer sons, had Easter never been.
In peace, great Goddess! ever be ador’d;
How keen the war, if dulness draw the sword?
Thus visit not thy own! on this blest age
Oh spread thy Influence, but restrain thy Rage!
And see my son, the hour is on its way
That lifts our Goddess to imperial sway:
This fav’rite Isle, long sever’d from her reign,
Dove-like, she gathers to her wings again.
Now look thro’ Fate! behold the scene she draws!
What aids, what armies, to assert her cause!
See all her progeny, illustrious sight!
Behold, and count them as they rise to light.
As Berecynthia, while her offspring vye
In homage, to the mother of the sky,
Surveys around her in the blest abode
A hundred sons, and ev’ry son a God:
Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown’d,
Shall take thro’ Grubstreet her triumphant round,
And all Parnassus glancing o’er at once,
Behold a hundred sons, and each a dunce.
Mark first the youth who takes the foremost place
And-thrusts his person full into your face.
With all thy Father’s virtues blest, be born!
And a new C…r shall the stage adorn.
See yet a younger, by his blushes known,
And modest as the maid who sips alone.
From the strong fate of drams if thou get free,
Another Durfey, shall sing in thee.
For thee each Ale-house, and each Gill-house mourn,
And answ’ring Gin-shops sowrer sighs return.
Behold yon pair, in strict embraces join’d;
How like their manners, and how like their mind!
Fam’d for good nature, B… and for truth,
D… for pious passion to the youth.
Equal in wit, and equally polite,
Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write;
Like are their merits, like rewards they share,
That shines a Consul, this Commissioner.
Ah D… , G… ah! what ill-starr’d rage
Divides a friendship long confirm’d by age?
Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barb’rous, civil war.
Embrace, embrace my Sons! be foes no more!
Nor glad vile Poets with true Criticks gore.
See next two slip-shod Muses traipse along,
In lofty madness meditating song,
With tresses staring from poetic dreams,
And never wash’d, but in Castalia’s streams.
H… and T… , glories of their race!
Lo H…ck’s fierce, and M…’s rueful face!
W…n, the scourge of Scripture, mark with awe!
And mighty J…b Blunderbus of Law!
Lo thousand thousand, ev’ry nameless name,
All crowd, who foremost shall be damn’d to fame;
How proud! how pale! how earnest all appear!
How rhymes eternal gingle in their ear!
Pass these to nobler sights: Lo H… stands
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands,
How honey’d nonsense trickles from his tongue!
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung!
Still break the benches, H… with thy strain,
While K… , Br…, W… preach in vain
Round him, each Science by its modern type
Stands known; Divinity with box and pipe,
And proud Philosophy with breeches tore,
And English Musick with a dismal score:
While happier Hist’ry with her comrade Ale,
Sooths the sad series of her tedious tale.
Fast by, in darkness palpable inshrin’d
W…s, B…r, M…n, all the poring kind,
A lumberhouse of Books in every head,
Are ever reading, and are never read.
But who is he, in closet close y-pent,
With visage from his shelves with dust besprent?
Right well mine eyes arede that myster wight,
That wonnes in haulkes and hernes, and H… he hight.
To future ages may thy dulness last,
As thou preserv’st the dulness of the past!
But oh! what scenes, what miracles behind?
Now stretch thy view, and open all thy mind.
He look’d, and saw a sable * seer arise,
Swift to whose hand a winged volume flies.
All sudden, gorgons hiss, and dragons glare,
And ten horn’d fie
nds, and giants, threaten war.
Hell rises, heav’n descends, to dance on earth:
Gods, monsters, furies, musick, rage and mirth;
A fire, a jig, a battel, and a ball,
‘Till one wide conflagration swallows all.
Then a new world to nature’s laws unknown,
Refulgent rises, with a heav’n its own:
Another Cynthia her new journey runs,
And other planets circle other suns:
The forests dance, the rivers upward rise,
Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies;
And last, to give the whole creation grace,
Lo! one vast Egg produces human race.
Silent the monarch gaz’d; yet ask’d in thought
What God or Daemon all these wonders wrought?
To whom the Sire: In yonder cloud, behold,
Whose sarcenet skirts are edg’d with flamy gold,
A godlike youth: See Jove’s own bolts he flings,
Rolls the loud thunder, and the light’ning wings!
Angel of Dulness, sent to scatter round
Her magic charms on all unclassic ground:
Yon stars, yon suns, he rears at pleasure higher,
Illumes their light, and sets their flames on fire.
Immortal R…ch! how calm he sits at ease,
Mid snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease?
And proud his mistress’ orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
But lo! to dark encounter in mid air
New wizards rise: here B…th, and C…r there.
B…th in his cloudy tabernacle shrin’d,
On grinning dragons C…r mounts the wind:
Dire is the conflict, dismal is the din,
Here shouts all Drury, there all Lincoln’s-Inn;
Contending Theatres our empire raise,
Alike their labours, and alike their praise.
And are these wonders, Son, to thee unknown?
Unknown to thee? These wonders are thy own.
These Fate reserv’d to grace thy reign divine,
Foreseen by me, but ah! with-held from mine.
In Lud’s old walls tho’ long I rul’d renown’d,
Far as loud Bow’s stupendous bells resound;
Tho’ my own Aldermen conferr’d my bays,
To me committing their eternal praise,
Their full-fed Heroes, their pacific May’rs,
Their annual trophies, and their monthly wars:
Tho’ long my Party built on me their hopes,
For writing Pamphlets, and for roasting Popes
(Different our parties, but with equal grace
Our Goddess smiles on Whig and Tory race,
‘Tis the same rope at sev’ral ends they twist,
To Dulness, Ridpath is as dear as Mist.)
Yet lo! in me what Authors have to brag on!
Reduc’d at last to hiss in my own dragon.
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 51
