An Essay on Satire, Particularly on the Dunciad Part 2

_Latium's fifth Homer_[28] held the _Greeks_ in view; Solid, tho' rough, yet incorrect as new.

_Lucilius_, warm'd with more than mortal flame Rose next[29], and held a torch to ev'ry shame.

See stern _Menippus_, cynical, unclean; And _Grecian Cento_'s, mannerly obscene.

Add the last efforts of _Pacuvius'_ rage, And the chaste decency of _Varro_'s page.[30]

See _Horace_ next, in each reflection nice, Learn'd, but not vain, the Foe of Fools nor Vice.

Each page instructs, each Sentiment prevails, All s.h.i.+nes alike, he rallies, but ne'er rails: With courtly ease conceals a Master's art, And least-expected steals upon the heart.

Yet _Ca.s.sius_[31] felt the fury of his rage, (_Ca.s.sius_, the _We----d_ of a former age) And sad _Alpinus_, ignorantly read, Who murder'd _Memnon_, tho' for ages dead.

Then _Persius_ came: whose line tho' roughly wrought, His Sense o'erpaid the stricture of his thought.

Here in clear light the _Stoic_-doctrine s.h.i.+nes, Truth all subdues, or Patience all resigns.

A Mind supreme![32] impartial, yet severe: Pure in each Act, in each Recess sincere!

Yet _rich ill_ Poets urg'd the _Stoic_'s Frown, And bade him strike at _Dulness_ and a _Crown_[33].

The Vice and Luxury _Petronius_ drew, In _Nero_ meet: th' imperial point of view: The Roman _Wilmot_, that could Vice chastize, Pleas'd the mad King he serv'd, to satirize.

The next[34] in Satire felt a n.o.bler rage, What honest Heart could bear _Domitian_'s age?

See his strong Sense, and Numbers masculine!

His Soul is kindled, and he kindles mine: Scornful of Vice, and fearless of Offence, He flows a Torrent of impetuous Sense.

Lo! Savage Tyrants Who blasphem'd their G.o.d Turn Suppliants now, and gaze at _Julian_'s Rod.[35]

_Lucian_, severe, but in a gay disguise, Attacks old Faith, or sports in learned Lyes;[36]

Sets Heroes and Philosophers at odds; And scourges Mortals, and dethrones the G.o.ds.

Then all was Night--But _Satire_ rose once more Where _Medici_ and _Leo_ Arts restore.

_Ta.s.sone_ shone fantastic, but sublime: And He, who form'd the _Macaronique_-Rhime:

Then _Westward_ too by slow degrees confest, Where boundless _Rabelais_ made the World his Jest; _Marot_ had Nature, _Regnier_ Force and Flame, But swallow'd all in _Boileau_'s matchless Fame!

Extensive Soul! who rang'd all learning o'er, Present and past--and yet found room for more.

Full of new Sense, exact in every Page, Unbounded, and yet sober in thy Rage.

Strange Fate! _Thy solid_ Sterling _of two lines,_ _Drawn to our_ Tinsel, _thro' whole Pages s.h.i.+nes!_[37]

In _Albion_ then, with equal l.u.s.tre bright, Great _Dryden_ rose, and steer'd by Nature's light.

Two glimmering Orbs he just observ'd from far, The Ocean wide, and dubious either Star, _Donne_ teem'd with Wit, but all was maim'd and bruis'd, The periods endless, and the sense confus'd: _Oldham_ rush'd on, impetuous, and sublime, But lame in Language, Harmony, and Rhyme; These (with new graces) vig'rous nature join'd In one, and center'd 'em in _Dryden_'s mind.

How full thy verse? Thy meaning how severe?

How dark thy theme? yet made exactly clear.

Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage, Yet mercy softens, or contracts each Page.

Dread Bard! instruct us to revere thy rules, And hate like thee, all Rebels, and all Fools.

His Spirit ceas'd not (in strict truth) to be; For dying _Dryden_ breath'd, O _Garth!_ on thee, Bade thee to keep alive his genuine Rage, Half-sunk in want, oppression and old age; Then, when thy pious hands repos'd his head,[38]

When vain young Lords and ev'n the Flamen fled.

For well thou knew'st his merit and his art, His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart.

Ev'n _Pope_ himself (who sees no Virtue bleed But bears th' affliction) envies thee the deed.

O _Pope_! Instructor of my studious days, Who fix'd my steps in virtue's early ways: On whom our labours, and our hopes depend, Thou more than Patron, and ev'n more than Friend!

Above all Flattery, all Thirst of Gain, And Mortal but in Sickness, and in Pain!

Thou taught'st old Satire n.o.bler fruits to bear, And check'd her Licence with a moral Care: Thou gav'st the Thought new beauties not its own, And touch'd the Verse with Graces yet unknown.

Each lawless branch thy level eye survey'd.

And still corrected Nature as she stray'd: Warm'd _Boileau_'s Sense with _Britain_'s genuine Fire, And added Softness to _Ta.s.sone_'s Lyre.

Yet mark the hideous nonsense of the age, And thou thy self the subject of its rage.

So in old times, round G.o.dlike _Scaeva_ ran _Rome_'s dastard Sons, a _Million_, and a _Man_.

Th' exalted merits of the Wise and Good Are seen, far off, and rarely understood.

The world's a father to a Dunce unknown, And much he thrives, for Dulness! he's thy own.

No hackney brethren e'er condemn him _twice_; He fears no enemies, but dust and mice.

If _Pope_ but writes, the Devil _Legion_ raves, And meagre Critics mutter in their caves: (Such Critics of necessity consume All Wit, as Hangmen ravish'd Maids at _Rome_.) Names he a Scribler? all the world's in arms, _Augusta_, _Granta_, _Rhedecyna_ swarms: The guilty reader fancies what he fears, And every _Midas_ trembles for his ears.

See all such malice, obloquy, and spite Expire e're morn, the mushroom of a night!

Transient as vapours glimm'ring thro' the glades, Half-form'd and idle, as the dreams of maids, Vain as the sick man's vow, or young man's sigh, Third-nights of Bards, or _H_----'s sophistry.

These ever hate the Poet's sacred line: These hate whate'er is glorious, or divine.

From one Eternal Fountain _Beauty_ springs, The Energy of _Wit_, and _Truth of Things_, That Source is G.o.d: From _him_ they downwards tend, Flow round--yet in their native center end.

Hence Rules, and Truth, and Order, Dunces strike; Of Arts, and Virtues, enemies alike.

Some urge, that Poets of supreme renown Judge ill to scourge the Refuse of the Town.

How'ere their Casuists hope to turn the scale, These men must smart, or scandal will prevail.

By these, the weaker s.e.x still suffer most: And such are prais'd who rose at Honour's cost: The Learn'd they wound, the Virtuous, and the Fair, No fault they cancel, no reproach they spare: The random Shaft, impetuous in the dark, Sings on unseen, and quivers in the mark.

'Tis Justice, and not Anger, makes us write, Such sons of darkness must be drag'd to light: Long-suff'ring nature must not always hold; In virtue's cause 'tis gen'rous to be bold.

To scourge the bad, th' unwary to reclaim, And make light flash upon the face of shame.

Others have urg'd (but weigh it, and you'll find 'Tis light as feathers blown before the wind) That Poverty, the Curse of Providence, Attones for a dull Writer's want of Sense: Alas! his Dulness 'twas that made him poor; Not _vice versa_: We infer no more.

Of Vice and Folly Poverty's the curse, Heav'n may be rigid, but the Man was worse, By good made bad, by favours more disgrac'd, So dire th' effects of ignorance misplac'd!

Of idle Youth, unwatch'd by Parents eyes!

Of Zeal for pence, and Dedication Lies!

Of conscience model'd by a Great man's looks!

And arguings in religion--from No books!

No light the darkness of that mind invades, Where _Chaos_ rules, enshrin'd in genuine Shades; Where, in the Dungeon of the Soul inclos'd, True Dulness nods, reclining and repos'd.

Sense, Grace, or Harmony, ne'er enter there, Nor human Faith, nor Piety sincere; A mid-night of the Spirits, Soul, and Head, (Suspended all) as Thought it self lay dead.

Yet oft a mimic gleam of transient light Breaks thro' this gloom, and then they think they write; From Streets to Streets th' unnumber'd Pamphlets fly, Then tremble _Warner_, _Brown_, and _Billingsly_.[39]

O thou most gentle Deity appear, Thou who still hear'st, and yet art p.r.o.ne to hear: Whose eye ne'er closes, and whose brains ne'er rest, (Thy own dear Dulness bawling at thy breast) Attend, O _Patience_, on thy arm reclin'd, And see Wit's endless enemies behind!

And ye, _Our Muses_, with a _hundred tongues_, And Thou, O _Henley!_ blest with _brazen lungs_; Fanatic _Withers!_ fam'd for rhimes and sighs, And _Jacob Behmen!_ most obscurely wise; From darkness palpable, on dusky wings Ascend! and shroud him who your Off-spring sings.

The first with _Egypt_'s darkness in his head Thinks Wit the devil, and curses books unread.

For twice ten winters has he blunder'd on, Thro' heavy comments, yet ne'er lost nor won: Much may be done in twenty winters more, And let him then learn _English_ at threescore.

No sacred _Maro_ glitters on his shelf, He wants the mighty _Stagyrite_ himself.

See vast _Coimbria_'s comments[40] pil'd on high, In heaps _Soncinas_,[41] _Sotus_, _Sanchez_ lie: For idle hours, _Sa_'s[42] idler casuistry.

Yet worse is he, who in one language read, Has one eternal jingling in his head, At night, at morn, in bed, and on the stairs ...

Talks flights to grooms, and makes lewd songs at pray'rs His Pride, a Pun: a Guinea his Reward, His Critick _G-ld-n_, _Jemmy M-re_ his Bard.

What artful Hand the Wretch's Form can hit, Begot by _Satan_ on a _M----ly_'s Wit: In Parties furious at the great Man's nod, And hating none for nothing, but his G.o.d: Foe to the Learn'd, the Virtuous, and the Sage, A Pimp in Youth, an Atheist in old Age: Now plung'd in Bawdry and substantial Lyes, Now dab'ling in unG.o.dly Theories; But so, as Swallows skim the pleasing flood, Grows giddy, but ne'er drinks to do him good: Alike resolv'd to flatter, or to cheat, Nay wors.h.i.+p Onions, if they cry, _come eat_: A foe to Faith, in Revelation blind, And impious much, as Dunces are by kind.

Next see the Master-piece of Flatt'ry rise, Th' anointed Son of Dulness and of Lies: Whose softest Whisper fills a Patron's Ear, Who smiles unpleas'd, and mourns without a tear.[43]