SUPPOSE a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread The various plumage of the feather'd kind O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly join'd; Or if he gave to view a beauteous maid Above the waist with every charm array'd, Should a foul fish her lower parts enfold, Would you not laugh such pictures to behold? Such is the book, that, like a sick man's dreams, Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
"Painters and poets our indulgence claim,
Their daring equal, and their art the same."
I own th' indulgence-Such I give and take;
But not through nature's sacred rules to break,
Monstrous to mix the cruel and the kind,
Serpents with birds, and lambs with tigers join'd.
Your opening promises some great design,
And shreds of purple with broad lustre shine
Sew'd on your poem. Here in labour'd strain
A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane,
Rises to view; there through delicious meads
A murmuring stream its winding water leads;
Here pours the rapid Rhine; the watry bow
There bends its colours, and with pride they glow.
Beauties they are, but beauties out of place;
For though your talent be to paint with grace
A mournful cypress, would you pour its shade
O'er the tempestuous deep, if you were paid
To paint a sailor, 'midst the winds and waves,
When on a broken plank his life he saves?
Why will you thus a mighty vase intend,
If in a worthless bowl your labours end?
Then learn this wandering humour to controul,
And keep one equal tenour through the whole.
But oft, our greatest errors take their rise
From our best views. I strive to be concise;
I prove obscure. My strength, my fire decays,
When in pursuit of elegance and ease.
Aiming at greatness, some to fustian soar;
Some in cold safety creep along the shore,
Too much afraid of storms; while he, who tries
With ever-varying wonders to surprise,
In the broad forest bids his dolphins play,
And paints his boars disporting in the sea.
Thus, injudicious, while one fault we shuu,
Into its opposite extreme we run.
One happier artist of th' Emilian square,
Who graves the nails, and forms the flowing hair,
Though he excels in every separate part,
Yet fails of just perfection in his art,
In one grand whole unknowing to unite
Those different parts; and I no more would write
Like him, than with a nose of hideous size
Be gaz'd at for the finest hair and eyes.
Examine well, ye writers, weigh with care,
What suits your genius; what your strength can bear.
To him, who shall his theme with judgment choose,
Nor words nor method shall their aid refuse.
In this, or I mistake, consists the grace,
And force of method, to assign a place
For what with present judgment we should say,
And for some happier time the rest delay.
Would you to Fame a promis'd work produce,
Be delicate and cautious in the use
And choice of words: nor shall you fail of praise,
When nicely joining two known words you raise
A third unknown. A new-discover'd theme
For those, unheard in ancient times, nay claim
A just and ample licence, which, if us'd
With fair discretion, never is refus'd.
New words, and lately made, shall credit claim,
If from a Grecian source they gently stream;
For Virgil, sure, and Varius may receive
That kind indulgence which the Romans gave
To Plautus and Cæcilius: or shall I
Be envied, if my little fund supply
Its frugal wealth of words, since bards, who sung
In ancient days, enrich'd their native tongue
With large increase? An undisputed power
Of coining money from the rugged ore,
Nor less of coining words, is still confest,
If with a legal public stamp imprest.
As when the forest, with the bending year,
First sheds the leaves which earliest appear,
So an old age of words maturely dies,
Others new-born in youth and vigour rise.
We and our noblest works to Fate must yield;
Even Cæsar's mole, which royal pride might build,
Where Neptune far into the land extends,
And from the raging North cur fleets defends;
That barren marsh, whose cultivated plain
Now gives the neighbouring towns its various grain;
Tiber, who, taught a better current, yields
To Cæsar's power, nor deluges our fields;
All these must perish, and shall words presume
To hold their honours, and immortal bloom?
Many shall rise, that now forgotten lie;
Others, in present credit, soon shall die,
If custom will, whose arbitrary sway,
Words, and the forms of language, must obey.
By Homer taught the modern poet sings,
In epic strains, of heroes, wars, and kings.
Unequal measures first were tun'd to flow
Sadly expressive of the lover's woe;
But now, to gayer subjects form'd, they move
In sounds of pleasure, to the joys of love:
By whom invented, critics yet contend,
And of their vain disputings find no end.
Archilochus, with fierce resentment warm'd,
Was with his own severe iambics arm'd,
Whose rapid numbers, suited to the stage,
In comic humour, or in tragic rage,
With sweet variety were found to please,
And taught the dialogue to flow with ease;
Their numerous cadence was for action fit,
And form'd to quell the clamours of the Pit.
The Muse to nobler subjects túnes her lyre;
Gods, and the sons of gods, her song inspire,
Wrestler and steed, who gain'd th' Olympic prize;
Love's pleasing cares, and wine's unbounded joys.
But if, through weakness, or my want of art,
I can't to every different style impart
The proper strokes and colours it may claim,
Why am I honour'd with a Poet's name?
Absurdly modest, why my fault discern,
Yet rather burst in ignorance than learn?
Nor will the genius of the comic Muse
Sublimer tones, or tragic numbers, use;
Nor will the direful Thyestean feast
In comic phrase and language be debas'd.
Then let your style be suited to the scene,
And its peculiar character maintain.
Yet Comedy sometimes her voice may raise,
And angry Chremes rail in swelling phrase:
As oft the tragic language humbly flows,-
For Telephus or Peleus, 'midst the woes
poverty or exile, must complain
In prose-like style; must quit the swelling strain,
And words gigantic, if with nature's art
They hope to touch their melting hearer's heart.
'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm
With ease and elegance; a play should warm
With soft concernment; should possess the soul,
And, as it wills, the listening crowd controul.
With them, who laugh, our social joy appears;
With them, who mourn, we sympathise in tears:
If you would have me weep, begin the strain,
Then I shall feel your sorrows, feel your pain;
But if your heroes act not what they say,
I sleep or laugh the lifeless scene away.
The varying face should every passion show,
And words of sorrow wear the look of woe;
Let it in joy assume a vivid air;
Fierce when in rage; in seriousness severe :
For Nature to each change of fortune forms
The secret soul, and all its passions warms;
Transports to rage, dilates the heart with mirth,
Wrings the sad soul, and bends it down to earth.
The tongue these various movements must express:
But, if ill-suited to the deep distress
His language prove, the sons of Rome engage
To laugh th' unhappy actor off the stage.
Your style should an important difference make
When heroes, gods, or awful sages speak:
When florid youth, whom gay desires inflame;
A busy servant, or a wealthy dame;
A merchant wandering with incessant toil,
Or he who cultivates the verdant soil:
But if in foreign realms you fix your scene,
Their genius, customs, dialects maintain.
Or follow fame, or in th'invented tale
Let seeming, well-united truth prevail:
If Homer's great Achilles tread the stage,
Intrepid, fierce, of unforgiving rage,
Like Homer's hero, let him spurn all laws,
And by the sword alone assert his cause.
With untam'd fury let Medea glow,
And Ino's tears in ceaseless anguish flow.
From realm to realm her griefs let Io bear,
And sad Orestes rave in deep despair.
But if you venture on an untried theme,
And form a person yet unknown to fame,
From his first entrance to the closing scene
Let him one equal character maintain.
'Tis hard a new-form'd fable to express,
And make it seem your own. With more success
You may from Homer take the tale of Troy,
Than on an untried plot your strength employ.
Yet would you make a common theme your own,
Dwell not on incidents already known;
Nor word for word translate with painful care,
Nor be confin'd in such a narrow sphere,
From whence (while you should only imitate)
Shame and the rules forbid you to retreat.
Begin your work with modest grace and plain, Nor like the bard of everlasting strain, "I sing the glorious war, and Priam's fate-" How will the boaster hold this yawning rate? The mountains labour'd with prodigious throes, And lo! a mouse ridiculous arose.
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