False steps but help them to renew the race, E'en to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, Such shameless bards we have; and yet'tis true There are as mad abandon'd critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always listening to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary. Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend; Nay, show'd his faults-but when would poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's church yard: Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; But where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiass'd or by favour or by spite, Not dully prepossess'd nor blindly right; Though learn'd, well bred, and though well bred, sincere : Modestly bold, and humanly severe; Who to a friend his faults can freely show, Such once were critics; such the happy few Led by the light of the Mæonian star. Receiv'd his laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit Yet judg'd with coolness, though he sung with fire; ་ Our critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm : Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd, License repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd: Learning and Rome alike in empire grew, And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew; From the same foes at last both felt their doom, And the same age saw learning fall and Rome. With tyranny then superstition join'd, As that the body, this enslav'd the mind; Much was believ'd, but little understood, And to be dull was construed to be good: A second deluge learning thus o'errun: But see! each Muse in Leo's golden days Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays; Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head. Then sculpture and her sister arts revive; Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising temple rung ; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung: Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame! But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd, Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd; Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, But critic learning flourish'd most in France; The rules a nation born to serve obeys, And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd, And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd ; Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defied the Romans, as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presum'd and better knew, 30 THE POEMS OF POPE. Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, Such late was Walsh1—the Muse's judge and Who justly knew to blame or to commend; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend. 1 Pope's early patron: see Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. xix. |