9067 ALEXANDER POPE. POPE, ALEXANDER, a famous English poet; born at London, May 21, 1688; died at Twickenham, on the Thames, May 30, 1744. He early manifested unusual capacity, especially in versifying. His "Ode on Solitude was written before he had reached the age of twelve. Before he had reached the age of sixteen he had come. to be known among the literati as a poet of genius. His first considerable work, "The Pastorals," was published when he was twenty-one, but was probably written some years earlier. His "Messiah, a Sacred Eclogue," first appeared in 1712 in Addison's "Spectator." In 1714 he issued proposals for publishing a translation of the "Iliad" in six volumes. The first volume appeared in 1715, the last in 1720. His later days were mainly devoted to the preparation of a complete edition of his works, of which, however, he lived only to supervise the "Essay on Criticism," the Essay on Man," and "The Dunciad." He was buried at Twickenham. The following is a list of Pope's principal works, with the approximate date of their composition: "The Pastorals " (1709); "Essay on Criticism" (1711); "The Messiah " (1712); "The Rape of the Lock" (1714); translation of the "Iliad" (1715–18); "Epistle of Eloise to Abelard" (1717); edition of Shakespeare (1725); translation of the "Odyssey" (1726); "The Dunciad" (1728, but considerably modified and much enlarged in 1742); "Epistle to the Earl of Burlington" (1731); "Of the Use of Riches" (1732); "Essay on Man" (1733); "Imitations of Horace " (1733-38); "Epistle to Lord Cobham" (1733); "Epistle to Arbuthnot" (1735). FROM THE ESSAY ON CRITICISM." A fool might once himself alone expose: True taste as seldom is the critic's share : Yet if we look more closely, we shall find The lines, though touched but faintly, are drawn right. And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools; And then turn critics in their own defence; All fools have still an itching to deride, And fain would be upon the laughing side. Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied She gives in large recruits of needful pride. For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind; Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense: If once right reason drives that cloud away, A little learning is a dangerous thing; There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit. That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep, In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip or eye we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportioned dome, (The world's just wonder, and e'en thine, O Rome!) No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to th' admiring eyes; No monstrous height, or breadth, or length, appear: The whole at once is bold and regular. Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. |