Classic Poem

As Brother Pryme of old from Mount Orgueil,
So I to you from Epworth and the Isle:
Harsh Northern Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send,
Yet, since the best they yield, they'll please a Friend.
You ask me, What's the readiest way to Fame,
And how to gain a Poet's sacred Name?
For Saffold send, your Choice were full as just,
When burning Fevers fry your Limbs to Dust!
Yet, lest you angry grow at your Defeat, }
And me as ill as that fierce Spark should treat }
Who did the Farrier into Doctor beat; }
You to my little Quantum, Sir, are free,
Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY;
These with some grains of Common Sense unite,
Then freely think, and as I think I write.
First poize your Genius, nor presume to write
If Phoebus smile not, or some Muse invite:
Nature refuses Force, you strive in vain,
She will not drag, but struggling breaks the Chain.
How bright a Spark of Heav'nly Fire must warm!
What Blessings meet a Poet's Mind to form!
How oft must he for those Life-Touches sit,
Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit?
There's here no Middle-State, you must excel;
Wit has no Half-way-House 'twixt Heav'n and Hell
All cannot All things, lest you mourn too late,
Remember Phaeton's unhappy Fate!
Eager to guide the Coursers of the Day, }
Beneath their Brazen Hoofs he trampled lay, }
And his bright Ruines mark'd their flaming Way. }

You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and Where to find?
'Tis the full Power and Energy of Mind:
A Reach of Thought that skims all Nature o'er,
Exhausts this narrow World, and asks for more:
Through every Rank of Beings when't has flown,
Can frame a New Creation of its own:
By Possible and Future unconfin'd:
Can stubborn Contradictions yoke, and bind
Through Fancy's Realms, with Number, Time and Place,
Chimera-Forms, a thin, an airy Race;
Then with a secret conscious Pride surveys
The Enchanted Castles which't had Power to raise.

As Genius is the Strength, be WIT defin'd
The Beauty and the Harmony of Mind:
Beauty's Proportion, Air, each lively Grace
The Soul diffuses round the Heav'nly Face:
'Tis various, yet 'tis equal, still the same
In Alpine Snows, or Ethiopian Flame;
While glaring Colours short-liv'd Grace supply,
Nor Frost nor Sun they bear, but scorch and die.

Nor these alone, tho much they can, suffice,
JUDGMENT must join, or never hope the Prize:
Those Headstrong Coursers scowr along the Plains,
The Rider's down, if once he lose the Reins:
Soon the Mad Mixture will to all give Law,
And for the Laurel Wreaths present thee Wreaths of Straw.
Judgment's the Act of Reason; that which brings
Fit Thoughts to Thoughts, and argues Things from Things,
True, Decent, Just, are in its Balance try'd,
And thence we learn to Range, Compound, Divide.

A Cave there is wherein those Nymphs reside
Who all the Realms of Sense and Fancy guide;
Nay some affirm that in the deepest Cell
Imperial Reason's self does not disdain to dwell:
With Living Reed 'tis thatch'd and guarded round,
Which mov'd by Winds emit a Silver Sound:
Two Crystal Fountains near its Entrance play, }
Wide scatt'ring Golden Streams which ne'er decay, }
Two Labyrinths behind harmonious Sounds convey: }
Chiefly, within, the Room of State is fam'd
Of rich Mosaick Work divinely fram'd:
Of small Extent to view, 'twill all things hide,
Heav'n's Azure Arch it self not half so wide:
Here all the Arts their sacred Mansion chuse,
Here dwells the MOTHER of the Heav'n-born Muse:
With wond'rous mystic Figures round 'tis wrought
Inlaid with FANCY, and anneal'd with Thought:
With more than humane Skill depicted here
The various Images of Things appear;
What Was, or Is, or labours yet to Be
Within the Womb of Dark Futurity,
May Stowage in this wondrous Storehouse find,
Yet leave unnumber'd empty Cells behind:
But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast,
Not Life or Happiness are more in haste:
Only the First Great Mind himself can stay
The Fugitives and at one Glance survey;
But those whom he disdains not to befriend, }
Uncommon Souls, who nearest Heav'n ascend }
Far more, at once, than others comprehend: }
Whate'er within this sacred Hall you find, }
Whate'er will lodge in your capacious Mind }
Let Judgment sort, and skilful Method bind; }
And as from these you draw your antient Store
Daily supply the Magazine with more.
Furnish'd with such Materials he'll excel
Who when he works is sure to work 'em well;
This ART alone, as Nature that bestows,
And in Perfection both, th' accomplish'd Verser knows.
Knows to persuade, and how to speak, and when;
The Rules of Life, and Manners knows and Men:
Those narrow Lines which Good and Ill divide;

And by what Balance Just and Right are try'd:
How Kindred-Things with Things are closely join'd; }
How Bodies act, and by what Laws confin'd, }
Supported, mov'd and rul'd by th' Universal Mind. }
When the moist Kids or burning Sirius rise; }
Through what ambiguous Ways Hyperion flies, }
And marks our Upper or the Nether Skies. }
He knows those Strings to touch with artful Hand
Which rule Mankind, and all the World command:
What moves the Soul, and every secret Cell
Where Pity, Love, and all the Passions dwell.
The Music of his Verse can Anger raise,
Which with a softer Stroak he smooths and lays:
Can Emulation, Terror, all excite,
Compress the Soul with Grief, or swell with vast Delight.
If this you can, your Care you'll well bestow,
And some new Milton or a Spencer grow;
If not, a Poet ne'er expect to be,
Content to Rime, like D----y or like me.
But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain,
To such Impracticable Heights I strain
A Poet's Notion, that if This be He,
There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be.
--But soft, my Friend! may we not copy well
Tho far th' Original our Art excel?
Divine Perfection we our Pattern make
Th' Idea thence of Goodness justly take;
But they who copy nearest, still must fall
Immensely short of their Original;

But Wit and Genius, Sense and Learning join'd,
Will all come short if crude and unrefin'd;
'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn Ore
And polishes the Gold, too rough before:
So fierce the Natural Taste, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd,
The Wine is strong, but never rightly cur'd.

STYLE is the Dress of Thought; a modest Dress,
Neat, but not gaudy, will true Critics please:
Not Fleckno's Drugget, nor a worse Extream
All daub'd with Point and Gold at every Seam:
Who only Antique Words affects, appears
Like old King Harry's Court, all Face and Ears;
Nor in a Load of Wig thy Visage shrowd,
Like Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud:
Happy are those who here the Medium know,
We hate alike a Sloven and a Beau.
I would not follow Fashion to the height
Close at the Heels, not yet be out of Sight:
Words alter, like our Garments, every day,
Now thrive and bloom, now wither and decay.
Let those of greater Genius new invent,
Be you with those in Common Use content.
A different Style's for Prose and Verse requir'd,
Strong figures here, Neat Plainness there desir'd:
A different Set of Words to both belong;
What shines in Prose, is, flat and mean in Song.
The Turn, the Numbers must be vary'd here,
And all things in a different Dress appear.
This every School Boy lash'd at Eaton knows, }
Yet Men of Sense forget when they compose, }
And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes Prose. }
A vary'd Stile do various Works require,
This soft as Air, and tow'ring that as Fire.
None than th' Epistle goes more humbly drest,
Tho neat 'twou'd be, and decent as the best.
Such as th' ingenious Censor may invite }
Oft to return with eager Appetite; }
So HORACE wrote, and so I'd wish to write. }
Nor creeps it always, but can mount and rise,
And with bold Pinions sail along the Skies.
The self-same Work of different Style admits,
Now soft, now loud, as best the Matter fits:
So Father THAMES from unexhausted Veins,
Moves clean and equable along the Plains;
Yet still of different Depth and Breadth is found,
And humours still the Nature of the Ground.

READING will mend your Style and raise it higher,
And Matter find to feed th' Immortal Fire:
But if you would the Vulgar Herd excel,
And justly gain the Palm of Writing well,
Wast not your Lamp in scanning Vulgar Lines,
Where groveling all, or One in twenty shines;
With Prudence first among the Antients chuse,
The noblest only, and the best peruse;
Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's sacred Page,
Which Death defie, nor yield to Time or Age;
New Beauties still their Vigorous Works display,
Their Fruit still mellows, but can ne'er decay.
The Modern Pens not altogether slight,
Be Master of your Language e'er you write!
Immortal TILLOTSON with Judgment scan,
"That Man of Praise, that something more than Man!"
Ev'n those who hate his Ashes this advise, }
As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, }
Unwilling Truths break through a Cloud of Lies. }
He Words and Things for mutual Aid design'd,
Before at Variance, in just Numbers join'd;
He always soars, but never's out of sight,
He taught us how to Speak, and Think, and Write.
If English Verse you'd in Perfection see,
ROSCOMMON read, and Noble NORMANDY:
We borrow all from their exhaustless Store,
Or little say they have not said before.
Poor Insects of a Day, we toil and strive
To creep from Dust to Dust, and think we live;
These weak imperfect Beings scarce enjoy
E'er Death's rude Hand our blooming Hopes destroy:
With Lynx's Eyes each others Faults we find,
But to our own how few who are not blind?
How long is Art, how short, alas! our Time! }
How few who can above the Vulgar climb, }
Whose stronger Genius reach the True Sublime! }
With tedious Rules which we our selves transgress,
We make the Trouble more who strive to make it less.
But meanly why do you your Fate deplore,
Yet still write on?--Why do a Thousand more,
Who for their own or some Forefathers Crime
Are doom'd to wear their Days in beating Rhime?
But this a Noble Patron will redress,
And make you better write, tho you write less:
Whate'er a discontented Mind pretends,
Distinguish'd Worth can rarely miss of Friends:
Do but excel, and he'll at last arise
Who from the Dust may lift thee to the Skies;
For his own Sake will his Protection grant;
What Horace e'er did yet Mecænas want?
Or if the World its Favours should refuse,
With barren Smiles alone reward thy Muse;
Be thy own Patron, thou no more wilt need,
For all will court thee if thy Works succeed;
At least the few Good Judges will commend,
And secret growing Praise thy Steps attend.
Who shew'd Columbus where the Indies lay?
True to thy self, charge through, and force to Fame the way!
If Envy snarl, indulge it no Reply,
Write better still, and let it burst and die!
Rest pleas'd if you can please the Wiser Few,
Since to please all is more than Heav'n it self can do.
There are who can whate'er they will believe,
That Bail's too hard for Beady, Three are Five:
That Nature, Justice, Reason, Truth must fall,
With Clear Idea's they'll confound 'em all:
That Parallels may travel till they meet;
Faith they can find in L----, no Sense in STILLINGFLEET.
Disturb 'em not, but let 'em still enjoy
Th' unenvy'd Charms of their Eternal Moi.
If to the craggy Top of Fame you rise,
Those who are lab'ring after ne'er despise.
Nor those above on Honours dazling Seat }
Tho disoblig'd, with sawcy Rudeness treat, }
Revenge not always is below the Great. }
Their Stronger Genius may o'er thine prevail:
Wit, Power and Anger join'd but rarely fail.
Tho Eagles would not chuse to hawk at Flies }
They'd snap 'em, should their buzzing Swarms arise }
Importunate, and hurt their Sun bright Eyes. }
Nor should the Muses Birds at random fly,
And strike at all, lest if they strike they die.
Why should we still be lazily content
With thredbare Schemes, and nothing new invent?
All Arts besides improve, Sea, Air and Land }
Are every day with nicer Judgment scan'd, }
And why should this alone be at a stand? }
Or Nature largely to the Ancients gave
And little did for younger Children save;
Or rather we impartial Nature blame
To hide our Sloth, and cover o'er our Shame;
As Sinners, when their Reason's drown'd in Sense,
Fall out with Heav'n, and quarrel Providence.
Yet should you our Galenic Way despise,
And some new Colbatch of the Muses rise;
No Quarter from the College hope, who sit
Infallible at Will's and judg of Sense and Wit:
Keep fair with these, or Fame you court in vain,
A strict Neutrality at least maintain!
Speak, like the wise Italian, well of all;
Who knows into what Hands he's doom'd to fall?
Write oft and much, at first, if you'd write well,
For he who ne'er attempts will ne'er excel;
Practice will file your Verse, your Thoughts refine,
And Beauty give, and Grace to every Line:
The Gnat to fam'd Æneis led the way,
And our Immortal COWLEY once did play.
Let not the Sun of Life in vain decline,
Or Time run waste; No Day without a Line.
Yet learn by me, my Friend, from Errors past;
O never write, or never Print in Haste!
The worst Excuse Ill Authors e'er advance,
Which does, like Lies, a single Guilt enhance.
Lay by your Work, and leave it on the Loom,
Which if at mod'rate distance you resume,
A Father's Fondness you'll with Ease look through,
And Objects in a proper Medium view.
'Tis Time alone can Strength and Ripeness give;
A Hasty Birth can ne'er expect to live.
Fly, low at first, you'll with Advantage rise;
This pleases all, as that will all surprize.

No Work attempt but where your Strength you know,
Be Master of your Subject, Thoughts will flow:
The newer 'tis, the choicer Fruit 'twill yield,
More Room you have to work if large your Field;
The Sponge you oftner than the Pen will wan