The beauties of English poesy: Selected by Oliver Goldsmith. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]
Goldsmith, Oliver, 1730?-1774.
Page 163
AN ESSAY ON POETRY.
This work, by the duke of Buckingham, is en|rolled among our great English productions. The precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserves.
OF all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man so high,
As sacred and soul-moving poesy:
No kind of work requires so nice a touch;
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But Heav'n forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which, sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the sun,
Which, tho' sometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhime, and that harmonious sound,
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Page 163〈1 page duplicate〉Page 164Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the soul:
A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;
Ev'n something of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all men, but describ'd by none.
Where dost thou dwell? What caverns of the brain
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain?
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mourn,
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with pow'rful charms to hurry me away,
From pleasures of the night, and bus'ness of the day?
Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dulness, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reason is that substantial, useful part,
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I shall all the various sorts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Page 165Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;
Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts;
What need has Satire, then, to live on theft,
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear;
'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure,
And those who are so, will ev'n this endure.
First, then, of Songs, which now so much abound,
Without his song no fop is to be found;
A most offensive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Tho' nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;
For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escape our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one small ring, and brings the value down:
So Songs should be to just perfection brought;
Yet where can one be seen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
Page 166No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall?
Here, as in all things else, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous songs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling censure on his shade.
Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
But words obscene, too gross to move desire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choak the fire.
On other themes he well deserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.
Next, Elegy, of sweet, but solemn voice,
And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains;
And there too oft despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That Phoenix-she deserves to be belov'd;
But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have try'd)
Women have drawn my wand'ring thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
But should this muse harmonious numbers yield,
And ev'ry couplet be with fancy fill'd;
If yet a just coherence be not made
Between each thought, and the whole model laid
Page 167So right, that ev'ry line may higher rise,
Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies:
Such trifles may, perhaps, of late, have pass'd,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last:
'Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will,
But not an Elegy, nor writ with skill,
No Panegyric, nor a Cooper's Hill.
A higher flight, and of a happier force,
Are Odes: the Muses' most unruly horse,
That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest,
Here foams at mouth, and moves like one possess'd.
The poet, here, must be, indeed, inspir'd,
With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part,
Had he with nature join'd the rules of art;
But, sometimes, diction mean, or verse ill-wrought,
Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
Tho' all appear in heat and fury done,
The language still must soft and easy run.
These laws may sound a little too severe;
But judgment yields and fancy governs here,
Which, tho' extravagant, this muse allows,
And makes the work much easier than it shows.
Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well-writ has most successful prov'd,
And cures, because the remedy is lov'd;
'Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things said oft before:
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Page 168Of chosen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be, as the subject, rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,
And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd.
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only bus'ness was to rail:
But human frailty nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satyr from a scold.
Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown;
So, while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.
The Laureat, here, may justly claim our praise,
Crown'd by Mack-Fleckno with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus has borne dead weight,
Rid by some lumpish minister of state.
Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy cares awhile,
A more important task attends thy toil.
As some young eagle, that designs to fly
A long unwonted journey through the sky,
Weighs all the dang'rous enterprize before,
O'er what wide lands and seas she is to soar,
Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears
That lofty road of airy travellers;
But yet, incited by some bold design,
That does her hopes beyond her fears incline,
Prunes ev'ry feather, views herself with care,
At last resolv'd, she cleaves the yielding air;
Away she flies, so strong, so high, so fast,
She lessens to us, and is lost at last:
Page 169So (tho' too weak for such a weighty thing)
The muse inspires a sharper note to sing.
And why should truth offend, when only told
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold?
On then, my Muse, advent'rously engage
To give instructions that concern the Stage.
The unities of action, time, and place,
Which, if observ'd, give plays so great a grace,
Are, tho' but little practis'd, too well known
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer faults to purge the present age,
Less obvious errors of the English stage.
First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in passion too.
Our lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the pit their confidant;
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a friend, only to tell it us:
Th' occasion should as naturally fall,
As when Bellario confesses all.
Figures of speech, which poets think so fine,
(Art's needless varnish to make nature shine)
Are all but paint upon a beauteous face,
And in descriptions only claim a place:
But, to make rage declaim, and grief discourse,
From lovers in despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed: for who can choose but pity
A dying hero, miserably witty?
But oh! the Dialogues, where jest and mock
Is held up like a rest at shittle-cock!
Page 170Or else, like bells eternally they chime,
They sigh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What things are these who would be poets thought,
By nature not inspir'd, nor learning taught?
Some wit they have, and therefore they deserve
A better course than this, by which they starve:
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence
To judgement, breeding, wit, and eloquence:
Nay more; for they must look within, to find
Those secret turns of nature in the mind:
Without this part, in vain would be the whole,
And but a body all, without a soul.
All this united, yet but makes a part
Of Dialogue, that great and pow'rful art,
Now almost lost, which the old Grecians knew,
From whom the Romans fainter copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since, but by a few.
Plato and Lucian are the best remains
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Yet to ourselves we justice must allow,
Shakespeare and Fletcher are the wonders now:
Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er;
Go see them play'd; then read them as before;
For tho' in many things they grossly fail,
Over our passions still they so prevail,
That our own grief by their's is rock'd asleep;
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wise to weep.
Their beauties imitate, avoid their fau•••▪
First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts;
Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways;
This oft, alone, has giv'n success to plays.
Page 171Reject that vulgar error (which appears
So fair) of making perfect characters;
There's no such thing in nature; and you'll draw
A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw.
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve compassion too.
Besides the main design compos'd with art,
Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
Contrive each little turn, mark ev'ry place,
As painters first chalk out the future face:
Yet be not fondly your own slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
Think not so much where shining thoughts to place,
As what a man would say in such a case:
Neither in comedy will this suffice,
The player too must be before your eyes;
And, tho' 'tis drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your secret meaning show.
Expose no single fop, but lay the load
More equally, and spread the folly broad;
Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we see
A fool derided by as bad as he:
Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way,
A very owl may prove a bird of prey.
Small poets thus will one poor fop devour,
But to collect, like bees, from ev'ry flow'r,
Ingredients to compose that precious juice,
Which serves the world for pleasure and for use,
In spite of faction this would favour get;
But Falstaff stands inimitable yet.
Page 172Another fault which often may befall,
Is, when the wit of some great poet shall
So overflow, that is, be none at all;
That ev'n his fools speak sense, as if possest,
And each by inspiration breaks his jest.
If once the justness of each part be lost,
Well we may laugh, but at the poet's cost,
That silly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
With which our age so nauseously is cloy'd;
Humour is all; wit should be only brought
To turn agreeably some proper thought.
But since the poets we of late have known,
Shine in no dress so much as in their own,
The better by example to convince,
Cast but a view on this wrong side of sense.
First, a Soliloquy is calmly made,
Where ev'ry reason is exactly weigh'd;
Which once perform'd, most opportunely comes
Some hero frighted at the noise of drums;
For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves,
And all in metaphor his passion proves:
But some sad accident, tho' yet unknown,
Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone;
He strait grows jealous, tho' we know not why;
Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die:
But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells
The absent nymph how much his flame excels;
And yet bequeaths her generously now,
To that lov'd rival whom he does not know!
Who strait appears; but who can fate withstand?
Too late, alas! to hold his hasty hand,
Page 173That just has giv'n himself the cruel stroke!
At which his very rival's heart is broke:
He, more to his new friend than mistress kind,
Most sadly mourns at being left behind,
Of such a death prefers the pleasing charms
To love, and living in a lady's arms.
What shameful and what monstrous things are these?
And then they rail at those they cannot please;
Conclude us only partial to the dead,
And grudge the sign of old Ben Johnson's head;
When the intrinsic value of the stage
Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age:
For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhime,
May keep up sinking nonsense for a time;
But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rules,
And sense no longer will submit to fools.
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top,
The Epick poets so divinely show,
And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence
To be the utmost stretch of human sense;
A work of such inestimable worth,
There are but two the world has yet brought forth!
Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe,
Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast;
So these gigantic souls amaz'd we find
As much above the rest of human kind!
Page 174Nature's whole strength united! endless fame,
And universal shouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more;
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
Had Bossu never writ, the world had still,
Like Indians, view'd this wond'rous piece of skill;
As something of divine, the work admir'd;
Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir'd:
But he, disclosing sacred mysteries,
Has shewn where all the mighty magic lies;
Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown,
That have to such a vast proportion grown.
Sure, from some angel he the secret knew,
Who thro' this labyrinth has lent the clue!
But what, alas! avails it poor mankind,
To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind?
The way is shewn, but who has strength to go?
Who can all sciences profoundly know?
Whose fancy flies beyond weak reason's sight,
And yet has judgment to direct it right?
Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such,
Never to say too little, or too much?
Let such a man begin without delay;
But he must do beyond what I can say!
Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail,
Succeed where Spencer, and ev'n Milton fail.
