Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DUNCIAD VARIORUM, by ALEXANDER POPE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DUNCIAD VARIORUM, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Books and the man I sing, the first who brings
Last Line: And thro' the ivory gate the vision flies.


BOOK THE FIRST

Books and the Man I sing, the first who brings
The Smithfield Muses to the Ear of Kings.
Say great Patricians! (since your selves inspire
These wond'rous works; so Jove and Fate require)
Say from what cause, in vain decry'd and curst,
Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first?
In eldest time, e'er mortals writ or read,
E'er Pallas issued from the Thund'rer's head,
Dulnes o'er all possess'd her antient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night:
Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave,
Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave,
Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,
She rul'd, in native Anarchy, the mind.
Still her old empire to confirm, she tries,
For born a Goddess, Dulness never dies.
O thou! whatever Title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver!
Whether thou chuse Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais' easy Chair,
Or praise the Court, or magnify Mankind,
Or thy griev'd Country's copper chains unbind;
From thy Baeotia tho' Her Pow'r retires,
Grieve not at ought our sister realm acquires:
Here pleas'd behold her mighty wings out-spread,
To hatch a new Saturnian age of Lead.
Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-Fair,
A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;
Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess,
Emblem of Music caus'd by Emptiness:
Here in one bed two shiv'ring sisters lye,
The cave of Poverty and Poetry.
This, the Great Mother dearer held than all
The clubs of Quidnunc's, or her own Guild-hall.
Here stood her Opium, here she nurs'd her Owls,
And destin'd here th' imperial seat of Fools.
Hence springs each weekly Muse, the living boast
Of Curl's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post,
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay,
Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day,
Sepulchral lyes our holy walls to grace,
And New-year Odes, and all the Grubstreet race.
'Twas here in clouded majesty she shone;
Four guardian Virtues, round, support her Throne;
Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears
Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears:
Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake
Who hunger, and who thirst, for scribling sake:
Prudence, whose glass presents th' approaching jayl:
Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale;
Where in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep,
Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
'Till genial Jacob, or a warm Third-day
Call forth each mass, a poem or a play.
How Hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,
How new-born Nonsense first is taught to cry,
Maggots half-form'd, in rhyme exactly meet,
And learn to crawl upon poetic feet.
Here one poor Word a hundred clenches makes,
And ductile dulness new meanders takes;
There motley Images her fancy strike,
Figures ill'pair'd, and Similes unlike.
She sees a Mob of Metaphors advance,
Pleas'd with the Madness of the mazy dance:
How Tragedy and Comedy embrace;
How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race;
How Time himself stands still at her command,
Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land.
Here gay Description AEgypt glads with showers;
Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;
Glitt'ring with ice here hoary hills are seen,
There painted vallies of eternal green,
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
All these and more, the cloud-compelling Queen
Beholds thro' fogs that magnify the scene:
She, tinsel'd o'er in robes of varying hues,
With self-applause her wild creation views,
Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
And with her own fool's colours gilds them all.
'Twas on the day, when Thorold, rich and grave,
Like Cimon triumph'd, both on land and wave:
(Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,
Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces)
Now Night descending, the proud scene was o'er,
But liv'd, in Settle's numbers, one day more.
Now May'rs and Shrieves all hush'd and satiate lay,
Yet eat in dreams the custard of the day;
While pensive Poets painful vigils keep,
Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.
Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls,
What City-Swans once sung within the walls;
Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,
And sure succession down from Heywood's days.
She saw with joy the line immortal run,
Each sire imprest and glaring in his son;
So watchful Bruin forms with plastic care
Each growing lump, and brings it to a Bear.
She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel shine,
And Eusden eke out Blackmore's endless line;
She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's poor page,
And all the Mighty Mad in Dennis rage.
In each she marks her image full exprest,
But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast;
Sees Gods with Daemons in strange league ingage,
And earth, and heav'n, and hell her battles wage.
She ey'd the Bard, where supperless he sate,
And pin'd, unconscious of his rising fate;
Studious he sate, with all his books around,
Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound!
Plung'd for his sense, but found no bottom there;
Then writ, and flounder'd on, in mere despair.
He roll'd his eyes that witness'd huge dismay,
Where yet unpawn'd, much learned lumber lay,
Volumes, whose size the space exactly fill'd;
Or which fond authors were so good to gild;
Or where, by sculpture made for ever known,
The page admires new beauties, not its own.
Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great:
There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines compleat,
Here all his suff'ring brotherhood retire,
And 'scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire;
A Gothic Vatican! of Greece and Rome
Well-purg'd, and worthy Withers, Quarles, and Blome.
But high above, more solid Learning shone,
The Classicks of an Age that heard of none;
There Caxton slept, with Wynkin at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide.
There sav'd by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Old Bodies of Philosophy appear.
De Lyra here a dreadful front extends,
And there, the groaning shelves Philemon bends.
Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pyes,
Inspir'd he seizes: These an altar raise:
An hecatomb of pure, unsully'd lays
That altar crowns: A folio Common-place
Founds the whole pyle, of all his works the base;
Quarto's, Octavo's, shape the less'ning pyre,
And last, a little Ajax tips the spire.
Then he. 'Great Tamer of all human art!
First in my care, and nearest at my heart:
Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end!
O thou, of business the directing soul,
To human heads like byass to the bowl,
Which as more pond'rous makes their aim more true,
Obliquely wadling to the mark in view.
O ever gracious to perplex'd mankind!
Who spread a healing mist before the mind,
And, lest we err by Wit's wild, dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand,
Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land.
Where rebel to thy throne if Science rise,
She does but shew her coward face and dies:
There, thy good Scholiasts with unweary'd pains
Make Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains;
Here studious I unlucky moderns save,
Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave,
Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek,
And crucify poor Shakespear once a week.
For thee I dim these eyes, and stuff this head,
With all such reading as was never read;
For thee supplying, in the worst of days,
Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays;
For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it,
And write about it, Goddess, and about it;
So spins the silkworm small its slender store,
And labours, 'till it clouds itself all o'er.
Not that my quill to Critiques was confin'd,
My Verse gave ampler lessons to mankind;
So gravest precepts may successless prove,
But sad examples never fail to move.
As forc'd from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly thro' the sky;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,
The wheels above urg'd by the load below;
Me, Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,
And were my Elasticity and Fire.
Had heav'n decreed such works a longer date,
Heav'n had decreed to spare the Grubstreet-state.
But see great Settle to the dust descend,
And all thy cause and empire at an end!
Cou'd Troy be sav'd by any single hand,
His gray-goose-weapon must have made her stand.
But what can I? my Flaccus cast aside,
Take up th' Attorney's (once my better) Guide?
Or rob the Roman geese of all their glories,
And save the state by cackling to the Tories?
Yes, to my Country I my pen consign,
Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine,
And rival, Curtius! of thy fame and zeal,
O'er head and ears plunge for the publick weal.
Adieu my children! better thus expire
Un-stall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire
Fair without spot; than greas'd by grocer's hands,
Or shipp'd with Ward to ape and monkey lands,
Or wafting ginger, round the streets to go,
And visit alehouse where ye first did grow.'
With that, he lifted thrice the sparkling brand,
And thrice he dropt it from his quiv'ring hand:
Then lights the structure, with averted eyes;
The rowling smokes involve the sacrifice.
The opening clouds disclose each work by turns,
Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns,
In one quick flash see Proserpine expire,
And last, his own cold AEschylus took fire.
Then gush'd the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes
When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.
Rowz'd by the light, old Dulness heav'd the head,
Then snatch'd a sheet of Thule from her bed;
Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre:
Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire.
Her ample presence fills up all the place;
A veil of fogs dilates her awful face;
Great in her charms! as when on Shrieves and May'rs
She looks, and breathes her self into their airs.
She bids him wait her to the sacred Dome;
Well-pleas'd he enter'd, and confess'd his Home:
So spirits ending their terrestrial race,
Ascend, and recognize their native place:
Raptur'd, he gazes round the dear retreat,
And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.
Here to her Chosen all her works she shows;
Prose swell'd to verse, Verse loitring into prose;
How random Thoughts now meaning chance to find.
Now leave all memory of sense behind:
How Prologues into Prefaces decay,
And these to Notes are fritter'd quite away.
How Index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the Eel of science by the Tail.
How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape,
Less human genius than God gives an ape,
Small thanks to France and none to Rome or Greece,
A past, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece,
'Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Congreve, and Corneille,
Can make a Cibber, Johnson, or Ozell.
The Goddess then o'er his anointed head,
With mystic words, the sacred Opium shed;
And lo! her Bird (a monster of a fowl!
Something betwixt a H*** and owl)
Perch'd on his crown. 'All hail! and hail again,
My son! the promis'd land expects thy reign.
Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise,
Is gather'd to the Dull of antient days,
Safe, where no criticks damn, no duns molest,
Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest.
I see a King! who leads my chosen sons
To lands, that flow with clenches and with puns:
'Till each fam'd Theatre my empire own,
'Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne!
I see! I see! --' Then rapt, she spoke no more.
'God save King Tibbald!' Grubstreet alleys roar.
So when Jove's block descended from on high,
(As sings thy great fore-father, Ogilby,)
Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,
And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log!


BOOK THE SECOND

High on a gorgeous seat, that far outshone
Henley's gilt Tub, or Fleckno's Irish Throne,
Or that, where on her Curlls, the Public pours
All-bounteous, fragrant grains, and golden show'rs;
Great Tibbald sate: The proud Parnassian sneer,
The conscious simper, and the jealous leer,
Mix on his look. All eyes direct their rays
On him, and crowds grow foolish as they gaze.
Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd,
With scarlet hats, wide waving, circled round,
Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit,
Thron'd on sev'n hills, the Antichrist of Wit.
To grace this honour'd day, the Queen proclaims
By herald hawkers, high, heroic Games.
She summons all her sons: An endless band
Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land;
A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags,
In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags;
From drawing rooms, from colleges, from garrets,
On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots,
All who true dunces in her cause appear'd,
And all who knew those dunces to reward.
Amid that Area wide she took her stand,
Where the tall May-pole once o'erlook'd the Strand;
But now, so ANNE and Piety ordain,
A Church collects the saints of Drury-lane.
With Authors, Stationers obey'd the call,
The field of glory is a field for all;
Glory, and gain, th' industrious tribe provoke;
And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke:
A Poet's form she plac'd before their eyes,
And bad the nimblest racer seize the prize;
No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin,
In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin,
But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise,
Twelve starveling bards of these degen'rate days.
All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair,
She form'd this image of well-bodied air,
With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head,
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead,
And empty words she gave, and sounding strain,
But senseless, lifeless! Idol void and vain!
Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit,
A Fool, so just a copy of a Wit;
So like, that criticks said and courtiers swore,
A wit it was, and call'd the phantom, More.
All gaze with ardour: some, a Poet's name,
Others, a sword-knot and lac'd suit inflame.
But lofty Lintot in the circle rose;
'This prize is mine; who tempt it, are my foes:
With me began this genius, and shall end.'
He spoke, and who with Lintot shall contend?
Fear held them mute. Alone untaught to fear,
Stood dauntless Curl, 'Behold that rival here!
The race by vigor, not by vaunts is won;
So take the hindmost Hell.' -- He said, and run.
Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind,
He left huge Lintot, and out-stript the wind.
As when a dab-chick waddles thro' the copse,
On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops;
So lab'ring on, with shoulders, hands, and head,
Wide as a windmill all his figure spread,
With legs expanded Bernard urg'd the race,
And seem'd to emulate great Jacob's pace.
Full in the middle way there stood a lake,
Which Curl's Corinna chanc'd that morn to make,
(Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop
Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,)
Here fortun'd Curl to slide; loud shout the band,
And Bernard! Bernard! rings thro' all the Strand.
Obscene with filth the Miscreant lies bewray'd,
Fal'n in the plash his wickedness had lay'd;
Then first (if Poets aught of truth declare)
The caitiff Vaticide conceiv'd a prayer.
'Hear Jove! whose name my bards and I adore,
As much at least as any God's, or more;
And him and his if more devotion warms,
Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's Arms.'
A place there is, betwixt earth, air and seas,
Where from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease.
There in his seat two spacious Vents appear,
On this he sits, to that he leans his ear,
And hears the various Vows of fond mankind,
Some beg an eastern, some a western wind:
All vain petitions, mounting to the sky,
With reams abundant this abode supply;
Amus'd he reads, and then returns the bills
Sign'd with that Ichor which from Gods distills.
In office here fair Cloacina stands,
And ministers to Jove with purest hands;
Forth from the heap she pick'd her Vot'ry's pray'r,
And plac'd it next him, a distinction rare!
Oft, as he fish'd her nether realms for wit,
The Goddess favour'd him, and favours yet.
Renew'd by ordure's sympathetic force,
As oil'd with magic juices for the course,
Vig'rous he rises; from th' effluvia strong,
Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along,
Re-passes Lintot, vindicates the race,
Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face.
And now the Victor stretch'd his eager hand
Where the tall Nothing stood, or seem'd to stand;
A shapeless shade! it melted from his sight,
Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night!
To seize his papers, Curl, was next thy care;
His papers light, fly diverse, tost in air:
Songs, sonnets, epigrams the winds uplift,
And whisk 'em back to Evans, Young, and Swift.
Th' embroider'd Suit, at least, he deem'd his prey;
That suit, an unpaid Taylor snatch'd away!
No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit,
That once so flutter'd, and that once so writ.
Heav'n rings with laughter: Of the laughter vain,
Dulness, good Queen, repeats the jest again.
Three wicked imps of her own Grubstreet Choir
She deck'd like Congreve, Addison, and Prior;
Mears, Warner, Wilkins run: Delusive thought!
Breval, Besaleel, Bond, the Varlets caught.
Curl stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone,
He grasps an empty Joseph for a John!
So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape,
Became when seiz'd, a Puppy, or an Ape.
To him the Goddess. 'Son! thy grief lay down,
And turn this whole illusion on the town.
As the sage dame, experienc'd in her trade,
By names of Toasts retails each batter'd jade,
(Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris
Of wrongs from Duchesses and Lady Mary's)
Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift;
Cook shall be Prior, and Concanen, Swift;
So shall each hostile name become our own,
And we too boast our Garth and Addison.'
With that she gave him (piteous of his case,
Yet smiling at his ruful length of face)
A shaggy Tap'stry, worthy to be spread
On Codrus' old, or Dunton's modern bed;
Instructive work! whose wry-mouth'd portraiture
Display'd the fates her confessors endure.
Earless on high, stood un-abash'd Defoe,
And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge, below:
There Ridpath, Roper, cudgell'd might ye view;
The very worsted still look'd black and blue:
Himself among the storied Chiefs he spies,
As from the blanket high in air he flies,
'And oh! (he cry'd,) what street, what lane, but knows
Our purgings, pumpings, blanketings and blows?
In ev'ry loom our labours shall be seen,
And the fresh vomit run for ever green!'
See in the circle next, Eliza plac'd;
Two babes of love close clinging to her waste;
Fair as before her works she stands confess'd,
In flow'rs and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dress'd.
The Goddess then: 'Who best can send on high
The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky;
His be you Juno of majestic size,
With cow-like-udders, and with ox-like eyes.
This China-Jordan, let the chief o'ercome
Replenish, not ingloriously, at home.'
Chetwood and Curl accept the glorious strife,
(Tho' one his son dissuades, and one his wife)
This on his manly confidence relies,
That on his vigor and superior size.
First Chetwood lean'd against his letter'd post;
It rose, and labour'd to a curve at most:
So Jove's bright bow displays its watry round,
(Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drown'd).
A second effort brought but new disgrace,
For straining more, it flies in his own face;
Thus the small jett which hasty hands unlock,
Spirts in the gard'ner's eyes who turns the cock.
Not so from shameless Curl: Impetuous spread
The stream, and smoaking, flourish'd o'er his head.
So, (fam'd like thee for turbulence and horns,)
Eridanus his humble fountain scorns,
Thro' half the heav'ns he pours th' exalted urn;
His rapid waters in their passage burn.
Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes;
Still happy Impudence obtains the prize.
Thou triumph'st, victor of the high-wrought day,
And the pleas'd dame soft-smiling leads away.
Chetwood, thro' perfect modesty o'ercome,
Crown'd with the Jordan, walks contented home.
But now for Authors nobler palms remain:
Room for my Lord! three Jockeys in his train;
Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair;
He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare.
His honour'd meaning, Dulness thus exprest;
'He wins this Patron who can tickle best.'
He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state;
With ready quills the dedicators wait;
Now at his head the dext'rous task commence,
And instant, fancy feels th' imputed sense;
Now gentle touches wanton o'er his face,
He struts Adonis, and affects grimace:
Rolli the feather to his ear conveys,
Then his nice taste directs our Operas:
Welsted his mouth with Classic flatt'ry opes,
And the puff'd Orator bursts out in tropes.
But Oldmixon the Poet's healing balm
Strives to extract from his soft, giving palm;
Unlucky Oldmixon! thy lordly master
The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster.
While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain,
And quick sensations skip from vein to vein,
A youth unknown to Phoebus, in despair,
Puts his last refuge all in Heav'n and Pray'r.
What force have pious vows! the Queen of Love
His Sister sends, her vot'ress, from above.
As taught by Venus, paris learnt the art
To touch Achilles' only tender part;
Secure, thro' her, the noble prize to carry,
He marches off, his Grace's Secretary.
'Now turn to diff'rent sports (the Goddess cries)
And learn, my sons, the wond'rous pow'r of Noise.
To move, to raise, to ravish ev'ry heart,
With Shakespear's nature, or with Johnson's art,
Let others aim: 'Tis yours to shake the soul
With thunder rumbling from the mustard-bowl,
With horns and trumpets now to madness swell,
Now sink in sorrows with a tolling Bell.
Such happy arts attention can command,
When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand.
Improve we these. Three cat-calls be the bribe
Of him, whose chatt'ring shames the Monkey tribe;
And his this Drum, whose hoarse heroic base
Drowns the loud clarion of the braying Ass.'
Now thousand tongues are heard in one loud din:
The Monkey-mimicks rush discordant in.
'Twas chatt'ring, grinning, mouthing, jabb'ring all,
And Noise, and Norton, Brangling, and Breval,
Dennis and Dissonance; and captious Art,
And Snip-snap short, and Interruption smart.
'Hold (cry'd the Queen) A Catcall each shall win,
Equal your merits! equal is your din!
But that this well-disputed game may end,
Sound forth, my Brayers, and the welkin rend.'
As when the long-ear'd milky mothers wait
At some sick miser's triple-bolted gate,
For their defrauded, absent foals they make
A moan so loud, that all the Guild awake,
Sore sighs Sir G * *, starting at the bray
From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay!
So swells each Windpipe; Ass intones to Ass,
Harmonic twang! of leather, horn, and brass.
Such, as from lab'ring lungs th' Enthusiast blows,
High sounds, attempred to the vocal nose.
But far o'er all, sonorous Blackmore's strain,
Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again:
In Tot'nam fields, the brethren with amaze
Prick all their ears up, and forget to graze;
Long Chanc'ry-lane retentive rolls the sound,
And courts to courts return it round and round:
Thames wafts it thence to Rufus' roaring hall,
And Hungerford re-ecchoes, bawl for bawl.
All hail him victor in both gifts of Song,
Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long.
This labour past, by Bridewell all descend,
(As morning-pray'r and flagellation end.)
To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames,
The King of Dykes! than whom, no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
'Here strip my children! here at once leap in!
Here prove who best can dash thro' thick and thin,
And who the most in love of dirt excel,
Or dark dexterity of groping well.
Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around
The stream, be his the Weekly Journals, bound.
A pig of lead to him who dives the best.
A peck of coals a-piece shall glad the rest.'
In naked majesty great Dennis stands,
And, Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands,
Then sighing, thus. 'And I am now threescore?
Ah why, ye Gods! should two and two make four?'
He said, and climb'd a stranded Lighter's height,
Shot to the black abyss, and plung'd down-right.
The Senior's judgment all the crowd admire,
Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher.
Next Smedley div'd; slow circles dimpled o'er
The quaking mud, that clos'd, and ope'd no more.
All look, all sigh, and call on Smedley lost;
Smedley in vain resounds thro' all the coast.
Then * * tyr'd, but hardly snatch'd from sight,
Instant buoys up, and rises into light;
He bears no token of the sabler streams,
And mounts far off, among the swans of Thames.
True to the bottom, see Concanen creep,
A cold, long-winded, native of the deep!
If perseverance gain the Diver's prize,
Not everlasting Blackmore this denies:
No noise, no stir, no motion can'st thou make,
Th' unconscious flood sleeps o'er thee like a lake.
Not Welsted so: drawn endlong by his scull,
Furious he sinks; precipitately dull.
Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest,
With all the Might of gravitation blest.
No crab more active in the dirty dance,
Downward to climb, and backward to advance;
He brings up half the bottom on his head,
And boldly claims the Journals and the Lead.
Sudden, a burst of thunder shook the flood.
Lo Smedley rose, in majesty of mud!
Shaking the horrors of his ample brows,
And each ferocious feature grim with ooze.
Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares;
Then thus the wonders of the Deep declares.
First he relates, how sinking to the chin,
Smit with his mien, the Mud-nymphs suck'd him in:
How young Lutetia, softer than the down,
Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown,
Vy'd for his love in jetty bow'rs below;
As Hylas fair was ravish'd long ago.
Then sung, how shown him by the nutbrown maids,
A branch of Styx here rises from the Shades,
That tinctur'd as it runs, with Lethe's streams,
And wafting vapours from the Land of Dreams,
(As under seas Alphaeus' secret sluice
Bears Pisa's offerings to his Arethuse)
Pours into Thames: Each city-bowl is full
Of the mixt wave, and all who drink grow dull.
How to the banks where bards departed doze,
They led him soft; how all the bards arose;
Taylor, sweet bird of Thames, majestic bows,
And Shadwell nods the poppy on his brows;
While Milbourn there, deputed by the rest,
Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest;
And 'Take (he said) these robes which once were mine,
Dulness is sacred in a sound Divine.'
He ceas'd, and show'd the robe; the crowd confess
The rev'rend Flamen in his lengthen'd dress.
Slow moves the Goddess from the sable flood,
(Her Priest preceding) thro' the gates of Lud.
Her Criticks there she summons, and proclaims
A gentler exercise to close the games.
'Hear you! in whose grave heads, as equal scales,
I weigh what author's heaviness prevails,
Which most conduce to sooth the soul in slumbers,
My Henley's periods, or my Blackmore's numbers?
Attend the trial we propose to make:
If there be man who o'er such works can wake,
Sleep's all-subduing charm who dares defy,
And boasts Ulysses' ear with Argus' eye;
To him we grant our amplest pow'rs to sit
Judge of all present, past, and future wit,
To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong,
Full, and eternal privilege of tongue.'
Three Cambridge Sophs and three pert Templars came,
The same their talents, and their tastes the same,
Each prompt to query, answer, and debate,
And smit with love of Poesy and Prate.
The pond'rous books two gentle readers bring;
The heroes sit; the vulgar form a ring.
The clam'rous crowd is hush'd with mugs of Mum,
'Till all tun'd equal, send a gen'ral hum.
Then mount the clerks; and in one lazy tone,
Thro' the long, heavy, painful page, drawl on;
Soft, creeping, words on words, the sense compose,
At ev'ry line, they stretch, they yawn, they doze.
As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low
Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow,
Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline,
As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine:
And now to this side, now to that, they nod,
As verse, or prose, infuse the drowzy God.
Thrice Budgel aim'd to speak, but thrice supprest
By potent Arthur, knock'd his chin and breast.
Toland and Tindal, prompt at Priests to jeer,
Yet silent bow'd to Christ's No kingdom here.
Who sate the nearest, by the words o'ercome
Slept first, the distant nodded to the hum.
Then down are roll'd the books; stretch'd o'er 'em lies
Each gentle clerk, and mutt'ring seals his eyes.
As what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes,
One circle first, and then a second makes,
What Dulness dropt among her sons imprest
Like motion, from one circle to the rest;
So from the mid-most the nutation spreads
Round, and more round, o'er all the sea of heads.
At last Centlivre felt her voice to fail,
Old James himself unfinish'd left his tale,
Boyer the State, and Law the Stage gave o'er,
Nor Motteux talk'd, nor Naso whisper'd more;
Norton, from Daniel and Ostroea sprung,
Blest with his father's front, and mother's tongue,
Hung silent down his never-blushing head;
And all was hush'd, as Folly's self lay dead.
Thus the soft gifts of Sleep conclude the day,
And stretch'd on bulks, as usual, Poets lay.
Why shou'd I sing what bards the nightly Muse
Did slumbring visit, and convey to stews?
Who prouder march'd, with magistrates in state,
To some fam'd round-house, ever open gate!
How Laurus lay inspir'd beside a sink,
And to mere mortals seem'd a Priest in drink?
While others timely, to the neighbouring Fleet
(Haunt of the Muses) made their safe retreat.


BOOK THE THIRD

But in her Temple's last recess inclos'd,
On Dulness lap th' Anointed head repos'd.
Him close she curtain'd round with vapors blue,
And soft besprinkled with Cimmerian dew.
Then raptures high the seat of sense o'erflow,
Which only heads, refin'd from reason, know.
Hence, from the straw where Bedlam's Prophet nods,
He hears loud Oracles, and talks with Gods.
Hence the Fool's paradise, the Statesman's scheme,
The air-built Castle, and the golden Dream,
The Maid's romantic wish, the Chymist's flame,
And Poet's vision of eternal fame.
And now, on Fancy's easy wing convey'd,
The King descended to th' Elyzian shade.
There, in a dusky vale where Lethe rolls,
Old Bavius sits, to dip poetic souls,
And blunt the sense, and fit it for a scull
Of solid proof, impenetrably dull.
Instant when dipt, away they wing their flight,
Where Brown and Mears unbar the gates of Light,
Demand new bodies, and in Calf's array
Rush to the world, impatient for the day.
Millions and millions on these banks he views,
Thick as the stars of night, or morning dews,
As thick as bees o'er vernal blossoms fly,
As thick as eggs at Ward in Pillory.
Wond'ring he gaz'd: When lo! a Sage appears,
By his broad shoulders known, and length of ears,
Known by the band and suit which Settle wore,
(His only suit) for twice three years before:
All as the vest, appear'd the wearer's frame,
Old in new state, another yet the same.
Bland and familiar as in life, begun
Thus the great Father to the greater Son.
'Oh born to see what none can see awake!
Behold the wonders of th' Oblivious Lake.
Thou, yet unborn, has touch'd this sacred shore;
The hand of Bavius drench'd thee o'er and o'er.
But blind to former, as to future Fate,
What mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Who knows how long thy transmigrating soul
Did from Boeotian to Boeotian roll?
How many Dutchmen she vouchsaf'd to thrid?
How many stages thro' old Monks she rid?
And all who since, in mild benighted days,
Mix'd the Owl's ivy with the Poet's bays?
As man's maeanders to the vital spring
Roll all their tydes, then back their circles bring;
Or whirligigs, twirl'd round by skilful swain,
Suck the thread in, then yield it out again:
All nonsense thus, of old or modern date,
Shall in thee centre, from thee circulate.
For this, our Queen unfolds to vision true
Thy mental eye, for thou hast much to view:
Old scenes of glory, times long cast behind,
Shall first recall'd, rush forward to thy mind;
Then stretch thy sight o'er all her rising reign,
And let the past and future fire thy brain.
'Ascend this hill, whose cloudy point commands
Her boundless Empire over seas and lands.
See round the Poles where keener spangles shine,
Where spices smoke beneath the burning Line,
(Earth's wide extreams) her sable flag display'd;
And all the nations cover'd in her shade!
'Far Eastward cast thine eye, from whence the Sun
And orient Science at a birth begun.
One man immortal all that pride confounds,
He, whose long Wall the wand'ring Tartar bounds.
Heav'ns! what a pyle! whole ages perish there:
And one bright blaze turns Learning into air.
Thence to the South extend thy gladden'd eyes;
There rival flames with equal glory rise,
From shelves to shelves see greedy Vulcan roll,
And lick up all their Physick of the Soul.
'How little, mark! that portion of the ball,
Where, faint at best, the beams of Science fall.
Soon as they dawn, from Hyperborean skies,
Embody'd dark, what clouds of Vandals rise!
Lo where Moeotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais thro' a waste of Snows,
The North by myriads pours her mighty sons,
Great nurse of Goths, of Alans, and of Huns.
See Alaric's stern port, the martial frame
Of Genseric! and Attila's dread name!
See, the bold Ostrogoths on Latium fall;
See, the fierce Visigoths on Spain and Gaul.
See, where the Morning gilds the palmy shore,
(The soil that arts and infant letters bore)
His conqu'ring tribes th' Arabian prophet draws,
And saving Ignorance enthrones by Laws.
See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep;
And all the Western World believe and sleep.
'Lo Rome herself, proud mistress now no more
Of arts, but thund'ring against Heathen lore;
Her gray-hair'd Synods damning books unread,
And Bacon trembling for his brazen head:
Padua with sighs beholds her Livy burn;
And ev'n th' Antipodes Vigilius mourn.
See, the Cirque falls! th' unpillar'd Temple nods!
Streets pav'd with Heroes, Tyber choak'd with Gods!
Till Peter's Keys some christen'd Jove adorn,
And Pan to Moses lends his Pagan horn;
See graceless Venus to a Virgin turn'd,
Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd.
'Behold you' Isle, by Palmers, Pilgrims trod,
Men bearded, bald, cowl'd, uncowl'd, shod, unshod,
Peel'd, patch'd, and pyebald, linsey-woolsey brothers,
Grave mummers! sleeveless some, and shirtless others.
That once was Britain -- Happy! had she seen
No fiercer sons, had Easter never been.
In peace, great Goddess! ever be ador'd;
How keen the war, if Dulness draw the sword!
Thus visit not thy own! on this blest age
Oh spread thy Influence, but restrain thy Rage!
'And see! my son, the hour is on its way,
That lifts our Goddess to imperial sway:
This fav'rite Isle, long sever'd from her reign,
Dove-like, she gathers to her wings again.
Now look thro' Fate! behold the scene she draws!
What aids, what armies, to assert her cause!
See all her progeny, illustrious sight!
Behold, and count them, as they rise to light.
As Berecynthia, while her offspring vye
In homage, to the mother of the sky,
Surveys around her in the blest abode
A hundred sons, and ev'ry son a God:
Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown'd,
Shall take thro' Grubstreet her triumphant round,
And Her Parnassus glancing o'er at once,
Behold a hundred sons, and each a dunce.
'Mark first the youth who takes the foremost place,
And thrusts his person full into your face.
With all thy Father's virtues blest, be born!
And a new Cibber shall the Stage adorn.
'A second see, by meeker manners known,
And modest as the maid that sips alone:
From the strong fate of drams if thou get free,
Another Durfey, Ward! shall sing in thee.
Thee shall each Ale-house, thee each Gill-house mourn,
And answ'ring Gin-shops sowrer sighs return!
'Lo next two slip-shod Muses traipse along,
In lofty madness, meditating song,
With tresses staring from poetic dreams,
And never wash'd, but in Castalia's streams:
Haywood, Centlivre, Glories of their race!
Lo Horneck's fierce, and Roome's funereal face;
Lo sneering G * * de, half malice and half whim,
A Fiend in glee, ridiculously grim.
Jacob, the Scourge of Grammar, mark with awe,
Nor less revere him, Blunderbuss of Law.
Lo Bond and Foxton, ev'ry nameless name,
All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to Fame?
Some strain in rhyme; the Muses, on their racks,
Scream, like the winding of ten thousand Jacks:
Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check,
Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck;
Down, down they larum, with impetuous whirl,
The Pindars, and the Miltons, of a Curl.
'Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes Night hideous -- Answer him ye Owls!
'Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead,
Let all give way -- and Durgen may be read.
'Flow Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, Beer,
Tho' stale, not ripe; tho' thin, yet never clear;
So, sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull;
Heady, not strong, and foaming tho' not full.
'Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage
Divides a friendship, long confirm'd by age?
Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barb'rous civil war.
Embrace, embrace my Sons! be foes no more!
Nor glad vile Poets with true Criticks' gore.
'Behold yon pair, in strict embraces join'd;
How like their manners, and how like their mind!
Fam'd for good-nature, B * * and for truth;
D * * for pious passion to the youth.
Equal in wit, and equally polite,
Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write;
Like are their merits, like rewards they share,
That shines a Consul, this Commissioner.
'But who is he, in closet close y-pent,
Of sober face, with learned dust besprent?
Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight,
On parchment scraps y-fed, and Wormius hight.
To future ages may thy dulness last,
As thou preserv'st the dulness of the past!
'There, dim in clouds, the poreing Scholiasts mark,
Wits, who like Owls see only in the dark,
A Lumberhouse of Books in ev'ry head,
For ever reading, never to be read.
'But, where each Science lifts its modern Type,
Hist'ry her Pot, Divinity his Pipe,
While proud Philosophy repines to show
Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below;
Imbrown'd with native Bronze, lo Henley stands,
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands.
How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue!
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung!
Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain,
While K * * , B * * , W * * , preach in vain.
Oh great Restorer of the good old Stage,
Preacher at once, and Zany of thy Age!
Oh worthy thou of AEgypt's wise abodes,
A decent Priest, where monkeys were the Gods!
But Fate with Butchers plac'd thy priestly Stall,
Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and mawl;
And bade thee live, to crown Britannia's praise,
In Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days.
'Thou too, great Woolston! here exalt thy throne,
And prove, no Miracles can match thy own.
'Yet oh my sons! a father's words attend:
(So may the fates preserve the ears you lend)
'Tis yours, a Bacon, or a Locke to blame,
A Newton's Genius, or a Seraph's flame:
But O! with one, immortal One dispense,
The source of Newton's Light, of Bacon's Sense!
Content, each Emanation of his fires
That beams on earth, each Virtue he inspires,
Each Art he prompts, each Charm he can create,
What-e'er he gives, are giv'n for You to hate.
Persist, by all divine in Man un-aw'd,
But learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your GOD.'
Thus he, for then a ray of Reason stole
Half thro' the solid darkness of his soul;
But soon the Cloud return'd -- and thus the Sire:
'See now, what Dulness and her sons admire;
See! what the charms, that smite the simple heart
Not touch'd by Nature, and not reach'd by Art.'
He look'd, and saw a sable Sorc'rer rise,
Swift to whose hand a winged volume flies:
All sudden, Gorgons hiss, and Dragons glare,
And ten-horn'd fiends and Giants rush to war.
Hell rises, Heav'n descends, and dance on Earth,
Gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth,
A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball,
Till one wide Conflagration swallows all.
Thence a new world, to Nature's laws unknown,
Breaks out refulgent, with a heav'n its own:
Another Cynthia her new journey runs,
And other planets circle other suns:
The forests dance, the rivers upward rise,
Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies,
And last, to give the whole creation grace,
Lo! one vast Egg produces human race.
Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought:
'What pow'r,' he cries, 'what pow'r these wonders wrought?'
'Son! what thou seek'st is in thee. Look, and find
Each monster meets his likeness in thy mind.
Yet would'st thou more? In yonder cloud, behold!
Whose sarcenet skirts are edg'd with flamy gold,
A matchless youth: His nod these worlds controuls,
Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls.
Angel of Dulness, sent to scatter round
Her magic charms o'er all unclassic ground:
Yon stars, yon suns, he rears at pleasure higher,
Illumes their light, and sets their flames on fire.
Immortal Rich! how calm he sits at ease
Mid snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease;
And proud his mistress' orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
'But lo! to dark encounter in mid air
New wizards rise: here Booth, and Cibber there:
Booth in his cloudy tabernacle shrin'd,
On grinning dragons Cibber mounts the wind:
Dire is the conflict, dismal is the din,
Here shouts all Drury, there all Lincoln's-Inn;
Contending Theatres our empire raise,
Alike their labours, and alike their praise.
'And are these wonders, Son, to thee unknown?
Unknown to thee? These wonders are thy own.
For works like these let deathless Journals tell,
"None but Thy self can be thy parallel."
These, Fate reserv'd to grace thy reign divine,
Foreseen by me, but ah! with-held from mine.
In Lud's old walls, tho' long I rul'd renown'd,
Far, as loud Bow's stupendous bells resound;
Tho' my own Aldermen conferr'd my bays,
To me committing their eternal praise,
Their full-fed Heroes, their pacific May'rs,
Their annual trophies, and their monthly wars.
Tho' long my Party built on me their hopes,
For writing pamphlets, and for burning Popes;
(Diff'rent our parties, but with equal grace
The Goddess smiles on Whig and Tory race,
'Tis the same rope at sev'ral ends they twist,
To Dulness, Ridpath is as dear as Mist.)
Yet lo! in me what authors have to brag on!
Reduc'd at last to hiss in my own dragon.
Avert it, heav'n! that thou or Cibber e'er
Should wag two serpent tails in Smithfield fair.
Like the vile straw that's blown about the streets
The needy Poet sticks to all he meets,
Coach'd, carted, trod upon, now loose, now fast,
In the Dog's tail his progress ends at last.
Happier thy fortunes! like a rolling stone,
Thy giddy dulness still shall lumber on,
Safe in its heaviness, can never stray,
And licks up every blockhead in the way.
Thy dragons Magistrates and Peers shall taste,
And from each show rise duller than the last:
Till rais'd from Booths to Theatre, to Court,
Her seat imperial, Dulness shall transport.
Already, Opera prepares the way,
The sure fore-runner of her gentle sway.
To aid her cause, if heav'n thou can'st not bend,
Hell thou shalt move; for Faustus is thy friend:
Pluto with Cato thou for her shalt join,
And link the Mourning-Bride to Proserpine.
Grubstreet! thy fall should men and Gods conspire,
Thy stage shall stand, ensure it but from Fire.
Another AEschylus appears! prepare
For new Abortions, all ye pregnant Fair!
In flames, like Semeles, be brought to bed,
While opening Hell spouts wild-fire at your head.
'Now Bavius, take the poppy from thy brow,
And place it here! here all ye Heroes bow!
This, this is He, foretold by ancient rhymes,
Th' Augustus born to bring Saturnian times:
Beneath his reigh, shall Eusden wear the bays,
Cibber preside Lord-Chancellor of Plays,
B * * sole Judge of Architecture sit,
And Namby Pamby be prefer'd for Wit!
While naked mourns the Dormitory wall,
And Jones' and Boyle's united labours fall,
While Wren with sorrow to the grave descends,
Gay dies un-pension'd with a hundred Friends,
Hibernian Politicks, O Swift, thy doom,
And Pope's, translating three whole years with Broome.
'Proceed great days! till Learning fly the shore,
Till Birch shall blush with noble blood no more,
Till Thames see Eton's sons for ever play,
Till Westminster's whole year be holiday;
Till Isis' Elders reel, their Pupils' sport;
And Alma Mater lye dissolv'd in Port!
'Signs following signs lead on the Mighty Year;
See! the dull stars roll round and re-appear.
She comes! the Cloud-compelling Pow'r, behold!
With Night Primaeval, and with Chaos old.
Lo! the great Anarch's ancient reign restor'd,
Light dies before her uncreating word:
As one by one, at dread Medaea's strain,
The sick'ning Stars fade off th' aethereal plain;
As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand opprest,
Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest:
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is Night.
See sculking Truth in her old cavern lye,
Secur'd by mountains of heap'd casuistry:
Philosophy, that touch'd the Heavens before,
Shrinks to her hidden cause, and is no more:
See Physic beg the Stagyrite's defence!
See Metaphysic call for aid on Sence!
See Mystery to Mathematicks fly!
In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
Thy hand great Dulness! lets the curtain fall,
And universal Darkness covers all.'
'Enough! enough!' the raptur'd Monarch cries;
And thro' the Ivory Gate the Vision flies.





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