Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain.

But see how oft' ambitious aims are crossed,
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with
pain,

In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: 110
With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
So heav'n decrees: with heav'n who can con-
test?

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,

Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.

There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous

And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,

And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs. The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120 Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

But trust the Muse-she saw it upward rise,

Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,

125

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY

(1717)

5

What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light
shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!-but why that bleeding bosom gored?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blessed abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her
die)

Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

15

20

25

And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

30

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,

35

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; Their passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40 "Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steeled,

"And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield."

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

46

What can atone, oh ever-injured shade! Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier.

50

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned!

60

If I am right, thy grace impart Still in the right to stay:

30

grace,

Nor polished marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be
dressed,

66

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.

70

If I am wrong, oh teach my heart
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath:
Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go,

Through this day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all being raise;
All nature's incense rise!

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT1

BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES

(Published 1735)

No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint' walks forth the man of

rhyme,

Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

1 A Scotch physician, wit, and author, who had become physician in ordinary to the Queen. He was one of the inner circle of London wits, intimate with Pope. Swift, Gay, and others. As the poem intimates, he was Pope's own physician.

2 Pope's faithful servant, John Searle.

3 Pope's famous grotto at Twickenham was really a tunnel, adorned with pieces of spar, mirrors, etc., leading under a public road that intersected the poet's grounds. 4 A district in Southwark, so called from a Mint established there by Henry VIII. As persons were exempt from arrest within this district, it became a refuge for insolvent debtors, criminals and poor authors,

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

25

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song),
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Gr which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel "Keep your piece nine
years.'

40

"Nine years!" cried he, who, high in Drury Lane,9

Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, 10

Obliged by hunger and request of friends:

"The piece you think is incorrect? why take it;

45

At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: "Sir, let me see your works and you no more.'

109

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grub Street' will my fame defend, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!”

There are who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short.

Ammon's great son15 one shoulder had too high,

117

120

Such Ovid's nose, and, "sir, you have an eye."
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgraced my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro16 held his head:"
And, when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? 126 As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobeyed:

130

The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife,

133

To help me through this long disease, my life;
To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach the being you preserved to
bear. . . .

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence

147

While pure description held the place of sense?

Did some more sober critic come abroad- 157
If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 't were a sin to rob them of their mite.
Were others angry-I excused them too; 173
Well might they rage, I gave them but their
due.

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,

175

18 Bernard Lintot, a leading bookseller, whom Pope attacks in the Dunciad.

14 A street frequented by obscure authors.

15 Alexander the Great, who boasted that he was son of the Egyptian god Ammon. 16 Virgil.

197

True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent, and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 200
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike,
Alike reserved to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus where he?

"IN VAIN, IN VAIN"

205

210

17 i. e., Ambrose Philips (1675?-1749), a poet, and one of Pope's many enemies.

18 Nahum Tate (1652-1715), succeeded Shadwell as poet laureate in 1692.

19 This concluding passage refers to Addison.

! Pope made many enemies, and while the Dunciad, or epic of Dunces, is one of the most famous and brilliant of English satires, it is also a malicious and too often unworthy attack upon Pope's literary contemporaries. In the first three books (1728), the prize for dullness is given to Lewis Theobald, an early editor of Shakespeare, but in a fourth book, added in 1742, Pope's anger led him to depose Theobald and put Colley Cibber in his place.

640

As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, 635
The sick'ning stars fade off th'ethereal 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 skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
Physic of Metaphysic begs defense,
And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!
See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

645

In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
Religion blushing veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.

650

For public Flame, nor private, dares to shine;
Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor❜d;
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall 655
And universal Darkness buries All!

AN ESSAY ON MAN,1

IN FOUR EPISTLES

ΤΟ

HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE

(Selections)

Written in the Year 1732

EPISTLE I

Try what the open, what the covert yield; 10
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore,
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;
But vindicate the ways of God to man.

16

Say first, of God above or man below, What can we reason but from what we know? Of man, what see we but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known,

'Tis ours to trace Him only in our own. He, who through vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe,

20

1 The Essay on Man is a versified treatise in four Epistles, on the moral order of the world. The argument is supposed to have been supplied to Pope by his friend Lord Bolingbroke, to whom the work is addressed.

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;

Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore.
What future bliss He gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be, blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

95

Wordsw

Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; 100 His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven;

Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste.

106 Where slaves once more their native land behold,

No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.

To be, contents his natural desire;

He asks no angel's wings, no seraph's fire; 110
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

120

Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, 115 Say, Here He gives too little, there too much! Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, If man's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from His hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge His justice, be the god of God. In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere and rush into the skies! Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels men rebel:

And who but wishes to invert the laws

125