Fair Nymphs and well-drest Youths around her shone, On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Rape of the Lock, il. 1. THE BARON OFFERS SACRIFICE FOR SUCCESS. The adventurous Baron the bright locks admired; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. Rope of the Lock, il. 29. THE SYLPHS-THEIR FUNCTIONS AND EMPLOYMENTS. Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light, Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes; Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. Superior by the head was Ariel placed; He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear! Some in the fields of purest ether play, To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers; To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, This day, black omens threat the brightest Fair Some dire disaster, or by force or slight; But what, or where, the fates have wrapp'd in night. Or some frail China-jar receive a flaw, Or stain her honor, or her new brocade, Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball; Or whether Heaven has doom'd that Shock? must fall. Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair: The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; 1 "The seeming importance given to every part of female dress, each of which is committed to the care and protection of a different sylph, with all the solemnity of a general appointing the several posts in his army, renders this whole passage admirable, on account of its politeness, poignancy, and poetry."-Warton. 2 Her lapdog. Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite Lock; To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend: Rape of the Lock, 11. 59. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame! Hark! they whisper; Angels say, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? The world recedes; it disappears! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! Oh Death! where is thy Sting? 1 "Our poet still rises in the delicacy of his satire, where he employs, with the utmost judgment and elegance, all the implements and furniture of the toilet as instruments of punishment to those spirits who shall be careless of their charge:-of punishment such as sylphs alone could undergo.”~Warton. It is to be regretted that the prose works of Pope are so few, for what he has left us are remarkable for great purity and correctness of style, clearness of conception, and soundness of judgment. The chief of them are his Letters, which are among the best specimens of epistolary writing; a Preface to the Iliad; a Postscript to the Odyssey; a Preface to Shakspeare; and Prefaces to his Pastorals and collected works. LETTER TO STEELE, UPON EARLY DEATH. You formerly observed to me, that nothing made a more ridiculous figure in a man's life than the disparity we often find in him, sick and well. Thus, one of an unfortunate constitution is perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness of his mind and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportunities of late to consider myself in these different views, and, I hope, have received some advantage by it, if what Waller says be true, that The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. Then surely sickness, contributing, no less than old age, to the shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the inward structure more plainly. Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and inspires us with thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philosophers and divines. It gives so warning a concussion to those props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when there is so little dependence upon our outworks. Youth, at the very best, is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and smoother manner than age: 'tis like a stream that nourishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me; it has afforded several prospects of my danger, and given me an advantage, not very common to young men, that the attractions of the world have not dazzled me very much; and I begin, where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures, when a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tenement of my body will fall in a little time; I am even as unconcerned as was that honest Hibernian, who, being in bed in the great storm some years ago, and told the house would tumble over his head, made answer, "What care I for the house? I am only a lodger." When I reflect what an inconsiderable little atom every single man is, with respect to the whole creation, methinks 'tis a shame to be concerned at the removal of such a trivial animal as I am. The morning after my exit, the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its old course, people will laugh as heartily and marry as fast as they were used to do. The memory of man (as it is elegantly expressed in the Book of Wisdom) passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are reasons enough, in the fourth chapter of the same book, to make any young man contented with the prospect of death. "For honorable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or is measured by number of years. But wisdom is gray hair to men, and an unspotted life is old age. He was taken away speedily, lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul." July 15, 17:12. SHAKSPEARE. If ever any author deserved the name of an original, it was Shakspeare. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately from the fountains of Nature; it proceeded through Egyptian strainers and channels, and came to him not without some tincture of the learning, or some cast of the models, of those before him. The poetry of Shakspeare was inspiration indeed; he is not so much an imitator, as an instrument, of Nature; and it is not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. His characters are so much Nature1 herself, that it is a sort of injury to call them by so distant a name as copies of her. Those of other poets have a constant resemblance, which shows that they received them from one another, and were but multipliers of the same image; each picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but the reflection of a reflection. But every single character in Shakspeare is as much an individual as those in life itself: it is as impossible to find any two alike; and such as from their relation or affinity in any respect appear most to be twins, will, upon comparison, be found remarkably distinct. To this life and variety of character we must add the wonderful preservation of it; which is such throughout his plays, that had all the speeches been printed without the very names of the persons, I believe one might have applied them with certainty to every speaker. The power over our passions was never possessed in a more eminent degree, or displayed in so different instances. Yet all along there is seen no labor, no pains to raise them; no preparation to guide or guess to the effect, or be perceived to lead toward it but the heart swells, and the tears burst out, just at the proper places we are surprised at the moment we weep; and yet, upon 1 See Mra. Montagu's ingenious Essay on Shakspeare, and her confutations of Voltaire's criticisms. |