Classic Poem

UPON UNNATURAL FLIGHTS IN POETRY .

As when some image of a charming face,
In living paint, an artist tries to trace,
He carefully consults each beauteous line,
Adjusting to his object his design;
We praise the piece, and give the painter fame,
But as the just resemblance speaks the dame.
Poets are limners of another kind,
To copy out ideas in the mind;
Words are the paint by which their thoughts are
And Nature sits the object to be drawn;
The written picture we applaud or blame
But as the due proportions are the same.
Who driven with ungovernable fire,
Or, void of art, beyond these bounds aspire,
Gigantic forms and monstrous births alone
Produce, which Nature, shock'd, disdains to own.
By true reflection I would see my face;
Why brings the fool a magnifying-glass?
" But Poetry in fiction takes delight,
" And, mounting in bold figures out of sight,
" Leaves truth behind in her audacious flight:
" Fables and metaphors that always lie,
" And rash hyperboles that soar so high,
" And every ornament of verse must die. "
Mistake me not; no figures I exclude,
And but forbid intemperance, not food.
Who would with care some happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very same;
Not rais'd to force, or seign'd in Nature's scorn,
But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn.
Important truths still let your fables hold,
And moral mysteries with art unfold.
Ladies and beaus to please is all the task,
But the sharp critic will instruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear when right apply'd;
When thro' the phrase we plainly see the sense,
Truth, where the meaning's obvious, will dispense;
The reader what in reason's due believes;
Nor can we call that false which not deceives.
Hyperboles, so daring and so bold,
Disdaining bounds, are yet by rules controll'd:
Above the clouds, but still within our sight,
They mount with truth, and make a tow'ring flight;
Presenting things impossible to view,
They wander thro' incredible to true:
Falsehoods thus mix'd, like metals are refin'd,
And truth, like silver, leaves the dross behind.
Thus poetry has ample space to soar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore:
Such vaunts as his who can with patience read
Who thus describes his hero slain and dead:
" Kill'd as he was, insensible of death,
" He still fights on, and scorns to yield his breath. "
The noisy culverin o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And burst unaiming in the rended sky.
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And Nature suffers in the wild extreme.
The captive Cannibal, weigh'd down with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains;
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He grins defiance at the gaping crowd,
And spent at last, and speechless as he lies,
With looks still threat'ning, mocks their rage and dies.
This is the utmost stretch that Nature can,
And all beyond is fulsome, false, and vain.
Beauty's the theme; some nymph divinely fair
Excites the Muse: let truth be even there:
As painters flatter so may poets too,
But to resemblance must be ever true.
" The day that she was born the Cyprian Queen
" Had like t' have dy'd thro' envy and thro' spleen;
" The Graces in a hurry left the skies
" To have the honour to attend her eyes;
" And Love, despairing in her heart a place,
" Would needs take up his lodging in her face. "
Tho' wrote by great Corneille, such lines as these,
Such civil nonsense, sure could never please.
Waller the best of all th' inspired train
To melt the fair instructs the dying swain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different sides,
I would condemn, but that, in spite of sense,
Th' admiring world still stands in his defence.
How oft', alas! the best of men in vain
Contend for blessings which the worst obtain?
The gods permitting traitors to succeed
Become not parties in an impious deed,
And by the tyrant's murder we may find
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with such prepost'rous praise,
Our characters we lessen when we 'd raise;
Like castles built by magic art in air,
That vanish at approach, such thoughts appear;
But rais'd on truth by some judicious hand,
As on a rock they shall for ages stand.
Our King return'd, and banish'd Peace restor'd;
The Muse ran mad to see her exil'd lord;
On the crack'd stage the bedlam heroes roar'd,
And scarce could speak one reasonable word:
Dryden himself, to please a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgment stoop to rage;
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Comply'd to custom, but not err'd by choice.
Deem then the people's, not the writer's, sin
Almanzor's rage and rants of Maximin:
That fury spent, in each elaborate piece
He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
First Mulgrave rose, Roscommon next, like light,
To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight;
With steady judgment, and in lofty sounds,
They gave us patterns, and they set us bounds.
The Stagyrite and Horace laid aside,
Inform'd by them we need no foreign guide:
Who seek from poetry a lasting name,
May in their lessons learn the road to fame:
But let the bold adventurer be sure
That ev'ry line the test of truth endure:
On this foundation may the fabric rise,
Firm and unshaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from love,
Forsaken Truth seeks shelter in the grove:
Cherish, ye Muses! the neglected fair,
And take into your train the abandon'd wanderer.