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Dumb, spiritless, benumb'd; till Death at last The wound ; spare not thy flesh, nor dread th' event:
Here should the knowing Muse recount the means A yet more dreadful scene; his glaring eyes To stop this growing plague. And here, alas! Redden with fury, like some angry boar
Each hand presents a sovereign cure, and boasts
Of this contagious bile on hapless man.
Of leeches old, as soon as they perceive
If now perchance through the weak fence escap'd The seas as yet had cover'd him beneath Far up the wind he roves, with open mouth The foaming surge, full many a fathom deep. Inhales the cooling breeze; nor man, nor beast, A fate more dismal, and superior ills, He spares implacable. The hunter-horse, Hang o'er his head devoted. When the Moon, Once kind associate of his sylvan toils,
Closing her monthly round, returns again (Who haply now without the kennel's mound To glad the night; or when full-orb'd she shines Crops the rank mead, and listening hears with joy High in the vault of Heaven; the lurking pest The cheering cry, that morn and eve salutes Begins the dire assault. The poisonous foam His raptur'd sense,) a wretched victim falls. Through the deep wound instill’d with hostile rage, Unhappy quadruped ! no more, alas !
And all its fiery particles saline, Shall thy fond master with his voice applaud Invades th' arterial fluid: whose red waves Thy gentleness, thy speed ; or with his hand Tempestuous heave, and their cohesion broke, Stroke thy soft dappled sides, as he each day Fermenting boil ; intestine war ensues, Visits thy stall, well pleas'd; no more shalt thou And order to confusion turns embroil'd. With sprightly neighings, to the winding horn, Now the distended vessels scarce contain And the loud opening pack in concert join'd, The wild uproar, but press each weaker part Glad his proud heart. For oh! the secret wound Unable to resist: the tender brain Rankling inflames, he bites the ground, and dies ! And stomach suffer most; convulsions shake Hence to the village with pernicious haste His trembling nerves, and wandering pungent pains Baleful he bends his course : the village flies Pinch sore the sleepless wretch; his fluttering pulse Alarm'd ; the tender mother in her arms
Oft intermits; pensive, and sad, he mourns Hugs close the trembling babe; the doors are barr'd, His cruel fate, and to his weeping friends And flying curs, by native instinct taught,
Laments in vain; to hasty anger prone, Shun the contagious bane; the rustic bands Resents each slight offence, walks with quick step, Hurry to arms, the rude militia seize
And wildly stares; at last with boundless sway Whate'er at hand they find ; clubs, forks, or guns, The lyrant frenzy reigns : for as the dog From every quarter charge the furious foe, (Whose fatal bite convey'd th' infectious bane) In wild disorder, and uncouth array:
Raving he foams, and howls, and barks, and bites; Till, now with wounds on wounds oppress'd and Like agitations in his boiling blood gor'd,
Present like species to his troubled mind; At one short poisonous gasp he breathes his last. His nature and his actions all canine.
Hence to the kennel, Muse, return, and view So (as old Homer sung) th' associates wild With heavy heart that hospital of woe ;
Of wandering Ithacus, by Circe's charms (groves, Where Horror stalks at large! insatiate Death To swine transformd, ran grunting through the Sits growling o'er his prey: each hour presents Dreadful example to a wicked world! A different scene of ruin and distress.
See there distress'd he lies! parch'd np with thirst, How busy art ihou, Fate! and how severe But dares not drink. Till now at last his soul Thy pointed wrath! the dying and the dead Trembling escapes, her noisome dungeon leaves, Promiscuous lie; o'er these the living fight And to some purer region wings away. In one eternal broil ; not conscious why
One labor yet remains, celestial Maid! Nor yet with whom. So drunkards, in their cups, Another element demands thy song. Spare not their friends, while senseless squabble No more o'er craggy steep, through coverts thick reigns.
With pointed thorn, and briers intricate, Huntsman! it much behoves thee to avoid Urge on with horn and voice the painful pack: The perilous debate! Ah! rouse up all
But skim with wanton wing the irriguous vale, Thy vigilance, and tread the treacherous ground Where winding streams amid the flowery meads With careful step. Thy fires unquench'd preserve, Perpetual glide along; and undermine As erst the vestal flames; the pointed steel The cavern'd banks, by the tenacious roots In the hot embers hide; and if surpris'd
Of hoary willows archd; gloomy retreat Thou feel'st the deadly bite, quick urge it home of the bright scaly kind; where they at will Into the recent sure, and cauterize
On the green watery reed their pasture graze,
Suck the moist soil, or slumber at their ease,
The subtle spoiler, of the beaver kind,
Ye Naiads fair, who o'er these floods preside, Raise up your dripping heads above the wave, And hear our melody. Th' harmonious notes Float with the stream; and every winding creek And hollow rock, that o'er the dimpling flood Nods pendent, still improve from shore to shore Our sweet reiterated joys. What shouts! What clamor loud! What gay heart-cheering sounds Urge through the breathing brass their mazy way! Nor quires of Tritons glad with sprightlier strains The dancing billows, when proud Neptune rides In triumph o'er the deep. How greedily They snuff the fishy steam, that to each blade Rank-scenting clings! See! how the morning dews They sweep, that from their feet besprinkling drop Dispers'd, and leave a track oblique behind. Now on firm land they range; then in the flood They plunge tumultuous; or through reedy pools Rustling they work their way: no hole escapes Their curious search. With quick sensation now The fuming vapor stings; flutter their hearts, And joy redoubled bursts from every mouth In louder symphonies. Yon hollow trunk,
That with its hoary head incurv'd salutes
They put him down. See, there he drives along!
On pointed spears they lift him high in air; Wriggling he hangs, and grins, and bites in vain: Bid the loud horns, in gaily-warbling strains, Proclaim the felon's fate; he dies, he dies.
Rejoice, ye scaly tribes, and leaping dance Above the wave, in sign of liberty Restor'd; the cruel tyrant is no more. Rejoice secure and bless'd; did not as yet Remain some of your own rapacious kind; And man, fierce man, with all his various wiles. O happy! if ye knew your happy state, Ye rangers of the fields; whom Nature boon Cheers with her smiles, and every element Conspires to bless. What, if no heroes frown From marble pedestals; nor Raphael's works, Nor Titian's lively tints, adorn our walls? Yet these the meanest of us may behold; And at another's cost may feast at will Our wondering eyes; what can the owner more? But vain, alas! is wealth, not grac'd with power. The flowery landscape, and the gilded dome, And vistas opening to the wearied eye, Through all his wide domain; the planted grove, The shrubby wilderness, with its gay choir Of warbling birds, can't lull to soft repose Th' ambitious wretch, whose discontented soul Is harrow'd day and night; he mourns, he pines, Until his prince's favor makes him great. See, there he comes, th' exalted idol comes! The circle's form'd, and all his fawning slaves Devoutly bow to earth; from every mouth The nauseous flattery flows, which he returns With promises, that die as soon as born. Vile intercourse! where virtue has no place. Frown but the monarch; all his glories fade; He mingles with the throng, outcast, undone,
The pageant of a day; without one friend Spoke forth the wondrous scene. But if my soul
From orb to orb, where Newton leads the way; Not such our friends; for here no dark design, And view with piercing eyes the grand machine, No wicked interest, bribes the venal heart; Worlds above worlds; subservient to his voice, But inclination to our bosom leads,
Who, veil'd in clouded majesty, alone And weds them there for life; our social cups Gives light to all; bids the great system move, Smile, as we smile; open, and unreserv'd, And changeful seasons in their turns advance, We speak our inmost souls; good-humor, mirth, Unmov'd, unchang’d, himself: yet this at least Soft complaisance, and wit from malice free, Grant me propitious, an inglorious lise, Smooth every brow, and glow on every cheek. Calm and serene, nor lost in false pursuits
O happiness sincere! what wretch would groan Of wealth or honors; but enough to raise Beneath the galling load of power, or walk My drooping friends, preventing modest Want Upon the slippery pavements of the great, That dares not ask. And if, to crown my joys, Who thus could reign, enenvied and secure! Ye grant me health, that, ruddy in my cheeks,
Ye guardian powers who make mankind your care, Blooms in my life's decline ; fields, woods, and Give me to know wise Nature's hidden depths,
streams, Trace each mysterious cause, with judgment read Each towering hill, each humble vale below, Th' expanded volume, and submiss adore
Shall hear my cheering voice, my hounds shall wake That great creative Will, who at a word The lazy Morn, and glad th' horizon round.
ALEXANDER POPE, an English poet of great emi- ample remuneration for his labor. This noble work nence, was born in London in 1688. His father, was published in separate volumes, each containwho appears to have acquired wealth by trade, was ing four books; and the produce of the subscripa Roman Catholic, and being disaffected to the tion enabled him to take that house at Twickpolitics of King William, he retired to Binfield, in enham which he made so famous by his residence Windsor Forest, where he purchased a small house and decorations. He brought hither his father and with some acres of land, and lived frugally upon mother; of whom the first parent died two years the fortune he had saved. Alexander, who was from afterwards. The second long survived, to be cominfancy of a delicate habit of body, after learning to forted by the truly filial attentions of her son. About read and write at home, was placed about his eighth this period he probably wrote his Epistle from year under the care of a Romish priest, who taught "Eloisa to Abelard," partly founded upon the exhim the rudiments of Latin and Greek. His nat-tant letters of these distinguished persons. He has ural fondness for books was indulged about this rendered this one of the most impressive poems of period by Ogilby's translation of Homer, and San- which love is the subject; as it is likewise the dy's of Ovid's Metamorphoses, which gave him most finished of all his works of equal length, in so much delight, that they may be said to have made point of language and versification. The exaghim a poet. He pursued his studies under different geration, however, which he has given to the most priests, to whom he was consigned. At length he impassioned expressions of Eloisa, and his deviabecame the director of his own pursuits, the variety tions from the true story, have been pointed out by of which proved that he was by no means deficient Mr. Berrington in his lives of the two lovers. in industry, though his reading was rather excursive than methodical. From his early years poetry was adopted by him as a profession, for his poetical reading was always accompanied with attempts at imitation or translation; and it may be affirmed that he rose at once almost to perfection in this walk. His manners and conversation were equally beyond his years; and it does not appear that he ever cultivated friendship with any one of his own age or condition.
Pope's Pastorals were first printed in a volume of Tonson's Miscellanies in 1709, and were generally admired for the sweetness of the versification, and the lustre of the diction, though they betrayed a want of original observation, and an artificial cast of sentiment: in fact, they were any thing rather than real pastorals. In the mean time he was exercising himself in compositions of a higher class; and by his "Essay on Criticism," published two years afterwards, he obtained a great accession of reputation, merited by the comprehension of thought, the general good sense, and the frequent beauty of illustration which it presents, though it displays many of the inaccuracies of a juvenile author. In 1712 his "Rape of the Lock," a nock-heroic, made its first appearance, and conferred upon him the best title he possesses to the merit of invention. a man. He has, indeed, a claim to the character of The machinery of the Sylphs was afterwards added, a satirist in this production, but none at all to that an exquisite fancy-piece, wrought with unrivalled of a moralist. skill and beauty. The "Temple of Fame," altered The other selected pieces, though not entirely from Chaucer, though partaking of the embarrass-free from the same defects, may yet be tolerated; ments of the original plan, has many passages which and his noble work called the "Essay on Man," may rank with his happiest efforts. which may stand in the first class of ethical poems, does not deviate from the style proper to its topic. This piece gave an example of the poet's extraordinary power of managing argumentation in verse, and of compressing his thoughts into clauses of 2 E 2
During the years in which he was chiefly engaged with the Iliad, he published several occasional works, to which he usually prefixed very elegant prefaces; but the desire of farther emolument induced him to extend his translation to the Odyssey, in which task he engaged two inferior hands, whom he paid out of the produce of a new subscription. He himself, however, translated twelve books out of the twenty-four, with a happiness not inferior to his Iliad; and the transaction, conducted in a truly mercantile spirit, was the source of considerable profit to him. After the appearance of the Odyssey, Pope almost solely made himself known as a satirist and moralist. In 1728 he published the three first books of the "Dunciad," a kind of mock-heroic, the object of which was to overwhelm with indelible ridicule all his antagonists, together with some other authors whom spleen or party led him to rank among the dunces, though they had given him no personal offence. Notwithstanding that the diction and versification of this poem are labored with the greatest care, we shall borrow nothing from it. Its imagery is often extremely gross and offensive; and irritability, illnature, and partiality, are so prominent through the whole, that whatever he gains as a poet he loses as
In the year 1713, Pope issued proposals for publishing a translation of Homer's Iliad, the success of which soon removed all doubt of its making an accession to his reputation, whilst it afforded an
the most energetic brevity, as well as of expanding tion of a Catholic friend, with the ceremonies of them into passages distinguished by every poetic that religion, he quietly expired on May 30th, 1744, ornament. The origin of this essay is, however, at the age of fifty-six. He was interred at Twickengenerally ascribed to Lord Bolingbroke, who was ham, where a monument was erected to his memory adopted by the author as his “guide, philosopher, by the commentator and legatee of his writings, and friend ;” and there is little doubt that, with re-bishop Warburton. spect to mankind in general, Pope adopted, without Regarded as a poet, while it is allowed that Pope always fully understanding, the system of Boling. was deficient in invention, his other qualifications broke.
will scarcely be disputed ; and it will generally be On his works in prose, among which a collection admitted that no English writer has carried to a of letters appears conspicuous, it is unnecessary here greater degree correctness of versification, strength to remark. His life was not prolonged to the period and splendor of diction, and the truly poetical of old age: an oppressive asthma indicated an early power of vivifying and adorning every subject that decline, and accumulated infirmities incapacitated he touched. The popularity of his productions has him from pursuing the plan he had formed for new been proved by their constituting a school of English works After having complied, through the instiga- poetry, which in part continues to the present time.
Or virgins visited by angel-powers,
Hear, and believe! thy own importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
Some secret truths, from learned pride conceald, Written in the Year 1712.
To maids alone and children are reveal'd;
What, though no credit doubting wits may give,
The fair and innocent shall still believe.
Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly,
The light militia of the lower sky:
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring. What dire offence from amorous causes springs, Think what an equipage thou hast in air, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. I sing—this verse to Caryl, Muse! is due : As now your own, our beings were of old, This e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view : And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, Thence, by a soft transition, we repair If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
From earthly vehicles to these of air. Say what strange motive, goddess! could compel Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, A well-bred lord t'assault a gentle belle ?
That all her vanities at once are dead : O say what stranger cause, yet unexplorid, Succeeding vanities she still regards, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ?
And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. In tasks so bold, can little men engage?
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage ? And love of ombre, after death survive.
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray, For when the fair in all their pride expire, and ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day: To their first elements their souls retire: Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, The sprites of fiery termagants in flame And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. Belinda still her downy pillow prest,
The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, Her guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy rest :
In search of mischief still on Earth to roam. "Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed
The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head. And sport and flutter in the fields of air. A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau “Know farther yet; whoever fair and chaste (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to plow) Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd : Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, For, spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say: Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.
"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care What guards the purity of melting maids, Of thousand bright inhabitants of air !
In conrıly balls, and midnight masquerades, If e'er one vision touch thy infant thought, Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark. Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught; The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, The silver token, and the circled green,
When music softens, and when dancing fires ?