339

Then look'd, and saw a lazy lolling sort,
Unseen at Church, at Senate, or at Court,
Of ever listless loit'rers, that attend
No cause, no trust, no duty, and no friend.
Thee, too, my Paridell! she mark'd thee
there,

Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair,
And heard thy everlasting yawn confess
The pains and penalties of Idleness.
She pitied! but her pity only shed
Benigner influence on thy nodding head.

But Annius, crafty seer, with ebon wand, And well-dissembled em'rald on his hand, False as his gems, and canker'd as his coins, Came, cramm'd with capon, from where Pollio dines.

350

Soft, as the wily fox is seen to creep, Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep,

Walk round and round, now prying here, now there,

So he, but pious, whisper'd first his prayer: "Grant, gracious Goddess! grant me still to cheat!

O may thy cloud still cover the deceit !
Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed,
But pour them thickest on the noble head.
So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes,
See other Cæsars, other Homers rise;
Thro' twilight ages hunt th' Athenian fowl,
Which Chalcis, Gods, and Mortals call an
owl;

360

Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops clear,
Nay, Mahomet! the pigeon at thine ear;
Be rich in ancient brass, tho' not in gold,
And keep his Lares, tho' his House be sold;
To heedless Phoebe his fair bride postpone,
Honour a Syrian prince above his own;
Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true;
Bless'd in one Niger, till he knows of two.'

When Sallee rovers chased him on the deep. Then taught by Hermes, and divinely bold, Down his own throat he risk'd the Grecian gold,

Receiv'd each demigod, with pious care, Deep in his entrails — I revered them there, I bought them, shrouded in that living shrine,

And, at their second birth, they issue mine.' 'Witness, great Ammon! by whose horns I swore

(Replied soft Annius), this our paunch before

Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat,

Rose or Carnation was below my care;
I meddle, Goddess! only in my sphere.
I tell the naked fact without disguise,
And, to excuse it, need but show the prize;
Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye,
Fair ev'n in death, this peerless butterfly!'

'My sons! (she answer'd) both have done your parts:

Live happy both, and long promote our Arts. But hear a mother when she recommends To your fraternal care our sleeping friends. The common soul, of Heav'n's more frugal make,

441

Serves but to keep Fools pert, and Knaves

awake;

A drowsy watchman, that just gives a knock, And breaks our rest, to tell us what's o'clock. Yet by some object ev'ry brain is stirr'd; The dull may waken to a Humming-bird; The most recluse, discreetly open'd, find Congenial matter in the Cockle kind;

450

The mind, in metaphysics at a loss,
May wander in a wilderness of Moss;
The head that turns at superlunar things
Pois'd with a tail, may steer on Wilkins'
wings.

'O! would the sons of men once think their eyes

And Reason giv'n them but to study flies! See Nature in some partial narrow shape, And let the Author of the whole escape: Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe, To wonder at their Maker, not to serve!'

'Be that my task (replies a gloomy Clerk, Sworn foe to myst'ry, yet divinely dark; 460 Whose pious hope aspires to see the day When moral evidence shall quite decay, And damns implicit faith, and holy lies; Prompt to impose, and fond to dogmatize): Let others creep by timid steps, and slow, On plain Experience lay foundations low, By common sense to common knowledge bred,

And last, to Nature's Cause thro' Nature led.

471

All-seeing in thy mists, we want no guide,
Mother of Arrogance, and source of pride!
We nobly take the high priori road,
And reason downward, till we doubt of God:
Make Nature still encroach upon his plan,
And shove him off as far as e'er we can:
Thrust some Mechanic Cause into his place,
Or bind in Matter, or diffuse in Space:
Or, at one bound o'erleaping all his laws,
Make God man's image; man, the final
Cause;

Find Virtue local, all Relation scorn,
See all in self, and but for self be born: 480
Of nought so certain as our Reason still,
Of nought so doubtful as of Soul and Will.
O hide the God still more! and make us see
Such as Lucretius drew, a God like thee:
Wrapt up in self, a God without a thought,
Regardless of our merit or default.
Or that bright image to our fancy draw,
Which Theocles in raptured vision saw,
While thro' poetic scenes the Genius roves,
Or wanders wild in academic groves;
That Nature our society adores,
Where Tindal dictates, and Silenus snores!'
Rous'd at his name, up rose the bousy

Sire,

490

And shook from out his pipe the seeds of fire;

Then snapt his box, and stroked his belly down;

Who praises now? his chaplain on his tomb. Then take them all, O take them to thy breast!

Thy Magus, Goddess! shall perform the rest.'

With that a wizard old his Cup extends, Which whoso tastes, forgets his former Friends,

520

Sire, Ancestors, Himself. One casts his eyes
Up to a star, and like Endymion dies:
A feather, shooting from another's head,
Extracts his brain, and Principle is fled;
Lost is his God, his Country, everything,
And nothing left but homage to a King!
The vulgar herd turn off to roll with hogs,
To run with horses, or to hunt with dogs;
But, sad example! never to escape
Their infamy, still keep the human shape.

But she, good Goddess, sent to every
child

Firm Impudence, or Stupefaction mild; 530 And straight succeeded, leaving shame no room,

Cibberian forehead, or Cimmerian gloom.

Kind Self-conceit to some her glass applies,

Which no one looks in with another's eyes: But as the Flatt'rer or Dependant paint, Beholds himself a Patriot, Chief, or Saint.

On others Int'rest her gay liv'ry flings, Int'rest, that waves on party- colour'd wings:

Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes,

539

And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. Others the Syren Sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound.

No more, alas! the voice of Fame they hear,

The balm of Dulness trickling in their ear. Great C**, H**, P**, R**, K*, Why all your toils? your sons have learn'd to sing.

How quick Ambition hastes to Ridicule: The sire is made a Peer, the son a Fool. On some, a priest succinct in amice

white

549

Attends; all flesh is nothing in his sight!
Beeves, at his touch, at once to jelly turn,
And the huge boar is shrunk into an urn:
The board with specious Miracles he loads,
Turns hares to larks, and pigeons into
toads.

Another (for in all what one can shine ?)
Explains the sève and verdeur of the Vine.
What cannot copious sacrifice atone?
Thy truffles, Périgord, thy hams, Bayonne,
With French libation, and Italian strain,
Wash Bladen white, and expiate Hays's

599

Proud to my list to add one monarch more; And nobly-conscious, Princes are but things Born for first Ministers, as slaves for Kings, Tyrant supreme! shall three estates command,

And make one mighty Dunciad of the land!' More she had spoke, but yawn'd - All nature nods:

What mortal can resist the yawn of Gods ? Churches and chapels instantly it reach'd (St. James's first, for leaden Gilbert preach'd);

Then catch'd the Schools; the Hall scarce kept awake;

The Convocation gaped, but could not speak.

610

In vain, in vain the all-composing hour Resistless falls; the Muse obeys the power. She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold

630

Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old!
Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
And all its varying rainbows die away.
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal
plain;

As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand opprest,
Closed one by one to everlasting rest;
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
Art after Art goes out, and all is night. 640
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,
Mountains of casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
Philosophy, that lean'd on Heaven before,
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,
And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!
See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

650

In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.
Nor 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;

And universal Darkness buries all.

POPE began the actual work of translating The Iliad in 1714. Swift not only strongly urged him to undertake the task, but by personal exertions secured for him a very large

POPE'S PREFACE

Homer is universally allowed to have had the greatest Invention of any writer whatever. The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, and others may have their pretensions as to particular excellencies; but his invention remains yet unrivalled. Nor is it a wonder if he has ever been acknowledged the greatest of poets, who most excelled in that which is the very foundation of poetry. It is the invention that in different degrees distinguishes all great geniuses: the utmost stretch of human study, learning, and industry, which masters everything besides, can never attain to this. It furnishes Art with all her materials, and without it, judgment itself can at best but steal wisely for Art is only like a prudent steward, that lives on managing the riches of Nature. Whatever praises may be given to works of judgment, there is not even a single -beauty in them but is owing to the invention: as in the most regular gardens, however Art may carry the greatest appearance, there is not a plant or flower but is the gift of Nature. The first can only reduce the beauties of the latter into a more obvious figure, which the common eye may better take in, and is therefore more entertained with them. And perhaps the reason why most critics are inclined to prefer a judicious and methodical genius to a great and fruitful one, is, because they find it easier for themselves to pursue their observations through an uniform and bounded walk of Art, than to comprehend the vast and various extent of Nature.

Our author's work is a wild paradise, where if we cannot see all the beauties so distinctly as in an ordered garden, it is only because the number of them is infinitely greater. It is like a copious nursery, which contains the seeds and first productions of every kind, out of which those who followed him have but selected some particular plants, each according to his fancy, to cultivate and beautify. If some things are too luxuriant, it is owing to the richness of the soil; and if others are not arrived to perfection or maturity, it is only because they are over

and distinguished list of subscribers. The first four books were published in 1715, and the succeeding books in 1717, 1718 and 1720.

run and oppressed by those of a stronger na

ture.

It is to the strength of this amazing invention we are to attribute that unequalled fire and rapture, which is so forcible in Homer, that no man of a true poetical spirit is master of himself while he reads him. What he writes is of the most animated nature imaginable; everything moves, everything lives, and is put in action. If a council be called, or a battle fought, you are not coldly informed of what was said or done as from a third person; the reader is hurried out of himself by the force of the poet's imagination, and turns in one place to a hearer, in another to a spectator. The course of his verses resembles that of the army he describes,

Οἱ δ ̓ ἀρ ̓ ἴσαν, ὡσεί τε πυρὶ χθὼν πᾶσα νέμοιτο. They pour along like a fire that sweeps the whole earth before it. It is, however, remarkable that his fancy, which is everywhere vigorous, is not discovered immediately at the beginning of his poem in its fullest splendour; it grows in the progress both upon himself and others, and becomes on fire, like a chariot-wheel, by its own rapidity. Exact disposition, just thought, correct elocution, polished numbers, may have been found in a thousand; but this poetical fire, this vivida vis animi, in a very few. Even in works where all those are imperfect or neglected, this can overpower criticism, and make us admire even while we disapprove. Nay, where this appears, though attended with absurdities, it brightens all the rubbish about it, till we see nothing but its own splendour. This fire is discerned in Virgil, but discerned as through a glass, reflected from Homer, more shining than fierce, but everywhere equal and constant in Lucan and Statius, it bursts out in sudden, short, and interrupted flashes: in Milton, it glows like a furnace kept up to an uncommon ardour by the force of art: in Shakespeare, it strikes before we are aware, like an accidental fire from heaven: but in Homer, and in him ouly, it burns everywhere clearly, and everywhere irresistibly.

I shall here endeavour to show how this vast