FR. ATTICUS?

P. Well ( entre nous ),

Most that he said of Addison was true.

Plain Truth, you know —

FR. Is often not polite

( So Hamlet thought ) —

P. And Hamlet ( Sir ) was right.

But leave POPE'S Life. To-day, methinks, we touch

The Work too little and the Man too much.

Take up the Lock, the Satires, Eloise —

What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease!

How keen the Irony, the Wit how bright,

The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light!

Then read once more, and you shall wonder yet

At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet.

“True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd” —

Was ever Thought so pithily express'd?

“And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line” —

Ah, what a Homily on Yours... and Mine!

Or take — to choose at Random — take but This —

“Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss.”

FR. Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those

Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose,

Was he a POET?

P. Yes: if that be what

Byron was certainly and Bowles was not;

Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,

What Dryden had, that was denied to Tate —

FR. Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,

Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line —

P. True, there are Classes. POPE was most of all

Akin to Horace, Persius, Juvenal;

POPE was, like them, the Censor of his Age,

An Age more suited to Repose than Rage;

When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools,

And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules;

When Phoebus touch'd the Poet's trembling Ear

With one supreme Commandment Be thou Clear;

When Thought meant less to reason than compile,

And the Muse labour'd... chiefly with the File.

Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath

As in the Days of great ELIZABETH;

And to the Bards of ANNA was denied

The Note that Wordsworth heard on Duddon-side.

But POPE took up his Parable, and knit

The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit;

He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet,

And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat;

He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall;

He taught the Epigram to come at Call;

He wrote ——

FR. His Iliad!

P. Well, suppose you own

You like your Iliad in the Prose of Bohn,—

Tho’ if you'd learn in Prose how Homer sang,

‘ Twere best to learn of Butcher and of Lang,—

Suppose you say your Worst of POPE, declare

His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,

His Art but Artifice — I ask once more

Where have you seen such Artifice before?

Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,

Or gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?

Where can you show, among your Names of Note,

So much to copy and so much to quote?

And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,

A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?

So I, that love the old Augustan Days

Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;

That like along the finish'd Line to feel

The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;

That like my Couplet as compact as clear;

That like my Satire sparkling tho’ severe,

Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope,

I fling my Cap for Polish — and for POPE!