JOHN GAY (1685-1732)

FROM FABLES

XLIV. THE HOUND AND THE HUNTSMAN

Impertinence at first is borne

With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn;
Teased into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?

The morning wakes, the Huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful hounds.
They seek the wood with eager pace,
Through bush, through brier, explore the chase.
Now scattered wide, they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What universal silence reigns!

Ringwood, a Dog of little fame, Young, pert, and ignorant of game, At once displays his babbling throat; The pack, regardless of the note, Pursue the scent; with louder strain He still persists to vex the train.

The Huntsman to the clamour flies; The smacking lash he smartly plies. His ribs all welked, with howling tone The puppy thus expressed his moan:

"I know the music of my tongue Long since the pack with envy stung. What will not spite? These bitter smarts

I owe to my superior parts.''

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ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744)

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.*

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Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing:
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,

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This ode, composed in 1708, when Pope was but twenty years of age. is interesting chiefly for comparison with the odes written by Dryden for similar occasions. Pope has drawn freely upon classical mythology-the nine Muses, Morpheus, god of dreams, the voyage of the Argonauts with Orpheus drawing the trees of Mt. Pelion down to the sea by the sweetness of his strain, and especially the sad story of Orpheus' descent into Hades to win back his lost Eurydice only to lose her again and wander forlorn until the jealous and enraged Bacchantes stoned him to death and threw his limbs into the Hebrus. It is pointed out by Mr. W. J. Courthope that Dryden, by weaving in history instead of legend, secured greater human interest.

By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;
Or, when the soul is pressed with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds;

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Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortured ghosts! But hark! he strikes the golden lyre; And see! the tortured ghosts respire,

See, shady forms advance!

Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance!

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The Furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurled hang listening round their heads.

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By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flowers;

By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or amaranthine bowers;

Melancholy lifts her head,

Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

Listening Envy drops her snakes; Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions hear away their rage.

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But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian raised his
strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflamed with glory's charms:

Each chief his sevenfold shield displayed,
And half unsheathed the shining blade
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms!

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But when through all th' infernal bounds, Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,

Love, strong as Death, the poet led

To the pale nations of the dead,

What sounds were heard,

What scenes appeared,

O'er all the dreary coasts!

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Glittering through the gloomy glades,
By the youths that died for love,
Wandering in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the husband, or return the wife!

Yet even in death Eurydice he sung, Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,

Eurydice the woods,

Eurydice the floods,

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FROM AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM. "Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. "Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom is the critic's share; Both must alike from Heaven derive their light, These born to judge, as well as those to write. Let such teach others, who themselves excel. And censure freely who have written well. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment too? 2 A mountain of Thrace.

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