THE PROGRESS
of
WIT: A CAVEAT. FOR THE Use of an Eminent Writer.
By a FELLOW of
All-Souls.
To which is prefix'd, An Explanatory Discourse to the READER.
By GAMALIEL GUNSON, Professor of Physick and Astrology.
This Verse be thine, my Friend, nor Thou refuse
This, from no venal, or ungrateful, Muse.
Read these instructive Leaves.—
Pope,
to Mr.
Jervas.
LONDON:
Printed for J. WILFORD, at the
Crown
in
Stationers-Court.
M.DCC.XXX.
TO THE READER.
Courteous READER,
I Am, by Profession, no Poet, Yet, having a Son, of my own, at this Time, of no small Hope, in one of our famous Universities; I cannot, therefore, be suppos'd to want Reverence for those Seminaries of the Muses: Upon this Account partly (for, of Itself, I have no great Opinion of Poetry) but, perceiving, at the Head of the Manuscript, that it had been written by a
Fellow of All-Souls;
and chiefly, invited by some encouraging Expressions, in the Beginning, alluding to a Chariot, that could carry a Man up to the Stars, I bestow'd a serious Perusal on the Verses, which I, herewith, publish; and which I found one rainy Day, at the Bottom of a Hackney-Coach; where, I suppose, they might have been dropt, by Somebody, who had been in Possession of that Coach, before me.
But, I confess, the oftner I perus'd the Manuscript, the less I was able to comprehend of its Meaning; I had not, indeed, labour'd far in the Matter, before I discovered, that the Author, notwithstanding he has been pleased to make free with the
Stars,
is a
Novice
in
our Science;—
so that what he writes, concerning the
Thinness of Heaven's Purlieus;—surmounting the Stars in a Chariot of Air,
and such like promising Conceptions, ought not (I believe) to be taken in the strict Sense of the Phrase, but only for a Joke, or a Fancy;—However, some of my Profession, to whom I shew'd it, agreed, that it was a dark Piece of Work, had more in it, than
Satire;
and, for any thing They, or I, knew to the contrary, might be Matter of Danger to the Government, and ought to be carried to the Secretary's Office.
By a Mind, laudably filled with a Zeal for his Country's Safety, every Hint, that infers its Danger, should be thought of the utmost Importance; To the Secretary's Office, therefore, I went with it, and put it into the Hands of one, who appear'd to think Himself more considerable, than any Body, I cou'd see about him; I begg'd the Favour, that he would look it over, and give me his Opinion, whether it was a treasonable Libel: I would not, willingly, do Injustice to the Characters of Persons, above my Station, (tho' it is well known,
Physick,
and
Astrology,
are consider'd with
Respect,
among Liberal Sciences.) But, truly, be seem'd to me, to peruse it, with less Seriousness, than, I suppose, with all due Reverence to his Office, became the Trust, that was lodg'd in him: For he laugh'd out, once, or twice; and, lifting his Eyes from the Paper, took upon him, to remark me, with a Countenance, which I thought too merry for the Occasion: He was pleas'd, when he came to the following Lines, to read them aloud, to a Young Spark, in Red, and ask'd him, what
He
thought of the Matter?—I confess, I was almost in a Passion, when this
Feather-Brain
made answer, that it was the liveliest Satire in the World, upon a
Bawdy-House,
of his Acquaintance, by the Bank Side, over the Water!—I cite the very Verses, for the Reader's more effectual Amazement, at the Unaccountableness of the Young Fellows of this forward Generation!
Caught, by the gulphy
Void,
that gloom'd, below,
Crowds, from the Current's fair-descending Flow,
Indrawn, at once, by Darkness swallow'd o'er,
Sunk, from their sunny Scene, and rose no more;
Still gap'd th'unclosing Deep, o'er Millions gone,
Yet, still insatiate, hourly, swallow'd on.
I could not forbear telling this Story, with due Gravity, and Resentment, to a certain Lawyer, of my Acquaintance, whom I met, just landed, at
White-Hall
Stairs: we walk'd together, a few Turns, in the Privy-Garden, and he open'd the Manuscript, where it speaks of
Shapeless Bodies,
Whose breathing Bulks; to Life, and Motion, blown,
Shot into human Forms, compleatly grown;
Mix'd Rank, and Sex, sprung thro' the liquid Jett,
But pouring outward, clear
Distinction
met:
He read it, once and again, and was clear in his Opinion it meant the
Masquerade,
in the
Hay-market:
He own'd, indeed, that, under proper Hands, it might be explain'd into something more considerable—But we wave it, cry'd he, after reading it a little farther, we will wave the Point of
Treason,
in Exchange for
Scandalum Magnatum!
It follows here, as clear, as Sunshine, upon a Minister of State, and a Privy-Counsellor: Then he read to me this slanderous
Inuendo,
of People, who coming within Reach of a
dark, bustling, Power, obscurely seen,
From the blind Bounty of his hasty Hand,
Buoyant, in Boats, rode o'er the shining Sand;
Of different Form, these Boats—A single Oar
Distinguish'd some—some wing'd their Sides with more;
Others, with Oars, and Sails, conjoyn'd, made way,
And mow'd the murm'ring Surge, with sweepy Sway;
While some slow Pole-men, o'er their Toil reclin'd,
Push'd their check'd Barks, and, labouring, lagg'd, behind:
Some waded, naked, &c.—
He ask'd me, whether I did not plainly discern, what great Man, in a certain Assembly, was pointed at, under this Image of a
dark, bustling, Power, obscurely seen;
upon which, recollecting myself, as became me, and pondering the Words, to the best of my Capacity, I reply'd, I thought it was the
Devil.—
He shook his Head, and inform'd me, civilly, that I was,
a little,
mistaken; but perceiving me, in some measure abash'd, he assur'd me, it was so natural an Error, that any Body might have fallen into it, as well as I: Then proceeded to convince me, that
shining Sand
was a
Cant-Word
for
Money Bags;
that by the Boats said to be distributed, at Random, by the Bounty of the blind Power, that was so busy in Darkness, was to be understood, those
Gratifications,
impudently call'd
Pensions,
by Persons disaffected to the Ministry; That, for Example, the largest of such pretended Pensions were represented, under the Similitude of
Boats which had Sails, and Oars, together:—
Middling Pensions, were
Boats with many Oars:—
Smaller still, were
One-Oar'd Barks:—
The least of all, were
Pole-men:—
And as for the
naked Waders,
it was, by this Time, become clear to my own unassisted Capacity, that they could mean nothing, but those poor Souls, who were neglected by the
black Bustler,
and had no Pensions at all to take Boat with.
My ingenious Friend the Lawyer, advis'd me to write a Letter, to the Great Man, who had made so light of a good Subject's Information, and put him in Mind of the Fate of
Philotas.—
He added, that the Fears of Statesmen would be more awake, for their Masters, if less watchful for Themselves: He was sorry, he was, then, in Haste, but invited me next Morning to his Chambers, where he assured me, no Assistance, in his Power, should be wanting, to
make something
of the Matter, we had been conferring on.
How admirable is the Penetration of some Men's Spirits! and how powerful the good Influence of their Example!—I, who, before I had received this Light, could see no Tendency to such seditious Purpose, in the Manuscript, so providentially
decypher'd,
could, now, in every Page of it, discover the clearest, and most visible,
Disaffection:
Nay, I have, since that Time, upon frequent Revisal of the Libel, under Help of better Eyes, than my own, found
Popery
in it, as well as
Jacobitism.
Not to mention, that the
Pope
's Name, Itself, in great Letters, stands audaciously written at the End of it.
I sent a Copy, with a Recital of all the foregoing Particulars, to my Boy, before-mention'd, who is, now, of three Years standing, at the College; where, I fear, his Political Principles have been new-modell'd, since I saw him; for he seems a little
Malepert,
in a Letter, he return'd me, for Answer: which, however, in Justice to the good Parts of the Youth, I take Pleasure in Publishing; not supposing, the Childish Mistake, it turns upon, capable of making any Impression, upon Readers, who
know the World,
and are acquainted with
Men
and
Business.
Honour'd Sir,
I Am sorry to say, I was asham'd of your Account, concerning the Manuscript, you demand my Thoughts of; It is no other, than a
Satire,
written, by
One
Poet, on the Misapplication of
Another's
Genius;—You apprehended it to mean
more,
than the Author design'd, by finding it say
less,
than the Reader expected; But Scurrility, and Grossness, are so far from being
Requisites
in
Satire,
that it can be no
true Satire,
in which they are to be met with. The Force of these Writings consists, in their
Smiling;
and whenever they grow
angry,
they bring a Storm over their own Sunshine; which, like the Frown of incens'd Beauty, loses more, by Abatement of Influence, than is gain'd, from Accession of Rigour.
The
Pope,
at the End of the Poem, ought to give you no Jealousy: He is none of his
Holyness,
at
Rome,
but an
English,
(I had almost said,
Protestant) Pope,
of this Nation's own Breeding; He wears, indeed, a
Triple Crown,
like the other, but it is of
Musick, Painting,
and
Poetry.
Nothing is more easily perceived, than, that this Satire is the Consequence of some Pieces, lately publish'd, which savour, to say Truth, of a Sensibility, too like
Levity,
in a Mind, so rich, as His, who is reputed their Author; But I cannot, without Pleasure, observe the Influence of acknowledg'd Merit confining Satire to his
Folly,
without allowing it to attack his
Wit;
which is not weaker, tho' less lovely, when it stains itself upon a dirty Subject, than, when it ornaments Beauty itself, and adds Magnificence to Palaces.
It is an
Art
to
trifle, importantly;
and even to
trifle, agreeably,
has its Attraction: But to trifle, unseasonably, indecently or improperly, let who will be the Trifler, must be, either, inhumane, or unguarded—Either wrong Judgment, or Ill-breeding.
What Pity, that the warmest of a certain Gentleman's Admirers are, lately, forc'd to confess, there are
Grossnesses,
in some of his Sallies, obscene enough to blot out any Wit, but their Author's!
Insults,
low enough to become the most vulgar-spirited among his Enemies: And
Malice,
animated enough to be beautiful, in any of his Friends, but Himself!
It gives, however, a Kind of ill-natur'd Comfort to us, who are his
distant Cotemporaries,
that among Virtues, which we must despair of equalling, we discover Errors, which we disdain to imitate.—So, pray, Sir, commit the Poem to the Press, and let it travel, in Search of its Author, who will, hardly, look for it in
Your
Hands, and, by that Means, it may be lost to the Publick.
THE PROGRESS
of
WIT: A CAVEAT.
T UNEFUL ALEXIS, on the
Thame
's fair Side,
The Ladies Play-thing, and the Muses Pride,
With
Merit,
popular, with
Wit,
polite,
Easy, tho'
vain,
and elegant, tho'
light:
Desiring, and deserving, others Praise,
Poorly
accepts
a Fame, he ne'er
repays;
Unborn to
cherish,
sneakingly
approves,
And wants the Soul to
spread
the Worth, he
loves:
This to the
Juniors
of his Tribe gave Pain,
For mean Minds praise, but to be prais'd again;
Henceforth, renouncing an
ungracious
BAAL,
His Altars smoak not, and their Off'rings fail:
The Heat, his Scorn had rais'd, his Pride inflam'd,
'Till what they worshipp'd first, they next defam'd;
Depos'd,
at length, from PINDUS' Top, he roll'd,
While Insect Witlings, pleas'd, his Fall behold,
And each cold-croaking
Heliconian Frog
Leaps, scornful, and bestrides th'
unreigning
Log.
Far-fall'n ALEXIS, who so ill aspir'd,
Sick of successless War, from Wounds retir'd,
Where, while, in Sleep, his Sorrows ebb'd away,
And, hush'd in Darkness, Indignation lay;
Fancy,
fair Mistress of the Poet's Mind,
For ever changing, yet, for ever kind;
Soft, o'er his Dreams, her formful Radiance shed,
And his rapt Soul thro' Heaven's thin Purlieus led;
Seated beside the Star-invading Dame,
Whose Steeds, Wind-footed, paw'd the lambent Flame,
High, as a Widow'd Lover's Grief can climb,
Her Air-built Chariot rose, and hung sublime.
Unveiling, thence, the World's bleak Wastes, below,
They saw the
Stream of Life
beneath 'em flow;
Dim, from the sable Sea of
Birth
it rose,
In a slow, silent, sullen, dread Repose:
For, round th'emerging Source, that glimmer'd pale,
Mountains of Midnight Darkness roll'd a Veil:
But, as the evolving Surge swell'd into Day,
Quick'ning, it mov'd, and roar'd, and rush'd away.
Broad, on the Left, from low
Oblivion
's Shore,
Quicksands, and Rocks, reach'd half the Current o'er:
Lucid, like Truth, the treach'rous Water shone,
And, o'er gay gilded Shoals, ran, tuneful, on;
Pebbles, of Gem-like Hue, with painted Pride,
Glow'd thro' the Wave, and burnt, amid the Tide:
Wantonly kind, the Sun's enliv'ning Beams
Shower'd, in light Spangles, on the dancing Streams:
While Insect Nations,
Gnats,
and
Wasps,
and
Flies,
Ting'd in the Rainbow's ever-changing Dyes,
Sheathing their Stings, and, smiling, like the
Fair,
Peopled the Sunshine, and adorn'd the Air.
Less lively, on the Right, the Stream's
deep
Flow,
There, no false Colours mix'd their varied Glow;
No gawdy Bottom catch'd the
downcast
Eye:
Above,
no flutt'ring Insects wing'd the Sky:
Serenely solemn, All!—One equal
Whole
Flash'd not upon the Sense, but touch'd the Soul:
Instead of Rocks, green Islands flourish'd, here,
Silent, and fruitful, as the full-grown Year;
In Place of
Flies,
grave
Swans,
of Snow-like Hue,
Sweetly majestick, in slow Circles, flew:
But, tho' these Isles the distant Prospect chear'd,
No Bay, no Port, no Landing-Place appear'd;
Kind Birds, alone, gave Entrance o'er the Mound,
Nor, from the Stream, below, was Inlet found.
Then
Fancy,
thus—FAME'S future Regions, These,
Where nothing
surfeits,
yet, where all Things
please.
Here, Memory stands fix'd, while Time runs on,
And worth blooms fresh, when Life itself is gone;
Danger keeps Distance, soften'd Spleen grows kind,
Ambition temperate, and Love refin'd:
Nor Pride, nor Jealousy, can, here, annoy,
Nothing is Ecstacy, tho' all is Joy:
Peace without Languor, Labour, void of Pain,
Glory unenvied, and unslander'd Gain.
Tho' differing, thus, the Stream's unsocial
Sides,
Yet,
one
broad Gulph absorb'd the double Tides;
From
Birth
devolving,
Death
's blind
Sea,
below,
Boundless, and formless, snatch'd the mingled Flow;
Both rounding Oceans, backward, seem'd to tend,
And vast,
beneath,
their sable Surges
blend:
But far most frightful
This!—
whose dark
Profound,
A Depth Eternal! Life wants Line to sound:
Unbottom'd Shade roll'd loose o'er swallow'd Light—
Fancy grew giddy, nor sustain'd the Sight:
But, starting into Fear, transpos'd Remark,
And sought the
Source,
less dreadful, tho' as dark.
Thick, on the rising Stream's emitted Tide,
Millions of shapeless Bodies seem'd to glide;
Whose breathing Bulks, to Life, and Motion, blown,
Shot into human Forms, compleatly grown;
Mix'd
Rank, and Sex, sprung thro' the liquid Jet,
But, pouring outward, clear
Distinction
met;
Some, wading, naked, trod the slipp'ry Plain,
Some cut the fluent Wave—Some, tir'd with Pain,
Failing to float, or wade, neglected fell,
And sunk, unsnatch'd at, in the troubled Swell:
To others, rising happier, and serene,
Fortune,
dark, bustling, Power, obscurely seen,
Reach'd, with blind Bounty, and with hasty Hand,
Thin Boats—and buoy'd 'em o'er the shining Sand:
Of diff'rent Form, these Boats—A
single Oar
Distinguish'd some:—Some wing'd their Sides with
more;
Others, with
Oars,
and
Sails, conjoin'd,
made Way,
And mow'd the murm'ring Surge, with sweepy Sway:
While some,
slow Pole-men,
o'er their Toil reclin'd,
Push'd their check'd Barks, and, labouring, lagg'd behind.
While
Some
essay'd to
cross,
and veering wide,
Would, with strong Stem, the stubborn Stream divide,
And slowly slanting, sought the silent Side;
Swift, to the shelvy Shore
light Gallies
flew,
As the fierce Channel's rapid Current drew,
'Twixt Rocks, and Whirlpools, driven, obliquely gay,
And, thro' the shoaly Sunshine, danc'd away.
Caught, by the gulphy
Void,
that gloom'd, below,
These, from the Current's fair-descending Flow,
Indrawn, at once, by Darkness swallow'd o'er,
Sunk, from their Sunny Scene, and rose no more;
Still gap'd th' unclosing Deep; o'er Millions gone,
Yet, still insatiate, hourly swallow'd on!
Titles, Distinctions, Forms, rush mingled down,
Not Levity itself wants Weight to drown:
Gamesters, Beaux, Casuists, Jinglers, Jesters, Drinkers,
Fox-hunters, Politicians, and Free-thinkers,
Prudes, Devotees, Coquets, Grave, Light, Young, Old,
In one mixt Night the covering Waves infold:
Swept from the Noise they sought, to rest they shun'd,
They plunge, for ever, into
Death
's
Profund:
While
abler Pilots,
who, resolv'd,
stood o'er,
And, edging broad, gain'd, slow, the
safer Shore;
Snatch'd, from their sinking Seats, were born to Land,
By watchful Swans, whose Wings the Surface fann'd:
There, on green Islands, reign'd, escap'd from Cares,
Lords of a blooming World, for ever, Theirs,
Wide, o'er the Scene, ALEXIS winds his Eye,
Swift, as the Progress of the Gliders by;
A strange Confusion rose!—of all who past,
With earnest Emptyness, and barren Haste,
Few,
cross
the Flood, repugnant, strove to steer,
Fewer had Strength of Oars to
hold
them,
near!
Tir'd by the Current's ill-resisted Force,
Or, bulg'd by envious Prows, which cross'd their Course,
The boldest Keels, pursuing, or pursu'd,
Entangling, and perplex'd, were lost in Feud:
While others, heedless of their sleeping Oars,
Drove, in light Negligence, nor shun'd the Shores;
But, pendent o'er the Helm, each Shoal explor'd,
And snatch'd, in Transport, Shells, and Stones, on board:
Or, leaping wanton, catch'd the glittering Prey,
That buzz'd, and gambol'd, in their sportive Way.
Mean-while, most mournful, of the motley Scene!
Cherish'd Effect of Pride, and Food of Spleen!
Boat, over Boat, destructive Passage made,
And weeping Pity mourn'd defective Aid:
Sailing Presumers,
pressing, proudly, on,
Bore down each envied
Rower,
who, nearest, shone;
The
Oar-wing'd
Vessel ey'd, with dumb Disdain,
The creeping
Pole-man
's slow-availing Pain;
And,
lordly wanton,
with invasive Beak,
Sunk the faint Struggler,
criminally, weak!
He,
too, in Concert with superior Hate,
Loth to exert less Guilt, than match'd his State,
Triumphant, in his Turn, sought equal Prey,
And, o'er the
naked Wader,
forc'd his Way:
ALEXIS, pondering in suspended Thought,
What Meaning all these mazy Mixtures taught,
Sudden, a Shout, from every distant Side,
Eddied the Air, and broke the back'ning Tide;
Acclamatory Thousands rose, alarm'd,
All Eyes attracted, and each Hearing charm'd;
Pointing in Transport, All their Helms forsook,
And, on one Object, hung their length'ning Look.
Down, from the gloomy Source, in sidelong Float,
Proudly descending, mov'd a glittering Boat;
Her silken Sails a colour'd Radiance threw,
And ting'd the Sunny Beams, thro' which they flew;
While Oars, of Silver, dash'd the watry Spray,
That rain'd in gemmy Showers, and dazled Day:
High, on the painted Stern, a Youth appear'd,
Who, rather
happily,
than
strongly,
steer'd;
Faint, and unstriking was his anguish'd Mien,
Sadden'd by Sickness, and o'ercast with Spleen;
Yet, from his Eyes, there beam'd a living Light,
Keen, and intent, as a fir'd Eagle's Sight:
And, from his Voice, (for, as he sail'd, he
sung)
Such magick Sounds of melting Musick sprung,
That the hush'd Heaven all downward seem'd to bend,
And, against Nature, the charm'd Earth ascend.
Careless, he look'd, yet, heedful of his Way,
Broke the kind Current's unobstructing Sway,
That kiss'd his Oars, and hasten'd to obey:
Scarce was his Course
oblique,
for each glad Boat,
That, envious, stem'd all other's rival Float,
Fix'd, and enchanted, when this Youth drew nigh,
Hung on his passing Notes, and help'd him by:
The
Muses
row'd him, and the
Graces'
Care
Trim'd his light Sails, and spread them to the Air;
In his Boat's Bottom green-ey'd
Envy
lay,
And serv'd, as
Ballast,
while she clog'd his way:
Down from her Chariot light-wing'd
Fancy
flew,
And o'er him, loose, her Starry Mantle threw;
Pleasure, Praise, Beauty,
'twixt his Shrowds trod gay,
And danc'd the measur'd Moments soft away:
Sportful as ZEPHYRS, in his Smiles, they strove,
And the Young
Loves
forsook their Mother's Grove.
Thus fortunate, thus favour'd, and thus bright,
Luckily negligent, and aptly light,
He touch'd no Shoal, safe rounded every Rock,
Despis'd all Danger, and sustain'd no Shock;
'Till to that calmer Coast approaching nigh,
And gliding, 'twixt green Islands, safely high,
Circles of hovering Swans, with joyful Note,
Clapp'd their broad Wings, in Triumph, o'er his Boat,
Charm'd, that, so soon, he reach'd their solemn Side,
Ere yet one Third of the Stream's Length was try'd.
Steering, from Isle to Isle, with joyless Awe,
Thin, o'er each Height, their white-rob'd Lords he saw,
Pleas'd, without Transport, bow the Palms, they bore,
To hail his Passage near their silent Shore;
Cold,
and
uncharm'd,
he sought his favourite Croud,
Immensely distant, now, tho', late, so loud:
All was serene, the Air was hush'd around,
The Waters calm!—Lost even
His
Musick's Sound!
Back to the Left impatient Looks he cast
And long'd for every shining Insect past;
Distant he saw them, Wings o'er Wings, display,
And, in light Chases, thread the colour'd Ray:
Eager, for these, contending Pilots strove,
And catch'd them, careless how their Vessels drove;
Then, with their Trophies, dress'd each gaudy Sail,
While humming
Drones,
in Swarms, their Fortune hail:
Record past Leaps, foretel their next Essays,
And buzz, melodious, in the
Fly-men
's Praise.
Warm'd, and misled, by this false Fire of Fame,
His beaming Eyes with Emulation flame;
And have I, Recreant, thus, renounc'd a Field,
Where baffled Danger can such Glory yield?
Lives there a
Catch-Fly,
of yon venturous Press,
More brave than I am?—Or, who fears them less?
Shew me the warring Wasp, whose threatning Wing
I dare not strike at, and provoke his Sting!
Swans! give me Way—your shoreless Islands keep,
Too safe your Clime is, and too calm your Deep;
I chuse a rapid Glory, not a slow,
Shoals are
sought Harbours,
where these
Jewels
grow:
He said, and rising, push'd, with liquid Sweep,
Th' inverted Helm, and goar'd the groaning Deep:
Flaming erect, resought the surgy Side,
And bounded, threatning, o'er the foaming Tide:
Sailing athwart the Swarms, and skipping high,
He snatch'd, triumphant, every tempting
Fly:
Gave his loos'd Rudder to the Current's Claim,
And drove, disdainful, thro' his Rival's Game;
Press'd by
invaded Wasp's
excited Stings,
He warr'd, revengeful, on their falling Wings:
Thro' Dust of slaughter'd
Gnats
he fought, in Shade,
And squeez'd them, deathful, on the Wounds, they made:
Fleets of cold Opposites, from all Sides, join,
And, wedg'd, against this general Foe, combine:
Vainly
indignant, they resist his Sway,
Yet block his Passage, and obstruct his Way:
Still, tho' he stagnates, he the Fight maintains,
While Drones, applausive, with their ductile Strains,
Homage the rising Hero's new Renown,
And
Prince of Fly-Catchers
the Champion crown.
The
Swans,
mean-while, which, from the calmer Side,
Forsaken, saw him trust the fatal Tide;
Mournful, with pendent Wing, his Triumph griev'd,
And wish'd his wasted Vigour less deceiv'd:
Trembling, they mark'd his Vessel, downward bent,
Hang o'er th' engulphing Ocean's dark Descent,
While he, regardless, still, new Trophies won,
And, bent to
conquer,
saw not what to
shun.
Fancy,
still busied, still enamour'd, staid,
And, still concurring, lent his Rashness Aid;
To
Her,
far distant, touch'd ALEXIS cry'd,
And, with strain'd Voice, to reach her Notice, try'd:
"O! save him, warn him, bid him
turn,
and
think,—
"Let not his Bark in yon black Ocean sink!
"Teach me to call him, by his powerful Name,
"Point out his Danger, quench his devious Flame;
"Rash Spleen of Heart, that could such War advise!
"Blind Rage! to lose
Himself,
and catch but
Flies!
"Oh teach my Tongue his Name"—Then
Fancy
hear
And, smiling, at her Chariot's Side appear'd:
"Why dost thou ask, she cry'd, what
Nations
know,
"Even
All,
whom Wit, or Worth, inspire, below?
"His
is a Name, that dwells on every Mind,
"Tunes every Tongue, and sails with every Wind!
"Not surer is that River
Life
's
Extent,
"Or, by those Oceans,
Birth,
and
Death,
are meant;
"Not surer
Fortune
is That dark Power's Name,
"That Left,
Oblivion,
and That Right Side,
Fame,
"Than, that no Son of Wit dares,
justly,
hope,
"Fame
dwells in
Folly
's
Paths,
but thou, O POPE!
ALEXIS, starting, heard his own lov'd Name,
Felt his Pride shrink, and blush'd with conscious Shame!
Pitch'd from the Chariot, lost to
Fancy
's Call;
And, had not waiting
Judgment
broke his Fall,
Contempt's cold Vale had caught him, wak'd, and stunn'd,
And deep intomb'd him, in his
own
PROFUND.
FINIS.