Epistle to a Friend Concerning Poetry (1700) and the Essay on Heroic Poetry (second edition, 1697) | Page 6

Where to find? 'Tis the full Power and Energy of _Mind_: A Reach of Thought that skims all Nature o'er, Exhausts this narrow World, and asks for _more_: Through every Rank of Beings when't has flown, Can frame a New Creation of its own: By Possible and Future unconfin'd: Can stubborn Contradictions yoke, and bind Through _Fancy_'s Realms, with Number, Time and Place, _Chimera-Forms_, a thin, an airy Race; 40 Then with a secret conscious Pride surveys The Enchanted Castles which't had Power to raise.
[Sidenote: Wit.] As Genius is the Strength, be WIT defin'd The Beauty and the Harmony of _Mind_: _Beauty's_ Proportion, Air, each lively Grace The Soul diffuses round the _Heav'nly Face_: 'Tis various, yet 'tis equal, still the same In Alpine Snows, or _Ethiopian Flame_; While glaring Colours short-liv'd Grace supply, Nor Frost nor Sun they bear, but scorch and die. 50
[Sidenote: Judgment.] Nor these alone, tho much they can, suffice, JUDGMENT must join, or never hope the Prize: Those Headstrong Coursers scowr along the Plains, The _Rider's_ down, if once he lose the _Reins_: Soon the Mad Mixture will to all give Law, And for the Laurel Wreaths present thee Wreaths of Straw. _Judgment's_ the _Act of Reason_; that which brings Fit Thoughts to Thoughts, and argues Things from Things, True, Decent, Just, are in its Balance try'd, And thence we learn to _Range, Compound, Divide_. 60
[Sidenote: Invention and Memory.] A Cave there is wherein those Nymphs reside Who all the Realms of Sense and Fancy guide; Nay some affirm that in the deepest Cell Imperial _Reason's_ self does not disdain to dwell: With Living Reed 'tis thatch'd and guarded round, Which mov'd by Winds emit a Silver Sound: Two Crystal Fountains near its Entrance play, } Wide scatt'ring Golden Streams which ne'er decay, } Two Labyrinths behind harmonious Sounds convey: } Chiefly, within, the Room of State is fam'd 70 Of rich Mosaick Work divinely fram'd: Of small Extent to view, 'twill all things hide, Heav'n's Azure Arch it self not half so wide: Here all the Arts their sacred Mansion chuse, Here dwells the MOTHER of the Heav'n-born Muse: With wond'rous mystic Figures round 'tis wrought Inlaid with FANCY, and _anneal'd_ with _Thought_: With more than humane Skill depicted here The various Images of Things appear; What Was, or Is, or labours yet to Be 80 Within the Womb of Dark Futurity, May Stowage in this wondrous Storehouse find, Yet leave unnumber'd empty Cells behind: But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast, Not _Life or Happiness are more in haste_: Only the First Great Mind himself can stay The Fugitives and at one Glance survey; But those whom he disdains not to befriend, } Uncommon Souls, who nearest Heav'n ascend } Far more, at once, than others comprehend: } 90 Whate'er within this sacred Hall you find, } Whate'er will lodge in your capacious Mind } Let Judgment sort, and skilful Method bind; } And as from these you draw your antient Store Daily supply the Magazine with more. Furnish'd with such Materials he'll excel Who when he works is sure to work 'em _well_; This ART alone, as Nature that bestows, And in Perfection both, th' accomplish'd Verser knows. Knows to persuade, and how to speak, and when; 100 The Rules of Life, and Manners knows and _Men_: Those narrow Lines which Good and Ill divide; [Sidenote: Learning.] And by what Balance Just and Right are try'd: How _Kindred-Things_ with Things are closely join'd; } How Bodies act, and by what Laws confin'd, } Supported, mov'd and rul'd by th' Universal Mind. } When the moist Kids or burning Sirius rise; } Through what ambiguous Ways Hyperion flies, } And marks our Upper or the Nether Skies. } He knows those Strings to touch with artful Hand 110 Which rule Mankind, and all the World command: What moves the Soul, and every secret Cell Where _Pity, Love_, and all the Passions dwell. The Music of his Verse can Anger raise, Which with a softer Stroak he smooths and _lays_: Can _Emulation, Terror_, all excite, Compress the Soul with Grief, or swell with vast Delight. If this you can, your Care you'll well bestow, And some new Milton or a Spencer grow; If not, a Poet ne'er expect to be, 120 Content to Rime, like _D----y_ or like me.
But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain, To such Impracticable Heights I strain A Poet's Notion, that if This be He, There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be. ----But soft, my Friend! may we not copy well Tho far th' Original our Art excel? Divine Perfection we our Pattern make Th' Idea thence of Goodness justly take; But they who copy nearest, still must fall 130 Immensely short of