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LATER POEMS - Alexander Pope, The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope [1903]

Edition used:

The Complete Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. Cambridge Edition, ed. Henry W. Boynton (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1903).

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LATER POEMS

ON CERTAIN LADIES

  • When other fair ones to the shades go down,
  • Still Chloë, Flavia, Delia, stay in town:
  • Those ghosts of beauty wand’ring here reside,
  • And haunt the places where their honour died.

CELIA

  • Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
  • Yet Celia’s face is seventeen;
  • Thus winter in her breast must live,
  • While summer in her face is seen.
  • How cruel Celia’s fate, who hence
  • Our heart’s devotion cannot try;
  • Too pretty for our reverence,
  • Too ancient for our gallantry!

PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS’S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH

  • As when that hero, who in each campaign
  • Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
  • Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe,
  • Wept by each friend, forgiv’n by ev’ry foe;
  • Was there a gen’rous, a reflecting mind,
  • But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
  • Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
  • A common soldier but who clubb’d his mite?
  • Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
  • When, press’d by want and weakness, Dennis lies;
  • Dennis! who long had warr’d with modern Huns,
  • Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
  • A desp’rate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
  • Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse.
  • How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
  • And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
  • Stood up to dash each vain pretender’s hope,
  • Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
  • If there’s a Briton, then, true bred and born,
  • Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
  • If there’s a critic of distinguish’d rage;
  • If there’s a senior who contemns this age;
  • Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
  • And be the Critic’s, Briton’s, old man’s friend.

SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733

The public astonished Pope by taking this burlesque seriously, and praising it as poetry.

    • I

    • Flutt’ring spread thy purple Pinions,
    • Gentle Cupid, o’er my Heart;
    • I a Slave in thy Dominions;
    • Nature must give Way to Art.

    • II

    • Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
    • Nightly nodding o’er your Flocks,
    • See my weary Days consuming,
    • All beneath you flow’ry Rocks.

    • III

    • Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
    • Mourn’d Adonis, darling Youth:
    • Him the Boar in Silence creeping,
    • Gored with unrelenting Tooth.

    • IV

    • Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
    • Fair Discretion, string the Lyre;
    • Soothe my ever-waking Slumbers:
    • Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

    • V

    • Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
    • Arm’d in adamantine Chains,
    • Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
    • Wat’ring soft Elysian Plains.

    • VI

    • Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
    • Gilding my Aurelia’s Brows,
    • Morpheus hov’ring o’er my Pillow,
    • Hear me pay my dying Vows.

    • VII

    • Melancholy smooth Mœander,
    • Swiftly purling in a Round,
    • On thy Margin Lovers wander,
    • With thy flow’ry Chaplets crown’d.

    • VIII

    • Thus when Philomela drooping,
    • Softly seeks her silent Mate,
    • See the Bird of Juno stooping;
    • Melody resigns to Fate.

VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE, JULY 9TH, 1739

    • With no poetic ardour fired
    • I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
    • That here he lov’d, or here expired,
    • Begets no numbers grave or gay.
    • Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
    • Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
    • Stretch’d out in honour’s nobler bed,
    • Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.
    • Such flames as high in patriots burn,
    • Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
    • And such as wicked kings may mourn,
    • When Freedom is more dear than Life.

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM

COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS

These lines were enclosed in a letter to Bolingbroke, dated September 3, 1740.

  • Thou who shalt stop where Thames’ translucent wave
  • Shines a broad mirror thro’ the shadowy cave;
  • Where ling’ring drops from min’ral roofs distil,
  • And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
  • Unpolish’d gems no ray on pride bestow,
  • And latent metals innocently glow;
  • Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
  • And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
  • Approach; but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,
  • Where, nobly pensive, St. John sate and thought;
  • Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
  • And the bright flame was shot thro’ Marchmont’s soul.
  • Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
  • Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

ON RECEIVING FROM THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY A STANDISH AND TWO PENS

Lady Frances Shirley was daughter of Earl Ferrers, a neighbor of Pope’s at Twickenham.

    • Yes, I beheld th’ Athenian Queen
    • Descend in all her sober charms;
    • ‘And take’ (she said, and smiled serene),
    • ‘Take at this hand celestial arms:
    • ‘Secure the radiant weapons wield;
    • This golden lance shall guard Desert,
    • And if a Vice dares keep the field,
    • This steel shall stab it to the heart.’
    • Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
    • Received the weapons of the sky;10
    • And dipt them in the sable well,
    • The fount of Fame or Infamy.
    • ‘What well? what weapons?’ (Flavia cries,)
    • ‘A standish, steel and golden pen!
    • It came from Bertrand’s, not the skies;
    • I gave it you to write again.
    • ‘But, Friend, take heed whom you attack;
    • You ’ll bring a House (I mean of Peers)
    • Red, blue, and green, nay white and black,
    • L[ambeth] and all about your ears.
    • ‘You ’d write as smooth again on glass,
    • And run, on ivory, so glib,
    • As not to stick at Fool or Ass,
    • Nor stop at Flattery or Fib.
    • ‘Athenian Queen! and sober charms!
    • I tell ye, fool, there ’s nothing in ’t:
    • ’T is Venus, Venus gives these arms;
    • In Dryden’s Virgil see the print.
    • ‘Come, if you ’ll be a quiet soul,
    • That dares tell neither Truth nor Lies,
    • I ’ll lift you in the harmless roll
    • Of those that sing of these poor eyes.’

ON BEAUFORT HOUSE GATE AT CHISWICK

The Lord Treasurer Middlesex’s house at Chelsea, after passing to the Duke of Beaufort, was called Beaufort House. It was afterwards sold to Sir Hans Sloane. When the house was taken down in 1740, its gateway, built by Inigo Jones, was given by Sir Hans Sloane to the Earl of Burlington, who removed it with the greatest care to his garden at Chiswick, where it may be still seen. (Ward.)

  • I was brought from Chelsea last year,
  • Batter’d with wind and weather;
  • Inigo Jones put me together;
  • Sir Hans Sloane let me alone;
  • Burlington brought me hither.

TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERN

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742

Southern was invited to dine on his birthday with Lord Orrery, who had prepared the entertainment, of which the bill of fare is here set down.

  • Resign’d to live, prepared to die,
  • With not one sin but poetry,
  • This day Tom’s fair account has run
  • (Without a blot) to eighty-one.
  • Kind Boyle before his poet lays
  • A table with a cloth of bays;
  • And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
  • Presents her harp still to his fingers.
  • The feast, his tow’ring Genius marks
  • In yonder wildgoose and the larks!
  • The mushrooms show his Wit was sudden!
  • And for his Judgment, lo, a pudden!
  • Roast beef, tho’ old, proclaims him stout,
  • And grace, although a bard, devout.
  • May Tom, whom Heav’n sent down to raise
  • The price of Prologues and of Plays,
  • Be ev’ry birthday more a winner,
  • Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner,
  • Walk to his grave without reproach,
  • And scorn a Rascal and a Coach.

EPIGRAM

  • My Lord complains that Pope, stark mad with gardens,
  • Has cut three trees, the value of three farthings.
  • ‘But he’s my neighbour,’ cries the Peer polite:
  • ‘And if he visit me, I’ll waive the right.’
  • What! on compulsion, and against my will,
  • A lord’s acquaintance? Let him file his bill!

EPIGRAM

Explained by Carruthers to refer to the large sums of money given in charity on account of the severity of the weather about the year 1740.

    • Yes! ’t is the time (I cried), impose the chain,
    • Destin’d and due to wretches self-enslaved;
    • But when I saw such charity remain,
    • I half could wish this people should be saved.
    • Faith lost, and Hope, our Charity begins;
    • And ’t is a wise design in pitying Heav’n,
    • If this can cover multitude of sins,
    • To take the only way to be forgiv’n.

1740: A POEM[ ]

‘I shall here,’ says Dr. Warton, ‘present the reader with a valuable literary curiosity, a Fragment of an unpublished Satire of Pope, entitled, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty; communicated to me by the kindness of the learned and worthy Dr. Wilson, formerly fellow and librarian of Trinity College, Dublin; who speaks of the Fragment in the following terms:—

‘ “This poem I transcribed from a rough draft in Pope’s own hand. He left many blanks for fear of the Argus eye of those who, if they cannot find, can fabricate treason; yet, spite of his precaution, it fell into the hands of his enemies. To the hieroglyphics there are direct allusions, I think, in some of the notes on the Dunciad. It was lent me by a grandson of Lord Chetwynd, an intimate friend of the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who gratified his curiosity by a boxful of the rubbish and sweepings of Pope’s study, whose executor he was, in conjunction with Lord Marchmont.” ’

    • O wretched B[ritain], jealous now of all,
    • What God, what Mortal shall prevent thy fall?
    • Turn, turn thy eyes from wicked men in place,
    • And see what succour from the patriot race.
    • C[ampbell], his own proud dupe, thinks Monarchs things
    • Made just for him, as other fools for Kings;
    • Controls, decides, insults thee ev’ry hour,
    • And antedates the hatred due to power.
    • Thro’ clouds of passion P[ulteney]’s views are clear;
    • He foams a Patriot to subside a Peer;10
    • Impatient sees his country bought and sold,
    • And damns the market where he takes no gold.
    • Grave, righteous S[andys] jogs on till, past belief,
    • He finds himself companion with a thief.
    • To purge and let thee blood with fire and sword
    • Is all the help stern S[hippen] would afford.
    • That those who bind and rob thee would not kill,
    • Good C[ornbury] hopes, and candidly sits still.
    • Of Ch[arle]s W[illiams] who speaks at all?19
    • No more than of Sir Har[r]y or Sir P[aul]:
    • Whose names once up, they thought it was not wrong
    • To lie in bed, but sure they lay too long.
    • G[owe]r, C[obha]m, B[athurs]t, pay thee due regards.
    • Unless the ladies bid them mind their cards.

with wit that must

  • And C[hesterfiel]d who speaks so well and writes,
  • Whom (saving W.) every S[harper bites,]

must needs

    • Whose wit and . . . equally provoke one,
    • Finds thee, at best, the butt to crack his joke on.
    • As for the rest, each winter up they run,
    • And all are clear, that something must be done.30
    • Then urged by C[artere]t, or by C[artere]t stopp’d,
    • Inflamed by P[ultene]y, and by P[ultene]y dropp’d;
    • They follow rev’rently each wondrous wight,
    • Amazed that one can read, that one can write
    • (So geese to gander prone obedience keep,
    • Hiss if he hiss, and if he slumber, sleep);
    • Till having done whate’er was fit or fine,
    • Utter’d a speech, and ask’d their friends to dine,
    • Each hurries back to his paternal ground,
    • Content but for five shillings in the pound,40
    • Yearly defeated, yearly hopes they give,
    • And all agree Sir Robert cannot live.
    • Rise, rise, great W[alpole], fated to appear,
    • Spite of thyself a glorious minister!
    • Speak the loud language princes . . .
    • And treat with half the . . .
    • At length to B[ritain] kind, as to thy . . .
    • Espouse the nation, you . . .
    • What can thy H[orace] . . .
    • Dress in Dutch . . .50
    • Though still he travels on no bad pretence,
    • To show . . .
    • Or those foul copies of thy face and tongue,
    • Veracious W[innington] and frontless Yonge;
    • Sagacious Bub, so late a friend, and there
    • So late a foe, yet more sagacious H[are]?
    • Hervey and Hervey’s school, F[ox], H[enle]y, H[into]n,
    • Yea, moral Ebor, or religious Winton.
    • How! what can O[nslo]w, what can D[elaware],
    • The wisdom of the one and other chair,60
    • N[ewcastle] laugh, or D[orset]’s sager [sneer],
    • Or thy dread truncheon M[arlboro]’s mighty Peer?
    • What help from J[ekyl]l’s opiates canst thou draw
    • Or H[ardwic]k’s quibbles voted into law?
    • C[ummins], that Roman in his nose alone,
    • Who hears all causes, B[ritain], but thy own,
    • Or those proud fools whom nature, rank, and fate
    • Made fit companions for the sword of state.
    • Can the light Packhorse, or the heavy Steer,69
    • The sowzing Prelate, or the sweating Peer,
    • Drag out with all its dirt and all its weight,
    • The lumb’ring carriage of thy broken state?
    • Alas! the people curse, the carman swears,
    • The drivers quarrel, and the master stares.
    • The plague is on thee, Britain, and who tries
    • To save thee, in th’ infectious office dies.
    • The first firm P[ultene]y soon resign’d his breath,
    • Brave S[carboro] loved thee, and was lied to death.
    • Good M[arch]m[on]t’s fate tore P[olwar]th from thy side,
    • And thy last sigh was heard when W[yndha]m died.80
    • Thy nobles sl[ave]s, thy se[nate]s bought with gold,
    • Thy clergy perjured, thy whole people sold,
    • An atheist , a ″′s ad. . . . . . . . .
    • Blotch thee all o’er, and sink. . . . . .
    • Alas! on one alone our all relies,
    • Let him be honest, and he must be wise.
    • Let him no trifler from his school,
    • Nor like his. . . . . . . . . still a. . . .
    • Be but a man! unminister’d, alone,
    • And free at once the Senate and the Throne;90
    • Esteem the public love his best supply,
    • A ’s true glory his integrity;
    • Rich with his. . . . . . in his. . . . . strong,
    • Affect no conquest, but endure no wrong.
    • Whatever his religion or his blood,
    • His public Virtue makes his title good.
    • Europe’s just balance and our own may stand,
    • And one man’s honesty redeem the land.

[Page 128.] 1740: A Poem.

These verses are supposed to be a fragment found by Lord Bolingbroke among Pope’s papers. There is much doubt about many of the persons referred to; the readings here suggested being merely a choice among many suggested by Bowles and Carruthers.