Poetry. Alexander Pope

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       Their generation's so equivocal:

       To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require,

       Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.

       But you who seek to give and merit fame,

       And justly bear a critic's noble name,

       Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,

       How far your genius, taste, and learning go;

       Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50

       And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.

       Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,

       And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.

       As on the land while here the ocean gains,

       In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;

       Thus in the soul while memory prevails,

       The solid power of understanding fails;

       Where beams of warm imagination play,

       The memory's soft figures melt away.

       One science only will one genius fit, 60

       So vast is art, so narrow human wit:

       Not only bounded to peculiar arts,

       But oft in those confined to single parts.

       Like kings, we lose the conquests gain'd before,

       By vain ambition still to make them more;

       Each might his several province well command,

       Would all but stoop to what they understand.

       First follow Nature, and your judgment frame

       By her just standard, which is still the same:

       Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70

       One clear, unchanged, and universal light,

       Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,

       At once the source, and end, and test of Art.

       Art from that fund each just supply provides,

       Works without show, and without pomp presides;

       In some fair body thus the informing soul

       With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,

       Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains,

       Itself unseen, but in the effects, remains.

       Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 80

       Want as much more to turn it to its use;

       For wit and judgment often are at strife,

       Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife,

       'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's steed,

       Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;

       The wingèd courser, like a generous horse,

       Shows most true mettle when you check his course.

       Those rules, of old discover'd, not devised,

       Are Nature still, but Nature methodised;

       Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd 90

       By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.

       Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,

       When to repress, and when indulge our flights:

       High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,

       And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;

       Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize,

       And urged the rest by equal steps to rise.

       Just precepts thus from great examples given,

       She drew from them what they derived from Heaven.

       The generous critic fann'd the poet's fire, 100

       And taught the world with reason to admire.

       Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid proved,

       To dress her charms, and make her more beloved:

       But following wits from that intention stray'd,

       Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;

       Against the poets their own arms they turn'd,

       Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.

       So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art,

       By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part,

       Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, 110

       Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.

       Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,

       Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they.

       Some drily plain, without invention's aid,

       Write dull receipts how poems may be made.

       These leave the sense, their learning to display,

       And those explain the meaning quite away.

       You then, whose judgment the right course would steer,

       Know well each ancient's proper character;

       His fable, subject, scope in every page; 120

       Religion, country, genius of his age;

       Without all these at once before your eyes,

       Cavil you may, but never criticise.

       Be Homer's works your study and delight,

       Read them by day, and meditate by night;

       Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,

       And trace the Muses upward to their spring.

       Still with itself compared, his text peruse;

       And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

       When first young Maro in his boundless mind, 130

       A work t' outlast immortal Rome СКАЧАТЬ