Part 24

To his mouth And blew it east, and west, and south, And north, as loud as any thunder,

and the delicate but less animated tone of the Muses in Pope.--BOWLES.

If Chaucer was indebted to any of the Italian poets for the idea of his House of Fame, it was to Petrarca, who in his Trionfo della Fama has introduced many of the most eminent characters of ancient times. It must however be observed, that the poem of Petrarca is extremely simple and inartificial, and consists only in supposing that the most celebrated men of ancient Greece and Rome pass in review before him; whilst that of Chaucer is the work of a powerful imagination, abounding with beautiful and lively descriptions, and forming a connected and consistent whole. Pope's Temple of Fame is one of the noblest, though earliest, productions of the author, displaying a fertile invention and an uncommon grandeur and facility of style. It is confessedly founded on Chaucer's House of Fame; but the design is greatly altered and improved, and many of the thoughts and descriptions are entirely his own; yet such is the coincidence and happy union of the work with its prototype, that it is almost impossible to distinguish those portions for which he is indebted to Chaucer from those of his own invention. The conclusion, as descriptive of his own feelings at an early period of his own life, is particularly interesting.--ROSCOE.

Chaucer's House of Fame is adorned with statues

Of all manner of minstrales, And gestours that tellen tales Both of weeping and of game.

Just such a gestour, or narrative poet, was Chaucer himself; for, as Warton has remarked, he excelled alike in the pathetic and the gay, and, if he was more admirable in one than in the other, his "tales of weeping" were superior to his "tales of game." None of our poets, except Shakespeare, can compete with him in versatility of genius. His numerous characters are conceived with equal truth and distinctness; his dialogue is lively and natural; his humour is sometimes broad, sometimes subtle, and always racy; his tenderness is unrivalled in its mingled depth, simplicity and refinement; his descriptions, whether serious or comic, have never been surpassed in ease and vividness. His pre-eminence appears the more conspicuous when we contrast his living strains with the feeble diffuse monotony of his successors and predecessors. He may be compared, says Thomas Warton, to a premature summer's day in an English spring. The autobiographical passages in his works afford a glimpse of the varied tastes and pursuits which rendered him one of the most comprehensive writers in the world. His keen observation of mankind was blended with the plodding of a student. He tells us that he lived the life of a hermit, and was entirely ignorant of what was passing among the neighbours who "dwelt almost at his door." His custom when the duties of the day were over was to withdraw to his house, and sit down "as dumb as any stone" to his books, till he was "dazed" with reading. His love of nature could alone compete in intensity with his love of literature. The single thing which had power to entice him from the studies he held "in reverence" was the singing of birds and the blooming of flowers. The month of May had a peculiar fascination for him. "Then," he exclaims, "farewell my book," and transported by the opening beauties of the year he gave himself up to the exhilarating effects of renovated nature. The "flower of flowers," in his eyes, was the daisy, and there was never a morning that he was not out at dawn in the meadows, kneeling on the "soft, sweet grass," and watching his little favourite unclose its petals to the sun. In the evening he returned to see the daisies "go to rest," and no sooner were they shut up than he hastened home to bed, that he might be awake in time to witness the renewal of the scene. The sight was to him so "blissful" that it "softened all his sorrow," nor did the commonness of the occurrence abate the charm. He protests that he still feels within him the fire which impelled him to rise with glad devotion before break of day that he might behold the resurrection of his cherished flower, and do it reverence; for the friendly daisy was--

Ever alike fair and fresh of hue, And I love it, and ever alike new, And ever shall till that mine hearte die.

These traits present a charming picture of the man, and they are enhanced by the modesty which accompanied his greatness. He always speaks of his writings with unaffected humility, as those of a person who from taste was a diligent cultivator of poetry without possessing the faculty to become a worthy poet.

The House of Fame cannot be ranked with Chaucer's best productions. The incidents are supposed to pass in a dream, which was his ordinary plan for avoiding the infringement of probability when he exchanged terrestrial realities for the visions of fancy. He repeatedly in his works does homage to the happy influence of love. He maintained that it was the parent of the choicest qualities among mankind, though he sometimes adulterates his loftier sentiments by intermingling voluptuous passion with the pure affections of the heart,--a defect which was usual with the mediæval "gestours." He reverts in the House of Fame to his favourite theme, and the first book is taken up with a description of the temple of Venus. The entire edifice was of glass that was radiant with paintings representing subjects from Ovid and Virgil. Chaucer flourished in the finest period of Gothic architecture, when the "storied windows richly dight" were the delight of the age, and his detailed enumeration of the pictured incidents were not, to his contemporaries, the dry catalogue they may appear to us. After examining the marvellous gallery, he walks out of the building to seek for some one to inform him in what country he may be. He finds that the surrounding district is a desert as far as the eye can reach, without house, tree, herbage, or living creature, till gazing upwards he beholds an eagle aloft in the sky.

It was of gold, and shone so bright That never saw men such a sight, But if the heaven had ywon All new of God another sun.

The book concludes with the announcement that the gorgeous eagle began somewhat to descend, and this is followed in the second book by the bird catching sight of Chaucer, and stooping upon him with the rapidity of lightning. In an instant it catches him up in its claws, and "as lightly as if he was a lark" soars with him into the clouds. He swoons with fright, and is restored to consciousness by the eagle calling him by name, and rebuking him for his fears. Having calmed him, the bird informs him why he has been sent to fetch him, and bear him aloft into the skies. Chaucer more than once confesses that he was not framed to win affection. He says he did "not dare to love for his unlikeliness," and that he might "go in the dance" with those whom it had not been Cupid's pleasure to prosper. Yet his quick and glowing sympathies had led him to employ his genius in celebrating a blessing of which he had tasted so sparingly, and he is now told that his disinterested service to Venus and Cupid, in devoting the hours of night to composing poems on the histories of lovers till his head aches, has attracted the notice of Jupiter, who intends to reward him by admitting him to a view of the palace of Fame. The eagle continues rising upwards with his burthen, and expounds to Chaucer as they go the situation of the building, and the means by which everything said and done on earth is known in the distant sanctuary of the goddess. Arrived there, the winged messenger of Jupiter sets the poet down, and bidding him farewell, expresses a hope that the God of heaven will send him grace to learn some good from the scenes which are about to be unveiled to him. The third book contains the account of the House of Fame, and the House of Rumour, and despite the previous announcement of the extraordinary disclosures which await him, Chaucer has copied several of his leading ideas from Ovid and Virgil. In the House of Fame he witnesses the caprice with which the goddess dispenses reputation and disgrace; and in the House of Rumour he learns that nothing can exceed the lying and deception which are practised by mercenary ecclesiastics for the sake of lucre. His honest nature and penetrating understanding repudiated the impostures of the Romish church, and it was the main lesson which he seemed to wish to inculcate in his poem.

It is stated by Pope in his prefatory advertisement that the House of Fame had only supplied him with the "hint" for the Temple of Fame, that "the design was entirely altered," and that "the descriptions, and most of the particular thoughts, were his own." Bowles says that "Pope seems unwilling to confess all he owes to Chaucer," and that his language would "lead us to conclude that the chief merit of the arrangement and imagination belonged to himself," whereas he is indebted to his predecessor for "what is most poetical in the whole composition." Pope cannot be accused of concealing his obligations to the House of Fame, for he has fairly specified them in his notes, but he extremely underrated the extent to which he borrowed from it when he fancied that his general outline was different, and "most of the particular thoughts entirely new." The fertility of invention ascribed to him by Roscoe, and which he, in some degree, challenges for himself, is the last praise he can claim. Every portion of the conception which has a touch of creative power is found in Chaucer, together with the largest part of what is good in the filling up. High authorities differ as to the effect of Pope's additions and variations. Thomas Warton pronounced that "the character of the poem was marred," and Bowles endorsed the criticism. Johnson, on the other hand, asserts that "the original vision was never denied to be much improved," and he had Joseph Warton, Roscoe, and Campbell on his side. "Much of Chaucer's fantastic matter," says Campbell, "has been judiciously omitted by Pope, who at the same time has clothed the best ideas of the old poem in spirited numbers and expression. Chaucer supposes himself to be snatched up to heaven by a large eagle, who addresses him in the name of St. James and the Virgin Mary. In Pope, the philosophy of fame comes with much more propriety from the poet himself than from the beak of a talkative eagle." The introduction of the majestic eagle, its tremendous swoop when it pounces on the lonely wanderer, the terror produced by the first stage of the flight, and the animated dialogue in the second stage, is the most striking portion of Chaucer's vision. The philosophic discourse of the bird is not inconsistent with the wild imaginings of a dream. "Fantastic matter" is here the most natural, and keeps up an illusion which disappears in the formal composition of Pope. The advantage of modern language and versification would have rendered it easy for a man less gifted than him to improve on isolated passages, but the free fancy and picturesqueness of Chaucer are wanting. The romance which constitutes the truth and charm of the original dream is replaced by a scene of frigid tameness; and Johnson, while declaring that every part of the remodelled piece was splendid, is compelled to admit that it is turned silently over and takes no hold on the mind. Dullness is a fatal innovation which is poorly compensated by the greater polish of the style, and harmony of the verse.

The Temple of Fame suffered from a cause which deteriorated much of Pope's early poetry,--the notion that the noblest exercise of mind was to magnify the ancients, and reproduce their ideas. The epic poem he commenced at thirteen was naturally a school-boy's "slavish imitation" of Greek and Latin authors. A magnificent modern literature, marked by the strongest lines of native vigour and masculine independence, might have been expected, as he grew acquainted with it, to expand his taste. This effect did not ensue. Led astray by the false conventional canons of hacknied criticism, he clung to his early prejudices, and, regardless of the splendid names which gave the lie to his theory, he could say, at the age of thirty, in the preface to his works, "All that is left us is to recommend our productions by the imitation of the ancients." He told Spence that he should certainly have tried his hand upon a second epic if he had not translated the Iliad, and this epic, in its main characteristics, would not have differed much from his translation. "I should have sat down to it," he said, "with this advantage, that I had been nursed up in Homer and Virgil." He once intended to take the Corinthian Timoleon for his hero; and scene, manners, personages, machinery, and sentiments would all have been as Greek as they could be made by an imitator who had not entered deeply into the spirit of classic writers and times. The everlasting interest attached to the Iliad,--to a poem original and national, reflecting the institutions, customs, feelings, and beliefs of its era,--would, he thought, be extended to a modern duplicate, in which every one of these qualities would have been reversed. "The less we copy the ancients," said Dr. Young, "we shall resemble them the more." The undue exaltation of antiquity is complete in the Temple of Fame. No English king, warrior, statesman, or patriot; no Christian martyr or evangeliser; no poet or philosopher was deemed worthy to be ranked with the men of old. The fictitious phantoms of heathen mythology, the heroes of decayed empires, and the authors whose works are in dead languages, are the sole immortals of Pope. Within the limits of his narrow world several of his names appear to have been selected at random, and others are applauded upon mistaken principles. He extols the virtue of Brutus, whose chief glory was to have plotted the death of his preserver, patron, and friend. Nations do not need, and virtue disowns the patriotism which manifests itself in ingratitude, treachery, and murder. Pope's admiration of tyrannicides even led him to celebrate Timoleon for killing his brother, notwithstanding that Timoleon had forfeited his claim to the panegyric by bitterly repenting his crime. To consecrate political assassinations is to put the lives of rulers at the mercy of any individual who conceives their policy to be mischievous. In short, the portion of the Temple of Fame which was not directly borrowed from Chaucer is merely a school-boy's theme in verse. The manner in which Pope sets forth his worthies is not, for him, felicitous. His portraits are nearly all faint and feeble sketches, without distinctness of outline, individuality of feature, or brilliancy of colouring.

The contemporary literature of the middle ages could not compete with the classical masterpieces, and Chaucer might have been justified in peopling his House of Fame with ancients alone. But he does not believe that genius and grandeur expired with the Romans. He has faith in authors whose light has long since been dimmed or extinguished, and confidently ranks such writers as Guido de Columpnis and Geoffrey of Monmouth with the loftiest Greek and Latin names. The statues of minstrel bards, musicians, and professors of magic adorn the exterior of the palace; the wall within is crowded with heralds, and on their coats are embroidered the armorial ensigns of all the persons who had been famous in Europe, Asia, and Africa since chivalry began. Everywhere we have the true reflection of the world in which Chaucer lived. His narrative represents the fourteenth century, its actual pursuits and genuine tastes, while the modernised version of Pope is stripped of circumstantial realities, and exhibits only an impassive, artificial pedantry.

The architecture of Pope's Temple and Chaucer's House presents the same difference which distinguishes the respective poems throughout. The House is in the magnificent Gothic of the time, with its multiplied buttresses, niches, images, pinnacles, and traceried windows. The Temple is a building which resembles nothing that ever existed. One face is Grecian architecture, a second Eastern, a third Egyptian, and a fourth Northern. Warton, in a note to the poem, says that Pope's "knowledge and taste in the fine arts were unquestionable." Had he possessed the crudest ideas of architecture he could not have affirmed that so hideous, and indeed so impossible a combination, surpassed in beauty whatever had been "beheld in proud Rome, or artful Greece, or elder Babylon." The details are worthy of the general conception. The northern side is said to be "of Gothic structure,"--not the glorious style which commonly bears the name, a style for which Pope had no eyes, since with Chaucer's description before him he ignores the mediæval Gothic altogether, but a structure lustrous as glass, and "overwrought with ornaments of barbarous pride." "Huge colosses rise" upon its face, and around the statues are "engraved Runic characters." This part of the design appears to be an importation from the south. In the Egyptian temples colossal figures are often attached to the piers, and at the top, bottom, and sides of the piers there is a border of hieroglyphics. With his statues Pope has conjoined "rude iron columns smeared with blood" upon which stand the "horrid forms of Scythian heroes," and in a note he gravely asserts that this medley "is agreeable to the architecture of the northern part of the world." In the text he has ventured upon the no less extraordinary statement that all the façades were of "equal grace" or in other words that his barbarous and chimerical northern side was of equal grace with the architecture of Greece.

Johnson remarks that the learning and observation exhibited in the Temple of Fame were uncommon for a youth of twenty-two. The authority for Pope's age was an expression in his letter to Steele, Nov. 16, 1712, where he says of his work, "I was so diffident of it as to let it lie by me these two years just as you now see it;" and he adds in a note, "hence it appears this poem was writ before the author was twenty-two years old." With the discrepancy usual with him when the dates of his compositions were in question, he stated on the title-page of the various reprints of the Temple of Fame, that it was "written in the year 1711," the first day of which found him nearer twenty-three than twenty-two. He did not publish it till 1715, and between his twenty-fifth year when he showed it to Steele, and his twenty-seventh year when it appeared, he subjected the poem to an extensive revision. "I have read over your Temple of Fame twice," wrote Steele, Nov. 12, 1712, "and cannot find anything amiss of weight enough to call a fault, but see in it a thousand, thousand beauties." "Since you say," Pope replied, "you see nothing that may be called a fault, can you not think it so that I have confined the attendance of guardian spirits to heaven's favourites only?" He remedied the defect by getting rid of the guardian spirits; and with his own testimony to the changes which the plan underwent, the learning can only be considered as displaying the compass of his knowledge when he was upwards of twenty-six. It is surprising that Johnson should have thought that a very small amount of classical mythology, and an acquaintance with the broad characteristics of a few celebrities of antiquity, was an unusual acquisition even for a man of twenty-two. Warton has pointed out that the narrow range of Pope's reading was more remarkable than its extent. He has not alluded to the Greek tragedians, and had probably never looked into a single play of Æschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides. The observation of life, which Johnson thought as precocious as the learning, is not of the recondite kind, and belongs exclusively to Chaucer. In whatever light we view the Temple of Fame it must be ranked at best with the secondary class of Pope's productions, and the indifference with which it was regarded up to Johnson's time has continued unabated up to ours. The eight lines on the rocks of Zembla are fine, and there is an occasional good line in other portions of the piece, but the poem seldom rises above a cold, and somewhat languid elegance, and like the "pale suns" which the author describes, it "rolls away unfelt."

FOOTNOTES:

THE TEMPLE OF FAME.

In that soft season, when descending show'rs Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs; When opening buds salute the welcome day, And earth relenting feels the genial ray; As balmy sleep had charmed my cares to rest, 5 And love itself was banished from my breast, (What time the morn mysterious visions brings, While purer slumbers spread their golden wings) A train of phantoms in wild order rose, And joined, this intellectual scene compose. 10 I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies; The whole creation open to my eyes: In air self-balanced hung the globe below, Where mountains rise, and circling oceans flow; Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen, 15 There tow'ry cities, and the forests green; Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes; There trees, and intermingled temples rise: Now a clear sun the shining scene displays; The transient landscape now in clouds decays. 20 O'er the wide prospect as I gazed around, Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound, Like broken thunders that at distance roar, Or billows murm'ring on the hollow shore: Then, gazing up, a glorious pile beheld, 25 Whose tow'ring summit ambient clouds concealed. High on a rock of ice the structure lay, Steep its ascent, and slipp'ry was the way; The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone, And seemed, to distant sight, of solid stone. 30 Inscriptions here of various names I viewed, The greater part by hostile time subdued; Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past, And poets once had promised they should last. Some fresh engraved appeared of wits renowned; 35 I looked again, nor could their trace be found. Critics I saw, that other names deface, And fix their own, with labour, in their place: Their own, like others, soon their place resigned, Or disappeared, and left the first behind. 40 Nor was the work impaired by storms alone, But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun; For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays Not more by envy than excess of praise. Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel, 45 Like crystal faithful to the graving steel: The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade, Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade. Their names inscribed unnumbered ages past From time's first birth, with time itself shall last; 50 These ever new, nor subject to decays, Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days. So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost) Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, 55 And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play; Eternal snows the growing mass supply, Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky: As Atlas fixed, each hoary pile appears, The gathered winter of a thousand years. 60 On this foundation Fame's high temple stands; Stupendous pile! not reared by mortal hands. Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld, Or elder Babylon, its frame excelled. Four faces had the dome, and ev'ry face 65 Of various structure, but of equal grace: Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high, Salute the diff'rent quarters of the sky. Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born, Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn, 70 Who cities raised, or tamed a monstrous race, The walls in venerable order grace. Heroes in animated marble frown, And legislators seem to think in stone. Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appeared, 75 On Doric pillars of white marble reared, Crowned with an architrave of antique mold, And sculpture rising on the roughened gold, In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld, And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield: 80 There great Alcides stooping with his toil, Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil. Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound Start from their roots, and form a shade around: Amphion there the loud-creating lyre 85 Strikes, and beholds a sudden Thebes aspire! Cithæron's echoes answer to his call, And half the mountain rolls into a wall: There might you see the length'ning spires ascend, The domes swell up, the widening arches bend, 90 The growing tow'rs like exhalations rise, And the huge columns heave into the skies. The Eastern front was glorious to behold, With di'mond flaming and barbaric gold. There Ninus shone, who spread th' Assyrian fame, 95 And the great founder of the Persian name: There in long robes the royal Magi stand, Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand, The sage Chaldæans, robed in white, appeared, And Brachmans, deep in desert woods revered. 100 These stopped the moon, and called th' unbodied shades To midnight banquets in the glimm'ring glades; Made visionary fabrics round them rise, And airy spectres skim before their eyes; Of talismans and sigils knew the pow'r, 105 And careful watched the planetary hour. Superior, and alone, Confucius stood, Who taught that useful science, to be good. But on the South, a long majestic race Of Egypt's priests the gilded niches grace, 110 Who measured earth, described the starry spheres, And traced the long records of lunar years. High on his car, Sesostris struck my view, Whom sceptered slaves in golden harness drew: His hands a bow and pointed jav'lin hold; 115 His giant limbs are armed in scales of gold. Between the statues obelisks were placed, And the learn'd walls with hieroglyphics graced. Of Gothic structure was the Northern side, O'erwrought with ornaments of barb'rous pride: 120 There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crowned, And Runic characters were graved around. There sat Zamolxis with erected eyes, And Odin here in mimic trances dies. There on rude iron columns, smeared with blood, 125 The horrid forms of Scythian heroes stood, Druids and bards (their once loud harps unstrung), And youths that died to be by poets sung. These, and a thousand more, of doubtful fame, To whom old fables gave a lasting name, 130 In ranks adorned the temple's outward face; The wall in lustre and effect like glass, Which o'er each object casting various dyes, Enlarges some, and others multiplies: Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall, 135 For thus romantic Fame increases all. The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold, Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold: Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed around With laurel-foliage, and with eagles crowned: 140 Of bright transparent beryl were the walls, The friezes gold, and gold the capitals: As heav'n with stars, the roof with jewels glows, And ever-living lamps depend in rows. Full in the passage of each spacious gate, 145 The sage historians in white garments wait; Graved o'er their seats the form of Time was found, His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound. Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms In bloody fields pursued renown in arms. 150 High on a throne with trophies charged, I viewed The youth that all things but himself subdued; His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod, And his horned head belied the Libyan god. There Cæsar, graced with both Minervas, shone; 155 Cæsar, the world's great master, and his own; Unmoved, superior still in ev'ry state, And scarce detested in his country's fate. But chief were those, who not for empire fought, But with their toils their people's safety bought: 160 High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood; Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood; Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state; Great in his triumphs, in retirement great; And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind, } 165 With boundless pow'r, unbounded virtue joined, } His own strict judge, and patron of mankind, } Much-suff'ring heroes next their honours claim, Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame, Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these 170 Here ever shines the godlike Socrates: He whom ungrateful Athens could expel, At all times just, but when he signed the shell: Here his abode the martyred Phocion claims, With Agis, not the last of Spartan names: 175 Unconquered Cato shows the wound he tore, And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more. But in the centre of the hallowed choir, Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire; Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand, 180 Hold the chief honours, and the fane command. High on the first, the mighty Homer shone; Eternal adamant composed his throne; Father of verse! in holy fillets drest, His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast; 185 Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears; In years he seemed, but not impaired by years. The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen: Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian queen; Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall, 190 Here dragged in triumph round the Trojan wall: Motion and life did ev'ry part inspire, Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire; A strong expression most he seemed t' affect, And here and there disclosed a brave neglect. 195 A golden column next in rank appear'd, On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd; Finished the whole, and laboured ev'ry part, With patient touches of unwearied art: The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate, 200 Composed his posture, and his looks sedate; On Homer still he fixed a rev'rent eye, Great without pride, in modest majesty. In living sculpture on the sides were spread The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead; 205 Eliza stretched upon the fun'ral pyre, Æneas bending with his aged sire: Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne "Arms and the man" in golden ciphers shone. Four swans sustain a car of silver bright, 210 With heads advanced, and pinions stretched for flight: Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode, And seem'd to labour with th' inspiring god. Across the harp a careless hand he flings, And boldly sinks into the sounding strings. 215 The figured games of Greece the column grace, Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race. The youths hang o'er the chariots as they run; The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone; The champions in distorted postures threat, 220 And all appeared irregularly great. Here happy Horace tuned th' Ausonian lyre To sweeter sounds, and tempered Pindar's fire: Pleased with Aleæus' manly rage t'infuse The softer spirit of the Sapphic muse. 225 The polished pillar diff'rent sculptures grace; A work outlasting monumental brass. Here smiling loves and bacchanals appear, The Julian star, and great Augustus here. The doves that round the infant poet spread 230 Myrtles and bays, hung hov'ring o'er his head. Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light, Sat fixed in thought the mighty Stagirite; His sacred head a radiant zodiac crowned, And various animals his sides surround; 235 His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view Superior worlds, and look all nature through. With equal rays immortal Tully shone, The Roman rostra decked the consul's throne: Gath'ring his flowing robe, he seemed to stand 240 In act to speak, and graceful stretched his hand. Behind, Rome's genius waits with civic crowns, And the great father of his country owns. These massy columns in a circle rise, O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies: 245 Scarce to the top I stretched my aching sight, So large it spread, and swelled to such a height. Full in the midst proud Fame's imperial seat With jewels blazed, magnificently great; The vivid em'ralds there revive the eye, 250 The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye, Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream, And lucid amber casts a golden gleam. With various-coloured light the pavement shone, And all on fire appeared the glowing throne; 255 The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze, And forms a rainbow of alternate rays. When on the goddess first I cast my sight, Scarce seemed her stature of a cubit's height; But swelled to larger size, the more I gazed, 260 Till to the roof her tow'ring front she raised. With her, the temple ev'ry moment grew, And ampler vistas opened to my view: Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend, And arches widen, and long aisles extend. 265 Such was her form, as ancient bards have told, Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold; A thousand busy tongues the goddess bears, And thousand open eyes, and thousand list'ning ears. Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine 270 (Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine. With eyes on Fame for ever fixed, they sing; For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string; With time's first birth began the heav'nly lays, And last, eternal, through the length of days. 275 Around these wonders as I cast a look, The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook, And all the nations, summoned at the call, From diff'rent quarters fill the crowded hall: Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard; 280 In various garbs promiscuous throngs appeared; Thick as the bees that with the spring renew Their flow'ry toils, and sip the fragrant dew, When the winged colonies first tempt the sky, O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly, 285 Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield, And a low murmur runs along the field. Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, And all degrees before the goddess bend; The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 290 And boasting youth, and narrative old age. Their pleas were diff'rent, their request the same: For good and bad alike are fond of fame. Some she disgraced, and some with honours crowned; Unlike successes equal merits found. 295 Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns, And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains. First at the shrine the learned world appear, And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer. Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind, 300 With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind; But thanked by few, rewarded yet by none, We here appeal to thy superior throne: On wit and learning the just prize bestow, For fame is all we must expect below. 305 The goddess heard, and bade the muses raise The golden trumpet of eternal praise: From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, That fills the circuit of the world around; Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud; 310 The notes at first were rather sweet than loud: By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise, Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies, At ev'ry breath were balmy odours shed, Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread; 315 Less fragrant scents th' unfolding rose exhales, Or spices breathing in Arabian gales. Next these the good and just, an awful train, Thus on their knees address the sacred fane. Since living virtue is with envy cursed, 320 And the best men are treated like the worst, Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth. Not with bare justice shall your act be crowned, (Said Fame,) but high above desert renowned: 325 Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze, And the loud clarion labour in your praise. This band dismissed, behold another crowd Preferred the same request, and lowly bowed; The constant tenour of whose well spent days 330 No less deserved a just return of praise. But straight the direful trump of slander sounds; Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds; Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies, The dire report through ev'ry region flies, 335 In ev'ry ear incessant rumours rung, And gath'ring scandals grew on ev'ry tongue. From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke: The pois'nous vapour blots the purple skies, 340 And withers all before it as it flies. A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore, And proud defiance in their looks they bore: For thee, (they cried,) amidst alarms and strife, We sailed in tempests down the stream of life; 345 For thee whole nations filled with flames and blood, And swam to empire through the purple flood. Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own, What virtue seemed, was done for thee alone. Ambitious fools! (the queen replied, and frowned) 350 Be all your acts in dark oblivion drowned; There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, Your statues mouldered, and your names unknown! A sudden cloud straight snatched them from my sight, And each majestic phantom sunk in night. 355 Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen; Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien. Great idol of mankind! we neither claim The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame! But safe in deserts from th' applause of men, 360 Would die unheard of, as we lived unseen; 'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite. O let us still the secret joy partake, To follow virtue ev'n for virtue's sake. 365 And live there men, who slight immortal fame? Who then with incense shall adore our name? But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride To blaze those virtues, which the good would hide. Rise! muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath, 370 These must not sleep in darkness and in death. She said: in air the trembling music floats, And on the winds triumphant swell the notes: So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear, Ev'n list'ning angels leaned from heav'n to hear: 375 To farthest shores th' ambrosial spirit flies, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies. Next these, a youthful train their vows expressed, With feathers crowned, with gay embroid'ry dress'd, Hither, they cried, direct your eyes, and see 380 The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry; Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays, Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days; Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care To pay due visits, and address the fair: 385 In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade, But still in fancy vanquished ev'ry maid; Of unknown duchesses lewd tales we tell, Yet, would the world believe us, all were well. The joy let others have, and we the name, 390 And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame. The queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies, And at each blast a lady's honour dies. Pleased with the strange success, vast numbers pressed Around the shrine, and made the same request: 395 What! you (she cried) unlearn'd in arts to please, Slaves to yourselves, and ev'n fatigued with ease, Who lose a length of undeserving days, Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise? To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall, 400 The people's fable, and the scorn of all. Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound, Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round, Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud, And scornful hisses run through all the crowd. 405 Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done, Enslave their country, or usurp a throne; Or who their glory's dire foundation laid On sov'reigns ruined, or on friends betrayed; Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, 410 Of crooked counsels and dark politics; Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne, And beg to make th' immortal treasons known. The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire, With sparks, that seemed to set the world on fire. 415 At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast, And startled nature trembled with the blast. This having heard and seen, some pow'r unknown Straight changed the scene, and snatched me from the throne. Before my view appeared a structure fair, 420 Its site uncertain, if in earth or air; With rapid motion turned the mansion round; With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound; Not less in number were the spacious doors, Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores; 425 Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day, Pervious to winds, and open ev'ry way. As flames by nature to the skies ascend, As weighty bodies to the centre tend, As to the sea returning rivers roll, 430 And the touched needle trembles to the pole; Hither, as to their proper place, arise All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies, Or spoke aloud, or whispered in the ear; Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here. 435 As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes The sinking stone at first a circle makes; The trembling surface, by the motion stirred, Spreads in a second circle, then a third; Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, 440 Fill all the wat'ry plain, and to the margin dance: Thus ev'ry voice and sound, when first they break, On neighb'ring air a soft impression make; Another ambient circle then they move; That, in its turn, impels the next above; 445 Through undulating air the sounds are sent, And spread o'er all the fluid element. There, various news I heard of love and strife, Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life, Of loss and gain, of famine, and of store, 450 Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore, Of prodigies, and portents seen in air, Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair, Of turns of fortune, changes in the state, The falls of fav'rites, projects of the great, 455 Of old mismanagements, taxations new: All neither wholly false, nor wholly true. Above, below, without, within, around, Confused, unnumbered, multitudes are found, Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away; 460 Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day: Astrologers, that future fates foreshew, Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few; And priests, and party-zealots, num'rous bands With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands; 465 Each talked aloud, or in some secret place, And wild impatience stared in ev'ry face. The flying rumours gathered as they rolled, Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told; And all who told it added something new, } 470 And all who heard it, made enlargements too; } In ev'ry ear it spread, on ev'ry tongue it grew. } Thus flying east and west, and north and south, News travelled with increase from mouth to mouth. So from a spark, that kindled first by chance, 475 With gath'ring force the quick'ning flames advance; Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire, And tow'rs and temples sink in floods of fire. When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung, Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue, 480 Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow, And rush in millions on the world below. Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course, Their date determines, and prescribes their force; Some to remain, and some to perish soon; 485 Or wane and wax, alternate, like the moon. Around, a thousand winged wonders fly, Borne by the trumpet's blast, and scattered through the sky. There, at one passage, oft you might survey, A lie and truth contending for the way; 490 And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent, Which first should issue through the narrow vent: At last agreed, together out they fly, Inseparable now, the truth and lie; The strict companions are for ever joined, 495 And this or that unmixed, no mortal e'er shall find. While thus I stood, intent to see and hear, One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear: What could thus high thy rash ambition raise? Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise? 500 'Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came, For who so fond as youthful bards of fame? But few, alas! the casual blessing boast, So hard to gain, so easy to be lost. How vain that second life in others' breath, 505 Th' estate which wits inherit after death! Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign; Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine! The great man's curse, without the gains, endure, Be envied, wretched, and be flattered, poor; 510 All luckless wits their enemies professed, And all successful, jealous friends at best. Nor fame I slight, nor for her favours call; She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all. But if the purchase cost so dear a price, 515 As soothing folly, or exalting vice; Oh! if the muse must flatter lawless sway, And follow still where fortune leads the way; Or if no basis bear my rising name, But the fall'n ruins of another's fame; 520 Then teach me, heav'n! to scorn the guilty bays; Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise; Unblemished let me live, or die unknown; Oh! grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

FOOTNOTES:

And boldly trust their buds in open air. In this soft season.--WAKEFIELD.

Dryden's Flower and Leaf:

Where Venus from her orb descends in show'rs To glad the ground, and paint the fields with flow'rs.]

But when the western winds with vital pow'r Call forth the tender grass, and budding flow'r.--WAKEFIELD.]

Salute the welcome sun and entertain the day.]

And harder glebe relents with vernal winds.--WAKEFIELD.]

Cares I had none to keep me from my rest, For love had never entered in my breast.]

Believe me, madam, morning dreams foreshow Th' events of things, and future weal or woe.]