# Poems upon Several Occasions/87

An ESSAY upon Unnatural Flights in Poetry.
AS when some Image of a charming Face, In living Paint, an Artist tries to trace, He carefully consults each beauteous Line, Adjusting to his Object his Design; We praise the Piece, and give the Painter Fame, But as the bright Resemblance speaks the Dame.
Poets are Limners of another kind, To copy out Ideas in the Mind, Words are the Paint by which their Thoughts are shown, And Nature is their Object to be drawn; The written Picture we applaud, or blame, But as the just Proportions are the same. Who, driven with ungovernable Fire, Or, void of Art, beyond these Bounds aspire, Gigantick Forms and monstrous Births alone Produce, which Nature shock'd disdains to own. By true Reflection I wou'd see my Face, Why brings the Fool a magnifying Glass? "But Poetry in Fiction takes Delight,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ And mounting in bold Figures out of Sight, Leaves Truth behind, in her audacious Flight: Fables, and Metaphors, that always lie,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ And rash Hyperboles, that soar so high, And ev'ry Ornament of Verse, must die." Mistake me not: No Figures I exclude, And but forbid Intemperance, not Food. Who wou'd with Care some happy Fiction frame, So mimicks Truth, it looks the very same, Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's Scorn, But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn: Important Truths still let your Fables hold, And moral Mysteries with Art unfold; Ladies and Beaus, to please, is all the Task, But the sharp Critick will Instruction ask:
As Veils transparent cover, but not hide, Such Metaphors appear, when right apply'd; When, thro' the Phrase, we plainly see the Sense, Truth with such obvious Meanings will dispense, The Reader what in Reason's due believes, Nor can we call that false which not deceives. Hyperboles so daring and so bold, Disdaining Bounds, are yet by Rules control'd; Above the Clouds, but yet within our Sight, They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring Flight, Presenting Things impossible to View, They wander thro' Incredible, to True: Falshoods thus mix'd, like Metals are refin'd, And Truth, like Silver, leaves the Dross behind. Thus Poetry has ample Space to soar, Nor needs forbidden Regions to explore; Such Vaunts as his who can with Patience read, Who thus describes his Hero when he's dead? "In Heat of Action slain, yet scorns to fall, But still maintains the War, and fights at———All." The noisie Culverin, o'er-charg'd, lets fly, And bursts, unaiming, in the rended Sky; Such frantick Flights are like a Madman's Dream, And Nature suffers in the wild Extream. The Captive Canibal, opprest with Chains, Yet braves his Foes, reviles, provokes, disdains, Of Nature fierce, untameable, and proud, He bids Defiance to the gaping Croud,
And spent at last, and speechless as he lies, With fiery Glances mocks their Rage, and dies. This is the utmost Stretch that Nature can, And all beyond is fulsome, false, and vain. The Roman Wit, who impiously divides His Hero, and his Gods, to different Sides, I wou'd condemn, but that, in spight of Sense, Th’ admiring World still stands in his Defence: The Gods, permitting Traitors to succeed, Become not Parties in an impious Deed, And, by the Tyrant’s Murder, we may find That Cato and the Gods were of a Mind. Thus forcing Truth with such prepostrous Praise, Our Character we lessen, when we’d raise; Like Castles built by Magick Art in Air, That vanish at Approach, such Thoughts appear; But rais'd on Truth, by some judicious Hand. As on a Rock, they shall for Ages stand. Our King return'd, and banish'd Peace restor'd, The Muse ran mad, to see her exil'd Lord; On the crack'd Stage the Bedlam Heroes roar'd, And scarce cou'd speak on reasonable Word: Dryden himself, to please a frantick age, Was forc'd to let his Judgment stoop to Rage, To a wild Audience he conform'd his Voice, Comply'd to Custom, but not err'd thro' Choice. Deem then the People's, not the Writer's Sin, Almansor’s Rage, and Rants of Maximin;
That Fury spent, in each elab'rate Piece, He vies for Fame with ancient Rome and Greece. Roscommon first, then Mulgrave rose, like Light, To clear our Darkness, and to guide our Flight; With steady Judgment, and in lofty Sounds, They gave us Patterns, and they set us Bounds. The Stagyrite, and Horace, laid aside, Inform'd by them, we need no Foreign Guide. Who seek from Poetry a lasting Name, May from their Lessons learn the Road to Fame; 'But let the bold Adventurer be sure That ev'ry Line the Test of Truth endure; On this Foundation may the Fabrick rise Firm and unshaken, 'till it touch the Skies. From Pulpits banish’d, from the Court, from Love, Abandon’d Truth seeks Shelter in the Grove; Cherish, ye Muses, the forsaken Fair, And take into your Train this beauteous Wanderer.