# The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Granville, Lord Lansdowne/29

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,5 But as the juſt 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 ſits, the object to be drawn;10
The written picture we applaud or blame But as the due proportions are the ſame. Who driven with ungovernable fire, Or, void of art, beyond theſe bounds aſpire, Gigantic forms and monſtrous births alone15 Produce, which Nature, ſhock’d, diſdains to own. By true reflection I would ſee my face; Why brings the fool a magnifying-glaſs? “But Poetry in fiction takes delight, And, mounting in bold figures out of ſight,20 Leaves truth behind in her audacious flight: Fables and metaphors that always lie, And raſh hyperboles that ſoar ſo high, And every ornament of verſe must die.” Mistake me not; no figures I exclude,25 And but forbid intemperance, not food. Who would with care ſome happy fiction frame, So mimics 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.30 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 critic will inſtruction aſk. As veils tranſparent cover, but not hide,35 Such metaphors appear when right apply’d; When thro’ the phraſe we plainly ſee the ſenſe, Truth, where the meaning ’s obvious, will diſpenſe; The reader what in reaſon ’s due believes; Nor can we call that falſe which not deceives.40 Hyperboles, ſo daring and ſo bold, Diſdaining bounds, are yet by rules controll’d: Above the clouds, but ſtill within our ſight, They mount with truth, and make a tow’ring flight;
Preſenting things impoſſible to view,45 They wander thro’ incredible to true: Falſehoods 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;50 Such vaunts as his who can with patience read Who thus deſcribes his hero ſlain and dead; “Kill’d as he was, inſenſible of death, He ſtill fights on, and ſcorns to yield his breath.”
The noiſy culverin o’ercharg’d, lets fly,55 And burſt unaiming in the rended ſky. Such frantic flights are like a madman’s dream, And Nature ſuffers in the wild extreme. The captive Cannibal, weigh’d down with chains, Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, diſdains;60 Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud, He grins defiance at the gaping crowd, And ſpent at last, and ſpeechleſs as he lies, With looks ſtill threat’ning, mocks their rage and dies. This is the utmoſt ſtretch that Nature can,65 And all beyond is fulſome, falſe, and vain. Beauty ’s the theme; ſome nymph divinely fair Excites the Muſe: let truth be even there: As painters flatter ſo may poets too, But to reſemblance muſt be ever true.70 “The day that ſhe was born the Cyprian Queen Had like t’ have dy’d thro’ envy and thro’ ſpleen; The Graces in a hurry left the ſkies To have the honour to attend her eyes; And Love, deſpairing in her heart a place,75 Would needs take up his lodging in her face.”
Tho’ wrote by great Corneille, ſuch lines as theſe, Such civil nonſenſe, ſure could never pleaſe. Waller the beſt of all th’ inſpired train To melt the fair inſtructs the dying ſwain.80
The Roman wit, who impiouſly divides His hero and his gods to different ſides, I would condemn, but that, in ſpite of ſenſe, Th’ admiring world ſtill ſtands in his defence. How oft, alas! the beſt of men in vain85 Contend for bleſſings which the worſt obtain? 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.90
Thus forcing truth with ſuch prepoſt’rous praiſe, Our characters we leſſen when we ’d raiſe; Like caſtles built by magic art in air, That vaniſh at approach, ſuch thoughts appear; But rais’d on truth by ſome judicious hand,95 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;
On the crack’d ſtage the bedlam heroes roar’d, And ſcarce could ſpeak one reaſonable word:100 Dryden himſelf, to pleaſe a frantic 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 by choice.
Deem then the people’s, not the writer’s, ſin105 Almanzor’s rage and rants of Maximin: That fury ſpent, in each elaborate piece He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece. Firſt Mulgrave rose, Roſcommon next, like light, To clear our darkneſs, and to guide our flight;110 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,115 May in 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 fabric riſe, Firm and unſhaken, till it touch the ſkies.120 From pulpits baniſh’d, from the court, from love, Forſaken Truth ſeeks ſhelter in the grove: Cheriſh, ye Muſes! the neglected fair, And take into your train the abandon’d wanderer.124
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* ↑ Arioſto.
* ↑ Corneille.
* ↑ Lucan.
* ↑ King Charles II.
* ↑ Earl of Mulgrave’s Eſſay upon Poetry, and Lord Roſcommon’s upon Tranſlated Verſe.

## Explanation

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