Late on fantastic cabalistic schemes, Of waking whimsies, or of feverish dreams, New cobweb threads of poetry were spun, In gaudy snares, like flies, were witlings won, Their brains entangled, and our art undone.
Pope, first, descended from a monkish race, Cheapens the charms of art, and daubs her face; From Gabalis[D] his mushroom fictions rise, Lop off his sylphs—and his Belinda[E] dies; The attending insects hover in the air, No longer than they're present is she fair; Some dart those eyebeams, which the youths beguile, And some sit conquering in a dimpling smile. Some pinch the tucker, and some smooth the smock. Some guard an upper, some a lower lock; But if these truant body-guards escape, In whip the gnomes and strait commit a rape; The curling honours of her head they seize, Hairs less in sight, or any hairs they please; But if to angry frowns her brow she bends, Upon her front some sullen gnome descends, Whisks through the furrows with its airy form, Bristles her eyebrows and 'directs the storm.'
As wide from these are Addisonian themes, As angels' thoughts are from distempered dreams; Spenser and he, to image nature, knew, Like living persons, vice and virtue drew: At once instructed and well pleas'd we read, While in sweet morals these two poets lead, No less to wisdom than to wit pretence, They led by music, but they led to sense.
But Pope scarce ever force to fancy joins, With dancing-master's feet equips his lines, Plumes empty fancy, and in tinsel shines. Or if by chance his judgment seems to lead, Where one poor moral faintly shows its head, 'Tis like a judge, that reverently drest, Peeps through the pageants at a lord may'r's feast; By starts he reasons, and seems wise by fits, Such wit's call'd wisdom, that has lost its wits.
Unnam'd by me this witling bard had been, Had not the writer's caused the reader's sin; But less by comedies and lewd romances, Are ruin'd, less by French lascivious dances, Than by such rhymers' masqueraded fancies.
From such the root of superstition grew, Whose old charms fertile, daily branch'd in new; From such chimeras first inspired, the fair The conj'rer's ring approach'd, and Jesuit's chair; Throng'd to the doors where magic rogues divin'd, And sold out ignes fatui to the mind.
Wizards and Jesuits differ but in name, Both demon's envoys, and their trade the same; Weak wills they lead, and vapour'd minds command, And play the game into each others' hand; Like spiritual jugglers at the cup and ball, Rising by foolish maids, that long to fall. Some into love they damn, and some they pray, For greensick minds are caught a different way; To the same end, tho' several paths, they run, Priests to undo and maids to be undone; Some blacker charms, some whiter spells cajole, As some lick wall and some devour a coal. Here ladies, strong in vapours, see men's faces Imprinted in the conjurer's dazzling glasses, There, when, in spring time, the too praying priest, Toasts, and does something better,—to the best A spouse is promised on next Baptist's[F] feast. First some young contrite rake's enjoined to marry, Lest—madam's forc'd to squeak for't—or, miscarry: In June, the lass does to the fields repair, Where good sir Domine just took the air. When, O strange wonder! near a plaintain root, She finds a coal—and so a spouse to boot. She longs to dream and to secure the sport That very day the youth design'd—must court, He does—she struck with rapture and delight. Bespeaks her fancy—strongly—dreams at night. The yielding fair, the ravish'd youth obtains, A maid she passes—so his child's free gains, He has the pleasure, yet is sav'd the pains. Thus when priest's wench—to cure the growing evil Poor St. John Baptist must forerun the devil.
But if the ladies fall, at fall of leaf, Or in the winter—still there's fresh relief; Let her lace close four months, and if she can, St. Agnes[G] heals the breach and brings the man. Thus a lewd priest to vapour'd virgins cants, And into pimps reverts his vestal saints.
O! dire effects of mask'd impiety! And shall they, Christian muse! have aids from thee; Wilt thou, like witty heathens, lewdly given, To a Gehenna metamorphose Heaven? Wilt thou?—O no—forbid th' unhallow'd song, Such profanations to Rome's bard belong. Let one, who gods and goddesses adores, Paint them like rakes and bullies, bawds, and whores.
Our genii, Campbell, shall be all divine, Shall high o'er theirs as much distinguish'd shine, As o'er such priests or chiromancers, thine. Thine, which does future time's events command To leap to sight, and in thy presence stand; Thine, whose eyes glowing with a gifted ray, New roads of life o'er wisdom's Alps survey, And guide benighted travellers to day. Let me, for once, a daring prophet be, Mark from this hour—and poetry thoul't see Date a new era from thy book and thee; Thy book, where, thro' the stories, thou hast laid, All moral wisdom's to the mind convey'd; And thus far prophecies each page, that all Must rise by virtues, or by vices fall.