V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

69. The method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties and pervertencies of human nature; and was intended to engage the affections, in order to improve the mind and amend the heart.

Didactic or preceptive poetry, has been usually employed either to illustrate and explain our moral duties, our philosophical inquiries, our business and pleasures; or in teaching the art of criticism or poetry itself. It may be adapted, however, to any other subject; and may in all cases, where instruction is designed, be employed to good purpose. Some subjects, indeed, are more proper than others, as they admit of more poetical ornaments, and give a greater latitude to genius: but whatever the subject is, those precepts are to be laid down that are the most useful; and they should follow each other in a natural easy method, and be delivered in the most agreeable engaging manner. What the prose writer tells you ought to be done, the poet often conveys under the form of a narration, or shows the necessity of it in a description; and by representing the action as done, or doing, conceals the precept that should enforce it. The poet likewise, instead of telling the whole truth, or laying down all the rules that are requisite, selects such parts only as are the most pleasing, and communicates the rest indirectly, without giving us an open view of them; yet takes care that nothing shall escape the reader's notice with which he ought to be acquainted. He discloses just enough to lead the imagination into the parts that are concealed; and the mind, ever gratified with its own discoveries, is complimented with exploring and finding them out; which, though done with ease, seems to considerable, as not to be obtained but in consequence of its own adroitness and sagacity.

But this is not sufficient to render didactic poetry always pleasing: for where precepts are laid down one after another, and the poem is of considerable length, the mind will require some recreation and refreshment by the way; which is to be procured by seasonable moral reflections, pertinent remarks, familiar similes, and descriptions naturally introduced, by allusions to ancient histories or fables, and by short and pleasant digressions and excursions into more noble subjects, so aptly brought in, that they may seem to have a remote relation, and be of a piece with the poem. By thus varying the form of instruction, the poet gives life to his precepts, and awakens and secures our attention, without permitting us to see by what means we are are thus captivated: and his art is the more to be admired, because it is so concealed as to escape the reader's observation.

The style, too, must maintain a dignity suitable to the subject, and every part be drawn in such lively colours, that the things described may seem as if presented to the reader's view.

But all this will appear more evident from example; and though entire poems of this kind are not within the compass of our design, we shall endeavour to select such passages as will be sufficient to illustrate the rules we have here laid down.

We have already observed, that, according to the usual divisions, there are four kinds of didactic poems, viz. those that respect our moral duties, our philosophical speculations, our business and pleasures, or that give precepts for poetry and criticism.

70. On the first subject, indeed, we have scarce anything that deserves the name of poetry, except Mr Pope's Essay on Man, and his Ethic Epistles; to which therefore we refer as examples.

71. II. Those preceptive poems that concern philosophical speculations, though the subject is so pregnant with matter, affords such a field for fancy, and is so capable of every decoration, are but few. Lucretius is the most considerable among the ancients who has written in this manner; and among the moderns we know of none but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress, and Dr Akenfield's Pleasures of the Imagination; both which are worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces are also well executed; and there is one entitled the Universe, written by Mr Baker, from which we shall borrow an example.

The author's scheme is in some measure coincident with Mr Pope's, so far especially as it tends to restrain the pride of man, with which design it was professedly written.

The passage we have selected is that respecting the planetary system.

Unwise! and thoughtless! impotent! and blind! Can wealth, or grandeur, satisfy the mind? Of all those pleasures mortals most admire, Is there one joy sincere, that will not tire? Can love itself endure? or beauty's charms Afford that bliss we fancy in its arms? Then, let thy soul more glorious aims pursue; Have thy Creator and his works in view. Be these thy study; hence thy pleasures bring: And drink large draughts of wisdom from its spring; That spring, whence perfect joy, and calm repose, And blest content, and peace eternal, flows.

Observe how regular the Planets run, In stated times, their courses round the Sun. Diff'rent their bulk, their distance, their career, And diff'rent much the compass of their year: Yet all the same eternal laws obey, While God's unerring finger points the way.

First Mercury, amidst full tides of light, Rolls next the sun, through his small circle bright. All that dwell here must be refin'd and pure: Bodies like ours such ardour can't endure: Our Earth would blaze beneath so fierce a ray, And all its marble mountains melt away.

Fair Venus, next, fulfils her larger round, With softer beams, and milder glory crown'd. Friend to mankind, she glitters afar, Now the bright ev'ning, now the morning star. More distant still, our Earth comes rolling on, And forms a wider circle round the sun: With her the Moon, companion ever dear! Her course attending through the shining year. See, Mars, alone, runs his appointed race, And measures out, exact, the destined space: Nor nearer does he wind, nor farther stray, But finds the point whence first he roll'd away.

More yet remote from day's all-cheering source, Vast Jupiter performs his constant course: Four friendly moons, with borrow'd lustre, rise, Below their beams benign, and light his skies.

Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phoebus' ray, Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away. How great the change could we waited there! How slow the seasons! and how long the year! One moon, on us, reflects its cheerful light: There, five attendants brighten up the night. Here, the blue firmament bedeck'd with stars, There, over-head, a lucid arch appears, From hence how large, how strong, the sun's bright ball! But seen from thence, how languid and how small! When the keen north with all its fury blows, Congeals the floods, and forms the fleecy snows, 'Tis heat intense to what can there be known: Warmer our poles than is its burning zone. Who there inhabit must have other pow'rs, Juices, and veins, and senses, and life, than ours. One moment's cold, like theirs, would pierce the bone, Freeze the heart-blood, and turn us all to stone.

Strange and amazing must the difference be, 'Twixt this dull Planet and bright Mercury: Yet reason says, nor can we doubt at all, Millions of beings dwell on either ball, With constitutions fitted for that spot, Where Providence, all-wise, has fix'd their lot. Wond'rous art thou, O God, in all thy ways! Their eyes to thee let all thy creatures raise; Adore thy grandeur, and thy goodness praise. Ye sons of men! with satisfaction know, God's own right hand dispenses all below: Nor good nor evil does by chance befall; He reigns supreme, and he directs it all.

At his command, affrighting human-kind, Comets drag on their blazing lengths behind: Nor, as we think, do they at random rove, But, in determin'd times, through long cliffs move. And tho' sometimes they near approach the sun, Sometimes beyond our system's orbit run; Throughout their race they act their Maker's will, His pow'r declare, his purposes fulfil.

72. III. Of those preceptive poems that treat of the busines and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claims our first and principal attention. In these he has laid down the rules of husbandry in all its branches with the utmost exactness and perspicuity, and at the same time embellished them with all the beauties and graces of poetry. Though his subject was husbandry, he has delivered his precepts, as Mr Addison observes, not with the simplicity of a ploughman, but with the address address of a poet: the meanest of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the clods, and tosses about the dung, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chiefly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.

These poems, which are esteemed the most perfect of the author's works, are, perhaps, the best that can be propofed for the young student's imitation in this manner of writing; for the whole of his Georgics is wrought up with wonderful art, and decorated with all the flowers of poetry.

74. IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the recreations and pleasures of a country life, we have several in our own language that are justly admired. As the most considerable of those diversions, however, are finely treated by Mr Gay in his Rural Sports, we particularly refer to that poem.

We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have anticipated our design, and rendered any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this treatise. We ought however to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients who wrote precepts for poetry in verse; at least his epistle to the Pisos is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect, it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired; as Boileau, Pope, &c.

74. Poets who write in the preceptive manner should take care to choose such subjects as are worthy of their muse, and of consequence to all mankind; for to be slow both parts and pains to teach people trifles that are unworthy of their attention, is to the last degree ridiculous.

Among poems of the useful and interesting kind, Dr Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health deserves particular recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and matterly manner in which he has treated it; for he has made those things, which are in their own nature dry and unentertaining, perfectly agreeable and pleasing, by adhering to the rules observed by Virgil and others, in the conduct of these poems.

75. With regard to the style or dress of these poems, it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to abound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and majesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a language above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be regarded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression, especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue: and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an affectation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—"That division ought most to be laboured in the inactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments."

We have already observed that anything in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things however will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philosophy are copious subjects. Precepts in these might be decorated with all the flowers in poetry; and, as Dr Trapp observes, how can poetry be better employed, or more agreeably to its nature and dignity, than in celebrating the works of the great Creator, and describing the nature and generation of animals, vegetables, and minerals; the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the motions of the earth; the flux and reflux of the sea; the cause of thunder, lightning, and other meteors; the attraction of the magnet; the gravitation, cohesion, and repulsion of matter; the impulsive motion of light; the flow progression of sounds; and other amazing phenomena of nature. Most of the arts and sciences are also proper subjects for this poem; and none are more so than its two sister arts, painting and music. In the former, particularly, there is room for the most entertaining precepts concerning the disposal of colours; the arrangement of lights and shades; the secret attractives of beauty; the various ideas which make up the one; the distinguishing between the attitudes proper to either sex, and every passion; the representing prospects of buildings, battles, or the country; and lastly, concerning the nature of imitation, and the power of painting. What a boundless field of invention is here? What room for description, comparison, and poetical fable? How easy the transition, at any time, from the draught to the original, from the shadow to the substance? and from hence, what noble excursions may be made into history, into panegyric upon the greatest beauties or heroes of the past or present age?

Sect. VII. Of the Epistle.

76. This species of writing, if we are permitted to lay down rules from the examples of our best poets, admits of great latitude, and solicits ornament and decoration: yet the poet is still to consider that the true character of the epistle is ease and elegance; nothing therefore should be forced or unnatural, laboured, or affected, but every part of the composition breathe an easy, polite, and unconstrained freedom.

It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that contain contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (business set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.

All farther rules and directions are unnecessary; for this kind of writing is better learned by example and practice, than by precept. We shall therefore, in conformity to our plan, select a few epistles for the reader's imitation; which, as this method of writing has of late much prevailed, may be best taken, perhaps, from our modern poets.

77. The following letter from Mr Addison to lord Halifax, contains an elegant description of the curiosities and places about Rome, together with such reflections on the inestimable blessings of liberty as must give pleasure to every Briton, especially when he sees them thus placed in direct opposition to the baneful influence of slavery and oppression which are ever to be seen among the miserable inhabitants of those countries.

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia's public poets retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease; Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wherefo'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around, And fill I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unforged, Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods; To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source; To see the Mincio draw his wat'ry store Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, And hoary Albula's infected tide O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide!

Fird with a thousand raptures, I survey Eridanus through flow'ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, I look for streams immortaliz'd in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry); Yet run forever by the muse's skill, And in the smooth description murmur still.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the fam'd river's empty shores admire, That, destitute of strength, derives its course From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;

Yet sung so often in poetic lays, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; So high the deathless muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd, And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd; Till, by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, Its rising billows through the world resound, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coasts of Britain's stormy isle, Or when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blooms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions thrive, When Rome's exalted beauties I decry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.

An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows uncopied Rome, And held uncrowded nations in its womb: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies; And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid: Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, And wond'ring at their height thro' airy channels flow.

Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires; And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires; Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand, Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, And emperors in Parian marble frown; While the bright dames, to whom they humbly su'd, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdu'd.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow. From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss, Amidst the soft variety I'm lost, Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound With circling notes and labyrinths of sound; Here domes and temples rise in distant views, And opening palaces invite my muse. How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The red'ning orange and the swelling grain; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; East'd of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the sight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Bless the wife conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hushed in peace.

Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite; But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Naflau's arms defend and counsels guide.

Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found The distant climes and distant tongues resound, I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That longs to launch into a bolder strain. But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song: My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.

There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, displayed in the following letter from lord Lyttelton to Mr Pope; and the message from the shade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful lesson to future bards.

From Rome, 1730.

Immortal bard! for whom each muse has wove The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove; Preferr'd, our drooping genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night, The darken'd age's last remaining light! To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ, Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit: For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost; From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly, Daughters of reason and of liberty. Nor Baiae now nor Umbria's plain they love, Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove; To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's unsuspicious reign, No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love, But mournful silence saddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state Has felt the worst severity of fate: Not that barbarian hands her faces broke, And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke; Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown, Her cities desert, and her fields unfown; But that her ancient spirit is decay'd, That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled, That there the source of science flows no more, Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd, Born to instruct and to command mankind; Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd! Oft I the traces you have left explore, Your ashes visit, and your urns adore; Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone, With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown; Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see, Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring muse my bofom'd glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes Beheld the poet's awful form arise: Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his master bear.

Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre, If high exalted on the throne of wit, Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit; No more let meaner satire dim the rays That flow majestic from thy noble bays. In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray! But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way; Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine, Addresses the least attractive of the nine.

Of thee more worthy were the talk to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise, To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where science in the arms of peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless opposers opposers of tyranny's sway, But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.

If these commands submissive thou receive, Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live; Envy to black Cocytus shall retire, And howl with furies in tormenting fire; Approving time shall consecrate thy lays, And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.

79. The great use of medals is properly described in this ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and the extravagant passion which some people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

See the wild waste of all devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd! Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods! Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage; Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal confpire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name; That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrinks into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judæa weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little eagles waves their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd flight pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Prefectius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.