Alexander Pope (1688–1744). An Essay on Criticism Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind: But more advanc’d, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleas’d at first the tow’ring Alps we try, Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th’ eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: But those attain’d, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthen’d way; Th’ increasing prospect tires our wand’ring eyes, Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ; Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the mind: Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The gen’rous pleasure to be charm’d with wit. But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep, We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep. In Wit, as Nature, what affects our hearts Is not th’ exactness of peculiar parts; ’T is not a lip or eye we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.
Posted on: Sun, 11 Aug 2013 11:45:30 +0000
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