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Letters to Dead Authors-Part4_ANDREW LANG(1844-1912)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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His Spirit sank when he was called to fight.

Pope, in the Darkness mining like a Mole,



Forged on Himself, as from Himself he stole,

And what for Caryll once he feigned to feel,



Transferred, in Letters never sent, to Steele!

Still he denied the Letters he had writ,



And still mistook Indecency for Wit.

His very Grammar, so De Quincey cries,



"Detains the Reader, and at times defies!'"

Fierce El-n thus: no Line escapes his Rage,



And furious Foot-notes growl 'neath every Page:

See St-ph-n next take up the woful Tale,



Prolong the Preaching, and protract the Wail!

"Some forage Falsehoods from the North and South,



But Pope, poor D-l, lied from Hand to Mouth; {5}

Affected, hypocritical, and vain,



A Book in Breeches, and a Fop in Grain;

A Fox that found not the high Clusters sour,



The Fanfaron of Vice beyond his power,

Pope yet possessed"--(the Praise will make you start) -



"Mean, morbid, vain, he yet possessed a Heart!

And still we marvel at the Man, and still



Admire his Finish, and applaud his Skill:

Though, as that fabled Barque, a phantom Form,



Eternal strains, nor rounds the Cape of Storm,

Even so Pope strove, nor ever crossed the Line



That from the Noble separates the Fine!"

The Learned thus, and who can quite reply,



Reverse the Judgment, and Retort the Lie?

You reap, in armed Hates that haunt your Name,



Reap what you sowed, the Dragon's Teeth of Fame:

You could not write, and from unenvious Time



Expect the Wreath that crowns the lofty Rhyme,

You still must fight, retreat, attack, defend,



And oft, to snatch a Laurel, lose a Friend!

The Pity of it! And the changing Taste



Of changing Time leaves half your Work a Waste!

My Childhood fled your Couplet's clarion tone,



And sought for Homer in the Prose of Bohn.

Still through the Dust of that dim Prose appears



The Flight of Arrows and the Sheen of Spears;

Still we may trace what Hearts heroic feel,



And hear the Bronze that hurtles on the Steel!

But, ah, your Iliad seems a half-pretence,



Where Wits, not Heroes, prove their Skill in Fence,

And great Achilles' Eloquence doth show



As if no Centaur trained him, but Boileau!

Again, your Verse is orderly,--and more, -



"The Waves behind impel the Waves before;"

Monotonously musical they glide,



Till Couplet unto Couplet hath replied.

But turn to Homer! How his Verses sweep!



Surge answers Surge and Deep doth call on Deep;

This Line in Foam and Thunder issues forth,



Spurred by the West or smitten by the North,

Sombre in all its sullen Deeps, and all



Clear at the Crest, and foaming to the Fall,

The next with silver Murmur dies away,



Like Tides that falter to Calypso's Bay!

Thus Time, with sordid Alchemy and dread,



Turns half the Glory of your Gold to Lead;

Thus Time,--at Ronsard's wreath that vainly bit, -



Has marred the Poet to preserve the Wit,

Who almost left on Addison a stain,



Whose Knife cut cleanest with a poisoned pain, -

Yet Thou (strange Fate that clings to all of Thine!)



When most a Wit dost most a Poet shine.

In Poetry thy Dunciad expires,



When Wit has shot "her momentary Fires."

'Tis Tragedy that watches by the Bed



"Where tawdry Yellow strove with dirty Red,"

And Men, remembering all, can scarce deny



To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie!

LETTER--To Lucian of Samosata



In what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are




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