One of his famous poems (many think it his best) is the Rape of the Lock, a lively story in verse. The incident is the stealing of a lock of hair from the head of a belle by one of her admirers. The subject, which is rather artificial, suits Pope's style; there is no other of his poems in which both style and subject are so in harmony, and this, no doubt, is one reason of its success. The heroine, Belinda, has been warned by a sylph of the air, her guardian, who superintends her toilet, that some dread event is to happen; but, undisturbed by the warning, she begins to dress for an excursion up the Thames to Hampton. Her toilet is thus described: "And now unveiled the toilet stands displayed, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. "Not with more glories, in the ethereal plain, Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her shone, But every eye was fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. "This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, "The adventurous baron the bright locks admired; By force to ravish, or by fraud betray. For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends." The Rape of the Lock is a poem of society, witty, sparkling, and without earnestness. The poetical essays are in a different vein, and the Essay on Man is full of sound philosophy. You may judge of it by this extract : "Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason would he skip and play? A hero perish or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 46 Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar, What future bliss he gives not thee to know, Yet simple Nature to his hope hath given, Where slaves once more their native land behold, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire, But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company." The measure of Pope's verses is almost always the same, -in rhymed couplets like these that I have quoted. He has written, however, a few lyrics, and the best-known of these, The Dying Christian to His Soul, we will read as an example of his style in the ode: "Vital spark of heavenly flame, "Hark! they whisper; angels say, "The world recedes, it disappears; Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly! O Grave, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?" You will notice in reading Pope for the first time how many familiar lines are found in his poetry,— lines, perhaps, which you have heard without knowing whence they came. There are few writers so much quoted; I think that a volume of Pope furnishes more familiar quotations than any other in our language except the Bible or Shakespeare. Lines so even and flowing, and so witty and full of point, are doubly apt to stick in the memory. Pope's influence on his own age and on the whole century in which he lived was very great. During his life he was a poetical oracle, and he put poetry into a bondage from which it was not freed for a hundred years. Almost every poet up to the last of the eighteenth century was a follower of Pope. During all these years poetry kept a dead level of correctness, until a few men of strong and original genius arose who broke its bonds and gave it again some of the free and untamed spirit that had inspired it in the Elizabethan age. FAR XXXVI. ON PRIOR, GAY, AND PARNELL. AR below Pope in rank come Prior, Gay, and Parnell, all of whom were his friends or acquaintances. 1664-1721 MATTHEW PRIOR, a man of the world and a politican who held several fat offices, found leisure to write a great deal and in a variety of styles, lyrics, narrative poems, epitaphs, epistles, and odes. He wrote a dull poem on Solomon, or the Vanities of the World, and another, equally tiresome, called Alma, or the Progress of the Mind. We shall probably never get farther in our knowledge of these than the titles. His best poems are his shortest ones, and I shall dismiss Prior with one of the prettiest of these short lyrics: |