Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/155

Of feigning anything.' We grant it true,
And the same privilege crave and allow;
But to mix natures clearly opposite,
To make the serpent and the dove unite,
Or lambs from savage tigers seek defence,
Shocks reason, and the rules of common sense.
⁠Some, who would have us think they meant to treat
At first on arguments of greatest weight,
Are proud, when here and there a glittering line
Does through the mass of their coarse rubbish shine.
In gay digressions they delight to rove.
Describing here a temple, there a grove,
A vale enamelled o'er with pleasant streams,
A painted rainbow, or the gliding Thames.
But how does this relate to their design?
Though good elsewhere, 'tis here but foisted in.
A common dauber may perhaps have skill
To paint a tavern sign, or landscape well;
But what is this to drawing of a fight,
A wreck, a storm, or the last judgment right?
When the fair model and foundation shews,
That you some great Escurial would produce,
How comes it dwindled to a cottage thus?
In fine, whatever work you mean to frame,
Be uniform, and everywhere the same.
⁠Most poets, sir, ('tis easy to observe)
Into the worst of faults are apt to swerve;
Through a false hope of reaching excellence,
Avoiding length, we often cramp our sense,
And make 't obscure; oft, when we'd have our style
Easy and flowing, lose its force the while;
Some, striving to surmount the common flight,
Soar up in airy bombast out of sight;
Others, who fear to a bold pitch to trust
Themselves, flag low, and humbly sweep the dust;
And many fond of seeming marvellous,
While they too carelessly transgress the laws