" He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find / The genuin stamp, and image of his mind"
— Pitt, Christopher (1699-1748)
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed by Sam. Palmer, For A. Bettesworth
Date
1725
Metaphor
" He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find / The genuin stamp, and image of his mind"
Metaphor in Context
For what remains unsung; I now declare
What claims the poet's last and strictest care.
When, all adventures past, his labours tend
In one continu'd order to their end;
When the proud victor on his conquest smiles,
And safe enjoys the triumph of his toils;
Let him by timely diffidence be aw'd,
Nor trust too soon th' unpolisht piece abroad.
Oh! may his rash ambition ne'er inflame
His breast, with such a dangerous thirst of fame.
But let the terror of disgrace controul
The warm, the partial fondness of his soul;
And force the bard to throw his passion by,
Nor view his off spring with a parent's eye;
Till his affections are by justice crost,
And all the father in the judge is lost.
He seeks his friends, nor trusts himself alone,
But asks their judgment, and resigns his own;
Begs them, with urgent pray'rs, to be sincere,
Just, and exact, and rigidly severe;
Due verdict to pronounce on ev'ry thought,
Nor spare the slightest shadow of a fault;
But, bent against himself, and strictly nice,
He thanks each critick that detects a vice;
Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
The piece thrown by; the bard again reviews
The long-forgotten labours of his muse:
Lo! on all sides far diff'rent objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wond'ring eyes.
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engrost,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuin stamp, and image of his mind.
This thought and that, indignant he rejects;
When most secure, some danger he suspects;
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects
With kind severities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of ev'ry part,
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From ev'ry line to wipe out ev'ry blot,
'Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinisht numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sov'reign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft' as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.
In diff'rent lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of ev'ry verse.
In this persist; for oft' one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft', without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errors you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft' to improve his muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a diff'rent sky.
For thus his genius takes a diff'rent face
From each respective genius of a place.
The soul too varies; and the bard may find
A thousand diff'rent motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will ev'ry moment rise,
While from each part the scatt'ring darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amiss,
He adds new flow'rs to beautifie the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such,
Who with excess of care correct too much;
Whose barb'rous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dang'rous than the wound.
'Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die; the limbs appear
Seam'd and deform'd with one continu'd scar.
No fix't determin'd number will I set;
But when some years the labour shall compleat;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish't piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heav'nly song,
The theme of ev'ry hand and ev'ry tongue;
See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to swell the vast applause;
The vast applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages shall obscure thy fame,
And earths last ends shall hear thy darling name.
Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the muse?
What claims the poet's last and strictest care.
When, all adventures past, his labours tend
In one continu'd order to their end;
When the proud victor on his conquest smiles,
And safe enjoys the triumph of his toils;
Let him by timely diffidence be aw'd,
Nor trust too soon th' unpolisht piece abroad.
Oh! may his rash ambition ne'er inflame
His breast, with such a dangerous thirst of fame.
But let the terror of disgrace controul
The warm, the partial fondness of his soul;
And force the bard to throw his passion by,
Nor view his off spring with a parent's eye;
Till his affections are by justice crost,
And all the father in the judge is lost.
He seeks his friends, nor trusts himself alone,
But asks their judgment, and resigns his own;
Begs them, with urgent pray'rs, to be sincere,
Just, and exact, and rigidly severe;
Due verdict to pronounce on ev'ry thought,
Nor spare the slightest shadow of a fault;
But, bent against himself, and strictly nice,
He thanks each critick that detects a vice;
Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
The piece thrown by; the bard again reviews
The long-forgotten labours of his muse:
Lo! on all sides far diff'rent objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wond'ring eyes.
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engrost,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuin stamp, and image of his mind.
This thought and that, indignant he rejects;
When most secure, some danger he suspects;
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects
With kind severities, and timely art,
Lops the luxuriant growth of ev'ry part,
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From ev'ry line to wipe out ev'ry blot,
'Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinisht numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sov'reign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft' as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.
In diff'rent lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of ev'ry verse.
In this persist; for oft' one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft', without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errors you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft' to improve his muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a diff'rent sky.
For thus his genius takes a diff'rent face
From each respective genius of a place.
The soul too varies; and the bard may find
A thousand diff'rent motions in his mind.
New gleams of light will ev'ry moment rise,
While from each part the scatt'ring darkness flies.
And, as he alters what appears amiss,
He adds new flow'rs to beautifie the piece.
But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such,
Who with excess of care correct too much;
Whose barb'rous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dang'rous than the wound.
'Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die; the limbs appear
Seam'd and deform'd with one continu'd scar.
No fix't determin'd number will I set;
But when some years the labour shall compleat;
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish't piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heav'nly song,
The theme of ev'ry hand and ev'ry tongue;
See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draws,
Each with his voice to swell the vast applause;
The vast applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages shall obscure thy fame,
And earths last ends shall hear thy darling name.
Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the muse?
Categories
Provenance
Searching "stamp" and "mind" in HDIS (Poetry); found again "thought"
Citation
At least 5 entries in ECCO and ESTC (1725, 1726, 1742, 1743, 1750).
Text from Vida's Art of poetry, Translated Into English Verse, by the Reverend Mr. Christoph. Pitt, A. M. Late Fellow of New-College in Oxford, Rector of Pimpern in Dorsetshire, and Chaplain to the Right Honourable Philip, Earl Stanhope, &c. (London : printed by Sam. Palmer, for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Pater-Noster-Row, 1725). <Link to ESTC>
Text from Vida's Art of poetry, Translated Into English Verse, by the Reverend Mr. Christoph. Pitt, A. M. Late Fellow of New-College in Oxford, Rector of Pimpern in Dorsetshire, and Chaplain to the Right Honourable Philip, Earl Stanhope, &c. (London : printed by Sam. Palmer, for A. Bettesworth, at the Red Lion in Pater-Noster-Row, 1725). <Link to ESTC>
Date of Entry
04/07/2005
