BOOK I.

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Thomas Berger,

and the Distributed Proofreaders Team

THE POETICAL WORKS OF CHARLES CHURCHILL.

With Memoir, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes,

By The REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

* * * * *

CHURCHILL--HIS LIFE AND WRITINGS.

In Churchill we find a signal specimen of a considerable class of

writers, concerning whom Goldsmith's words are true--

"Who, born for the universe, narrow'd their mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind."

Possessed of powers and natural endowments which might have made him,

under favourable circumstances, a poet, a hero, a man, and a saint, he

became, partly through his own fault, and partly through the force of

destiny, a satirist, an unfortunate politician, a profligate, died early;

and we must approach his corpse, as men do those of Burns and Byron, with

sorrow, wonder, admiration, and blame, blended into one strange, complex,

and yet not unnatural emotion. Like them, his life was short and

unhappy--his career triumphant, yet checquered--his powers

uncultivated--his passions unchecked--his poetry only a partial discovery

of his genius--his end sudden and melancholy--and his reputation, and

future place in the history of letters, hitherto somewhat uncertain. And

yet, like them, his very faults and errors, both as a man and a poet,

have acted, with many, as nails, fastening to a "sure place" his

reputation and the effect of his genius.

Charles Churchill was born in Vine Street, Westminster, in February 1731.

He was the eldest son of the Rev. Charles Churchill, a rector in Essex,

as well as a curate, and lecturer of St John the Evangelist, Westminster.

As to the attainments of the poet's father, we know only that he was

qualified to superintend the studies of the son, during the intervals of

public tuition. At eight years of age, he was sent to Westminster School,

and placed under the care of Dr Nichols and Dr Pierson Lloyd, where his

proficiency in classical lore was by no means remarkable; nor did he give

any promise of the brilliance which afterwards distinguished his genius.

At fifteen, he stood as candidate for admission to the foundation at

Westminster, and carried it triumphantly. Shortly after, having by some

misdemeanour displeased the masters, he was compelled to compose, and

recite in the school-room, a poetical declamation in Latin, by way of

penance. This he accomplished in a masterly manner--to the astonishment

of his masters, and the delight of his school-fellows--some of whom

became afterwards distinguished men. We can fancy the scene at the day of

the recitation--the grave and big-wigged schoolmasters looking grimly

on--their aspect, however, becoming softer and brighter, as one large

hexameter rolls out after another--the strong, awkward, ugly boy,

unblushingly pouring forth his energetic lines--cheered by the sight of

the relaxing gravity of his teachers' looks--while around, you see the

bashful tremulous figure of poor Cowper, the small thin shape and bright

eye of Warren Hastings, and the waggish countenance of Colman--all

eagerly watching the reciter--and all, at last, distended and brightened

with joy at his signal triumph.

At the age of eighteen, he stood for a fellowship in Merton College, but

without success--being defeated by older candidates. Shortly after, he

applied for matriculation at the University of Oxford, but is SAID to

have been rejected at his examination, in which, instead of answering the

questions proposed, he broke out into satirical reflections on the

abilities of his judges. From Oxford he repaired to Cambridge, where he

was admitted into Trinity College. Here, however, his stay was very

short,--he was probably repelled by the _chevaux-de-frise_ of the

mathematics;--and in a few weeks he returned to London, disgusted at both

universities, shaking their dust off his feet, and, perhaps, vowing

vengeance against them--a vow which he has kept in his poetry. In his

"Ghost," for instance, he thus ridiculed those forms of admission--

"Which Balaam's ass

As well as Balaam's self might pass,

And with his master take degrees,

Could he contrive to pay the fees."

Penniless, and soured by disappointment, Churchill returned to his

father's house; and, being idle, soon obtained work from the proverbial

"taskmaster" of all idle people. Having become acquainted with a young

lady, named Scott, whose father lived in the vicinity of Westminster

School, he, with true poetic imprudence, married her privately in the

Fleet, to the great annoyance of both their parents. His father, however,

was much attached to and proud of his son, and at last was reconciled to

the match, and took the young couple home. Churchill passed one quiet

domestic year under the paternal roof. At its termination--for reasons

which are not known--he retired to Sunderland, in the north of England,

and seems there to have applied himself enthusiastically to the study of

poetry--commencing, at the same time, a course of theological reading,

with a view to the Church. He remained in Sunderland till the year 1753,

when he came back to London to take possession of a small fortune which

accrued to him through his wife. He had now reached the age of

twenty-two, and had been three years married.

During the residence in the metropolis which succeeded, he frequented the

theatres, and came thus in contact with a field where he was to gather

his earliest and most untarnished laurels. In "The Rosciad," we find the

results of several years' keen and close observation of the actors of the

period, collected into one focus, and pointed and irradiated by the power

of genius. As Scott, while carelessly galloping in his youth through

Liddesdale, and listening to ballads and old-world stories, was "making

himself" into the mighty minstrel of the border--so this big, clumsy,

overgrown student, seated in the pit of Drury Lane, or exalted to the

one-shilling gallery of Covent Garden, was silently growing into the

greatest poet of the stage that, perhaps, ever lived.

Soon after, he was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, on

the curacy of Cadbury, in Somersetshire, where he immediately removed,

and entered on a career of active ministerial work. Such were the golden

opinions he gained in Cadbury, that, in 1756, although he had taken no

degree, nor could be said to have studied at either of the universities,

he was ordained priest by Dr Sherlock, the Bishop of London (celebrated

for his Sermons and his "Trial of the Witnesses"), on his father's curacy

of Rainham, Essex. Here he continued diligent in his pastoral

duties--blameless in his conduct, and attentive to his theological

studies. He seemed to have entirely escaped from the suction of the

stage--to have forsworn the Muses, and to have turned the eye of his

ambition away from the peaks of Parnassus to the summit of the Bishops'

Bench.

But for Churchill's poor circumstances, it is likely that he would have

reached this elevation, as surely as did his great contemporary, and the

object of his implacable hatred and abuse, William Warburton. But his

early marriage, and his increasing responsibilities, produced pecuniary

embarrassments, and these must have tended gradually to sour him against

his profession, and to prepare his mind for that rupture with it which

ultimately ensued. To support himself and his family, he opened a school,

and met with considerable encouragement--although we suspect that his

scholars felt something of the spirit of the future satirist stirring in

the motions of his rod, and that he who afterwards lashed his century did

not spare his school. In the year 1758, his amiable and excellent father

died, and (a striking testimony both to his own and his son's early

worth) Charles was unanimously chosen to be his father's successor in the

curacy and lectureship of St John's. There he laboured for a time,

according to some statements, with much punctuality, energy, and

acceptance. After "The Rosciad" had established his name, he sold ten of

the sermons he had preached in St John's to a bookseller for £250. We

have not read them; but Dr Kippis has pronounced them utterly unworthy of

their author's fame--without a single gleam of his poetic fire--so poor,

indeed, that he supposes that they were borrowed from some dull elderly

divine, if not from Churchill's own father. This reminds us of a story

which was lately communicated to us about the famous William Godwin. He,

too, succeeded his father in his pastoral charge. Tinged, however,

already with heterodox views, he was by no means so popular as his father

had been. His own sermons were exceedingly cold and dry, but he possessed

a chestful of his father's, and used to read them frequently, by way of

grateful change to his hearers. The sermons of the elder Godwin were

recognised by the orthodoxy of their sentiment, and the dinginess of

their colour, and were much relished; and so long as the stock lasted,

the future author of "Caleb Williams" commanded a tolerable audience; but

so soon as he had read them all, and resumed his own lucubrations, his

hearers melted away, and he moved off to become a literateur in London.

Perhaps Churchill, in like manner, may have found that general audiences

like plain sense better than poetry. That he had ever much real piety or

zeal has been gravely doubted, and we share in the doubts. But although

he himself speaks slightingly, in one of his latter poems, of his

ministerial labours, he at least played his part with outward decorum.

His great objection to the office was still his small salary, which

amounted to scarcely £100 per annum. This compelled him to resume the

occupation of a tutor, first to the young ladies attending a

boarding-school in Queen Square, Bloomsbury, and then to several young

gentlemen who were prosecuting the study of the classics.

When about twenty-seven years of age, he renewed his acquaintance with

Robert Lloyd, the son of Dr Lloyd, one of the masters of Westminster

School, and who had been an early chum of Churchill's. This young man had

discovered very promising abilities, alike at Westminster and at

Cambridge, and had been appointed usher in his father's seminary; but,

sick of the drudgery, and infected with a fierce thirst both for fame and

pleasure, had flung himself upon the literary arena. Although far

inferior to Churchill in genius, and indeed little better than a clever

copyist of his manner, he exerted a very pernicious influence on his

friend's conduct. He borrowed inspiration from Churchill, and gave him

infamy in exchange. The poet could do nothing by halves. Along with

Lloyd, he rushed into a wild career of dissipation. He became a nightly

frequenter of the theatres, taverns, and worse haunts. His wife, with

whom, after the first year, he never seems to have been happy, instead of

checking, outran her husband in extravagance and imprudence. He got

deeply involved in debt, and was repeatedly in danger of imprisonment,

till Dr Lloyd, his friend's father, nobly stept forward to his relief,

persuaded his creditors to accept five shillings in the pound, and

himself lent what was required to complete the sum. It is said that, when

afterwards Churchill had made money by the sale of his poems, he

voluntarily paid the whole of the original debt.

Along with the new love of indulgence, there had arisen in his bosom the

old love of verse. Stimulated by intercourse with Lloyd, Colman, B.

Thornton, and other wits of the period, he had written a poem, in

Hudibrastic rhyme, entitled "The Bard." This he offered to one Waller, a

bookseller in Fleet Street, who rejected it with scorn. In this feeling

Churchill seems afterwards to have shared, as he never would consent to

its publication. Not at all discouraged, he sat down and wrote a satire

entitled "The Conclave," directed against the Dean and Chapter of

Westminster,--Dr Zachary Pearce, a favourite of Churchill's ire, being

then Dean. This would have been published but for the fear of legal

proceedings. It was extremely personal and severe. His third effort was

destined to be more successful. This was "The Rosciad," written, it is

said, after two months' close attendance on the theatres. This

excessively clever satire he offered to various booksellers, some say for

twenty pounds, others for five guineas. It was refused, and he had to

print it at his own expense. It appeared, without his name, in March

1761. Churchill now, like Byron, "awoke one morning and found himself

famous." A few days convinced him and all men that a decided hit had been

made, and that a strong new satirist had burst, like a comet, into the

sky--

"With fear of change perplexing" players.

The effect was prodigious. The critics admired--the victims of his satire

writhed and raved--the public greedily bought, and all cried out, "Who

can this be?" The _Critical Review_, then conducted by Smollett, alone

opposed the general opinion. It accused Colman and Lloyd of having

concocted "The Rosciad," for the purpose of puffing themselves. This

compelled Churchill to quit his mask. He announced his name as the author

of the poem, and as preparing another--his "Apology"--addressed to the

_Critical Reviewers_, which accordingly appeared ere the close of April.

It proved a second bombshell, cast into the astonished town. Smollett was

keenly assailed in it, and had to write to Churchill, through Garrick,

that he was not the writer of the obnoxious critique. Garrick, himself

the hero of "The Rosciad," was here rather broadly reminded that heroes

are mortal, and that kings may be dethroned, and had to make humiliating

concessions to the fearless satirist. Fearless, indeed, and strong he

required to be, for many of his victims had vowed loud and deep to avenge

their quarrel by inflicting corporal chastisement on their foe. He armed

himself with a huge bludgeon, however, and stalked abroad and returned

home unharmed and unattempted. None cared to meddle with such a brawny

Hercules.

In another way his enemies soon had their revenge. He had gained one

thousand pounds by his two poems, and this supplied him with the

materials of unlimited indulgence, which he did not fail to use. He threw

off every restraint. He donned, instead of his clerical costume, a blue

coat and gold-laced waistcoat. He separated from his wife, giving her,

indeed, a handsome allowance. His midnight potations became deeper and

more habitual. Dean Zachary Pearce, afterwards Bishop of Rochester, in

vain remonstrated. At last, on his parishioners taking the matter up, and

raising an outcry as to his neglect of duty, and the unbecoming character

of his dress, he resigned his curacy and lectureship, and became for the

rest of his life a literary and dissipated "man about town."

In October 1761 he published a poem entitled "Night," addressed to Lloyd,

in which, while seeking to vindicate himself from the charges against his

_morale_, he in reality glories in his shame. His sudden celebrity had

perhaps acted as a glare of light, revealing faults that might have been

overlooked in an obscure person. With his dissipation, too, there mingled

some elements of generosity and compassion, as in the story told of him

by Charles Johnson in his "Chrysal" of the poet succouring a poor

starving girl of the town, whom he met in the midnight streets,--an

incident reminding one of the similar stories told of Dr Johnson, and

Burke, and realising the parable of the good Samaritan. Yet his conduct

on the whole could not be defended.

His next poem was "The Ghost," which he published in parts, and continued

at intervals. It was a kind of rhymed diary or waste-book, in which he

deposited his every-day thoughts and feelings, without any order or

plan,--reminding us of "Tristram Shandy" or of "Don Juan," although not

so whimsically delightful as the former, nor so brilliant and poignant as

the latter.

But now, in 1762, the Poet was to degrade or to sublimate into the

Politician, at the bidding of that gay magician, Jack Wilkes. That this

man was much better than a clever and pre-eminently lucky scoundrel, is

now denied by few. He had, indeed, immense _pluck_ and convivial

pleasantry, with considerable learning and talent. But he had no

principle, no character, little power of writing, and did not even

possess a particle of that mob eloquence which seduces multitudes. His

depravities and vices were far too gross even for that gross age. In the

very height of his reputation for patriotism, he was intriguing with the

ministry for a place for himself. And he became in his latter days, as

Burke had predicted (for we strongly suspect that Burke wrote the words

in "Junius"), "a silent senator," sate down "infamous and

contented,"--proving that it had only been "the tempest which had lifted

him from his place."

Wilkes introduced himself to Churchill, and they became speedily

intimate. Soon after, indignant at the supremacy of Lord Bute, who, as a

royal favourite, had obtained a power in the country which had not been

equalled since Buckingham fell before the assassin Felton's knife, and

was employing all his influence to patronise the Scotch, Wilkes commenced

the _North Briton_. In this, from the first, he was assisted by

Churchill, who, however, did not write prose so vigorously as verse. He

had sent to the _North Briton_ a biting paper against the Scotch. On

reflection, he recalled and recast it in rhyme. It was "The Prophecy of

Famine;" and became so popular as to make a whole nation his enemies, and

all _their_ enemies his friends. This completely filled up the measure of

Churchill's triumph. He actually dressed his youngest son in the Highland

garb, took him everywhere along with him, and instructed him to say, when

asked why he was thus dressed, "Sir, my father hates the Scotch; and does

it to plague them."

Lord Bute resigned early in 1763, and was succeeded by a ministry

comprising such men as Sir Francis Dashwood, and Lord Sandwich, who had

been intimates of Wilkes, and had shared with him in certain disgusting

orgies at Medmenham Abbey. They now, however, changed their tactics, and

became vehement upholders of morality and religion; and began to watch

their opportunity for pouncing on their quondam associate. This he

himself furnished by the famous _North Briton_, No. 45. That paper may

now seem, to those who read it, a not very powerful, and not very daring

diatribe. But the times were inflammable--the nation was frantic with

rage at the peace--the ministry were young, and willing to flesh their

new-got power in some victim or other; and Wilkes, in this paper, had now

exposed himself to their fury. Warrants were instantly issued to arrest

him and Churchill, as well as the publishers and printers. Wilkes was

newly arrested when Churchill walked into his room. Knowing that his

friend's name was also in the warrant, he adroitly said to Churchill,

"Good morrow, Mr Thomson; how is Mrs Thomson to-day; does _she dine in

the country?_" The poet took the hint--said that she was waiting on

him--took his leave, and retired to the country accordingly.

Immediately after occurred the controversy between Hogarth and our poet.

While Wilkes's case was being tried, and Chief-Justice Pratt, afterwards

Lord Camden, was about to give the memorable decision in favour of the

accused, and in condemnation of general warrants, Hogarth was sitting in

the court, and immortalising Wilkes's villanous squint upon the canvas.

In July 1763, Churchill avenged his friend's quarrel by the savage

personalities of his "Epistle to William Hogarth." Here, while lauding

highly the painter's genius, he denounces his vanity, his envy, and makes

an unmanly and brutal attack on his supposed dotage. Hogarth, within a

month, replied by caricaturing Churchill as a bear with torn clerical

bands, paws in ruffles, a pot of porter in his right hand, and a knot of

LIES and _North Britons_ in his left. Churchill threatened him with a

renewed and severer assault in the shape of an elegy, but was dissuaded

from it by his mistress.

This was Miss Carr, daughter of a respectable sculptor in Westminster,

whom Churchill had seduced. After a fortnight they were both struck with

remorse, agreed to separate, and, through the intercession of a friend,

the young lady was restored to her parents. Rendered miserable, however,

by the taunts of an elder sister, she, in absolute despair, cast herself

again on Churchill's protection, and they remained together till his

death. In his letters we find him, during one of his sober intervals,

living quietly with her in Richmond. In "The Conference," he makes some

allusions to this unhappy affair, and discovers the spirit, if not of

true penitence, certainly of keen remorse, and strong self-crimination.

In the autumn of 1763 he became the comforter of his friend, Lloyd, in

the Fleet, supported him in confinement, and opened a subscription for

the discharge of his heavy debts, which, owing to the backwardness of

others, proved of little service.

Toward the close of this year, the _North Briton_ was ordered to be burnt

by the common hangman; and, on the motion of Lord Sandwich, Wilkes was

handed over for prosecution, for his infamous "Essay on Woman," a parody

on Pope's "Essay on Man"--(one Kidgell, a clergyman, had stolen a copy,

and informed the Government.) Lord Sandwich was backed by Warburton; and

the result was, Wilkes's expulsion from the House of Commons, and his

flight to France. He had previously fought a duel with one Martin, an

M.P., by whom he was severely wounded. All this furnished Churchill with

matter for his "Duellist," which even Horace Walpole pronounced

"glorious." In this vigorous production, he mercilessly lashes Martin,

Kidgell, Warburton, and especially Sandwich. At this time he, too,

purposed a retreat to France--a country where his name was already so

well known, that when the Honourable Mr Churchill, the son of a general

of the name, was asked, in Paris, if he were Churchill, the famous poet,

and replied that he was not, the answer of the Frenchman was, "_So much

the worse for you._" His time, however, to visit that coast, destined to

be so fatal to him, was not yet quite come.

From Richmond he removed to Acton-Common, where he had a house furnished

with great elegance--"kept a post-chaise, saddle-horses, and

pointers--and fished, fowled, hunted, coursed, and lived in an easy

independent manner." There he continued his irregular but rapid and

energetic course of composition, pouring out poem after poem as if he

felt his time to be short, or as if he were spurred on by the secret

stings of misery and remorse. To "The Duellist" succeeded "The

Author,"--a poem more general and less poisoned with personalities than

any of his former. "Gotham," by far the most poetical of his works, came

next. When Lord Sandwich stood for the High-Stewardship of Cambridge,

Churchill's ancient grudge, as well as his itch for satire, revived, and

he improvised "The Candidate," a piece of hasty but terrible sarcasm.

With breathless and portentous rapidity followed "The Farewell," "The

Times," and "Independence," which was his last published production. Two

fragments were found among his MSS., one "A Dedication to Warburton," and

another, "The Journey," his latest effort, and in which the last line now

seems prophetic--

"_I on my journey all alone proceed_."

A far and final journey was before this great and ill-fated poet. He was

seized with one of those sudden longings to see a friend, which are not

uncommon with the impulsive. He determined to visit Wilkes at Boulogne,

and conveyed his purpose to his brother John in the following

note:--"Dear Jack, adieu, C.C." On the 22d of October 1764, he started

for France, met Wilkes; but on the 29th was seized with miliary fever,

under which, while imprudently removed from his bed to be conveyed at his

own desire to England, his constitution sunk, and he expired on the 4th

of November, in the thirty-third year of his age. He is said to have died

calmly and firmly, rebuking the excessive grief of his friends, and

repeating some manly but not very Christian lines from his own poetry. By

a will made during his sickness, he left an annuity of sixty pounds to

his wife (in addition, we suppose, to her former allowance), fifty pounds

a-year to Miss Carr, besides providing for his two boys, and leaving

mourning rings to his more intimate friends. Wilkes got the charge of all

his works. His body was brought to Dover, where he now sleeps in an old

churchyard, which once belonged to the church of St Martin, with a stone

over him, bearing his age, the date of his death, and this line from one

of his own poems--

"Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies."

The words which he is reported to have used on his deathbed, _should_

have been inscribed on the stone--

"What a fool I have been!"

Hogarth had expired on the 25th of October, ten days before his opponent.

Lloyd was finishing his dinner, when the news of his friend's death

arrived. He was seized with sudden sickness, and crying out, "I shall

soon follow poor Charles," was carried to a bed, whence he was never to

rise. Churchill's favourite sister, Patty, who had been engaged to Lloyd,

soon afterwards sank under the double blow. The premature death of this

most popular of the poets of the time, excited a great sensation. His

furniture and books sold excessively high; a steel pen, for instance, for

five pounds, and a pair of plated spurs for sixteen guineas. Wilkes

talked much about his "dear Churchill," but, with the exception of

burning a MS. fragmentary satire, which Churchill had begun against

Colman and Thornton, _two of his intimate friends_, and erecting an urn

to him near his cottage in the Isle of Wight, with a flaming Latin

inscription, he did nothing for his memory. The poet's brother, John, an

apothecary, survived him only one year; and his two sons, Charles and

John, inherited the vices without the genius of their father. There was,

as late as 1825, a grand-daughter of his, a Mary Churchill, who had been

a governess, surviving as a patient in St George's Hospital,--a

characteristic close to such a wayward, unfortunate race.

For the errors of Churchill, as a man, there does not seem to exist any

plea of palliation, except what may be found in the poverty of his early

circumstances, and in the strength of his later passions. The worst is,

that he never seems to have been seduced into sin through the bewildering

and bewitching mists of imagination. It was naked sensuality that he

appeared to worship, and he always sinned with his eyes open. Yet his

moral sense, though blunted, was never obliterated; and many traits of

generosity and good feeling mingled with his excesses. Choosing satire as

the field of his Muse, was partly the cause and partly the effect of an

imperfect _morale_. We are far from averring that no satirist can be a

good man, but certainly most satirists have either been very good or very

bad men. To the former class have belonged Cowper, Crabbe, &c.; to the

latter, such names as Swift, Dryden, Byron, and, we must add, Churchill.

Robust manhood, honesty, and hatred of pretence, we admit him to have

possessed; but of genuine love to humanity he seems to have been as

destitute as of fear of God, or regard for the ordinary moralities.

We have to deal with him, however, principally as a poet; and there can,

we think, now be but one opinion as to his peculiar merits. He possessed,

beyond all doubt, a strong understanding, a lively imagination, a keen

perception of character--especially in its defects and

weaknesses--considerable wit without any humour, fierce passions and

hatreds, and a boundless command of a loose, careless, but bold and

energetic diction; add to this, a constant tone of self-assertion, and

rugged independence. He was emphatically a John Bull, sublimated. He

rushed into the poetic arena more like a pugilist than a poet, laying

about him on all sides, giving and taking strong blows, and approving

himself, in the phrase of "the fancy," game to the backbone. His faults,

besides those incident to most satirists,--such as undue severity,

intrusion into private life, anger darkening into malignity, and spleen

fermenting into venom,--were carelessness of style, inequality, and want

of condensation. Compared to the satires of Pope, Churchill's are far

less polished, and less pointed. Pope stabs with a silver

bodkin--Churchill hews down his opponent with a broadsword. Pope whispers

a word in his enemy's ear which withers the heart within him, and he

sinks lifeless to the ground; Churchill pours out a torrent of blasting

invective which at once kills and buries his foe. Dryden was his

favourite model; and although he has written no such condensed

masterpieces of satire as the characters of Shaftesbury and Buckingham,

yet his works as a whole are not much inferior, and justify the idea that

had his life been spared, he might have risen to the level of "Glorious

John." His versification, too, is decidedly of the Drydenic type. It is a

free, fierce, rushing, sometimes staggering, race across meadow, moor,

and mountain, dreading nothing except repose and languor, the lines

chasing, and sometimes tumbling over each other in their haste, like

impatient hounds at a fox-hunt. But more than Dryden, we think, has

Churchill displayed the genuine poetic faculty, as well as often a

loftier tone of moral indignation. This latter feeling is the inspiration

of "The Candidate," and of "The Times," which, although coarse in

subject, and coarse in style, burns with a fire of righteous indignation,

reminding you of Juvenal. The finest display of his imaginative power is

in "Gotham," which is throughout a glorious rhapsody, resembling some of

the best prose effusions of Christopher North, and abounding in such

lines as these:--

"The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,

Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud

Of such a child, and _his vast body laid

Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade_."

It is of "Gotham" that Cowper says that few writers have equalled it for

its "bold and daring strokes of fancy; its numbers so hazardously

ventured upon, and so happily finished; its matter so compressed, and yet

so clear; its colouring so sparingly laid on, and yet with such a

beautiful effect."

One great objection to Churchill's poetry lies in the temporary interest

of the subjects to which most of it is devoted. The same objection,

however, applies to the letters of Junius, and to the speeches and papers

of Burke; and the same answer to it will avail for all. Junius, by the

charm of his style, by his classic severities, and purged, poignant

venom, contrives to interest us in the paltry political feuds of the

past. Burke's does the same, by the general principles he extracts from,

and by the poetry with which he gilds, the rubbish. And so does

Churchill, by the weighty sense, the vigorous versification, the

inextinguishable spirit, and the trenchant satire and invective of his

song. The wretched intrigues of Newcastle and Bute, the squabbles of the

aldermen and councillors of the day, the petty quarrels of petty patriots

among themselves, and the poverty, spites, and frailties of forgotten

players, are all shown as in a magnifying-glass, and shine upon us

transfigured in the light of the poet's genius.

We have not room for lengthened criticism on all his separate

productions. "The Rosciad" is the most finished, pointed, and Pope-like

of his satires; it has more memorable and quotable lines than any of the

rest. "The Prophecy of Famine" is full of trash; but contains, too, many

lines in which political hatred, through its intense fervour, sparkles

into poetry: such as--

"No birds except as birds of passage flew;"

the account of the creatures which, when admitted into the ark,

"Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark;"

and the famous line--

"Where half-starved spiders prey on half-starved flies."

"The Ghost" is the least felicitous of all his poems, although its

picture of Pomposo (Dr Johnson) is exceedingly clever. The "Dedication to

Warburton" is a strain of terrible irony, but fails to damage the

Atlantean Bishop. "The Journey" is not only interesting as his last

production, but contains some affecting personal allusions, intermingled

with its stinging scorn--like pale passion-flowers blended with nettles

and nightshade. The most of the others have been already characterised.

Churchill has had two very formidable enemies to his fame and detractors

from his genius--Samuel Johnson and Christopher North. The first

pronounced him "a prolific blockhead," "a huge and fertile crab-tree;"

the second has wielded the knout against his back with peculiar gusto and

emphasis, in a paper on satire and satirists, published in _Blackwood_

for 1828. Had Churchill been alive, he could have easily "retorted

scorn"--set a "Christophero" over against the portrait of "Pomposo:" the

result had been, as always in such cases, a drawn battle; and damage

would have accrued, not to the special literateurs, but to the general

literary character. Prejudice or private pique always lurks at the bottom

of such reckless assaults, and all men in the long run feel so. In

Johnson's case, the _causa belli_ was unquestionably political

difference; and in Christopher North's it was the love of Scotland which

so warmly glowed in his bosom, and which created a glow of hatred no less

warm against Scotland's ablest, fiercest, and most inveterate poetical

foe.

Churchill's poetry only requires to be better known to be highly

appreciated for its masculine and thoroughly English qualities. In taking

our leave of him, we are again haunted by the signal resemblance he

bears, both in mental characteristics and in history, to Byron. Both were

powerful in satire, and still more so in purely poetic composition. Both

were irregular in life, and unfortunate in marriage. Both were

distinguished by fitful generosity, and careless tenderness. Both

obtained at once, and during all their career maintained, a pre-eminence

in popularity over all their contemporaries. Both were severely handled

by reviewers, and underrated by rivals. Both assumed an attitude of

defiance to the world, and stood ostentatiously at bay. Both mingled

largely in the politics of their day, and both took the liberal side.

Both felt and expressed keen remorse for their errors, and purposed and

in part began reformation. Both died at an untimely age by fever, and in

a foreign land. The dust of both, not admitted into Westminster Abbey,

nevertheless reposes in their native soil, and attracts daily visitors,

who lean, and weep, and wonder over it--partly in sympathy with their

fate--partly in pity for their errors--and partly in admiration of their

genius.

* * * * *

NOTE.--We have not alluded to various anecdotes told about Churchill's

journey to Wales, about his setting up as a cider merchant, &c., because

some of them appear extremely apocryphal. The author of an article on him

in the _Edinburgh Review_ for January 1845 asserts that he was rejected

from Oxford because he had already been married. But, if so, why was he

admitted to Cambridge? Besides, the writer adduces no proof of his

assertion. The paper, otherwise, is worthy of its author and of the poet.

* * * * *

CONTENTS.

THE ROSCIAD

THE APOLOGY

NIGHT

THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE

AN EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HOGARTH

THE DUELLIST

GOTHAM

THE AUTHOR

THE CONFERENCE

THE GHOST

THE CANDIDATE

THE FAREWELL

THE TIMES

INDEPENDENCE

THE JOURNEY

DEDICATION TO CHURCHILL'S SERMONS

LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR PARK

* * * * *

THE ROSCIAD.[1]

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse

Boldly defies all mean and partial views;

With honest freedom plays the critic's part,

And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius[2] deceased, each high aspiring player

Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.

The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage

No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;

The monarch quits his throne, and condescends

Humbly to court the favour of his friends;

For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,

And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.

Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,

To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume; 10

In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,

And show where honour bled in every scar.

But though bare merit might in Rome appear

The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;

We form our judgment in another way;

And they will best succeed, who best can pay:

Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,

Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.

What can an actor give? In every age

Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage; 20

Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,

Appear as often as their image there:

They can't, like candidate for other seat,

Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.

Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,

And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:

But what they have they give; could Clive[3] do more,

Though for each million he had brought home four?

Shuter[4] keeps open house at Southwark fair,

And hopes the friends of humour will be there; 30

In Smithfield, Yates[5] prepares the rival treat

For those who laughter love, instead of meat;

Foote,[6] at Old House,--for even Foote will be,

In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;

Which Wilkinson[7] at second-hand receives,

And at the New, pours water on the leaves.

The town divided, each runs several ways,

As passion, humour, interest, party sways.

Things of no moment, colour of the hair,

Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair, 40

A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,

Conciliate favour, or create distaste.

From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,

And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.

Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

Palmer! oh! Palmer[8] tops the jaunty part.

Seated in pit, the dwarf with aching eyes,

Looks up, and vows that Barry's[9] out of size;

Whilst to six feet the vigorous stripling grown,

Declares that Garrick is another Coan.[10] 50

When place of judgment is by whim supplied,

And our opinions have their rise in pride;

When, in discoursing on each mimic elf,

We praise and censure with an eye to self;

All must meet friends, and Ackman[11] bids as fair,

In such a court, as Garrick, for the chair.

At length agreed, all squabbles to decide,

By some one judge the cause was to be tried;

But this their squabbles did afresh renew,

Who should be judge in such a trial:--who? 60

For Johnson some; but Johnson, it was fear'd,

Would be too grave; and Sterne[12] too gay appear'd;

Others for Franklin[13] voted; but 'twas known,

He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own:

For Colman[14] many, but the peevish tongue

Of prudent Age found out that he was young:

For Murphy[15] some few pilfering wits declared,

Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom stared.

To mischief train'd, e'en from his mother's womb,

Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, 70

Adopting arts by which gay villains rise,

And reach the heights which honest men despise;

Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud,

Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud;

A pert, prim, prater of the northern race,[16]

Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face,

Stood forth,--and thrice he waved his lily hand,

And thrice he twirled his tye, thrice stroked his band:--

At Friendship's call (thus oft, with traitorous aim,

Men void of faith usurp Faith's sacred name) 80

At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy sent,

Who thus by me develops his intent:

But lest, transfused, the spirit should be lost,

That spirit which, in storms of rhetoric toss'd,

Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer,

In his own words his own intentions hear.

Thanks to my friends; but to vile fortunes born,

No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn.

Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw;

Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? 90

Twice, (cursed remembrance!) twice I strove to gain

Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train,

Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare

For clients' wretched feet the legal snare;

Dead to those arts which polish and refine,

Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine,

Twice did those blockheads startle at my name,

And foul rejection gave me up to shame.

To laws and lawyers then I bade adieu,

And plans of far more liberal note pursue. 100

Who will may be a judge--my kindling breast

Burns for that chair which Roscius once possess'd.

Here give your votes, your interest here exert,

And let success for once attend desert.

With sleek appearance, and with ambling pace,

And, type of vacant head, with vacant face,

The Proteus Hill[17] put in his modest plea,--

Let Favour speak for others, Worth for me.--

For who, like him, his various powers could call

Into so many shapes, and shine in all? 110

Who could so nobly grace the motley list,

Actor, Inspector, Doctor, Botanist?

Knows any one so well--sure no one knows--

At once to play, prescribe, compound, compose?

Who can--but Woodward[18] came,--Hill slipp'd away,

Melting, like ghosts, before the rising day.

With that low cunning, which in fools[19] supplies,

And amply too, the place of being wise,

Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave

To qualify the blockhead for a knave; 120

With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms,

And Reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,

Which to the lowest depths of guile descends,

By vilest means pursues the vilest ends;

Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite,

Pawns in the day, and butchers in the night;

With that malignant envy which turns pale,

And sickens, even if a friend prevail,

Which merit and success pursues with hate,

And damns the worth it cannot imitate; 130

With the cold caution of a coward's spleen,

Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen,

Which keeps this maxim ever in her view--

What's basely done, should be done safely too;

With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,

Which, dead to shame and every nicer sense,

Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares,

She blunder'd on some virtue unawares;

With all these blessings, which we seldom find

Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind, 140

A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe,

Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe,

Came simpering on--to ascertain whose sex

Twelve sage impannell'd matrons would perplex.

Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both;

Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth;

A six-foot suckling, mincing in Its gait;

Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;

Fearful It seem'd, though of athletic make,

Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake 150

Its tender form, and savage motion spread,

O'er Its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.

Much did It talk, in Its own pretty phrase,

Of genius and of taste, of players and of plays;

Much too of writings, which Itself had wrote,

Of special merit, though of little note;

For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed

That what It wrote, none but Itself should read;

Much, too, It chatter'd of dramatic laws,

Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause; 160

Then, with a self-complacent, jutting air,

It smiled, It smirk'd, It wriggled to the chair;

And, with an awkward briskness not Its own,

Looking around, and perking on the throne,

Triumphant seem'd; when that strange savage dame,

Known but to few, or only known by name,

Plain Common-Sense appear'd, by Nature there

Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair,

The pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown,

To Its first state of nothing melted down. 170

Nor shall the Muse, (for even there the pride

Of this vain nothing shall be mortified)

Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes,

Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times)

With such a trifler's name her pages blot;

Known be the character, the thing forgot:

Let It, to disappoint each future aim,

Live without sex, and die without a name!

Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires

Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires 180

Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half froze,

Creeps labouring through the veins; whose heart ne'er glows

With fancy-kindled heat;--a servile race,

Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place;

Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools,

Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules;

With solemn consequence declared that none

Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone.

Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd,

Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd. 190

When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood forth,[20]

Unknown his person, not unknown his worth;

His look bespoke applause; alone he stood,

Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood.

He talk'd of ancients, as the man became

Who prized our own, but envied not their fame;

With noble reverence spoke of Greece and Rome,

And scorn'd to tear the laurel from the tomb.

But, more than just to other countries grown,

Must we turn base apostates to our own? 200

Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel,

That England may not please the ear as well?

What mighty magic's in the place or air,

That all perfection needs must centre there?

In states, let strangers blindly be preferr'd;

In state of letters, merit should be heard.

Genius is of no country; her pure ray

Spreads all abroad, as general as the day;

Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies,

And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise. 210

May not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope,

And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope)

May not some great extensive genius raise

The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise;

And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms,

Make England great in letters as in arms?

There may--there hath,--and Shakspeare's Muse aspires

Beyond the reach of Greece; with native fires

Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight,

Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height. 220

Why should we then abroad for judges roam,

When abler judges we may find at home?

Happy in tragic and in comic powers,

Have we not Shakspeare?--Is not Jonson ours?

For them, your natural judges, Britons, vote;

They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote.

He said, and conquer'd--Sense resumed her sway,

And disappointed pedants stalk'd away.

Shakspeare and Jonson, with deserved applause,

Joint-judges were ordain'd to try the cause. 230

Meantime the stranger every voice employ'd,

To ask or tell his name. Who is it? Lloyd.

Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute,

And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute,

Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth,

Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth;

Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride,

Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side.

The day of trial's fix'd, nor any fear

Lest day of trial should be put off here. 240

Causes but seldom for delay can call

In courts where forms are few, fees none at all.

The morning came, nor find I that the Sun,

As he on other great events hath done,

Put on a brighter robe than what he wore

To go his journey in, the day before.

Full in the centre of a spacious plain,

On plan entirely new, where nothing vain,

Nothing magnificent appear'd, but Art

With decent modesty perform'd her part, 250

Rose a tribunal: from no other court

It borrow'd ornament, or sought support:

No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear,

No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here;

No gownsmen, partial to a client's cause,

To their own purpose turn'd the pliant laws;

Each judge was true and steady to his trust,

As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster[21] just.

In the first seat, in robe of various dyes,

A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, 260

Sat Shakspeare: in one hand a wand he bore,

For mighty wonders famed in days of yore;

The other held a globe, which to his will

Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill:

Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,

And look'd through Nature at a single view:

A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,

And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll;

Call'd into being scenes unknown before,

And passing Nature's bounds, was something more. 270

Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd,

His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd;

Correctly pruned each wild luxuriant thought,

Mark'd out her course, nor spared a glorious fault.

The book of man he read with nicest art,

And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart;

Exerted penetration's utmost force,

And traced each passion to its proper source;

Then, strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew,

And brought each foible forth to public view: 280

The coxcomb felt a lash in every word,

And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd.

His comic humour kept the world in awe,

And Laughter frighten'd Folly more than Law.

But, hark! the trumpet sounds, the crowd gives way,

And the procession comes in just array.

Now should I, in some sweet poetic line,

Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine,

Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode,

And waken Memory with a sleeping Ode.[22] 290

For how shall mortal man, in mortal verse,

Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse?

But give, kind Dulness! memory and rhyme,

We 'll put off Genius till another time.

First, Order came,--with solemn step, and slow,

In measured time his feet were taught to go.

Behind, from time to time, he cast his eye,

Lest this should quit his place, that step awry.

Appearances to save his only care;

So things seem right, no matter what they are. 300

In him his parents saw themselves renew'd,

Begotten by Sir Critic on Saint Prude.

Then came drum, trumpet, hautboy, fiddle, flute;

Next snuffer, sweeper, shifter, soldier, mute:

Legions of angels all in white advance;

Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance;

Pantomime figures then are brought to view,

Fools, hand in hand with fools, go two by two.

Next came the treasurer of either house;

One with full purse, t'other with not a sous. 310

Behind, a group of figures awe create,

Set off with all the impertinence of state;

By lace and feather consecrate to fame,

Expletive kings, and queens without a name.

Here Havard,[23] all serene, in the same strains,

Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs and complains;

His easy vacant face proclaim'd a heart

Which could not feel emotions, nor impart.

With him came mighty Davies:[24] on my life,

That Davies hath a very pretty wife! 320

Statesman all over, in plots famous grown,

He mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone.

Next Holland[25] came: with truly tragic stalk,

He creeps, he flies,--a hero should not walk.

As if with Heaven he warr'd, his eager eyes

Planted their batteries against the skies;

Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan,

He borrow'd, and made use of as his own.

By fortune thrown on any other stage,

He might, perhaps, have pleased an easy age; 330

But now appears a copy, and no more,

Of something better we have seen before.

The actor who would build a solid fame,

Must Imitation's servile arts disclaim;

Act from himself, on his own bottom stand;

I hate e'en Garrick thus at second-hand.

Behind came King.[26]--Bred up in modest lore,

Bashful and young, he sought Hibernia's shore;

Hibernia, famed, 'bove every other grace,

For matchless intrepidity of face. 340

From her his features caught the generous flame,

And bid defiance to all sense of shame.

Tutor'd by her all rivals to surpass,

'Mongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in Brass.

Lo, Yates[27]! Without the least finesse of art

He gets applause--I wish he'd get his part.

When hot Impatience is in full career,

How vilely 'Hark ye! hark ye!' grates the ear;

When active fancy from the brain is sent,

And stands on tip-toe for some wish'd event, 350

I hate those careless blunders, which recall

Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all.

In characters of low and vulgar mould,

Where Nature's coarsest features we behold;

Where, destitute of every decent grace,

Unmanner'd jests are blurted in your face,

There Yates with justice strict attention draws,

Acts truly from himself, and gains applause.

But when, to please himself or charm his wife,

He aims at something in politer life, 360

When, blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan,

He treads the stage by way of gentleman,

The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,

Looks like Tom Errand[28] dress'd in Clincher's clothes.

Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown,

Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,

Prom side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates,

And seems to wonder what's become of Yates.

Woodward[29], endow'd with various tricks of face,

Great master in the science of grimace, 370

From Ireland ventures, favourite of the town,

Lured by the pleasing prospect of renown;

A speaking harlequin, made up of whim,

He twists, he twines, he tortures every limb;

Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,

And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart.

We laugh indeed, but, on reflection's birth,

We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth.

His walk of parts he fatally misplaced,

And inclination fondly took for taste; 380

Hence hath the town so often seen display'd

Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.

But when bold wits,--not such as patch up plays,

Cold and correct, in these insipid days,--

Some comic character, strong featured, urge

To probability's extremest verge;

Where modest Judgment her decree suspends,

And, for a time, nor censures, nor commends;

Where critics can't determine on the spot

Whether it is in nature found or not, 390

There Woodward safely shall his powers exert,

Nor fail of favour where he shows desert;

Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore,

Such worthy praises, Kitely[30] scarce had more.

By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes,

Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes:

Now in the centre, now in van or rear,

The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer.

His strokes of humour, and his bursts of sport,

Are all contain'd in this one word--distort. 400

Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt?

Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault,

With personal defects their mirth adorn,

And bang misfortunes out to public scorn.

E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould,

Whom, having made, she trembled to behold,

Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,

And find that Nature's errors are my own.

Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came;

Wilkinson this, Obrien[31] was that name. 410

Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,

That even shadows have their shadows too!

With not a single comic power endued,

The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood;

The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows,

In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows,

Self quite put off, affects with too much art

To put on Woodward in each mangled part;

Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more,

His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before. 420

When a dull copier simple grace neglects,

And rests his imitation in defects,

We readily forgive; but such vile arts

Are double guilt in men of real parts.

By Nature form'd in her perversest mood,

With no one requisite of art endued,

Next Jackson came[32]--Observe that settled glare,

Which better speaks a puppet than a player;

List to that voice--did ever Discord hear

Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear? 430

When to enforce some very tender part,

The right hand slips by instinct on the heart,

His soul, of every other thought bereft,

Is anxious only where to place the left;

He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse;

To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows:

Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill

Of moving gracefully, or standing still,

One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,

Desirous seems to run away from t'other. 440

Some errors, handed down from age to age,

Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage.

That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore,

And err, because our fathers err'd before?

If, inattentive to the author's mind,

Some actors made the jest they could not find;

If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien,

And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene,

Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd,

Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? 450

When Falstaff stands detected in a lie,

Why, without meaning, rolls Love's[33] glassy eye?

Why? There's no cause--at least no cause we know--

It was the fashion twenty years ago.

Fashion!--a word which knaves and fools may use,

Their knavery and folly to excuse.

To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence

To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense.

Yet (though in some particulars he fails,

Some few particulars, where mode prevails) 460

If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad,

All gentlemen are melancholy mad;

When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half

To violate a vestal as to laugh,

Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage

An act of toleration for the stage;

And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures,

Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features;

Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more,

And humour set the audience in a roar. 470

Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name,

Who, being from one part possess'd of fame,

Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl,

Still introduce that favourite part in all.

Here, Love, be cautious--ne'er be thou betray'd

To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid;

Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend,

He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend.

In a peculiar mould by Humour cast,

For Falstaff framed--himself the first and last-- 480

He stands aloof from all--maintains his state,

And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate.

Vain all disguise--too plain we see the trick,

Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic[34];

And Boniface[35] disgraced, betrays the smack,

In _anno Domini_, of Falstaff sack.

Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow,

A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow;

Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog,

Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, 490

They curse the managers, and curse the town

Whose partial favour keeps such merit down.

But if some man, more hardy than the rest,

Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest,

At once they rise with impotence of rage,

Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage:

'Tis breach of privilege! Shall any dare

To arm satiric truth against a player?

Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind;

Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind. 500

What! shall Opinion then, of nature free,

And liberal as the vagrant air, agree

To rust in chains like these, imposed by things,

Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings?

No--though half-poets with half-players join

To curse the freedom of each honest line;

Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek,

What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak;

With just disdain of every paltry sneer,

Stranger alike to flattery and fear, 510

In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule,

Public contempt shall wait the public fool.

Austin[36] would always glisten in French silks;

Ackman would Norris be, and Packer, Wilkes:

For who, like Ackman, can with humour please;

Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease?

Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut:

A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput!

Ludicrous Nature! which at once could show

A man so very high, so very low! 520

If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say

Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play.

Let critics, with a supercilious air,

Decry thy various merit, and declare

Frenchman is still at top; but scorn that rage

Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.

French follies, universally embraced,

At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.

Long, from a nation ever hardly used,

At random censured, wantonly abused, 530

Have Britons drawn their sport; with partial view

Form'd general notions from the rascal few;

Condemn'd a people, as for vices known,

Which from their country banish'd, seek our own.

At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke,

And Sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke:

Taught by thee, Moody[37], we now learn to raise

Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise.

Next came the legion which our summer Bayes[38],

From alleys, here and there, contrived to raise, 540

Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed,

With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read.

Veterans no more support the rotten cause,

No more from Elliot's[39] worth they reap applause;

Each on himself determines to rely;

Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly.

Never did players so well an author fit,

To Nature dead, and foes declared to wit.

So loud each tongue, so empty was each head,

So much they talk'd, so very little said, 550

So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain,

At once so willing, and unfit to reign,

That Reason swore, nor would the oath recall,

Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all.

As one with various disappointments sad,

Whom dulness only kept from being mad,

Apart from all the rest great Murphy came--

Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame.

What though the sons of Nonsense hail him Sire,

Auditor, Author, Manager, and Squire, 560

His restless soul's ambition stops not there;

To make his triumphs perfect, dub him Player.

In person tall, a figure form'd to please,

If symmetry could charm deprived of ease;

When motionless he stands, we all approve;

What pity 'tis the thing was made to move.

His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound,

Seems to break forth from caverns under ground;

From hollow chest the low sepulchral note

Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat. 570

Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace,

All must to him resign the foremost place.

When he attempts, in some one favourite part,

To ape the feelings of a manly heart,

His honest features the disguise defy,

And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie.

Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean,

Or raving mad, or stupidly serene.

In cold-wrought scenes, the lifeless actor flags;

In passion, tears the passion into rags. 580

Can none remember? Yes--I know all must--

When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust,

When o'er the stage he Folly's standard bore,

Whilst Common-Sense stood trembling at the door.

How few are found with real talents blest!

Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest.

Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray:

All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.

Bred at St Omer's to the shuffling trade,

The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made; 590

With various readings stored his empty skull,

Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull;

Or, at some banker's desk, like many more,

Content to tell that two and two make four;

His name had stood in City annals fair,

And prudent Dulness mark'd him for a mayor.

What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age,

Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage?

Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains

To publish to the world thy lack of brains? 600

Or might not Reason e'en to thee have shown,

Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown?

Yet let not vanity like thine despair:

Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care.

A vacant throne, high-placed in Smithfield, view.

To sacred Dulness and her first-born due,

Thither with haste in happy hour repair,

Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there.

Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim,

And venal Ledgers[40] puff their Murphy's name; 610

Whilst Vaughan[41], or Dapper, call him which you will,

Shall blow the trumpet, and give out the bill.

There rule, secure from critics and from sense,

Nor once shall Genius rise to give offence;

Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore,

And little factions[42] break thy rest no more.

From Covent Garden crowds promiscuous go,

Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know;

Veterans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more

Than if, till that time, arms they never bore: 620

Like Westminster militia[43] train'd to fight,

They scarcely knew the left hand from the right.

Ashamed among such troops to show the head,

Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled.

Sparks[44] at his glass sat comfortably down

To separate frown from smile, and smile from frown.

Smith,[45] the genteel, the airy, and the smart,

Smith was just gone to school to say his part.

Ross[46] (a misfortune which we often meet)

Was fast asleep at dear Statira's[47] feet; 630

Statira, with her hero to agree,

Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he.

Macklin[48], who largely deals in half-form'd sounds,

Who wantonly transgresses Nature's bounds,

Whose acting's hard, affected, and constrain'd,

Whose features, as each other they disdain'd,

At variance set, inflexible and coarse,

Ne'er know the workings of united force,

Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid,

Nor show the mingled powers of light and shade; 640

No longer for a thankless stage concern'd,

To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd,

Harangued, gave lectures, made each simple elf

Almost as good a speaker as himself;

Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal,

An awkward rage for elocution feel;

Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim,

And join with Sheridan's[49] their Macklin's name.

Shuter, who never cared a single pin

Whether he left out nonsense, or put in, 650

Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark,

The random arrow seldom hit the mark,

At Islington[50], all by the placid stream

Where city swains in lap of Dulness dream,

Where quiet as her strains their strains do flow,

That all the patron by the bards may know,

Secret as night, with Rolt's[51] experienced aid,

The plan of future operations laid,

Projected schemes the summer months to cheer,

And spin out happy folly through the year. 660

But think not, though these dastard chiefs are fled,

That Covent Garden troops shall want a head:

Harlequin comes their chief! See from afar

The hero seated in fantastic car!

Wedded to Novelty, his only arms

Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms;

On one side Folly sits, by some call'd Fun,

And on the other his arch-patron, Lun;[52]

Behind, for liberty athirst in vain,

Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain: 670

Six rude misshapen beasts the chariot draw,

Whom Reason loathes, and Nature never saw,

Monsters with tails of ice, and heads of fire;

'Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.'

Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight,

Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite.

The Town, as usual, met him in full cry;

The Town, as usual, knew no reason why:

But Fashion so directs, and Moderns raise

On Fashion's mouldering base their transient praise. 680

Next, to the field a band of females draw

Their force, for Britain owns no Salique law:

Just to their worth, we female rights admit,

Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit.

First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive,

Hoydens and romps, led on by General Clive.[53]

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone,

For humour famed, and humour all her own:

Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod,

Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod: 690

Original in spirit and in ease,

She pleased by hiding all attempts to please:

No comic actress ever yet could raise,

On Humour's base, more merit or more praise.

With all the native vigour of sixteen,

Among the merry troop conspicuous seen,

See lively Pope[54] advance, in jig, and trip

Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip:

Not without art, but yet to nature true,

She charms the town with humour just, yet new: 700

Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore

The fatal time when Olive shall be no more.

Lo! Vincent[55] comes! With simple grace array'd,

She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade:

Nature through her is by reflection shown,

Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own.

Talk not to me of diffidence and fear--

I see it all, but must forgive it here;

Defects like these, which modest terrors cause,

From Impudence itself extort applause. 710

Candour and Reason still take Virtue's part;

We love e'en foibles in so good a heart.

Let Tommy Arne[56],--with usual pomp of style,

Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile;

Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit,

Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,--

Publish proposals, laws for taste prescribe,

And chaunt the praise of an Italian tribe;

Let him reverse kind Nature's first decrees,

And teach e'en Brent[57] a method not to please; 720

But never shall a truly British age

Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage;

The boasted work's call'd national in vain,

If one Italian voice pollutes the strain.

Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey,

Let slavish minstrels pour the enervate lay;

To Britons far more noble pleasures spring,

In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent[58] sing.

Might figure give a title unto fame,

What rival should with Yates[59] dispute her claim? 730

But justice may not partial trophies raise,

Nor sink the actress' in the woman's praise.

Still hand in hand her words and actions go,

And the heart feels more than the features show;

For, through the regions of that beauteous face

We no variety of passions trace;

Dead to the soft emotions of the heart,

No kindred softness can those eyes impart:

The brow, still fix'd in sorrow's sullen frame,

Void of distinction, marks all parts the same. 740

What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,

Unless deportment gives them decent grace?

Bless'd with all other requisites to please,

Some want the striking elegance of ease;

The curious eye their awkward movement tires;

They seem like puppets led about by wires.

Others, like statues, in one posture still,

Give great ideas of the workman's skill;

Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view,

And only grieve he gave not motion too. 750

Weak of themselves are what we beauties call,

It is the manner which gives strength to all;

This teaches every beauty to unite,

And brings them forward in the noblest light;

Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng,

With transient gleam of grace, Hart[60] sweeps along.

If all the wonders of external grace,

A person finely turn'd, a mould of face,

Where--union rare--expression's lively force

With beauty's softest magic holds discourse, 760

Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art,

Rouse the quick passions, and inflame the heart;

If music, sweetly breathing from the tongue,

Captives the ear, Bride[61] must not pass unsung.

When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit,

By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat;

When judgment, tutor'd by experience sage,

Shall shoot abroad, and gather strength from age;

When Heaven, in mercy, shall the stage release

From the dull slumbers of a still-life piece; 770

When some stale flower[62], disgraceful to the walk,

Which long hath hung, though wither'd, on the stalk,

Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way,

And merit find a passage to the day;

Brought into action, she at once shall raise

Her own renown, and justify our praise.

Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage

With rival excellence of love and rage;

Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill

To turn and wind the passions as she will; 780

To melt the heart with sympathetic woe,

Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow;

To put on frenzy's wild, distracted glare,

And freeze the soul with horror and despair;

With just desert enroll'd in endless fame,

Conscious of worth superior, Cibber[63] came.

When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd,

And strongly imaged griefs her mind distract,

Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too,

My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view! 790

The roof cracks, shakes, and falls--new horrors rise,

And Reason buried in the ruin lies!

Nobly disdainful of each slavish art,

She makes her first attack upon the heart;

Pleased with the summons, it receives her laws,

And all is silence, sympathy, applause.

But when, by fond ambition drawn aside,

Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride,

She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence

To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence, 800

I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes,

Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise.

Pritchard[64], by Nature for the stage design'd,

In person graceful, and in sense refined;

Her art as much as Nature's friend became,

Her voice as free from blemish as her fame,

Who knows so well in majesty to please,

Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?

When, Congreve's favoured pantomime[65] to grace,

She comes a captive queen, of Moorish race; 810

When love, hate, jealousy, despair, and rage

With wildest tumults in her breast engage,

Still equal to herself is Zara seen;

Her passions are the passions of a queen.

When she to murder whets the timorous Thane,[66]

I feel ambition rush through every vein;

Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue,

My heart grows flint, and every nerve's new strung.

In comedy--Nay, there, cries Critic, hold;

Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old: 820

Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette,

Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett?[67]

Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just,

But then, her age and figure give disgust.

Are foibles, then, and graces of the mind,

In real life, to size or age confined?

Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding placed

In any set circumference of waist?

As we grow old, doth affectation cease,

Or gives not age new vigour to caprice? 830

If in originals these things appear,

Why should we bar them in the copy here?

The nice punctilio-mongers of this age,

The grand minute reformers of the stage,

Slaves to propriety of every kind,

Some standard measure for each part should find,

Which, when the best of actors shall exceed,

Let it devolve to one of smaller breed.

All actors, too, upon the back should bear

Certificate of birth; time, when; place, where; 840

For how can critics rightly fix their worth,

Unless they know the minute of their birth?

An audience, too, deceived, may find, too late,

That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.

Figure, I own, at first may give offence,

And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense;

But when perfections of the mind break forth,

Humour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid worth;

When the pure genuine flame by Nature taught,

Springs into sense and every action's thought; 850

Before such merit all objections fly--

Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's six feet high.

Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skill,

Confess'd thee great, but find thee greater still;

That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before,

Collected now, breaks forth with double power.

The 'Jealous Wife!'[68] on that thy trophies raise,

Inferior only to the author's praise.

From Dublin, famed in legends of romance

For mighty magic of enchanted lance, 860

With which her heroes arm'd, victorious prove,

And, like a flood, rush o'er the land of Love,

Mossop and Barry came--names ne'er design'd

By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd.

Raised by the breath of popular acclaim,

They mounted to the pinnacle of fame;

There the weak brain, made giddy with the height,

Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight.

Thus sportive boys, around some basin's brim,

Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim; 870

But if, from lungs more potent, there arise

Two bubbles of a more than common size,

Eager for honour, they for fight prepare,

Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air.

Mossop[69] attach'd to military plan,

Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand[70] man;

Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill,

The right hand labours, and the left lies still;

For he, resolved on Scripture grounds to go,

What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know, 880

With studied impropriety of speech,

He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach;

To epithets allots emphatic state,

Whilst principals, ungraced, like lackeys wait;

In ways first trodden by himself excels,

And stands alone in indeclinables;

Conjunction, preposition, adverb join

To stamp new vigour on the nervous line;

In monosyllables his thunders roll,

He, she, it, and we, ye, they, fright the soul. 890

In person taller than the common size,

Behold where Barry[71] draws admiring eyes!

When labouring passions, in his bosom pent,

Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent;

Spectators, with imagined terrors warm,

Anxious expect the bursting of the storm:

But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell,

His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell,

To swell the tempest needful aid denies,

And all adown the stage in feeble murmurs dies. 900

What man, like Barry, with such pains, can err

In elocution, action, character?

What man could give, if Barry was not here,

Such well applauded tenderness to Lear?

Who else can speak so very, very fine,

That sense may kindly end with every line?

Some dozen lines before the ghost is there,

Behold him for the solemn scene prepare:

See how he frames his eyes, poises each limb,

Puts the whole body into proper trim:-- 910

From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art,

Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start.

When he appears most perfect, still we find

Something which jars upon and hurts the mind:

Whatever lights upon a part are thrown,

We see too plainly they are not his own:

No flame from Nature ever yet he caught,

Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught:

He raised his trophies on the base of art,

And conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part. 920

Quin,[72] from afar, lured by the scent of fame,

A stage leviathan, put in his claim,

Pupil of Betterton[73] and Booth. Alone,

Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own:

For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day,

Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play?

Gray-bearded veterans, who, with partial tongue,

Extol the times when they themselves were young,

Who, having lost all relish for the stage,

See not their own defects, but lash the age, 930

Received, with joyful murmurs of applause,

Their darling chief, and lined[74] his favourite cause.

Far be it from the candid Muse to tread

Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead:

But, just to living merit, she maintains,

And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns,

Ancients in vain endeavour to excel,

Happily praised, if they could act as well.

But, though prescription's force we disallow,

Nor to antiquity submissive bow; 940

Though we deny imaginary grace,

Founded on accidents of time and place,

Yet real worth of every growth shall bear

Due praise; nor must we, Quin, forget thee there.

His words bore sterling weight; nervous and strong,

In manly tides of sense they roll'd along:

Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence

To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense;

No actor ever greater heights could reach

In all the labour'd artifice of speech. 950

Speech! is that all? And shall an actor found

An universal fame on partial ground?

Parrots themselves speak properly by rote,

And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note.

I laugh at those who, when the stage they tread,

Neglect the heart, to compliment the head;

With strict propriety their cares confined

To weigh out words, while passion halts behind:

To syllable-dissectors they appeal,

Allow them accent, cadence,--fools may feel; 960

But, spite of all the criticising elves,

Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.

His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,

Proclaim'd the sullen 'habit of his soul:'

Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,

Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.

When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,

Or Rowe's[75] gay rake dependent virtue jeers,

With the same cast of features he is seen

To chide the libertine, and court the queen. 970

From the tame scene, which without passion flows,

With just desert his reputation rose;

Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly plan,

He was, at once, the actor and the man.

In Brute[76] he shone unequall'd: all agree

Garrick's not half so great a Brute as he.

When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view,

With equal praise the actor labour'd too;

For still you'll find, trace passions to their root,

Small difference 'twixt the Stoic and the Brute. 980

In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,

He could not, for a moment, sink the man.

In whate'er cast his character was laid,

Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd.

Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in:

Horatio, Dorax,[77] Falstaff,--still 'twas Quin.

Next follows Sheridan.[78] A doubtful name,

As yet unsettled in the rank of fame:

This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,

Gives him all merit; that allows him none; 990

Between them both, we'll steer the middle course,

Nor, loving praise, rob Judgment of her force.

Just his conceptions, natural and great,

His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight.

Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him speak,

Envy would drive the colour from his cheek;

But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,

Denied the social powers of voice and face.

Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,

Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie; 1000

In vain the wonders of his skill are tried

To form distinctions Nature hath denied.

His voice no touch of harmony admits,

Irregularly deep, and shrill by fits.

The two extremes appear like man and wife,

Coupled together for the sake of strife.

His action's always strong, but sometimes such,

That candour must declare he acts too much.

Why must impatience fall three paces back?

Why paces three return to the attack? 1010

Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir,

Unless in motion semicircular?

Why must the hero with the Nailor[79] vie,

And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye?

In Royal John, with Philip angry grown,

I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.

Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame

To fright a king so harmless and so tame?

But, spite of all defects, his glories rise,

And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies. 1020

Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's[80] soul,

Whilst in his own contending passions roll;

View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,

And then deny him merit, if you can.

Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone;

Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.

Last Garrick[81] came. Behind him throng a train

Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out--He's of stature somewhat low--

Your hero always should be tall, you know; 1030

True natural greatness all consists in height.

Produce your voucher, Critic.--Serjeant Kite.[82]

Another can't forgive the paltry arts

By which he makes his way to shallow hearts;

Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause--

'Avaunt! unnatural start, affected pause!'

For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm,

I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.

The best things carried to excess are wrong;

The start may be too frequent, pause too long: 1040

But, only used in proper time and place,

Severest judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan,

Just in the way that monkeys mimic man,

Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace,

And pause and start with the same vacant face,

We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn

Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.

But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source,

These strokes of acting flow with generous force, 1050

When in the features all the soul's portray'd,

And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd,

To me they seem from quickest feelings caught--

Each start is nature, and each pause is thought.

When reason yields to passion's wild alarms,

And the whole state of man is up in arms,

What but a critic could condemn the player

For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there?

Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace,

And mark it strongly flaming to the face; 1060

Whilst in each sound I hear the very man,

I can't catch words, and pity those who can.

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain

Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;

The gods,--a kindness I with thanks must pay,--

Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay;

Not stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased,

A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleased:

Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleased with Nature, must be pleased with thee. 1070

Now might I tell how silence reign'd throughout,

And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout;

How every claimant, tortured with desire,

Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire;

But loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts,

Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the several parties came,

With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim;

And, in their sentence happily agreed,

In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed:-- 1080

If manly sense, if Nature link'd with Art;

If thorough knowledge of the human heart;

If powers of acting vast and unconfined;

If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;

If strong expression, and strange powers which lie

Within the magic circle of the eye;

If feelings which few hearts like his can know,

And which no face so well as his can show,

Deserve the preference--Garrick! take the chair;

Nor quit it--till thou place an equal there. 1090

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[1] 'The Rosciad:' for occasion, &c., see Life.

[2] 'Roscius:' Quintus Roscius, a native of Gaul, and the most

celebrated comedian of antiquity. [3] 'Clive:' Robert Lord Clive. See

Macaulay's paper on him.

[4] 'Shuter:' Edward Shuter, a comic actor, who, after various

theatrical vicissitudes, died a zealous methodist and disciple of

George Whitefield, in 1776.

[5] 'Yates:' Richard Yates, another low actor of the period.

[6] 'Foote:' Samuel Foote, the once well-known farcical writer, (now

chiefly remembered from Boswell's Life of Johnson), opened the Old

House in the Haymarket, and, in order to overrule the opposition of

the magistrates, announced his entertainments as 'Mr Foote's giving

tea to his friends.'

[7] 'Wilkinson:' Wilkinson, the shadow of Foote, was the proprietor of

Sadler's Wells Theatre.

[8] 'Palmer:' John Palmer, a favourite actor in genteel comedy, who

married Miss Pritchard, daughter of the celebrated actress of that

name.

[9] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, an actor of first-rate eminence and tall

of size. Barry was a competitor of Garrick. Every one remembers the

lines in a poem comparing the two--

'To Barry we give loud applause;

To Garrick only tears.'

[10] 'Coan:' John Coan, a dwarf, showed himself, like another Tom

Thumb, for sixpence a-head.

[11] 'Ackman:' Ackman ranked as one of the lowest comic actors of his

time.

[12] 'Sterne:' the celebrated Laurence Sterne.

[13] 'Franklin:' Dr Thomas Franklin, the translator of Sophocles,

Phalaris, and Lucian, and the author of a volume of sermons; all

forgotten.

[14] 'Colman:' Colman, the elder, translator of Terence, and author of

many clever comedies.

[15] 'Murphy:' Arthur Murphy, Esq., a native of Ireland. See Boswell's

Life of Johnson. Churchill hated Murphy on account of his politics. He

was in the pay of the Court.

[16] 'Northern race:' Wedderburn, afterwards Lord Loughborough, and

Earl Rosslyn, a patron of Murphy, and a bitter enemy of Wilkes.

[17] 'Proteus Hill:' Sir John Hill, a celebrated character of that day,

of incredible industry and versatility, a botanist, apothecary,

translator, actor, dramatic author, natural historian, multitudinous

compiler, libeller, and, _intus et in cute_, a quack and coxcomb. See

Boswell's account of the interview between the King and Dr Johnson,

for a somewhat modified estimate of Hill.

[18] 'Woodward:' Woodward the comedian had a paper war with Hill.

[19] 'Fools:' the person here meant was a Mr Fitzpatrick, a bitter

enemy of Garrick's, and who originated riots in the theatre on the

subject of half-price.

[20] 'A youth:' Robert Lloyd, the friend and imitator of Churchill--an

ingenious but improvident person, who died of grief at his friend's

death, in 1764.

[21] 'Foster:' Sir Michael Foster, one of the puisne judges of the

Court of King's Bench.

[22] 'Ode:' alluding to Mason's Ode to Memory.

[23] 'Havard:' William Havard, an amiable man, but mediocre actor, of

the period.

[24] 'Davies:' Thomas Davies, a bookseller, actor, and author. See

Boswell.

[25] 'Holland:' Holland, a pupil and imitator of Mr Garrick.

[26] 'King:' Thomas King, a voluble and pert but clever actor.

[27] 'Yates:' Yates had a habit of repeating his words twice or thrice

over, such as 'Hark you, hark you.'

[28] 'Tom Errand:' Tom Errand and Clincher, two well-known dramatic

characters--a Clown and a coxcomb.

[29] 'Woodward:' Henry Woodward, comic actor of much power of face.

[30] 'Kitely:' Kitely, in Johnson's 'Every Man in his Humour,' was a

favourite character of Garrick's.

[31] 'Obrien:' a small actor; originally a fencing-master.

[32] 'Jackson:' afterwards manager of the Royal Theatre, Edinburgh.

[33] 'Love:' James Love, an actor and dramatic writer, who could play

nothing well but Falstaff.

[34] 'Dominic:' Dryden's 'Spanish Friar.' [35] 'Boniface:' The jovial

landlord in Farquhar's 'Beaux Stratagem.'

[36] 'Austin,' &c.: all small and forgotten actors.

[37] 'Moody:' Moody excelled in Irish characters.

[38] 'Bayes:' alluding to the summer theatre in the Haymarket, where

Murphy's plays were got up and acted under the joint management of

himself and Mr Foote.

[39] 'Elliot:' a female actress of great merit.

[40] 'Ledgers:' the Public Ledger, a newspaper.

[41] 'Vaughan:' Thomas Vaughan, a friend of Murphy.

[42] 'Little factions:' Murphy had called Churchill and his friends

'The Little Faction.'

[43] 'Militia:' the Westminster militia and the city of London trained

bands and lumber troopers, afforded much amusement.

[44] 'Sparks:' Luke Sparks, an actor of the time, rather hard in his

manner.

[45] 'Smith:' Called Gentleman Smith,' an actor in genteel comedy,

corpulent in person.

[46] 'Ross:' a Scotchman, dissipated in his habits.

[47] 'Statira:' Ross's Statira was Mrs Palmer, the daughter of Mrs

Pritchard.

[48] 'Macklin:' Charles Macklin, _alias_ M'Laughlin, good in such

characters as Shylock, &c.; no tragedian; a lecturer on elocution;

coarse in features.

[49] 'Sheridan:' father of Richard Brinsley. See Boswell and Moore.

[50] 'Islington:' the new river.

[51] 'Rolt:' a drudge to the booksellers, who plagiarised Akenside's

'Pleasures of Imagination,' and was a coadjutor with Christopher

Smart in the 'Universal Visitor.' See Boswell.

[52] 'Lun:' Mr John Rich, the manager of Covent Garden and Lincoln's

Inn Fields Theatre, called Lun for his performance of Harlequin; famous

for pantomimes.

[53] 'Clive:' Catherine Clive, a celebrated comic actress, of very

diversified powers; 'a better romp' than Jonson 'ever saw in nature.'

[54] 'Pope:' a pleasing protégé of Mrs Clive.

[55] 'Vincent:' Mrs Vincent, a tolerable actress and a fine singer.

[56] 'Arne:' a fine musician, but no writer.

[57] 'Brent:' a female scholar of Arne's, very popular as Polly in the

'Beggars Opera.'

[58] 'Beard and Vincent:' famous singers.

[59] 'Yates:' Anna Maria Yates, the wife of Richard Yates, mentioned in

a preceding note.

[60] 'Hart:' Mrs Hart, a demirep, married to one Reddish, who, after

her death, wedded Mrs Canning, mother of the great statesman.

[61] 'Bride:' another beautiful, but disreputable actress.

[62] 'Stale flower,' &c.: an unmanly allusion to Mrs Palmer, the

daughter of Mrs Pritchard, who was greatly inferior to her mother.

[63] 'Cibber:' sister to Arne, and wife to the once notorious

Theophilus Cibber, the son of the hero of the 'Dunciad.' She was no

better in character than many actresses of that day; but sang so

plaintively, that a bishop who heard her once cried out, 'Woman, thy

sins be forgiven thee!'

[64] 'Pritchard:' according to Johnson, 'in private a vulgar idiot,

but who, on the stage, seemed to become inspired with gentility and

understanding.'

[65] 'Pantomime:' the 'Mourning Bride.'

[66] 'Thane:' Macbeth.

[67] 'Juletta:' a witty maid-servant in the play of 'The Pilgrim.'

[68] The 'Jealous Wife:' the 'Jealous Wife,' by Colman, was taken from

the story of Lady Bellaston, in 'Tom Jones.'

[69] 'Mossop:' Henry Mossop, a powerful, fiery, but irregular actor,

very unfortunate in life.

[70] 'Right-hand:' Mossop practised the 'tea-pot attitude.'

[71] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, mentioned above as Garrick's great rival.

He acted in Covent Garden.

[72] 'Quin:' the friend of Thomson, (see 'Castle of Indolence'),

instructor in reading of George III., famous for indolence, wit, good

nature, and corpulence.

[73] 'Betterton:' the great actor of the seventeenth century, whose

funeral and character are described in the 'Tatler.' Booth was his

successor and copy.

[74] 'Lined:' supported.

[75] 'Rowe.' Andromache, in the tragedy of the 'Distressed Mother,' by

Ambrose Philips, and Lothario, in the 'Fair Penitent,' by Rowe.

[76] 'Brute:' Sir John Brute, in Vanbrugh's 'Provoked Wife.'

[77] 'Dorax:' a soldier in Dryden's 'Don Sebastian.'

[78] 'Sheridan:' see a previous note.

[79] 'Nailor:' pugilist.

[80] 'Hubert:' in King John.

[81] 'Garrick:' see Boswell and Murphy's life of that great actor.

[82] 'Serjeant Kite:' the recruiting serjeant in Farquhar's 'Recruiting

Officer.'

THE APOLOGY.

ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.[83]

Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE.

Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride,

Assume the pompous port, the martial stride;

O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield,

Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;

With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy,

And dare to single combat--what?--A fly!

And laugh we less when giant names, which shine

Establish'd, as it were, by right divine;

Critics, whom every captive art adores,

To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores; 10

Who high in letter'd reputation sit,

And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit,

With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!--

To crush a bard just bursting from the shell?

Great are his perils in this stormy time

Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme:

Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow,

And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below:

Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;

He hurts me most who lavishly commends. 20

Look through the world--in every other trade

The same employment's cause of kindness made,

At least appearance of good will creates,

And every fool puffs off the fool he hates:

Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night,

And in the common cause e'en players unite;

Authors alone, with more than savage rage,

Unnatural war with brother authors wage.

The pride of Nature would as soon admit

Competitors in empire as in wit; 30

Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call,

And, less than greatest, would not be at all.

Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence,--

O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense,

Should any novice in the rhyming trade

With lawless pen the realms of verse invade,

Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit,

Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit,

Where in lethargic majesty they reign,

And what they won by dulness, still maintain, 40

Legions of factious authors throng at once,

Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.

To 'Hamilton's[84] the ready lies repair--

Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there--

Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,

The polish'd falsehood's into public brought.

Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford;

And reputation bleeds in every word.

A critic was of old a glorious name,

Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; 50

Beauties as well as faults he brought to view;

His judgment great, and great his candour too;

No servile rules drew sickly taste aside;

Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.

But now--oh! strange reverse!--our critics bawl

In praise of candour with a heart of gall;

Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light,

They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night;

Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey,

And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. 60

When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise,

Bade the rude trifle into light arise,

Little she thought such tempests would ensue;

Less, that those tempests would be raised by you.

The thunder's fury rends the towering oak,

Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke.

Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound;

Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round;

Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,

Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.[85] 70

Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate

With a free spirit in a slavish state;

Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings,

Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings!

In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne

The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.

Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer,

Reserved to perish more ignobly here?

Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell,

Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, 80

The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand,

To die by ruffians in a foreign land.

How could these self-elected monarchs raise

So large an empire on so small a base?

In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,

Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne?

Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe,

She to the subject world dispenses law.

Without her licence not a letter stirs,

And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. 90

The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,

Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.

Our great Dictators take a shorter way--

Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say?

Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason,

In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.

True judgment now with them alone can dwell;

Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.

Dull superstitious readers they deceive,

Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, 100

And knowing nothing, everything believe!

But why repine we that these puny elves

Shoot into giants?--we may thank ourselves:

Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore,

The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.

But let true Reason once resume her reign,

This god shall dwindle to a calf again.

Founded on arts which shun the face of day,

By the same arts they still maintain their sway.

Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, 110

And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise.

At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe,

The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear:

Prudence forbids that step;--then all might know,

And on more equal terms engage the foe.

But now, what Quixote of the age would care

To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?

By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand,

And play the game into each other's hand:

The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, 120

Is bandied up and down, from side to side:

It flies--hey!--presto!--like a juggler's ball,

Till it belongs to nobody at all.

All men and things they know, themselves unknown,

And publish every name--except their own.

Nor think this strange,--secure from vulgar eyes,

The nameless author passes in disguise;

But veteran critics are not so deceived,

If veteran critics are to be believed.

Once seen, they know an author evermore, 130

Nay, swear to hands they never saw before.

Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt,

They by the writing found the writers out:

That's Lloyd's--his manner there you plainly trace,

And all the Actor stares you in the face.

By Colman that was written--on my life,

The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.'

That little disingenuous piece of spite,

Churchill--a wretch unknown!--perhaps might write.

How doth it make judicious readers smile, 140

When authors are detected by their style;

Though every one who knows this author, knows

He shifts his style much oftener than his clothes!

Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen,

The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?

What had I done, that angry Heaven should send

The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend?

Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,[86]

And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame.

For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, 150

So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound;

From Livy's temples tear the historic crown,

Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.

Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,

But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb.

Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore

The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?

Others for plots and under-plots may call,

Here's the right method--have no plot at all.

Who can so often in his cause engage 160

The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage,

Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow

At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh!

To praise his nervous weakness all agree;

And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he!

Too big for utterance when sorrows swell,

The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell;

But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow,

Why--then the voice must speak again, you know.

Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, 170

I kept no Naïads by me ready made;

Ne'er did I colours high in air advance,

Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;[87]

No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote,

With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat.

Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me,

Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free;

Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound,

And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground.

Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! 180

Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn;

Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove

Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove:

Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile,

And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.'

The stage I chose--a subject fair and free--

'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property.

All common exhibitions open lie,

For praise or censure, to the common eye.

Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; 190

Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread.

This is a general tax which all must pay,

From those who scribble, down to those who play.

Actors, a venal crew, receive support

From public bounty for the public sport.

To clap or hiss all have an equal claim,

The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same.

All join for their subsistence; all expect

Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.

When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, 200

The three days' wonder of his laughing friends,

Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides,

The lively witling praises or derides.

And where's the mighty difference, tell me where,

Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player?

The strolling tribe--a despicable race!--

Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.

Vagrants by law, to justice open laid,

They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid,

And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 210

To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife.

The mighty monarch, in theatric sack,

Carries his whole regalia at his back;

His royal consort heads the female band,

And leads the heir apparent in her hand;

The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride,

Bearing a future prince on either side.

No choice musicians in this troop are found,

To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound;

No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; 220

No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll;

No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown;

The monarch here must be a host alone:

No solemn pomp, no slow processions here;

No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.

By need compell'd to prostitute his art,

The varied actor flies from part to part;

And--strange disgrace to all theatric pride!--

His character is shifted with his side.

Question and answer he by turns must be, 230

Like that small wit in modern tragedy,[88]

Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse--

Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;

Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known,

Defacing first, then claiming for his own.

In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe,

The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe:

No high conceits their moderate wishes raise,

Content with humble profit, humble praise.

Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, 240

The strolling pageant hero treads in air:

Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law,

And snores the next out on a truss of straw.

But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know,

Can take a hero from a puppet-show,

In mood propitious should her favourite call,

On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl,

Forgetful of himself, he rears the head,

And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred;

Conversing now with well dress'd kings and queens, 250

With gods and goddesses behind the scenes,

He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume,

Taught by mock honours real pride to assume.

On this great stage, the world, no monarch e'er

Was half so haughty as a monarch player.

Doth it more move our anger or our mirth

To see these things, the lowest sons of earth,

Presume, with self-sufficient knowledge graced,

To rule in letters, and preside in taste?

The town's decisions they no more admit, 260

Themselves alone the arbiters of wit;

And scorn the jurisdiction of that court

To which they owe their being and support.

Actors, like monks of old, now sacred grown,

Must be attack'd by no fools but their own.

Let the vain tyrant[89] sit amidst his guards,

His puny green-room wits and venal bards,

Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown,

And for a playhouse-freedom lose their own;

In spite of new-made laws, and new-made kings, 270

The free-born Muse with liberal spirit sings.

Bow down, ye slaves! before these idols fall;

Let Genius stoop to them who've none at all:

Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee

To those who, slaves to all, are slaves to me.

Actors, as actors, are a lawful game,

The poet's right, and who shall bar his claim?

And if, o'erweening of their little skill,

When they have left the stage, they're actors still;

If to the subject world they still give laws, 280

With paper crowns, and sceptres made of straws;

If they in cellar or in garret roar,

And, kings one night, are kings for evermore;

Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme,

And wake the coxcomb from his golden dream?

Or if, well worthy of a better fate,

They rise superior to their present state;

If, with each social virtue graced, they blend

The gay companion and the faithful friend;

If they, like Pritchard, join in private life 290

The tender parent and the virtuous wife;

Shall not our verse their praise with pleasure speak,

Though Mimics bark, and Envy split her cheek?

No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise;

No greatness can above her censure raise;

Station and wealth to her are trifling things;

She stoops to actors, and she soars to kings.

Is there a man,[90] in vice and folly bred,

To sense of honour as to virtue dead,

Whom ties, nor human, nor divine can bind, 300

Alien from God, and foe to all mankind;

Who spares no character; whose every word,

Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword,

Cuts to the quick; whose thoughts with rancour swell;

Whose tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell?

If there be such a monster, the Reviews

Shall find him holding forth against abuse:

Attack profession!--'tis a deadly breach!

The Christian laws another lesson teach:--

Unto the end shall Charity endure, 310

And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure.

Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat,

As devils, to serve their purpose, Scripture quote.

The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd

To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind;

To make dejected Virtue nobly rise

Above the towering pitch of splendid Vice;

To make pale Vice, abash'd, her head hang down,

And, trembling, crouch at Virtue's awful frown.

Now arm'd with wrath, she bids eternal shame, 320

With strictest justice, brand the villain's name;

Now in the milder garb of ridicule

She sports, and pleases while she wounds the fool.

Her shape is often varied; but her aim,

To prop the cause of Virtue, still the same.

In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl;

When Vice and Folly for correction call,

Silence the mark of weakness justly bears,

And is partaker of the crimes it spares.

But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth, 330

With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth;

If wantonly she deviates from her plan,

And quits the actor to expose the man;[91]

Ashamed, she marks that passage with a blot,

And hates the line where candour was forgot.

But what is candour, what is humour's vein,

Though judgment join to consecrate the strain,

If curious numbers will not aid afford,

Nor choicest music play in every word?

Verses must run, to charm a modern ear, 340

From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.

Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze,

Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas;

Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense

A happy tuneful vacancy of sense.

Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage,

Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage;

Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound,

And mangle vigour for the sake of sound.

Henceforth farewell, then, feverish thirst of fame; 350

Farewell the longings for a poet's name;

Perish my Muse--a wish 'bove all severe

To him who ever held the Muses dear--

If e'er her labours weaken to refine

The generous roughness of a nervous line.

Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase;

Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays;

The sense they murder, and the words transpose,

Lest poetry approach too near to prose.

See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, 360

And, like Procrustes, stretch, or lop the limb.

Waller! whose praise succeeding bards rehearse,

Parent of harmony in English verse,

Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows,

In couplets first taught straggling sense to close.

In polish'd numbers and majestic sound,

Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found?

But whilst each line with equal beauty flows.

E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows.

Nature, through all her works, in great degree, 370

Borrows a blessing from variety.

Music itself her needful aid requires

To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.

Still in one key, the nightingale would tease;

Still in one key, not Brent would always please.

Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine,

Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine!

What if some dull lines in cold order creep,

And with his theme the poet seems to sleep?

Still, when his subject rises proud to view, 380

With equal strength the poet rises too:

With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught,

Thought still springs up and rises out of thought;

Numbers ennobling numbers in their course,

In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;

The powers of genius and of judgment join,

And the whole Art of Poetry is thine.

But what are numbers, what are bards to me,

Forbid to tread the paths of poesy?

A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen-- 390

Priests must not hear nor see like other men--

Far higher themes should her ambition claim:

Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame!

Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn,

Let Reason for a moment take her turn.

When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings,

And blindly walk in paper leading-strings,

What if a man delight to pass his time

In spinning reason into harmless rhyme,

Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? 400

Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say?

No two on earth in all things can agree;

All have some darling singularity:

Women and men, as well as girls and boys,

In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys.

Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things,

Are but a better kind of toys for kings.

In things indifferent Reason bids us choose,

Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse.

What the grave triflers on this busy scene, 410

When they make use of this word Reason, mean,

I know not; but according to my plan,

'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man;

Equally form'd to rule in age or youth,

The friend of virtue and the guide to truth;

To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel;

To her decision make my last appeal;

Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain

Should tempt me to take up the pen again;

By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: 420

If Reason's for me, God is for me too.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[83] For occasion, &c. of this, see Life.

[84] 'Hamilton:' Archibald Hamilton, printer of the 'Critical Review.'

[85] 'Voltaire:' Smollett had changed his opinion of Voltaire, and from

praising, had begun to abuse him.

[86] 'Thy name:' Dr Tobias Smollett, the well-known author of 'Roderick

Random, 'The Regicide,' an unfortunate tragedy, and one of the editors

of the 'Critical Review,'is here satirised.

[87] 'Fopperies of France,' &c.: in these lines the poet refers to

Murphy's practice of vamping up French plays, and to his 'Desert

Island,' a ridiculous pastoral drama.

[88] 'Modern tragedy:' Mr Murphy again.

[89] 'Vain tyrant,' &c.: Garrick is here meant; he had displeased

Churchill by pretending that he had written 'The Rosciad' to gain the

freedom of the playhouse. He apologised very humbly to Churchill, and

a reconciliation took place.

[90] 'A man:' Dr Smollett again.

[91] 'Expose the man:' referring to some personal lines on one Mr John

Palmer, which occurred in the first edition, but which he expunged.

NIGHT.[92]

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD.

Contrarius evehor orbi.--OVID, Met. lib. ii.

When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense,

In pity's strains, the worst of insolence,

Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief,

And in thy social converse find relief.

The mind, of solitude impatient grown,

Loves any sorrows rather than her own.

Let slaves to business, bodies without soul,

Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll,

Solemnise nonsense in the day's broad glare,

We Night prefer, which heals or hides our care. 10

Rogues justified, and by success made bold,

Dull fools and coxcombs sanctified by gold,

Freely may bask in fortune's partial ray,

And spread their feathers opening to the day;

But threadbare Merit dares not show the head

Till vain Prosperity retires to bed.

Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light;

The sons of Care are always sons of Night.

The wretch, bred up in Method's drowsy school,

Whose only merit is to err by rule, 20

Who ne'er through heat of blood was tripping caught,

Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought;

Whose soul directed to no use is seen,

Unless to move the body's dull machine,

Which, clock-work like, with the same equal pace

Still travels on through life's insipid space,

Turns up his eyes to think that there should be,

Among God's creatures, two such things as we;

Then for his nightcap calls, and thanks the powers

Which kindly gave him grace to keep good hours. 30

Good hours!--fine words--but was it ever seen

That all men could agree in what they mean?

Florio, who many years a course hath run

In downright opposition to the sun,

Expatiates on good hours, their cause defends

With as much vigour as our prudent friends.

The uncertain term no settled notion brings,

But still in different mouths means different things;

Each takes the phrase in his own private view;

With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two. 40

Go on, ye fools! who talk for talking sake,

Without distinguishing, distinctions make;

Shine forth in native folly, native pride,

Make yourselves rules to all the world beside;

Reason, collected in herself, disdains

The slavish yoke of arbitrary chains;

Steady and true, each circumstance she weighs,

Nor to bare words inglorious tribute pays.

Men of sense live exempt from vulgar awe,

And Reason to herself alone is law: 50

That freedom she enjoys with liberal mind,

Which she as freely grants to all mankind.

No idol-titled name her reverence stirs,

No hour she blindly to the rest prefers;

All are alike, if they're alike employ'd,

And all are good if virtuously enjoy'd.

Let the sage Doctor (think him one we know)

With scraps of ancient learning overflow,

In all the dignity of wig declare

The fatal consequence of midnight air, 60

How damps and vapours, as it were by stealth,

Undermine life, and sap the walls of health:

For me let Galen moulder on the shelf,

I'll live, and be physician to myself.

Whilst soul is join'd to body, whether fate

Allot a longer or a shorter date,

I'll make them live, as brother should with brother,

And keep them in good humour with each other.

The surest road to health, say what they will,

Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 70

Most of those evils we poor mortals know,

From doctors and imagination flow.

Hence to old women with your boasted rules,

Stale traps, and only sacred now to fools;

As well may sons of physic hope to find

One medicine, as one hour, for all mankind!

If Rupert after ten is out of bed,

The fool next morning can't hold up his head;

What reason this which me to bed must call,

Whose head, thank Heaven, never aches at all? 80

In different courses different tempers run;

He hates the moon, I sicken at the sun.

Wound up at twelve at noon, his clock goes right;

Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.

Then in oblivion's grateful cup I drown

The galling sneer, the supercilious frown,

The strange reserve, the proud, affected state

Of upstart knaves grown rich, and fools grown great.

No more that abject wretch[93] disturbs my rest,

Who meanly overlooks a friend distress'd. 90

Purblind to poverty, the worldling goes,

And scarce sees rags an inch beyond his nose;

But from a crowd can single out his Grace,

And cringe and creep to fools who strut in lace.

Whether those classic regions are survey'd

Where we in earliest youth together stray'd,

Where hand in hand we trod the flowery shore,

Though now thy happier genius runs before;

When we conspired a thankless wretch[94] to raise,

And taught a stump to shoot with pilfer'd praise, 100

Who once, for reverend merit famous grown,

Gratefully strove to kick his maker down;

Or if more general arguments engage,--

The court or camp, the pulpit, bar, or stage;

If half-bred surgeons, whom men doctors call,

And lawyers, who were never bred at all,

Those mighty letter'd monsters of the earth,

Our pity move, or exercise our mirth;

Or if in tittle-tattle, toothpick way,

Our rambling thoughts with easy freedom stray,-- 110

A gainer still thy friend himself must find,

His grief suspended, and improved his mind.

Whilst peaceful slumbers bless the homely bed

Where virtue, self-approved, reclines her head;

Whilst vice beneath imagined horrors mourns,

And conscience plants the villain's couch with thorns;

Impatient of restraint, the active mind,

No more by servile prejudice confined,

Leaps from her seat, as waken'd from a trance

And darts through Nature at a single glance 120

Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, survey,

And see by Night what fools we are by day.

Stripp'd of her gaudy plumes, and vain disguise,

See where ambition, mean and loathsome, lies;

Reflection with relentless hand pulls down

The tyrant's bloody wreath and ravish'd crown.

In vain he tells of battles bravely won,

Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone;

Triumphs like these but ill with manhood suit,

And sink the conqueror beneath the brute. 130

But if, in searching round the world, we find

Some generous youth, the friend of all mankind,

Whose anger, like the bolt of Jove, is sped

In terrors only at the guilty head,

Whose mercies, like heaven's dew, refreshing fall

In general love and charity to all,

Pleased we behold such worth on any throne,

And doubly pleased we find it on our own.

Through a false medium things are shown by day;

Pomp, wealth, and titles, judgment lead astray. 140

How many from appearance borrow state,

Whom Night disdains to number with the great!

Must not we laugh to see yon lordling proud

Snuff up vile incense from a fawning crowd?

Whilst in his beam surrounding clients play,

Like insects in the sun's enlivening ray,

Whilst, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate,

And seems the only charioteer of state,

Talking himself into a little god,

And ruling empires with a single nod; 150

Who would not think, to hear him law dispense,

That he had interest, and that they had sense?

Injurious thought! beneath Night's honest shade,

When pomp is buried, and false colours fade,

Plainly we see at that impartial hour,

Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of power.

God help the man, condemn'd by cruel fate

To court the seeming, or the real great!

Much sorrow shall he feel, and suffer more

Than any slave who labours at the oar! 160

By slavish methods must he learn to please,

By smooth-tongued flattery, that cursed court-disease;

Supple, to every wayward mood strike sail,

And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.

To nature dead, he must adopt vile art,

And wear a smile, with anguish in his heart.

A sense of honour would destroy his schemes,

And conscience ne'er must speak unless in dreams.

When he hath tamely borne, for many years,

Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous sneers, 170

When he at last expects, good easy man!

To reap the profits of his labour'd plan,

Some cringing lackey, or rapacious whore,

To favours of the great the surest door,

Some catamite, or pimp, in credit grown,

Who tempts another's wife, or sells his own,

Steps 'cross his hopes, the promised boon denies,

And for some minion's minion claims the prize.

Foe to restraint, unpractised in deceit,

Too resolute, from nature's active heat, 180

To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by,

Too proud to flatter, too sincere to lie,

Too plain to please, too honest to be great,

Give me, kind Heaven, an humbler, happier state:

Far from the place where men with pride deceive,

Where rascals promise, and where fools believe;

Far from the walk of folly, vice, and strife,

Calm, independent, let me steal through life;

Nor one vain wish my steady thoughts beguile

To fear his Lordship's frown, or court his smile. 190

Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy,

And look on riches with untainted eye:

To others let the glittering baubles fall,

Content shall place us far above them all.

Spectators only on this bustling stage,

We see what vain designs mankind engage:

Vice after vice with ardour they pursue,

And one old folly brings forth twenty new.

Perplex'd with trifles through the vale of life,

Man strives 'gainst man, without a cause for strife: 200

Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed

For some vile spot, where fifty cannot feed.

Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right,

For the world's empire kings, ambitious, fight.

What odds?--to us 'tis all the self-same thing,

A nut, a world, a squirrel, and a king.

Britons, like Roman spirits famed of old,

Are cast by nature in a patriot mould;

No private joy, no private grief, they know,

Their souls engross'd by public weal or woe; 210

Inglorious ease, like ours, they greatly scorn;

Let care with nobler wreaths their brows adorn:

Gladly they toil beneath the statesman's pains,

Give them but credit for a statesman's brains.

All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fit

To rule in politics as well as wit.

The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,

Start up (God bless us!) statesman all at once.

His mighty charge of souls the priest forgets,

The court-bred lord his promises and debts; 220

Soldiers their fame, misers forget their pelf,

The rake his mistress, and the fop himself;

Whilst thoughts of higher moment claim their care,

And their wise heads the weight of kingdoms bear.

Females themselves the glorious ardour feel,

And boast an equal or a greater zeal;

From nymph to nymph the state-infection flies,

Swells in her breast, and sparkles in her eyes.

O'erwhelm'd by politics lie malice, pride,

Envy, and twenty other faults beside. 230

No more their little fluttering hearts confess

A passion for applause, or rage for dress;

No more they pant for public raree-shows,

Or lose one thought on monkeys or on beaux:

Coquettes no more pursue the jilting plan,

And lustful prudes forget to rail at man:

The darling theme Cecilia's self will choose,

Nor thinks of scandal whilst she talks of news.

The cit, a common-councilman by place,

Ten thousand mighty nothings in his face, 240

By situation as by nature great,

With nice precision parcels out the state;

Proves and disproves, affirms and then denies,

Objects himself, and to himself replies;

Wielding aloft the politician rod,

Makes Pitt by turns a devil and a god;

Maintains, e'en to the very teeth of Power,

The same thing right and wrong in half an hour:

Now all is well, now he suspects a plot,

And plainly proves, whatever is, is not: 250

Fearfully wise, he shakes his empty head,

And deals out empires as he deals out thread;

His useless scales are in a corner flung,

And Europe's balance hangs upon his tongue.

Peace to such triflers! be our happier plan

To pass through life as easy as we can.

Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine,

Nor stirs my curiosity, nor spleen.

Secrets of state no more I wish to know

Than secret movements of a puppet-show: 260

Let but the puppets move, I've my desire,

Unseen the hand which guides the master-wire.

What is't to us if taxes rise or fall?

Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all.

Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,

Lament those hardships which we cannot feel.

His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please,

But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?

By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow

Free as the light and air some years ago. 270

No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains

To tax our labours, and excise our brains.

Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings bear;

No tribute's laid on castles in the air.

Let, then, the flames of war destructive reign,

And England's terrors awe imperious Spain;

Let every venal clan[95] and neutral tribe

Learn to receive conditions, not prescribe;

Let each new year call loud for new supplies,

And tax on tax with double burthen rise; 280

Exempt we sit, by no rude cares oppress'd,

And, having little, are with little bless'd.

All real ills in dark oblivion lie,

And joys, by fancy form'd, their place supply;

Night's laughing hours unheeded slip away,

Nor one dull thought foretells approach of day.

Thus have we lived, and whilst the Fates afford

Plain plenty to supply the frugal board;

Whilst Mirth with Decency, his lovely bride,

And wine's gay god, with Temperance by his side, 290

Their welcome visit pay; whilst Health attends

The narrow circle of our chosen friends;

Whilst frank Good-humour consecrates the treat,

And woman makes society complete,

Thus will we live, though in our teeth are hurl'd

Those hackney strumpets, Prudence and the World.

Prudence, of old a sacred term, implied

Virtue, with godlike wisdom for her guide;

But now in general use is known to mean

The stalking-horse of vice, and folly's screen. 300

The sense perverted, we retain the name;

Hypocrisy and Prudence are the same.

A tutor once, more read in men than books,

A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks,

Demurely sly, with high preferment bless'd,

His favourite pupil in these words address'd:--

Wouldst thou, my son, be wise and virtuous deem'd;

By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?

Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call;

Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all. 310

Keep up appearances; there lies the test;

The world will give thee credit for the rest.

Outward be fair, however foul within;

Sin if thou wilt, but then in secret sin.

This maxim's into common favour grown,

Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.

Virtue, indeed, may barefaced take the field;

But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.

Should raging passion drive thee to a whore,

Let Prudence lead thee to a postern door; 320

Stay out all night, but take especial care

That Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.

As one with watching and with study faint,

Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a saint.

With joy the youth this useful lesson heard,

And in his memory stored each precious word;

Successfully pursued the plan, and now,

Room for my Lord--Virtue, stand by and bow.

And is this all--is this the worldling's art,

To mask, but not amend a vicious heart 330

Shall lukewarm caution, and demeanour grave,

For wise and good stamp every supple knave

Shall wretches, whom no real virtue warms,

Gild fair their names and states with empty forms;

While Virtue seeks in vain the wish'd-for prize,

Because, disdaining ill, she hates disguise;

Because she frankly pours fourth all her store,

Seems what she is, and scorns to pass for more

Well--be it so--let vile dissemblers hold

Unenvied power, and boast their dear-bought gold; 340

Me neither power shall tempt, nor thirst of pelf,

To flatter others, or deny myself;

Might the whole world be placed within my span,

I would not be that thing, that prudent man.

What! cries Sir Pliant, would you then oppose

Yourself, alone, against a host of foes?

Let not conceit, and peevish lust to rail,

Above all sense of interest prevail.

Throw off, for shame! this petulance of wit;

Be wise, be modest, and for once submit: 350

Too hard the task 'gainst multitudes to fight;

You must be wrong; the World is in the right.

What is this World?--A term which men have got

To signify, not one in ten knows what;

A term, which with no more precision passes

To point out herds of men than herds of asses;

In common use no more it means, we find,

Than many fools in same opinions join'd.

Can numbers, then, change Nature's stated laws?

Can numbers make the worse the better cause? 360

Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue still,

Though thousands rail at good, and practise ill.

Wouldst thou defend the Gaul's destructive rage,

Because vast nations on his part engage?

Though, to support the rebel Caesar's cause,

Tumultuous legions arm against the laws;

Though scandal would our patriot's name impeach,

And rails at virtues which she cannot reach,

What honest man but would with joy submit

To bleed with Cato, and retire with Pitt?[96] 370

Steadfast and true to virtue's sacred laws,

Unmoved by vulgar censure, or applause,

Let the World talk, my friend; that World, we know,

Which calls us guilty, cannot make us so.

Unawed by numbers, follow Nature's plan;

Assert the rights, or quit the name of man.

Consider well, weigh strictly right and wrong;

Resolve not quick, but once resolved, be strong.

In spite of Dulness, and in spite of Wit,

If to thyself thou canst thyself acquit, 380

Rather stand up, assured with conscious pride,

Alone, than err with millions on thy side.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[92] 'Night:' this poem was written to defend the irregularities

imputed to the poet.

[93] 'Abject wretch:' Thornton, who abandoned Lloyd in his distress.

[94] 'Thankless wretch:' one Sellon, a popular clergyman, aided at

first by Churchill and his set, but who betrayed and blackened them

afterwards. We meet with him again in 'The Ghost' as Plausible.

[95] 'Venal Clan:' alluding to Mr Pitt's employing the Highland clans

in the American war.

[96] 'Pitt:' who retired in 1761, because the cabinet would not go to

war with Spain.

THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.

A SCOTS PASTORAL INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ.

Nos patriam fugimus.--VIRGIL.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly

From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,

The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,

Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;

His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire

Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;

Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,

And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse.

So to the sacred mount he takes his way,

Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10

His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,

In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,

The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.

Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,

In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more--

Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies--

Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.

From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale

Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20

The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,

Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.

Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,

And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:

The streams, with music freighted, as they pass

Present the fair Lardella with a glass;

And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,

Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,

These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30

Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,

Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;

Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,

And founds his merit on our servile fears;

Then we discard the workings of the heart,

And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;

Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;

Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:

Then Ostentation marches to our aid,

And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40

Beneath their care behold the work refine,

Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;

Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear

The robes of ancients with a modern air;

Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,

And passes current with the stamp of taste.

Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,

And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;

Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam,

Easy and free as if they were at home; 50

Nymphs, naïads, nereïds, dryads, satyrs, fauns,

Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;

Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome,

More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;

Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn,

And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;

Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise,

And new creations strike our wondering eyes.

For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,

Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60

Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,

Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe;

Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,

And mars one couplet in their happy lays,

As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,

And ask the meaning of her coming there:

For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring,

Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing;

In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze,

And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70

My Lord ----, to letters as to faith most true--

At once their patron and example too--

Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,

Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99]

Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,

Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),

From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat

Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat.

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,

No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80

Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,

Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;

Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,

By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads;

Who often, but without success, have pray'd

For apt Alliteration's artful aid;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,

Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:

Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit

For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90

Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place

Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess--to thy law

Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!

Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules

Imposed at first, and since observed by fools;

Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,

And bring the sober matron forth to view,

With all that artificial tawdry glare

Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100

Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste

Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste;

Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,

Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please;

By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued,

However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,

To northern climes my happier course I steer,

Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year;

Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,

She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110

To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow,

What mighty blessings doth not England owe!

What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense,

Doth each revolving day import from thence?

To us she gives, disinterested friend!

Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end.

When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,

Come not her generous sons and take a share?

And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,

Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120

Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,

Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?

Nor less our debt in science, though denied

By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.

Thence came the Ramsays,[102] names of worthy note,

Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;

Thence, Home,[103] disbanded from the sons of prayer

For loving plays, though no dull Dean[104] was there;

Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[105] call,

That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; 130

Thence Malloch,[106] friend alike to Church and State,

Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate

Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign,

All daring infidels should seek in vain;

Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,

To this wise town by simple patrons brought,

In simple manner utter simple lays,

And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.

Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream,

Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; 140

Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,

And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;

Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;

There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,

As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood--

Wash off my native stains, correct that blood

Which mutinies at call of English pride,

And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

From solemn thought which overhangs the brow

Of patriot care, when things are--God knows how; 150

From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,

In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;

From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power,

And easy Humour wings the laughing hour;

From those soft better moments, when desire

Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire;

When mutual ardours of the melting fair

More than repay us for whole years of care,

At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,

And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 160

That ancient seat, where majesty display'd

Her ensigns, long before the world was made!

Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,

Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind:

Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave,

Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,

Thy honest spirit into practice brings,

Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.

Let rude licentious Englishmen comply

With tumult's voice, and curse--they know not why; 170

Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains

To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,

And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,

Things as they are, and not as they appear.

With thee good humour tempers lively wit;

Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit;

And nature gave thee, open to distress,

A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot

Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, 180

Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,

By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,

Or starves at home, or practises, through fear

Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here.

When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,

The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head,

Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,

And, injured by one alien, rail at all;

On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,

To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190

With needless truths their libels to adorn,

And hang a nation up to public scorn,

Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,

And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;

True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.

Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,

Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

If, by low supple arts successful grown,

They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200

If, mean in want, and insolent in power,

They only fawn'd more surely to devour,

Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm,

And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?

But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,

And follow where true honour points the way,

If they revere the hand by which they're fed,

And bless the donors for their daily bread,

Or, by vast debts of higher import bound,

Are always humble, always grateful found: 210

If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,

Become discreetly all things to all men,

That all men may become all things to them,

Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.

Into our places, states, and beds they creep;

They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.

Once--be the hour accursed, accursed the place!--

I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.

Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid,

By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220

Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,

Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:

But shall I meanly error's path pursue,

When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?

Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?

To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.

Backward I tread the paths I trod before,

And calm reflection hates what passion swore.

Converted, (blessed are the souls which know

Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230

Whether to reason, who now rules my breast,

Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108]

Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim

To raise new trophies to the Scottish name;

To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?)

E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore;

To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes,

In fullest tide roll down to latest times.

Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine,

An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, 240

Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain

Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane?

Should he from toils of government retire,

And for a moment fan the poet's fire;

Should he, of sciences the moral friend,

Each curious, each important search suspend,

Leave unassisted Hill[109] of herbs to tell,

And all the wonders of a cockleshell;

Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,

Would not the Home[110] step forth and gain the prize? 250

Or if this wreath of honour might adorn

The humble brows of one in England born,

Presumptuous still thy daring must appear;

Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here.

Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone,

Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate[111] known,

Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son,

In every party found, and yet of none.

This airy substance, this substantial shade,

Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd. 260

From themes too lofty for a bard so mean,

Discretion beckons to an humbler scene;

The restless fever of ambition laid,

Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade.

Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride,

Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied.

And if plain nature pours a simple strain,

Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain,--

Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all,

Whom English infidels Macpherson call,-- 270

Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave,

And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs

From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings--

Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bred

On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;

By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks

To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;

Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,

The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 280

Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;

Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes;

Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies,

Dress and her vain refinements they despise.

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown,

With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down,

With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,

E'en from the rising to the setting day;

Sawney as long without remorse could bawl

Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: 290

Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,

The Highland lass forgot her want of food;

And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,

Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen;

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:

The plague of locusts they secure defy,

For in three hours a grasshopper must die:

No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,

But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 300

No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;

No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:

No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,

Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:

Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,

Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan:

No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose,[112]

Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows;

By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades

Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 310

One, and but one poor solitary cave,

Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;

That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)

Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.

There snares without, entangling briars spread,

And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head,

Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose;

Thistles now held more precious than the rose.

All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan,

Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man, 320

Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite,

Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight;

Creatures which, when admitted in the ark,

Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,

Found place within: marking her noisome road

With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;

There webs were spread of more than common size,

And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies;

In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;

Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: 330

The cave around with hissing serpents rung;

On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;

And Famine, by her children always known,

As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.

Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,

And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast--

A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,

Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,

The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep,

Of which those shepherds every day _take keep_, 340

Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude,

On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.

JOCKEY.

_Sith_ to this cave by tempest we're confined,

And within _ken_ our flocks, under the wind,

Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,

Are laid _emong_ yon thistles, dry and warm,

What, Sawney, if by shepherds' art we try

To mock the rigour of this cruel sky?

What if we tune some merry roundelay?

Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play. 350

SAWNEY.

Ah! Jockey, ill advisest thou, _I wis_,

To think of songs at such a time as this:

Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,

Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,

Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,

And we forget to live from hand to mouth,

Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart

The songs of gladness with an aching heart.

JOCKEY.

Still have I known thee for a silly swain;

Of things past help, what boots it to complain? 360

Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;

No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:

Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured,

So Donald right areads, must be endured.

SAWNEY.

Full silly swain, _I wot_, is Jockey now.

How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? How,

When with a foreign loon she stole away,

Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay?

Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I

Applied those proverbs which you now apply? 370

JOCKEY.

Oh, she was _bonny_! All the Highlands round

Was there a rival to my Maggy found?

More precious (though that precious is to all)

Than the rare medicine which we Brimstone call,

Or that choice plant,[113] so grateful to the nose,

Which, in I know not what far country, grows,

Was Maggy unto me: dear do I rue

A lass so fair should ever prove untrue.

SAWNEY.

Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear,

Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? 380

Cursed be that year[114] by every honest Scot,

And in the shepherd's calendar forgot,

That fatal year when Jamie, hapless swain!

In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain:

Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled,

Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead.

JOCKEY.

Full sorely may we all lament that day,

For all were losers in the deadly fray.

Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains,

Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains; 390

Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride;

Two in the field, and three on gibbets died.

Ah, silly swains! to follow war's alarms;

Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms?

SAWNEY.

Mention it not--there saw I strangers clad

In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid;

Saw the Ferrara, too, our nation's pride,

Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.

There fell our choicest youth, and from that day

_Mote_ never Sawney tune the merry lay; 400

Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still survive,

To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five!

Thus plain'd the boys, when, from her throne of turf,

With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf,

Vile humours which, in life's corrupted well

Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,

Pale Famine rear'd the head; her eager eyes,

Where hunger e'en to madness seem'd to rise,

Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,

Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start: 410

Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,

Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell;

With double rows of useless teeth supplied,

Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,

Which, when for want of food her entrails pined,

She oped, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind:

All shrivell'd was her skin; and here and there,

Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:

Such filthy sight to hide from human view,

O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw. 420

Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains!

And from a parent hear what Jove ordains.

Pent in this barren corner of the isle,

Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;

Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share

What was rejected by the lawful heir;

Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,

Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;

Long free, because the race of Roman braves

Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves; 430

Then into bondage by that nation brought,

Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;

Whom still with unslaked hate we view, and still,

The power of mischief lost, retain the will;

Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,

A mass till the last moment left behind,

Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,

Whether to stamp with life or throw away;

Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,

But never enter'd in Creation's book; 440

Branded as traitors who, for love of gold,

Would sell their God, as once their king they sold,--

Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,

These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.

But times of happier note are now at hand,

And the full promise of a better land:

There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,

For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,

A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains,

Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns: 450

With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,

Who worship Interest and our track pursue;

There shall we, though the wretched people grieve,

Ravage at large, nor ask the owners' leave.

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase;

For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece;

Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own,

And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown:

For our advantage shall their harvests grow,

And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow: 460

For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;

For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil.

When to our wishes Nature cannot rise,

Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies;

His brawny arm shall drudging Labour strain,

And for our pleasure suffer daily pain:

Trade shall for us exert her utmost powers,

Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours:

For us, the oak shall from his native steep

Descend, and fearless travel through the deep: 470

The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd,

Shall waft the treasures of each distant world:

For us, sublimer heights shall science reach;

For us, their statesman plot, their churchmen preach:

Their noblest limbs of council we'll disjoint,

And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint.

Devouring War, imprison'd in the North,

Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,

And when, his chariot-wheels with thunder hung,

Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue, 480

Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,

And Desolation stalking in the rear,

Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train,

He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,

Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,

And to meek, gentle, generous Peace give way.

Think not, my sons, that this so bless'd estate

Stands at a distance on the roll of fate;

Already big with hopes of future sway,

E'en from this cave I scent my destined prey. 490

Think not that this dominion o'er a race,

Whose former deeds shall time's last annals grace,

In the rough face of peril must be sought,

And with the lives of thousands dearly bought:

No--fool'd by cunning, by that happy art

Which laughs to scorn the blundering hero's heart,

Into the snare shall our kind neighbours fall

With open eyes, and fondly give us all.

When Rome, to prop her sinking empire, bore

Their choicest levies to a foreign shore, 500

What if we seized, like a destroying flood,

Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood;

Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage,

And, scorning mercy, spared nor sex, nor age?

When, for our interest too mighty grown,

Monarchs of warlike bent possessed the throne,

What if we strove divisions to foment,

And spread the flames of civil discontent,

Assisted those who 'gainst their king made head,

And gave the traitors refuge when they fled? 510

When restless Glory bade her sons advance,

And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France,

What if, disdaining oaths,--an empty sound,

By which our nation never shall be bound,--

Bravely we taught unmuzzled War to roam,

Through the weak land, and brought cheap laurels home?

When the bold traitors, leagued for the defence

Of law, religion, liberty, and sense,

When they against their lawful monarch rose,

And dared the Lord's anointed to oppose, 520

What if we still revered the banish'd race,

And strove the royal vagrants to replace;

With fierce rebellions shook the unsettled state,

And greatly dared, though cross'd by partial fate?

These facts, which might, where wisdom held the sway,

Awake the very stones to bar our way,

There shall be nothing, nor one trace remain

In the dull region of an English brain;

Bless'd with that faith which mountains can remove,

First they shall dupes, next saints, last martyrs, prove. 530

Already is this game of Fate begun

Under the sanction of my darling son;[115]

That son, of nature royal as his name,

Is destined to redeem our race from shame:

His boundless power, beyond example great,

Shall make the rough way smooth, the crooked straight;

Shall for our ease the raging floods restrain,

And sink the mountain level to the plain.

Discord, whom in a cavern under ground

With massy fetters their late patriot bound; 540

Where her own flesh the furious hag might tear,

And vent her curses to the vacant air;

Where, that she never might be heard of more,

He planted Loyalty to guard the door,

For better purpose shall our chief release,

Disguise her for a time, and call her Peace.[116]

Lured by that name--fine engine of deceit!--

Shall the weak English help themselves to cheat;

To gain our love, with honours shall they grace

The old adherents of the Stuart race, 550

Who, pointed out no matter by what name,

Tories or Jacobites, are still the same;

To soothe our rage the temporising brood

Shall break the ties of truth and gratitude,

Against their saviour venom'd falsehoods frame,

And brand with calumny their William's name:

To win our grace, (rare argument of wit!)

To our untainted faith shall they commit

(Our faith, which, in extremest perils tried,

Disdain'd, and still disdains, to change her side) 560

That sacred Majesty they all approve,

Who most enjoys, and best deserves their love.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[97] 'Mason:' William Mason, author of 'Elfrida,' 'Caractacus,' and an

'Elegy on the Death of the Countess of Coventry,' the intimate friend,

executor, and biographer of Gray.

[98] 'Gisbal:' a stupid and scurrilous attack on Scotland.

[99] 'Weeping streams:' referring to Lord Lyttelton's Monody on his

wife's death, and his Essay on the conversion of Paul.

[100] 'Stuarts:' the family name of Lord Bute.

[101] 'Holy martyr:' Charles I.

[102] 'Ramsays:' Allan Ramsay, author of the 'Gentle Shepherd,' and his

son (Allan), a fine painter, intimate with Reynolds and Johnson.

[103] 'Home:' John Home, the well known author of 'Douglas.' See

Mackenzie's Life.

[104] 'Dull Dean:' Dr Zachary Pearce, Bishop of Rochester and Dean of

Westminster, who rebuked Churchill for writing on players and dressing

like a layman.

[105] 'Great Macpherson:' James Macpherson, translator or author of

'Ossian.'

[106] 'Malloch:' David Mallett, son of an innkeeper in Crieff, friend

of Thomson's, author of a poor life of Bacon, and of one good ballad,

'William and Margaret,' editor of Bolingbroke's posthumous infidel

works, under-secretary to the Prince of Wales, and a pensioner.

[107] 'North Briton:' the famous paper conducted by Wilkes.

[108] 'Lyttelton and West:' George Lord Lyttelton, author of the

history of Henry II. and Gilbert West, the translator of Pindar, both

originally sceptical, but both converted,--the one, the author of a

Dissertation on Paul's conversion; the other, of a book on the

resurrection of Christ.

[109] 'Hill,' a protégé of Lord Bute's. See a note upon 'The Rescind.'

[110] 'Home:' John Home, another of Lord Bute's protégés.

[111] 'Laureate:' William Whitehead, Laureate after C. Cibber, who had

somehow provoked Churchill.

[112] 'White rose:' The emblem of the Jacobites, a white rose, was worn

by them, in honour of the young Pretender's birthday, on the 10th of

June.

[113] 'Choice plant:' Tobacco.

[114] 'That year:' the year 1745.

[115] 'Darling son:' Bute.

[116] 'Peace:' that of 1763, abused by all the Opposition.

AN EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HOGARTH.[117]

Amongst the sons of men how few are known

Who dare be just to merit not their own!

Superior virtue and superior sense,

To knaves and fools, will always give offence;

Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,

So nice is jealousy, a rival there.

Be wicked as thou wilt; do all that's base;

Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race:

Let vice and folly thy black soul divide;

Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride. 10

Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fall

From side to side, yet be of none at all:

Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,

Which Nature, in her bounty, good as wise,

To work our safety, and ensure her plan,

Contrived to bind and rivet man to man:

Lift against Virtue, Power's oppressive rod;

Betray thy country, and deny thy God;

And, in one general comprehensive line,

To group, which volumes scarcely could define, 20

Whate'er of sin and dulness can be said,

Join to a Fox's[118] heart a Dashwood's[119] head;

Yet may'st thou pass unnoticed in the throng,

And, free from envy, safely sneak along:

The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown

To saints whose lives are better than his own,

Shall spare thy crimes; and Wit, who never once

Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.

But should thy soul, form'd in some luckless hour,

Vile interest scorn, nor madly grasp at power; 30

Should love of fame, in every noble mind

A brave disease, with love of virtue join'd,

Spur thee to deeds of pith, where courage, tried

In Reason's court, is amply justified:

Or, fond of knowledge, and averse to strife,

Shouldst thou prefer the calmer walk of life;

Shouldst thou, by pale and sickly study led,

Pursue coy Science to the fountain-head;

Virtue thy guide, and public good thy end,

Should every thought to our improvement tend, 40

To curb the passions, to enlarge the mind,

Purge the sick Weal, and humanise mankind;

Rage in her eye, and malice in her breast,

Redoubled Horror grining on her crest,

Fiercer each snake, and sharper every dart,

Quick from her cell shall maddening Envy start.

Then shalt thou find, but find, alas! too late,

How vain is worth! how short is glory's date!

Then shalt thou find, whilst friends with foes conspire,

To give more proof than virtue would desire, 50

Thy danger chiefly lies in acting well;

No crime's so great as daring to excel.

Whilst Satire thus, disdaining mean control,

Urged the free dictates of an honest soul,

Candour, who, with the charity of Paul,

Still thinks the best, whene'er she thinks at all,

With the sweet milk of human kindness bless'd,

The furious ardour of my zeal repress'd.

Canst thou, with more than usual warmth she cried,

Thy malice to indulge, and feed thy pride; 60

Canst thou, severe by nature as thou art,

With all that wondrous rancour in thy heart,

Delight to torture truth ten thousand ways,

To spin detraction forth from themes of praise,

To make Vice sit, for purposes of strife,

And draw the hag much larger than the life,

To make the good seem bad, the bad seem worse,

And represent our nature as our curse?

Doth not humanity condemn that zeal

Which tends to aggravate and not to heal? 70

Doth not discretion warn thee of disgrace,

And danger, grinning, stare thee in the face,

Loud as the drum, which, spreading terror round,

From emptiness acquires the power of sound?

Doth not the voice of Norton[120] strike thy ear,

And the pale Mansfield[121] chill thy soul with fear?

Dost thou, fond man, believe thyself secure

Because thou'rt honest, and because thou'rt poor?

Dost thou on law and liberty depend?

Turn, turn thy eyes, and view thy injured friend. 80

Art thou beyond the ruffian gripe of Power,

When Wilkes, prejudged, is sentenced to the Tower?

Dost thou by privilege exemption claim,

When privilege is little more than name?

Or to prerogative (that glorious ground

On which state scoundrels oft have safety found)

Dost thou pretend, and there a sanction find,

Unpunish'd, thus to libel human-kind

When poverty, the poet's constant crime,

Compell'd thee, all unfit, to trade in rhyme, 90

Had not romantic notions turn'd thy head,

Hadst thou not valued honour more than bread;

Had Interest, pliant Interest, been thy guide,

And had not Prudence been debauch'd by Pride,

In Flattery's stream thou wouldst have dipp'd thy pen,

Applied to great and not to honest men;

Nor should conviction have seduced thy heart

To take the weaker, though the better part.

What but rank folly, for thy curse decreed,

Could into Satire's barren path mislead, 100

When, open to thy view, before thee lay

Soul-soothing Panegyric's flowery way?

There might the Muse have saunter'd at her ease,

And, pleasing others, learn'd herself to please;

Lords should have listen'd to the sugar'd treat,

And ladies, simpering, own'd it vastly sweet;

Rogues, in thy prudent verse with virtue graced,

Fools mark'd by thee as prodigies of taste,

Must have forbid, pouring preferments down,

Such wit, such truth as thine to quit the gown. 110

Thy sacred brethren, too, (for they, no less

Than laymen, bring their offerings to success)

Had hail'd thee good if great, and paid the vow

Sincere as that they pay to God, whilst thou

In lawn hadst whisper'd to a sleeping crowd,

As dull as Rochester[122], and half as proud.

Peace, Candour--wisely hadst thou said, and well,

Could Interest in this breast one moment dwell;

Could she, with prospect of success, oppose

The firm resolves which from conviction rose. 120

I cannot truckle to a fool of state,

Nor take a favour from the man I hate:

Free leave have others by such means to shine;

I scorn their practice; they may laugh at mine.

But in this charge, forgetful of thyself,

Thou hast assumed the maxims of that elf,

Whom God in wrath, for man's dishonour framed,

Cunning in heaven, amongst us Prudence named,

That servile prudence, which I leave to those

Who dare not be my friends, can't be my foes. 130

Had I, with cruel and oppressive rhymes,

Pursued and turn'd misfortunes into crimes;

Had I, when Virtue gasping lay and low,

Join'd tyrant Vice, and added woe to woe;

Had I made Modesty in blushes speak,

And drawn the tear down Beauty's sacred cheek;

Had I (damn'd then) in thought debased my lays,

To wound that sex which honour bids me praise;

Had I, from vengeance, by base views betray'd.

In endless night sunk injured Ayliffe's[123] shade; 140

Had I (which satirists of mighty name[124],

Renown'd in rhyme, revered for moral fame,

Have done before, whom Justice shall pursue

In future verse) brought forth to public view

A noble friend, and made his foibles known,

Because his worth was greater than my own;

Had I spared those (so Prudence had decreed)

Whom, God so help me at my greatest need!

I ne'er will spare, those vipers to their king

Who smooth their looks, and flatter whilst they sting; 150

Or had I not taught patriot zeal to boast

Of those who flatter least, but love him most;

Had I thus sinn'd, my stubborn soul should bend

At Candour's voice, and take, as from a friend,

The deep rebuke; myself should be the first

To hate myself, and stamp my Muse accursed.

But shall my arm--forbid it, manly pride!

Forbid it, reason! warring on my side--

For vengeance lifted high, the stroke forbear,

And hang suspended in the desert air, 160

Or to my trembling side unnerved sink down,

Palsied, forsooth, by Candour's half-made frown?

When Justice bids me on, shall I delay

Because insipid Candour bars my way?

When she, of all alike the puling friend,

Would disappoint my satire's noblest end;

When she to villains would a sanction give,

And shelter those who are not fit to live;

When she would screen the guilty from a blush,

And bids me spare whom Reason bids me crush, 170

All leagues with Candour proudly I resign;

She cannot be for Honour's turn, nor mine.

Yet come, cold Monitor! half foe, half friend,

Whom Vice can't fear, whom Virtue can't commend;

Come, Candour, by thy dull indifference known,

Thou equal-blooded judge, thou lukewarm drone,

Who, fashion'd without feelings, dost expect

We call that virtue--which we know defect;

Come, and observe the nature of our crimes,

The gross and rank complexion of the times; 180

Observe it well, and then review my plan,

Praise if you will, or censure if you can.

Whilst Vice presumptuous lords it as in sport,

And Piety is only known at court;

Whilst wretched Liberty expiring lies,

Beneath the fatal burthen of Excise;

Whilst nobles act, without one touch of shame,

What men of humble rank would blush to name;

Whilst Honour's placed in highest point of view,

Worshipp'd by those who Justice never knew; 190

Whilst bubbles of distinction waste in play

The hours of rest, and blunder through the day;

With dice and cards opprobrious vigils keep,

Then turn to ruin empires in their sleep;

Whilst fathers[125], by relentless passion led,

Doom worthy injured sons to beg their bread,

Merely with ill-got, ill-saved, wealth to grace,

An alien, abject, poor, proud, upstart race!

Whilst Martin[126] flatters only to betray,

And Webb[127] gives up his dirty soul for pay, 200

Whilst titles serve to hush a villain's fears;

Whilst peers are agents made, and agents peers;

Whilst base betrayers are themselves betray'd,

And makers ruin'd by the thing they made;

Whilst C----,[128] false to God and man, for gold,

Like the old traitor who a Saviour sold,

To shame his master, friend, and father gives;

Whilst Bute remains in power, whilst Holland lives;--

Can Satire want a subject, where Disdain,

By Virtue fired, may point her sharpest strain, 210

Where, clothed with thunder, Truth may roll along,

And Candour justify the rage of song?

Such things! such men before thee! such an age!

Where Rancour, great as thine, may glut her rage,

And sicken e'en to surfeit; where the pride

Of Satire, pouring down in fullest tide,

May spread wide vengeance round, yet all the while

Justice behold the ruin with a smile;

Whilst I, thy foe misdeem'd, cannot condemn,

Nor disapprove that rage I wish to stem, 220

Wilt thou, degenerate and corrupted, choose

To soil the credit of thy haughty Muse?

With fallacy, most infamous, to stain

Her truth, and render all her anger vain?

When I beheld thee, incorrect, but bold,

A various comment on the stage unfold;

When players on players before thy satire fell,

And poor Reviews conspired thy wrath to swell;

When states and statesmen next became thy care,

And only kings were safe if thou wast there, 230

Thy every word I weigh'd in judgment's scale,

And in thy every word found truth prevail;

Why dost thou now to falsehood meanly fly?

Not even Candour can forgive a lie.

Bad as men are, why should thy frantic rhymes

Traffic in slander, and invent new crimes?--

Crimes which, existing only in thy mind,

Weak spleen brings forth to blacken all mankind.

By pleasing hopes we lure the human heart

To practise virtue and improve in art; 240

To thwart these ends (which, proud of honest fame,

A noble Muse would cherish and inflame)

Thy drudge contrives, and in our full career

Sicklies our hopes with the pale hue of fear;

Tells us that all our labours are in vain;

That what we seek, we never can obtain;

That, dead to virtue, lost to Nature's plan,

Envy possesses the whole race of man;

That worth is criminal, and danger lies,

Danger extreme, in being good and wise. 250

'Tis a rank falsehood; search the world around,

There cannot be so vile a monster found,

Not one so vile, on whom suspicions fall

Of that gross guilt which you impute to all.

Approved by those who disobey her laws,

Virtue from Vice itself extorts applause:

Her very foes bear witness to her state;

They will not love her, but they cannot hate.

Hate Virtue for herself! with spite pursue

Merit for Merit's sake! might this be true, 260

I would renounce my nature with disdain,

And with the beasts that perish graze the plain;

Might this be true,--had we so far fill'd up

The measure of our crimes, and from the cup

Of guilt so deeply drank, as not to find,

Thirsting for sin, one drop, one dreg behind;

Quick ruin must involve this flaming ball,

And Providence in justice crush us all.

None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst,

Those who for double guilt are doubly cursed, 270

Can be so lost; nor can the worst of all

At once into such deep damnation fall;

By painful slow degrees they reach this crime,

Which e'en in hell must be a work of time.

Cease, then, thy guilty rage, thou wayward son,

With the foul gall of Discontent o'errun;

List to my voice,--be honest, if you can,

Nor slander Nature in her favourite, man.

But if thy spirit, resolute in ill,

Once having err'd, persists in error still, 280

Go on at large, no longer worth my care,

And freely vent those blasphemies in air,

Which I would stamp as false, though on the tongue

Of angels the injurious slander hung.

Duped by thy vanity (that cunning elf

Who snares the coxcomb to deceive himself),

Or blinded by thy rage, didst thou believe

That we too, coolly, would ourselves deceive?

That we, as sterling, falsehood would admit,

Because 'twas season'd with some little wit? 290

When fiction rises pleasing to the eye,

Men will believe, because they love the lie;

But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown,

Must have some solemn proof to pass her down.

Hast thou, maintaining that which must disgrace

And bring into contempt the human race,

Hast thou, or canst thou, in Truth's sacred court,

To save thy credit, and thy cause support,

Produce one proof, make out one real ground,

On which so great, so gross a charge to found? 300

Nay, dost thou know one man (let that appear,

From wilful falsehood I'll proclaim thee clear),

One man so lost, to nature so untrue,

From whom this general charge thy rashness drew?

On this foundation shalt thou stand or fall--

Prove that in one which you have charged on all.

Reason determines, and it must be done;

'Mongst men, or past, or present, name me one.

Hogarth,--I take thee, Candour, at thy word,

Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard; 310

Thee have I heard with virulence declaim,

Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name;

By thee have I been charged in angry strains

With that mean falsehood which my soul disdains--

Hogarth, stand forth;--Nay, hang not thus aloof--

Now, Candour, now thou shalt receive such proof,

Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fear

To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear;--

Hogarth, stand forth--I dare thee to be tried

In that great court where Conscience must preside; 320

At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;

Think before whom, on what account, you stand;

Speak, but consider well;--from first to last

Review thy life, weigh every action past;

Nay, you shall have no reason to complain--

Take longer time, and view them o'er again.

Canst thou remember from thy earliest youth,

And as thy God must judge thee, speak the truth,

A single instance where, self laid aside,

And Justice taking place of Fear and Pride, 330

Thou with an equal eye didst Genius view,

And give to Merit what was Merit's due?

Genius and Merit are a sure offence,

And thy soul sickens at the name of sense.

Is any one so foolish to succeed?

On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed.

Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,

The place of executioner supplies:

See how he gloats, enjoys the sacred feast,

And proves himself by cruelty a priest! 340

Whilst the weak artist, to thy whims a slave,

Would bury all those powers which Nature gave;

Would suffer blank concealment to obscure

Those rays thy jealousy could not endure;

To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,

And to secure thy credit, blast his own,

In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend;

He could not fear, and therefore might commend.

But when his spirit, roused by honest shame,

Shook off that lethargy, and soar'd to fame; 350

When, with the pride of man, resolved and strong,

He scorn'd those fears which did his honour wrong,

And, on himself determined to rely,

Brought forth his labours to the public eye,

No friend in thee could such a rebel know;

He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe.

Souls of a timorous cast, of petty name

In Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,

May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel,

And suffer honour to abate their zeal; 360

But the man truly and completely great,

Allows no rule of action but his hate;

Through every bar he bravely breaks his way,

Passion his principle, and parts his prey.

Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mind

Within the pale of temperance confined;

The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes,

And, good or bad, is always in extremes.

Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every age

On the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage, 370

'Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made,

In way of science, and in way of trade:

Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite,

First works, then views their ruin with delight.

Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines,

And nobly on the general plan refines;

He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;

Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found.

Should painters only his vast wrath suffice?

Genius in every walk is lawful prize: 380

'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state;

His love to merit is to feel his hate.

When Wilkes, our countryman, our common friend,

Arose, his king, his country to defend;

When tools of power he bared to public view,

And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;

When Rancour found it far beyond her reach

To soil his honour, and his truth impeach;

What could induce thee, at a time and place

Where manly foes had blush'd to show their face, 390

To make that effort which must damn thy name,

And sink thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?

Did virtue move thee? No; 'twas pride, rank pride,

And if thou hadst not done it, thou hadst died.

Malice (who, disappointed of her end,

Whether to work the bane of foe or friend,

Preys on herself, and, driven to the stake,

Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take)

Had kill'd thee, tottering on life's utmost verge,

Had Wilkes and Liberty escaped thy scourge. 400

When that Great Charter, which our fathers bought

With their best blood, was into question brought;

When, big with ruin, o'er each English head

Vile Slavery hung suspended by a thread;

When Liberty, all trembling and aghast,

Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past;

When every breast was chill'd with deep despair,

Till Reason pointed out that Pratt[129] was there;--

Lurking, most ruffian-like, behind the screen,

So placed all things to see, himself unseen, 410

Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,

The murderous pencil in his palsied hand.

What was the cause of Liberty to him,

Or what was Honour? let them sink or swim,

So he may gratify, without control,

The mean resentments of his selfish soul;

Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,

In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too.

With all the symptoms of assured decay,

With age and sickness pinch'd and worn away, 420

Pale quivering lips, lank cheeks, and faltering tongue,

The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,

Thy body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes sunk

Within their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk,

The body's weight unable to sustain,

The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,

More than half kill'd by honest truths which fell,

Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee well--

Canst thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,

And, dead to all things else, to malice live? 430

Hence, dotard, to thy closet; shut thee in;

By deep repentance wash away thy sin;

From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,

And, on the verge of death, learn how to die!

Vain exhortation! wash the Ethiop white,

Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,

Control the course of Nature, bid the deep

Hush at thy pigmy voice her waves to sleep--

Perform things passing strange, yet own thy art

Too weak to work a change in such a heart; 440

That Envy, which was woven in the frame

At first, will to the last remain the same.

Reason may droop, may die; but Envy's rage

Improves by time, and gathers strength from age.

Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,

Unread, unpractised in the ways of men,

Tell us that Envy, who, with giant stride,

Stalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,

Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,

And calmly hears her praises after death. 450

To such observers Hogarth gives the lie;

Worth may be hearsed, but Envy cannot die;

Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,

A mansion suited well to such a guest,

Immortal, unimpair'd, she rears her head,

And damns alike the living and the dead.

Oft have I known thee, Hogarth, weak and vain,

Thyself the idol of thy awkward strain,

Through the dull measure of a summer's day,

In phrase most vile, prate long, long hours away, 460

Whilst friends with friends, all gaping sit, and gaze,

To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise.

But if athwart thee Interruption came,

And mention'd with respect some ancient's name,

Some ancient's name who, in the days of yore,

The crown of Art with greatest honour wore,

How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale,

And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!

How hath thy jealousy to madness grown,

And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own! 470

Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,

And arts and artists all became thy prey;

Then didst thou trample on establish'd rules,

And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools;

Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages graced,

Which you had never seen, or could not taste;

But would mankind have true perfection shown,

It must be found in labours of my own:

I dare to challenge, in one single piece,

The united force of Italy and Greece. 480

Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,

And brought the boasted masterpiece to view.

Spare thy remarks--say not a single word--

The picture seen, why is the painter heard?

Call not up shame and anger in our cheeks;

Without a comment Sigismunda[130] speaks.

Poor Sigismunda! what a fate is thine!

Dryden, the great high-priest of all the Nine,

Revived thy name, gave what a Muse could give,

And in his numbers bade thy memory live; 490

Gave thee those soft sensations which might move

And warm the coldest anchorite to love;

Gave thee that virtue, which could curb desire,

Refine and consecrate love's headstrong fire;

Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel,

And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;

Gave thee that firmness, which our sex may shame,

And make man bow to woman's juster claim;

So that our tears, which from compassion flow,

Seem to debase thy dignity of woe. 500

But, oh, how much unlike! how fallen! how changed!

How much from Nature and herself estranged!

How totally deprived of all the powers

To show her feelings, and awaken ours,

Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand,

The helpless victim of a dauber's hand!

But why, my Hogarth, such a progress made,

So rare a pattern for the sign-post trade,

In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,

Why was heroic painting laid aside? 510

Why is it not resumed? thy friends at court,

Men all in place and power, crave thy support;

Be grateful then for once, and through the field

Of politics thy epic pencil wield;

Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,

And would maintain too, but they know not how.

Through every pannel let thy virtue tell

How Bute prevail'd, how Pitt and Temple fell;

How England's sons (whom they conspired to bless.

Against our will, with insolent success) 520

Approve their fall, and with addresses run--

How got, God knows--to hail the Scottish sun;[131]

Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd

From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;

Thine, and thy country's honour to increase,

Point out the honours of succeeding peace;

Our moderation, Christian-like, display,

Show what we got, and what we gave away;

In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,

Let a state-chaos through the whole prevail. 530

But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,

Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;

Whilst her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call,

And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall;

Whilst a dear country, and an injured friend,

Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end;

Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are raised,

Let not one real virtue pass unpraised;

Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,

And loves the virtue of her greatest foe. 540

Oh! that I here could that rare virtue mean,

Which scorns the rule of envy, pride, and spleen,

Which springs not from the labour'd works of art,

But hath its rise from Nature in the heart;

Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,

And spreads with joy the blessing all around!

But truth forbids, and in these simple lays,

Contented with a different kind of praise,

Must Hogarth stand; that praise which Genius gives,

In which to latest time the artist lives, 550

But not the man; which, rightly understood,

May make us great, but cannot make us good:

That praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wear

The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there:

Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,

Myself would labour to replace the crown.

In walks of humour, in that cast of style,

Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;

In comedy, his natural road to fame,--

Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 560

Where a beginning, middle, and an end,

Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,

Each made for each, as bodies for their soul,

So as to form one true and perfect whole;

Where a plain story to the eye is told,

Which we conceive the moment we behold,--

Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engage

Unrivall'd praise to the most distant age.

How couldst thou, then, to shame perversely run,

And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun? 570

Why did ambition overleap her rules,

And thy vast parts become the sport of fools?

By different methods different men excel;

But where is he who can do all things well?

Humour thy province, for some monstrous crime

Pride struck thee with the frenzy of sublime;

But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind

So partial be, and to herself so blind,

What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe,

Nor see those faults which every blockhead saw? 580

Blush, thou vain man! and if desire of fame,

Founded on real art, thy thoughts inflame,

To quick destruction Sigismunda give,

And let her memory die, that thine may live.

But should fond Candour, for her mercy sake,

With pity view, and pardon this mistake;

Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,

Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;

Of arts despised, of artists, by thy frown

Awed from just hopes, of rising worth kept down, 590

Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,

Canst thou the living memory erase?

Or shall not vengeance follow to the grave,

And give back just that measure which you gave?

With so much merit, and so much success,

With so much power to curse, so much to bless,

Would he have been man's friend, instead of foe,

Hogarth had been a little god below.

Why, then, like savage giants, famed of old,

Of whom in Scripture story we are told, 600

Dost thou in cruelty that strength employ,

Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?

Why dost thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,

Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made?

Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art,

But even Candour must condemn thy heart.

For me, who, warm and zealous for my friend,

In spite of railing thousands, will commend;

And no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,

Spite of commending thousands, will oppose, 610

I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,

But with an eye of pity view thy age;

Thy feeble age, in which, as in a glass,

We see how men to dissolution pass.

Thou wretched being, whom, on Reason's plan,

So changed, so lost, I cannot call a man,

What could persuade thee, at this time of life,

To launch afresh into the sea of strife?

Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,

Almost as much a child as at thy birth, 620

To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,

And sunk unnoticed in the arms of Death.

Why would thy gray, gray hairs resentment brave,

Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?

Now, by my soul! it makes me blush to know,

My spirit could descend to such a foe:

Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,

It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke.

Sure 'tis a curse which angry fates impose,

To mortify man's arrogance, that those 630

Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,

Much sooner than the common herd decay.

What bitter pangs must humbled Genius feel,

In their last hours to view a Swift and Steele!

How must ill-boding horrors fill her breast,

When she beholds men mark'd above the rest

For qualities most dear, plunged from that height,

And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night!

Are men, indeed, such things? and are the best

More subject to this evil than the rest, 640

To drivel out whole years of idiot breath,

And sit the monuments of living death?

Oh, galling circumstance to human pride!

Abasing thought, but not to be denied!

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,

Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.

Constant attention wears the active mind,

Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.

But let not youth, to insolence allied,

In heat of blood, in full career of pride, 650

Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rage

Mock the infirmities of reverend age:

The greatest genius to this fate may bow;

Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[117] For occasion of this poem, see Life.

[118] 'Fox:' Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland, supposed not to be

over-honest.

[119] 'Dashwood:' Sir Francis Dashwood, generally thought a bigoted and

stupid Tory.

[120] 'Norton:' Sir Fletcher Norton, Attorney-General from 1763 to

1765, created a peer in 1782 by the title of Lord Grantley.

[121] 'Mansfield:' the celebrated Murray, Lord Mansfield. See Junius.

[122] 'Rochester:' Pearce, Bishop of Rochester, mentioned above as a

foe to Churchill.

[123] 'Ayliffe:' a forger of the period, said to have been ill-used by

Lord Holland. Churchill intended to write a poem, entitled, 'Ayliffe's

Ghost,' but did not live to accomplish his intention.

[124] 'Mighty name:' Pope, referring to his famous attack on Addison.

[125] 'Fathers:' Thomas Potter, Esq., a man of splendid abilities, was

disinherited by his father, the Archbishop of Canterbury, on account of

his dissolute life.

[126] 'Martin:' Samuel Martin, Esq., F.R.S., M.P. for Camelford; the

hero of 'The Duellist.'

[127] 'Webb:' Philip Carteret Webb. Esq., Solicitor to the Treasury.

[128] 'C----:' name not known.

[129] 'Pratt:' Charles Pratt, Earl Camden, Chief-Justice of the Common

Pleas, friendly to Wilkes. See Junius.

[130] 'Sigismunda;' a detestable miscreation of Hogarth's pencil,

admired by none but himself.

[131] 'The Scottish sun:' The addresses to the King which followed the

parliamentary approbation of the preliminary articles of peace in 1763,

were obtained by means equally dishonourable and corrupt.

THE DUELLIST.[132]

In Three Books.

BOOK I.

The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe

Darkness had spread her pitchy robe:

Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod,

Treading as if in fear he trod,

Gentle as dews at even-tide,

Distill'd his poppies far and wide.

Ambition, who, when waking, dreams

Of mighty, but fantastic schemes,

Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest

With which the humbler soul is blest, 10

Was building castles in the air,

Goodly to look upon, and fair,

But on a bad foundation laid,

Doom'd at return of morn to fade.

Pale Study, by the taper's light,

Wearing away the watch of night,

Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head,

Remember'd nothing that he read.

Starving 'midst plenty, with a face

Which might the court of Famine grace, 20

Ragged, and filthy to behold,

Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold.

Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed,

With watchings worn, reluctant dozed;

And, mean Distrust not quite forgot,

Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not.

Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground,

His hardy offspring sleeping round,

Snored restless Labour; by his side

Lay Health, a coarse but comely bride. 30

Virtue, without the doctor's aid,

In the soft arms of Sleep was laid;

Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast,

Could not be physic'd into rest.

Thou bloody man! whose ruffian knife

Is drawn against thy neighbour's life,

And never scruples to descend

Into the bosom of a friend;

A firm, fast friend, by vice allied,

And to thy secret service tied, 40

In whom ten murders breed no awe,

If properly secured from law:

Thou man of lust! whom passion fires

To foulest deeds, whose hot desires

O'er honest bars with ease make way,

Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey,

And to indulge thy brutal flame

A Lucrece must be brought to shame;

Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bear

Rank incest to the open air, 50

And rapes, full blown upon thy crown,

Enough to weigh a nation down:

Thou simular of lust! vain man,

Whose restless thoughts still form the plan

Of guilt, which, wither'd to the root,

Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,

Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bones

Desire without enjoyment groans:

Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothes

E'en like a garment; who with oaths 60

Dost trifle, as with brokers, meant

To serve thy every vile intent,

In the day's broad and searching eye

Making God witness to a lie,

Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf,

And hanging friends[133] to save thyself:

Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul

On the four aces doom'd to roll,

Was never yet with Honour caught,

Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; 70

Who dost thy wife, thy children set,

Thy all, upon a single bet,

Risking, the desperate stake to try,

Here and hereafter on a die;

Who, thy own private fortune lost,

Dost game on at thy country's cost,

And, grown expert in sharping rules,

First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools:

Thou noble gamester! whose high place

Gives too much credit to disgrace; 80

Who, with the motion of a die,

Dost make a mighty island fly--

The sums, I mean, of good French gold

For which a mighty island sold;

Who dost betray intelligence,

Abuse the dearest confidence,

And, private fortune to create,

Most falsely play the game of state;

Who dost within the Alley sport

Sums which might beggar a whole court, 90

And make us bankrupts all, if Care,

With good Earl Talbot,[134] was not there:

Thou daring infidel! whom pride

And sin have drawn from Reason's side;

Who, fearing his avengeful rod,

Dost wish not to believe a God;

Whose hope is founded on a plan

Which should distract the soul of man,

And make him curse his abject birth;

Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, 100

There to lie down, for worms a feast,

To rot and perish like a beast;

Who dost, of punishment afraid,

And by thy crimes a coward made,

To every generous soul a curse

Than Hell and all her torments worse,

When crawling to thy latter end,

Call on Destruction as a friend,

Choosing to crumble into dust

Rather than rise, though rise you must: 110

Thou hypocrite! who dost profane,

And take the patriot's name in vain;

Then most thy country's foe, when most

Of love and loyalty you boast;

Who, for the love of filthy gold,

Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold,

And, mocking the just claim of Hell,

Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell:

Ye villains! of whatever name,

Whatever rank, to whom the claim 120

Of Hell is certain, on whose lids

That worm, which never dies, forbids

Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold,

Whilst envy makes your blood run cold,

Behold, by pitiless Conscience led,

So Justice wills, that holy bed

Where Peace her full dominion keeps,

And Innocence with Holland sleeps.

Bid Terror, posting on the wind,

Affray the spirits of mankind; 130

Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent,

Rive their concealing continent,

And, forcing an untimely birth

Through the vast bowels of the earth,

Endeavour, in her monstrous womb,

At once all Nature to entomb;

Bid all that's horrible and dire,

All that man hates and fears, conspire

To make night hideous as they can,

Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! 140

Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast

Inhabit, and insure thy rest;

Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late,

Thy friendly justice in his fate,

Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread

Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head.

Dark was the night, by Fate decreed

For the contrivance of a deed

More black than common, which might make

This land from her foundations shake, 150

Might tear up Freedom by the root,

Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.

Deep Horror held her wide domain;

The sky in sullen drops of rain

Forewept the morn, and through the air,

Which, opening, laid its bosom bare,

Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd;

The owl at Freedom's window scream'd,

The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath

Brings sickness, and whose note is death; 160

The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb,

All sad and silent, through the gloom

The ghosts of men, in former times,

Whose public virtues were their crimes,

Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage

Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age

The prop of Freedom, Hampden there

Felt after death the generous care;

Sidney by grief from heaven was kept,

And for his brother patriot wept: 170

All friends of Liberty, when Fate

Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date,

Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan,

And knew that wound to be their own.

Hail, Liberty! a glorious word,

In other countries scarcely heard,

Or heard but as a thing of course,

Without, or energy, or force:

Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs,

Far, far beyond the reach of kings, 180

Fresh blooming from our mother Earth:

With pride and joy she owns her birth

Derived from us, and in return

Bids in our breasts her genius burn;

Bids us with all those blessings live

Which Liberty alone can give,

Or nobly with that spirit die

Which makes death more than victory.

Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue

Persuasion in the senate hung, 190

Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd.

Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd,

Who spread, when other methods fail'd,

War's bloody banner, and prevail'd.

Shall men like these unmention'd sleep

Promiscuous with the common heap,

And (Gratitude forbid the crime!)

Be carried down the stream of time

In shoals, unnoticed and forgot,

On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? 200

No--they shall live, and each fair name,

Recorded in the book of Fame,

Founded on Honour's basis, fast

As the round earth to ages last.

Some virtues vanish with our breath;

Virtue like this lives after death.

Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by,

Himself lost in eternity,

An everlasting crown shall twine

To make a Wilkes and Sidney join. 210

But should some slave-got villain dare

Chains for his country to prepare,

And, by his birth to slavery broke,

Make her, too, feel the galling yoke,

May he be evermore accursed,

Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst;

May he be still himself, and still

Go on in vice, and perfect ill;

May his broad crimes each day increase,

Till he can't live, nor die in peace; 220

May he be plunged so deep in shame,

That Satan mayn't endure his name,

And hear, scarce crawling on the earth,

His children curse him for their birth;

May Liberty, beyond the grave,

Ordain him to be still a slave,

Grant him what here he most requires,

And damn him with his own desires!

But should some villain, in support

And zeal for a despairing court, 230

Placing in craft his confidence,

And making honour a pretence

To do a deed of deepest shame,

Whilst filthy lucre is his aim;

Should such a wretch, with sword or knife,

Contrive to practise 'gainst the life

Of one who, honour'd through the land,

For Freedom made a glorious stand;

Whose chief, perhaps his only crime,

Is (if plain Truth at such a time 240

May dare her sentiments to tell)

That he his country loves too well:

May he--but words are all too weak

The feelings of my heart to speak--

May he--oh for a noble curse,

Which might his very marrow pierce!--

The general contempt engage,

And be the Martin of his age!

BOOK II.

Deep in the bosom of a wood,

Out of the road, a Temple[135] stood:

Ancient, and much the worse for wear,

It call'd aloud for quick repair,

And, tottering from side to side,

Menaced destruction far and wide;

Nor able seem'd, unless made stronger,

To hold out four or five years longer.

Four hundred pillars, from the ground

Rising in order, most unsound, 10

Some rotten to the heart, aloof

Seem'd to support the tottering roof,

But, to inspection nearer laid,

Instead of giving, wanted aid.

The structure, rare and curious, made

By men most famous in their trade,

A work of years, admired by all,

Was suffer'd into dust to fall;

Or, just to make it hang together,

And keep off the effects of weather, 20

Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time

By wretches, whom it were a crime,

A crime, which Art would treason hold

To mention with those names of old.

Builders, who had the pile survey'd,

And those not Flitcrofts[136] in their trade,

Doubted (the wise hand in a doubt

Merely, sometimes, to hand her out)

Whether (like churches in a brief[137],

Taught wisely to obtain relief 30

Through Chancery, who gives her fees

To this and other charities)

It must not, in all parts unsound,

Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground;

Whether (though after ages ne'er

Shall raise a building to compare)

Art, if they should their art employ,

Meant to preserve, might not destroy;

As human bodies, worn away,

Batter'd and hasting to decay, 40

Bidding the power of Art despair,

Cannot those very medicines bear,

Which, and which only, can restore,

And make them healthy as before.

To Liberty, whose gracious smile

Shed peace and plenty o'er the isle,

Our grateful ancestors, her plain

But faithful children, raised this fane.

Full in the front, stretch'd out in length,

Where Nature put forth all her strength 50

In spring eternal, lay a plain

Where our brave fathers used to train

Their sons to arms, to teach the art

Of war, and steel the infant heart.

Labour, their hardy nurse, when young,

Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung;

Abstinence, foe declared to Death,

Had, from the time they first drew breath,

The best of doctors, with plain food,

Kept pure the channel of their blood; 60

Health in their cheeks bade colour rise,

And Glory sparkled in their eyes.

The instruments of husbandry,

As in contempt, were all thrown by,

And, flattering a manly pride,

War's keener tools their place supplied.

Their arrows to the head they drew;

Swift to the points their javelins flew;

They grasp'd the sword, they shook the spear;

Their fathers felt a pleasing fear; 70

And even Courage, standing by,

Scarcely beheld with steady eye.

Each stripling, lesson'd by his sire,

Knew when to close, when to retire,

When near at hand, when from afar

To fight, and was himself a war.

Their wives, their mothers, all around,

Careless of order, on the ground

Breathed forth to Heaven the pious vow,

And for a son's or husband's brow, 80

With eager fingers, laurel wove;

Laurel, which in the sacred grove,

Planted by Liberty, they find,

The brows of conquerors to bind,

To give them pride and spirit, fit

To make a world in arms submit.

What raptures did the bosom fire

Of the young, rugged, peasant sire,

When, from the toil of mimic fight,

Returning with return of night, 90

He saw his babe resign the breast,

And, smiling, stroke those arms in jest,

With which hereafter he shall make

The proudest heart in Gallia quake!

Gods! with what joy, what honest pride,

Did each fond, wishing rustic bride

Behold her manly swain return!

How did her love-sick bosom burn,

Though on parades he was not bred,

Nor wore the livery of red, 100

When, Pleasure heightening all her charms,

She strain'd her warrior in her arms,

And begg'd, whilst love and glory fire,

A son, a son just like his sire!

Such were the men in former times,

Ere luxury had made our crimes

Our bitter punishment, who bore

Their terrors to a foreign shore:

Such were the men, who, free from dread,

By Edwards and by Henries led, 110

Spread, like a torrent swell'd with rains,

O'er haughty Gallia's trembling plains:

Such were the men, when lust of power,

To work him woe, in evil hour

Debauch'd the tyrant from those ways

On which a king should found his praise;

When stern Oppression, hand in hand

With Pride, stalk'd proudly through the land;

When weeping Justice was misled

From her fair course, and Mercy dead: 120

Such were the men, in virtue strong,

Who dared not see their country's wrong,

Who left the mattock and the spade,

And, in the robes of War array'd,

In their rough arms, departing, took

Their helpless babes, and with a look

Stern and determined, swore to see

Those babes no more, or see them free:

Such were the men whom tyrant Pride

Could never fasten to his side 130

By threats or bribes; who, freemen born,

Chains, though of gold, beheld with scorn;

Who, free from every servile awe,

Could never be divorced from Law,

From that broad general law, which Sense

Made for the general defence;

Could never yield to partial ties

Which from dependant stations rise;

Could never be to slavery led,

For Property was at their head: 140

Such were the men, in days of yore,

Who, call'd by Liberty, before

Her temple on the sacred green,

In martial pastimes oft were seen--

Now seen no longer--in their stead,

To laziness and vermin bred,

A race who, strangers to the cause

Of Freedom, live by other laws,

On other motives fight, a prey

To interest, and slaves for pay. 150

Valour--how glorious, on a plan

Of honour founded!--leads their van;

Discretion, free from taint of fear,

Cool, but resolved, brings up their rear--

Discretion, Valour's better half;

Dependence holds the general's staff.

In plain and home-spun garb array'd,

Not for vain show, but service made,

In a green flourishing old age,

Not damn'd yet with an equipage, 160

In rules of Porterage untaught,

Simplicity, not worth a groat,

For years had kept the Temple-door;

Full on his breast a glass he wore,

Through which his bosom open lay

To every one who pass'd that way:

Now turn'd adrift, with humbler face,

But prouder heart, his vacant place

Corruption fills, and bears the key;

No entrance now without a fee. 170

With belly round, and full fat face,

Which on the house reflected grace,

Full of good fare, and honest glee,

The steward Hospitality,

Old Welcome smiling by his side,

A good old servant, often tried,

And faithful found, who kept in view

His lady's fame and interest too,

Who made each heart with joy rebound,

Yet never ran her state aground, 180

Was turn'd off, or (which word I find

Is more in modern use) resign'd.[138]

Half-starved, half-starving others, bred

In beggary, with carrion fed,

Detested, and detesting all,

Made up of avarice and gall,

Boasting great thrift, yet wasting more

Than ever steward did before,

Succeeded one, who, to engage

The praise of an exhausted age, 190

Assumed a name of high degree,

And call'd himself Economy.

Within the Temple, full in sight,

Where, without ceasing, day and night

The workmen toiled; where Labour bared

His brawny arm; where Art prepared,

In regular and even rows,

Her types, a printing-press arose;

Each workman knew his task, and each

Was honest and expert as Leach.[139] 200

Hence Learning struck a deeper root,

And Science brought forth riper fruit;

Hence Loyalty received support,

Even when banish'd from the court;

Hence Government gain'd strength, and hence

Religion sought and found defence;

Hence England's fairest fame arose,

And Liberty subdued her foes.

On a low, simple, turf-made throne,

Raised by Allegiance, scarcely known 210

From her attendants, glad to be

Pattern of that equality

She wish'd to all, so far as could

Safely consist with social good,

The goddess sat; around her head

A cheerful radiance Glory spread:

Courage, a youth of royal race,

Lovelily stern, possess'd a place

On her left hand, and on her right

Sat Honour, clothed with robes of light; 220

Before her Magna Charta lay,

Which some great lawyer, of his day

The Pratt,[140] was officed to explain,

And make the basis of her reign:

Peace, crown'd with olive, to her breast

Two smiling twin-born infants press'd;

At her feet, couching, War was laid,

And with a brindled lion play'd:

Justice and Mercy, hand in hand, 230

Joint guardians of the happy land,

Together held their mighty charge,

And Truth walk'd all about at large;

Health for the royal troop the feast

Prepared, and Virtue was high-priest.

Such was the fame our Goddess bore

Her Temple such, in days of yore.

What changes ruthless Time presents!

Behold her ruin'd battlements,

Her walls decay'd, her nodding spires,

Her altars broke, her dying fires, 240

Her name despised, her priests destroy'd,

Her friends disgraced, her foes employ'd,

Herself (by ministerial arts

Deprived e'en of the people's hearts,

Whilst they, to work her surer woe,

Feign her to Monarchy a foe)

Exiled by grief, self-doom'd to dwell

With some poor hermit in a cell;

Or, that retirement tedious grown,

If she walks forth, she walks unknown, 250

Hooted, and pointed at with scorn,

As one in some strange country born.

Behold a rude and ruffian race,

A band of spoilers, seize her place;

With looks which might the heart disseat,

And make life sound a quick retreat!

To rapine from the cradle bred,

A staunch old blood-hound at their head,

Who, free from virtue and from awe,

Knew none but the bad part of law, 260

They roved at large; each on his breast

Mark'd with a greyhound stood confess'd:

Controlment waited on their nod,

High-wielding Persecution's rod;

Confusion follow'd at their heels,

And a cast statesman held the seals;[141]

Those seals, for which he dear shall pay,

When awful Justice takes her day.

The printers saw--they saw and fled--

Science, declining, hung her head. 270

Property in despair appear'd,

And for herself destruction fear'd;

Whilst underfoot the rude slaves trod

The works of men, and word of God;

Whilst, close behind, on many a book,

In which he never deigns to look,

Which he did not, nay, could not read,

A bold, bad man (by power decreed

For that bad end, who in the dark

Scorn'd to do mischief) set his mark 280

In the full day, the mark of Hell,

And on the Gospel stamp'd an L.

Liberty fled, her friends withdrew--

Her friends, a faithful, chosen few;

Honour in grief threw up; and Shame,

Clothing herself with Honour's name,

Usurp'd his station; on the throne

Which Liberty once call'd her own,

(Gods! that such mighty ills should spring

Under so great, so good a king, 290

So loved, so loving, through the arts

Of statesmen, cursed with wicked hearts!)

For every darker purpose fit,

Behold in triumph State-craft sit!

BOOK III.

Ah me! what mighty perils wait

The man who meddles with a state,

Whether to strengthen, or oppose!

False are his friends, and firm his foes:

How must his soul, once ventured in,

Plunge blindly on from sin to sin!

What toils he suffers, what disgrace,

To get, and then to keep, a place!

How often, whether wrong or right,

Must he in jest or earnest fight, 10

Risking for those both life and limb

Who would not risk one groat for him!

Under the Temple lay a Cave,

Made by some guilty, coward slave,

Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a maze

Of intricate and winding ways,

Not to be found without a clue;

One passage only, known to few,

In paths direct led to a cell,

Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell, 20

With all her tools and slaves about her,

Nor fear'd lest Honesty should rout her.

In a dark corner, shunning sight

Of man, and shrinking from the light,

One dull, dim taper through the cell

Glimmering, to make more horrible

The face of darkness, she prepares,

Working unseen, all kinds of snares,

With curious, but destructive art:

Here, through the eye to catch the heart, 30

Gay stars their tinsel beams afford,

Neat artifice to trap a lord;

There, fit for all whom Folly bred,

Wave plumes of feathers for the head;

Garters the hag contrives to make,

Which, as it seems, a babe might break,

But which ambitious madmen feel

More firm and sure than chains of steel;

Which, slipp'd just underneath the knee, 40

Forbid a freeman to be free.

Purses she knew, (did ever curse

Travel more sure than in a purse?)

Which, by some strange and magic bands,

Enslave the soul, and tie the hands.

Here Flattery, eldest-born of Guile,

Weaves with rare skill the silken smile,

The courtly cringe, the supple bow,

The private squeeze, the levee vow,

With which--no strange or recent case--

Fools in, deceive fools out of place. 50

Corruption, (who, in former times,

Through fear or shame conceal'd her crimes,

And what she did, contrived to do it

So that the public might not view it)

Presumptuous grown, unfit was held

For their dark councils, and expell'd,

Since in the day her business might

Be done as safe as in the night.

Her eye down-bending to the ground,

Planning some dark and deadly wound, 60

Holding a dagger, on which stood,

All fresh and reeking, drops of blood,

Bearing a lantern, which of yore,

By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore,

By which, since they improved in trade,

Excisemen have their lanterns made,

Assassination, her whole mind

Blood-thirsting, on her arm reclined;

Death, grinning, at her elbow stood,

And held forth instruments of blood,-- 70

Vile instruments, which cowards choose,

But men of honour dare not use;

Around, his Lordship and his Grace,

Both qualified for such a place,

With many a Forbes, and many a Dun,[142]

Each a resolved, and pious son,

Wait her high bidding; each prepared,

As she around her orders shared,

Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly,

And bid the destined victim die, 80

Posting on Villany's black wing,

Whether he patriot is, or king.

Oppression,--willing to appear

An object of our love, not fear,

Or, at the most, a reverend awe

To breed, usurp'd the garb of Law.

A book she held, on which her eyes

Were deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to rise

Joy in her breast; a book, of might

Most wonderful, which black to white 90

Could turn, and without help of laws,

Could make the worse the better cause.

She read, by flattering hopes deceived;

She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed,

To make that book for ever stand

The rule of wrong through all the land;

On the back, fair and worthy note,

At large was Magna Charta wrote;

But turn your eye within, and read,

A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. 100

Ready, e'en with a look, to run,

Fast as the coursers of the sun,

To worry Virtue, at her hand

Two half-starved greyhounds took their stand.

A curious model, cut in wood,

Of a most ancient castle stood

Full in her view; the gates were barr'd,

And soldiers on the watch kept guard;

In the front, openly, in black

Was wrote, The Tower: but on the back, 110

Mark'd with a secretary's seal,

In bloody letters, The Bastile.[143]

Around a table, fully bent

On mischief of most black intent,

Deeply determined that their reign

Might longer last, to work the bane

Of one firm patriot, whose heart, tied

To Honour, all their power defied,

And brought those actions into light

They wish'd to have conceal'd in night, 120

Begot, born, bred to infamy,

A privy-council sat of three:

Great were their names, of high repute

And favour through the land of Bute.

The first[144] (entitled to the place

Of Honour both by gown and grace,

Who never let occasion slip

To take right-hand of fellowship,

And was so proud, that should he meet

The twelve apostles in the street, 130

He'd turn his nose up at them all,

And shove his Saviour from the wall!

Who was so mean (Meanness and Pride

Still go together side by side)

That he would cringe, and creep, be civil,

And hold a stirrup for the Devil;

If in a journey to his mind,

He'd let him mount and ride behind;

Who basely fawn'd through all his life,

For patrons first, then for a wife: 140

Wrote Dedications which must make

The heart of every Christian quake;

Made one man equal to, or more

Than God, then left him, as before

His God he left, and, drawn by pride,

Shifted about to t' other side)

Was by his sire a parson made,

Merely to give the boy a trade;

But he himself was thereto drawn

By some faint omens of the lawn, 150

And on the truly Christian plan

To make himself a gentleman,--

A title in which Form array'd him,

Though Fate ne'er thought on 't when she made him.

The oaths he took, 'tis very true,

But took them as all wise men do,

With an intent, if things should turn,

Rather to temporise, than burn;

Gospel and loyalty were made

To serve the purposes of trade; 160

Religions are but paper ties,

Which bind the fool, but which the wise,

Such idle notions far above,

Draw on and off, just like a glove;

All gods, all kings (let his great aim

Be answer'd) were to him the same.

A curate first, he read and read,

And laid in, whilst he should have fed

The souls of his neglected flock,

Of reading such a mighty stock, 170

That he o'ercharged the weary brain

With more than she could well contain;

More than she was with spirits fraught

To turn and methodise to thought,

And which, like ill-digested food,

To humours turn'd, and not to blood.

Brought up to London, from the plough

And pulpit, how to make a bow

He tried to learn; he grew polite,

And was the poet's parasite. 180

With wits conversing, (and wits then

Were to be found 'mongst noblemen)

He caught, or would have caught, the flame,

And would be nothing, or the same.

He drank with drunkards, lived with sinners,

Herded with infidels for dinners;

With such an emphasis and grace

Blasphemed, that Potter[141] kept not pace:

He, in the highest reign of noon,

Bawled bawdy songs to a psalm tune; 190

Lived with men infamous and vile,

Truck'd his salvation for a smile;

To catch their humour caught their plan,

And laugh'd at God to laugh with man;

Praised them, when living, in each breath,

And damn'd their memories after death.

To prove his faith, which all admit

Is at least equal to his wit,

And make himself a man of note,

He in defence of Scripture wrote: 200

So long he wrote, and long about it,

That e'en believers 'gan to doubt it:

He wrote, too, of the inward light,

Though no one knew how he came by 't,

And of that influencing grace

Which in his life ne'er found a place:

He wrote, too, of the Holy Ghost,

Of whom no more than doth a post

He knew; nor, should an angel show him,

Would he, or know, or choose to know him. 210

Next (for he knew 'twixt every science

There was a natural alliance)

He wrote, to advance his Maker's praise,

Comments[142] on rhymes, and notes on plays,

And with an all-sufficient air

Placed himself in the critic's chair;

Usurp'd o'er Reason full dominion,

And govern'd merely by Opinion.

At length dethroned, and kept in awe

By one plain simple man of law,[143] 220

He arm'd dead friends, to vengeance true,

To abuse the man they never knew.

Examine strictly all mankind,

Most characters are mix'd, we find;

And Vice and Virtue take their turn

In the same breast to beat and burn.

Our priest was an exception here,

Nor did one spark of grace appear,

Not one dull, dim spark in his soul;

Vice, glorious Vice, possess'd the whole, 230

And, in her service truly warm,

He was in sin most uniform.

Injurious Satire! own at least

One snivelling virtue in the priest,

One snivelling virtue, which is placed,

They say, in or about the waist,

Call'd Chastity; the prudish dame

Knows it at large by Virtue's name.

To this his wife (and in these days

Wives seldom without reason praise) 240

Bears evidence--then calls her child,

And swears that Tom[144] was vastly wild.

Ripen'd by a long course of years,

He great and perfect now appears.

In shape scarce of the human kind,

A man, without a manly mind;

No husband, though he's truly wed;

Though on his knees a child is bred,

No father; injured, without end

A foe; and though obliged, no friend; 250

A heart, which virtue ne'er disgraced;

A head, where learning runs to waste;

A gentleman well-bred, if breeding

Rests in the article of reading;

A man of this world, for the next

Was ne'er included in his text;

A judge of genius, though confess'd

With not one spark of genius bless'd;

Amongst the first of critics placed,

Though free from every taint of taste; 260

A Christian without faith or works,

As he would be a Turk 'mongst Turks;

A great divine, as lords agree,

Without the least divinity;

To crown all, in declining age,

Inflamed with church and party rage,

Behold him, full and perfect quite,

A false saint, and true hypocrite.

Next sat a lawyer,[145] often tried

In perilous extremes; when Pride 270

And Power, all wild and trembling, stood,

Nor dared to tempt the raging flood;

This bold, bad man arose to view,

And gave his hand to help them through:

Steel'd 'gainst compassion, as they pass'd

He saw poor Freedom breathe her last;

He saw her struggle, heard her groan;

He saw her helpless and alone,

Whelm'd in that storm, which, fear'd and praised

By slaves less bold, himself had raised. 280

Bred to the law, he from the first

Of all bad lawyers was the worst.

Perfection (for bad men maintain

In ill we may perfection gain)

In others is a work of time,

And they creep on from crime to crime;

He, for a prodigy design'd,

To spread amazement o'er mankind,

Started full ripen'd all at once

A perfect knave, and perfect dunce. 290

Who will, for him, may boast of sense,

His better guard is impudence;

His front, with tenfold plates of brass

Secured, Shame never yet could pass,

Nor on the surface of his skin

Blush for that guilt which dwelt within.

How often, in contempt of laws,

To sound the bottom of a cause,

To search out every rotten part,

And worm into its very heart, 300

Hath he ta'en briefs on false pretence,

And undertaken the defence

Of trusting fools, whom in the end

He meant to ruin, not defend!

How often, e'en in open court,

Hath the wretch made his shame his sport,

And laugh'd off, with a villain's ease,

Throwing up briefs, and keeping fees!

Such things as, though to roguery bred,

Had struck a little villain dead! 310

Causes, whatever their import,

He undertakes, to serve a court;

For he by art this rule had got,

Power can effect what Law cannot.

Fools he forgives, but rogues he fears;

If Genius, yoked with Worth, appears,

His weak soul sickens at the sight,

And strives to plunge them down in night.

So loud he talks, so very loud,

He is an angel with the crowd; 320

Whilst he makes Justice hang her head,

And judges turn from pale to red.

Bid all that Nature, on a plan

Most intimate, makes dear to man,

All that with grand and general ties

Binds good and bad, the fool and wise,

Knock at his heart; they knock in vain;

No entrance there such suitors gain;

Bid kneeling kings forsake the throne,

Bid at his feet his country groan; 330

Bid Liberty stretch out her hands,

Religion plead her stronger bands;

Bid parents, children, wife, and friends,

If they come 'thwart his private ends--

Unmoved he hears the general call,

And bravely tramples on them all.

Who will, for him, may cant and whine,

And let weak Conscience with her line

Chalk out their ways; such starving rules

Are only fit for coward fools; 340

Fellows who credit what priests tell,

And tremble at the thoughts of Hell;

His spirit dares contend with Grace,

And meets Damnation face to face.

Such was our lawyer; by his side,

In all bad qualities allied,

In all bad counsels, sat a third,

By birth a lord.[146] Oh, sacred word!

Oh, word most sacred! whence men get

A privilege to run in debt; 350

Whence they at large exemption claim

From Satire, and her servant Shame;

Whence they, deprived of all her force,

Forbid bold Truth to hold her course.

Consult his person, dress, and air,

He seems, which strangers well might swear,

The master, or, by courtesy,

The captain of a colliery.

Look at his visage, and agree

Half-hang'd he seems, just from the tree 360

Escaped; a rope may sometimes break,

Or men be cut down by mistake.

He hath not virtue (in the school

Of Vice bred up) to live by rule,

Nor hath he sense (which none can doubt

Who know the man) to live without.

His life is a continued scene

Of all that's infamous and mean;

He knows not change, unless, grown nice

And delicate, from vice to vice; 370

Nature design'd him, in a rage,

To be the Wharton[147] of his age;

But, having given all the sin,

Forgot to put the virtues in.

To run a horse, to make a match,

To revel deep, to roar a catch,

To knock a tottering watchman down,

To sweat a woman of the town;

By fits to keep the peace, or break it,

In turn to give a pox, or take it; 380

He is, in faith, most excellent,

And, in the word's most full intent,

A true choice spirit, we admit;

With wits a fool, with fools a wit:

Hear him but talk, and you would swear

Obscenity herself was there,

And that Profaneness had made choice,

By way of trump, to use his voice;

That, in all mean and low things great,

He had been bred at Billingsgate; 390

And that, ascending to the earth

Before the season of his birth,

Blasphemy, making way and room,

Had mark'd him in his mother's womb.

Too honest (for the worst of men

In forms are honest, now and then)

Not to have, in the usual way,

His bills sent in; too great to pay:

Too proud to speak to, if he meets

The honest tradesman whom he cheats: 400

Too infamous to have a friend;

Too bad for bad men to commend,

Or good to name; beneath whose weight

Earth groans; who hath been spared by Fate

Only to show, on Mercy's plan,

How far and long God bears with man.

Such were the three, who, mocking sleep,

At midnight sat, in counsel deep,

Plotting destruction 'gainst a head

Whose wisdom could not be misled; 410

Plotting destruction 'gainst a heart

Which ne'er from honour would depart.

'Is he not rank'd amongst our foes?

Hath not his spirit dared oppose

Our dearest measures, made our name

Stand forward on the roll of Shame

Hath he not won the vulgar tribes,

By scorning menaces and bribes,

And proving that his darling cause

Is, of their liberties and laws 420

To stand the champion? In a word,

Nor need one argument be heard

Beyond this to awake our zeal,

To quicken our resolves, and steel

Our steady souls to bloody bent,

(Sure ruin to each dear intent,

Each flattering hope) he, without fear,

Hath dared to make the truth appear.'

They said, and, by resentment taught,

Each on revenge employ'd his thought; 430

Each, bent on mischief, rack'd his brain

To her full stretch, but rack'd in vain;

Scheme after scheme they brought to view;

All were examined; none would do:

When Fraud, with pleasure in her face,

Forth issued from her hiding-place,

And at the table where they meet,

First having bless'd them, took her seat.

'No trifling cause, my darling boys,

Your present thoughts and cares employs; 440

No common snare, no random blow,

Can work the bane of such a foe:

By nature cautious as he's brave,

To Honour only he's a slave;

In that weak part without defence,

We must to honour make pretence;

That lure shall to his ruin draw

The wretch, who stands secure in law.

Nor think that I have idly plann'd

This full-ripe scheme; behold at hand, 450

With three months' training on his head,

An instrument, whom I have bred,

Born of these bowels, far from sight

Of Virtue's false but glaring light,

My youngest-born, my dearest joy,

Most like myself, my darling boy!

He, never touch'd with vile remorse,

Resolved and crafty in his course,

Shall work our ends, complete our schemes,

Most mine, when most he Honour's seems; 460

Nor can be found, at home, abroad,

So firm and full a slave of Fraud.'

She said, and from each envious son

A discontented murmur run

Around the table; all in place

Thought his full praise their own disgrace,

Wondering what stranger she had got,

Who had one vice that they had not;

When straight the portals open flew,

And, clad in armour, to their view 470

Martin, the Duellist, came forth.

All knew, and all confess'd his worth;

All justified, with smiles array'd,

The happy choice their dam had made.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[132] 'The Duellist:' the _North Briton_ had fiercely assailed Mr

Martin, M.P. for Camelford, who, on the first day of the next session

of Parliament, complained of it; Mr Wilkes owned himself the author,

and the result was a duel in Hyde Park, in which Wilkes was severely

wounded. He always owned that Martin acted honourably in the rencontre,

but not so thought Churchill.

[133] 'Hanging friends:' See note on v. 140 of the Epistle to William

Hogarth.

[134] 'Earl Talbot:' Lord Steward of the King's Household from 1761 to

1782, an economical Reformer.

[135] 'Temple:' the British Constitution.

[136] 'Flitcrofts:' Henry Flitcroft, an architect of some eminence.

[137] 'Brief:' alluding to the practice of obtaining contributions for

the repair of churches, &c., by reading briefs in church.

[138] 'Resign'd:' the Dukes of Newcastle and Devonshire, Lord Temple,

&c. who resigned their offices in 1762. Their successors pretended to

economy, but it was a mere pretence.

[139] 'Leach:' Dryden Leach, an expert and tasteful printer in Crane

Court, Fleet street, was unjustly imprisoned on account of Wilkes.

[140]'Pratt:' Lord Camden.

[141] 'Seals:' The general warrant for the apprehension of Wilkes was

signed by the Earls of Egremont and Halifax, joint secretaries of state

for the home department.

[142] 'Forbes and Dun:' two Scotchmen, one of whom challenged Wilkes,

and the other tried to assassinate him. Dun was insane.

[143] 'The Bastile:' Wilkes was six days in the Tower.

[140] 'First:' the great William Warburton, who rose partly through his

marriage with the niece of the rich Ralph Allen.

[141] 'Potter:' mentioned above. He was suspected by Warburton of being

the author of the infamous notes to Wilkes's infamous 'Essay on Woman.'

[142] 'Comments:' referring to the notes to 'The Dunciad,' and on

Shakspeare.

[143] 'Man of law:' Mr Thomas Edwards, a barrister, wrote a clever book

against Warburton's criticism. Warburton alluded to him contemptuously

afterwards, in a note to a new edition of 'The Dunciad.'

[144] 'Tom:' this son was Warburton's only child, and died before his

father.

[145] 'A lawyer:' Sir Fletcher Norton, who as well as Warburton is

caricatured.

[146] 'A lord:' Sandwich.

[147] 'Wharton:' Philip Duke of Wharton, whose character is found in

Pope's 'Moral Essays,' was noted for the greatness of his talents,

and for his dissolute life.

GOTHAM.[148]

In Three Books.

BOOK I.

Far off (no matter whether east or west,

A real country, or one made in jest,

Nor yet by modern Mandevilles[149] disgraced,

Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced)

There lies an island, neither great nor small,

Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call.

The man who finds an unknown country out,

By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt,

A Gospel title, though the people there

The pious Christian thinks not worth his care 10

Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'd

The claim of Europe to the Western world.

Cast by a tempest on the savage coast,

Some roving buccaneer set up a post;

A beam, in proper form transversely laid,

Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made--

Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life,

From first to last, had been one scene of strife;

His royal master's name thereon engraved,

Without more process the whole race enslaved, 20

Cut off that charter they from Nature drew,

And made them slaves to men they never knew.

Search ancient histories, consult records,

Under this title the most Christian lords

Hold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball;

O'erthrow this title, they have none at all;

For never yet might any monarch dare,

Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air,

Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree,

To bless his people, and to set them free) 30

To make a convert, ever one law gave

By which converters made him first a slave.

Spite of the glosses of a canting priest,

Who talks of charity, but means a feast;

Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel

The holy glowings of a real zeal)

To all his hearers as a deed of worth,

To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth;

Never shall one, one truly honest man,

Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan, 40

Allow one moment that a savage sire

Could from his wretched race, for childish hire,

By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass,

And sell his country for a bit of glass.

Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France,

In slavery bred, as purchasers advance;

Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd,

With some gay bauble buy a golden world:

An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born,

Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn 50

To take from others, through base private views,

What he himself would rather die, than lose.

Happy the savage of those early times,

Ere Europe's sons were known, and Europe's crimes!

Gold, cursed gold! slept in the womb of earth,

Unfelt its mischiefs, as unknown its worth;

In full content he found the truest wealth,

In toil he found diversion, food, and health;

Stranger to ease and luxury of courts,

His sports were labours, and his labours sports; 60

His youth was hardy, and his old age green;

Life's morn was vigorous, and her eve serene;

No rules he held, but what were made for use,

No arts he learn'd, nor ills which arts produce;

False lights he follow'd, but believed them true;

He knew not much, but lived to what he knew.

Happy, thrice happy now the savage race,

Since Europe took their gold, and gave them grace!

Pastors she sends to help them in their need,

Some who can't write; with others who can't read; 70

And on sure grounds the gospel pile to rear,

Sends missionary felons every year;

Our vices, with more zeal than holy prayers,

She teaches them, and in return takes theirs.

Her rank oppressions give them cause to rise,

Her want of prudence, means and arms supplies,

Whilst her brave rage, not satisfied with life,

Rising in blood, adopts the scalping-knife.

Knowledge she gives, enough to make them know

How abject is their state, how deep their woe; 80

The worth of freedom strongly she explains,

Whilst she bows down, and loads their necks with chains.

Faith, too, she plants, for her own ends impress'd,

To make them bear the worst, and hope the best;

And whilst she teaches, on vile Interest's plan,

As laws of God, the wild decrees of man,

Like Pharisees, of whom the Scriptures tell,

She makes them ten times more the sons of Hell.

But whither do these grave reflections tend?

Are they design'd for any, or no end? 90

Briefly but this--to prove, that by no act

Which Nature made, that by no equal pact

'Twixt man and man, which might, if Justice heard,

Stand good; that by no benefits conferr'd,

Or purchase made, Europe in chains can hold

The sons of India, and her mines of gold.

Chance led her there in an accursed hour;

She saw, and made the country hers by power;

Nor, drawn by virtue's love from love of fame,

Shall my rash folly controvert the claim, 100

Or wish in thought that title overthrown

Which coincides with and involves my own.

Europe discover'd India first; I found

My right to Gotham on the self-same ground;

I first discover'd it, nor shall that plea

To her be granted, and denied to me;

I plead possession, and, till one more bold

Shall drive me out, will that possession hold.

With Europe's rights my kindred rights I twine;

Hers be the Western world, be Gotham mine. 110

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

As on a day, a high and holy day,

Let every instrument of music play,

Ancient and modern; those which drew their birth

(Punctilios laid aside) from Pagan earth, 120

As well as those by Christian made and Jew;

Those known to many, and those known to few;

Those which in whim and frolic lightly float,

And those which swell the slow and solemn note;

Those which (whilst Reason stands in wonder by)

Make some complexions laugh, and others cry;

Those which, by some strange faculty of sound,

Can build walls up, and raze them to the ground;

Those which can tear up forests by the roots,

And make brutes dance like men, and men like brutes; 130

Those which, whilst Ridicule leads up the dance,

Make clowns of Monmouth[150] ape the fops of France;

Those which, where Lady Dulness with Lord Mayors

Presides, disdaining light and trifling airs,

Hallow the feast with psalmody; and those

Which, planted in our churches to dispose

And lift the mind to Heaven, are disgraced

With what a foppish organist calls Taste:

All, from the fiddle (on which every fool,

The pert son of dull sire, discharged from school, 140

Serves an apprenticeship in college ease,

And rises through the gamut to degrees)

To those which (though less common, not less sweet)

From famed Saint Giles's, and more famed Vine Street,

(Where Heaven, the utmost wish of man to grant,

Gave me an old house, and an older aunt)

Thornton,[151] whilst Humour pointed out the road

To her arch cub, hath hitch'd into an ode;--

All instruments (attend, ye listening spheres!

Attend, ye sons of men! and hear with ears), 150

All instruments (nor shall they seek one hand

Impress'd from modern Music's coxcomb band),

All instruments, self-acted, at my name

Shall pour forth harmony, and loud proclaim,

Loud but yet sweet, to the according globe,

My praises; whilst gay Nature, in a robe,

A coxcomb doctor's robe, to the full sound

Keeps time, like Boyce,[152] and the world dances round.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 160

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

Infancy, straining backward from the breast,

Tetchy and wayward, what he loveth best

Refusing in his fits, whilst all the while

The mother eyes the wrangler with a smile,

And the fond father sits on t' other side,

Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride, 170

Shall murmur forth my name, whilst at his hand

Nurse stands interpreter, through Gotham's land.

Childhood, who like an April morn appears,

Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears,

Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm,

In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm,

Like to the fretful billows of the deep,

Soon spends his rage, and cries himself asleep;

Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd,

For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd; 180

His trembling lash suspended in the air,

Half-bent, and stroking back his long lank hair,

Shall to his mates look up with eager glee,

And let his top go down to prate of me.

Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain,

Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign,

Impatient urges on, yet with a cast

Of dear regard looks back on Childhood past,

In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high,

And the quick spirits mount into his eye; 190

When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth,

Beats in his heart, and paints his cheeks with health;

When the chafed steed tugs proudly at the rein,

And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain;

When, wing'd with fear, the stag flies full in view,

And in full cry the eager hounds pursue,

Shall shout my praise to hills which shout again,

And e'en the huntsman stop to cry, Amen.

Manhood, of form erect, who would not bow

Though worlds should crack around him; on his brow 200

Wisdom serene, to passion giving law,

Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe;

Dignity into grace by mildness wrought;

Courage attemper'd and refined by thought;

Virtue supreme enthroned; within his breast

The image of his Maker deep impress'd;

Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod,

With reason bless'd, and only less than God;

Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid,

Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd, 210

Though clothed with sackloth, Justice in the gates,

By wicked elders chain'd, Redemption waits,

Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour,

(Is't not a little one?) to hail my power.

Old Age, a second child, by Nature cursed

With more and greater evils than the first;

Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breath

Railing at life, and yet afraid of death;

Putting things off, with sage and solemn air,

From day to day, without one day to spare; 220

Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf,

Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself;

His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd,

His memory of recent things devour'd

E'en with the acting, on his shatter'd brain

Though the false registers of youth remain;

From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise

Of those rare men, who lived in those rare days,

When he, the hero of his tale, was young;

Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue; 230

Praising gray hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway,

E'en whilst he curses Time, which made him gray;

Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would afford

All but his gold to have his youth restored,

Shall for a moment, from himself set free,

Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 240

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

Things without life shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain,

Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train;

The coxcomb crocus, flower of simple note,

Who by her side struts in a herald's coat;

The tulip, idly glaring to the view,

Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew; 250

Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir,

The fop of flowers, the More of a parterre;

The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets,

And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets;

The lily, silver mistress of the vale;

The rose of Sharon, which perfumes the gale;

The jessamine, with which the queen of flowers,

To charm her god, adorns his favourite bowers,

Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness dress'd,

Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast, 260

Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste

As the pure zone which circles Dian's waist;

All flowers, of various names, and various forms,

Which the sun into strength and beauty warms,

From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings,

And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs,

To the proud giant of the garden race,

Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace,

O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim,

Demands his wedded love, and bears his name; 270

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds,

Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds, 280

The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell

Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell

By day, by night; the myrtle ever green,

Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;

The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave

Where many a lover finds a watery grave;

The cypress, sacred held, when lovers mourn

Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn

By poets in old time, but destined now,

In grief, to wither on a Whitehead's brow; 290

The fig, which, large as what in India grows,

Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes;

The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride,

Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side;

The yew, which, in the place of sculptured stone,

Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;

The hedge-row elm; the pine, of mountain race;

The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place;

The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,

Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud 300

Of such a child, and his vast body laid

Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;

The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;

The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood;

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 310

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

The showers, which make the young hills, like young lambs,

Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams,

Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide,

Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side,

And from their bosom rising Commerce springs;

The winds, which rise with healing on their wings,

Before whose cleansing breath Contagion flies;

The sun, who, travelling in eastern skies, 320

Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed,

Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred,

With voice and whip can scarce make his steeds stir,

Step by step, up the perpendicular;

Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest,

Rolls on amain, and gallops down the west

As fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin,

Drove for a crown, or postboys for an inn;

The moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign,

Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain, 330

Who to her sons, those sons who own her power,

And do her homage at the midnight hour,

Gives madness as a blessing, but dispenses

Wisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses;

The stars, who, by I know not what strange right,

Preside o'er mortals in their own despite,

Who, without reason, govern those who most

(How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast,

And, by some mighty magic yet unknown,

Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own; 340

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year,

Morning and eve, as they in turn appear; 350

Moments and minutes, which, without a crime,

Can't be omitted in accounts of time,

Or, if omitted, (proof we might afford)

Worthy by parliaments to be restored;

The hours, which, dress'd by turns in black and white,

Ordain'd as handmaids, wait on Day and Night;

The day, those hours, I mean, when light presides,

And Business in a cart with Prudence rides;

The night, those hours, I mean, with darkness hung,

When Sense speaks free, and Folly holds her tongue; 360

The morn, when Nature, rousing from her strife

With death-like sleep, awakes to second life;

The eve, when, as unequal to the task,

She mercy from her foe descends to ask;

The week, in which six days are kindly given

To think of earth, and one to think of heaven;

The months, twelve sisters, all of different hue,

Though there appears in all a likeness too;

Not such a likeness as, through Hayman's[153] works,

Dull mannerist! in Christians, Jews, and Turks, 370

Cloys with a sameness in each female face,

But a strange something, born of Art and Grace,

Which speaks them all, to vary and adorn,

At different times of the same parents born;

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 380

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

Frore January, leader of the year,

Minced-pies in van, and calves' heads in the rear;

Dull February, in whose leaden reign

My mother bore a bard without a brain;

March, various, fierce, and wild, with wind-crack'd cheeks,

By wilder Welshmen led, and crown'd with leeks;

April, with fools, and May, with bastards bless'd;

June, with White Roses on her rebel breast; 390

July, to whom, the Dog-star in her train,

Saint James[154] gives oysters, and Saint Swithin rain;

August[155], who, banish'd from her Smithfield stand,

To Chelsea flies, with Doggett in her hand;

September, when by custom (right divine)

Geese are ordain'd to bleed at Michael's shrine,

Whilst the priest, not so full of grace as wit,

Falls to, unbless'd, nor gives the saint a bit;

October, who the cause of Freedom join'd,

And gave a second George[156] to bless mankind; 400

November, who, at once to grace our earth,

Saint Andrew boasts, and our Augusta's[157] birth;

December, last of months, but best, who gave

A Christ to man, a Saviour to the slave,

Whilst, falsely grateful, man, at the full feast,

To do God honour makes himself a beast;

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 410

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

The seasons as they roll; Spring, by her side

Lechery and Lent, lay-folly and church-pride,

By a rank monk to copulation led,

A tub of sainted salt-fish on her head;

Summer, in light transparent gauze array'd,

Like maids of honour at a masquerade, 420

In bawdry gauze, for which our daughters leave

The fig, more modest, first brought up by Eve,

Panting for breath, inflamed with lustful fires,

Yet wanting strength to perfect her desires,

Leaning on Sloth, who, fainting with the heat,

Stops at each step, and slumbers on his feet;

Autumn, when Nature, who with sorrow feels

Her dread foe Winter treading on her heels,

Makes up in value what she wants in length,

Exerts her powers, and puts forth all her strength, 430

Bids corn and fruits in full perfection rise,

Corn fairly tax'd, and fruits without excise;

Winter, benumb'd with cold, no longer known

By robes of fur, since furs became our own;

A hag, who, loathing all, by all is loathed,

With weekly, daily, hourly, libels clothed,

Vile Faction at her heels, who, mighty grown,

Would rule the ruler, and foreclose the throne,

Would turn all state affairs into a trade,

Make laws one day, the next to be unmade, 440

Beggar at home, a people fear'd abroad,

And, force defeated, make them slaves by fraud;

All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? 450

The year, grand circle! in whose ample round

The seasons regular and fix'd are bound,

(Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er,

Sees the same things which he had seen before;

The same stars keep their watch, and the same sun

Runs in the track where he from first hath run;

The same moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow;

Man is a puppet, and this world a show;

Their old dull follies, old dull fools pursue,

And vice in nothing, but in mode, is new; 460

He ---- a lord (now fair befall that pride,

He lived a villain, but a lord he died)

Dashwood is pious, Berkeley[158] fix'd as Fate,

Sandwich (thank Heaven!) first minister of state;

And, though by fools despised, by saints unbless'd,

By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd,

Scorning the servile arts of each court elf,

Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself)

The year, encircled with the various train

Which waits, and fills the glories of his reign, 470

Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join,

And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;

Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,

The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,

In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,

The praises of so great and good a king:

Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

Thus far in sport--nor let our critics hence,

Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense, 480

Too lightly of our present labours deem,

Or judge at random of so high a theme:

High is our theme, and worthy are the men

To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen;

But when kind Time a proper season brings,

In serious mood to treat of serious things,

Then shall they find, disdaining idle play,

That I can be as grave and dull as they.

Thus far in sport--nor let half patriots, those

Who shrink from every blast of Power which blows, 490

Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown,

Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own;

Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite,

Should burst the portals of their lips by night,

Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep)

Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap;

When brave Occasion bids, for some great end,

When Honour calls the poet as a friend,

Then shall they find that, e'en on Danger's brink,

He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500

BOOK II.

How much mistaken are the men who think

That all who will, without restraint may drink,

May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,

Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,

At the pure waters of the living well,

Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!

Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,

A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy

May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,

Make it but jingle, music comes of course. 10

Little do such men know the toil, the pains,

The daily, nightly racking of the brains,

To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,

To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;

To know the times when Humour on the cheek

Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,

And when be silent; when to use the powers

Of ornament, and how to place the flowers,

So that they neither give a tawdry glare,

'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' 20

To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one,

One critic in an age, can find when done)

To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,

To fill it up, and make the picture shine

A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme

Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;

To make proud Sense against her nature bend,

And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.

Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe,

Who make it all their business to describe, 30

No matter whether in or out of place;

Studious of finery, and fond of lace,

Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,

The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.

Let dull Propriety in state preside

O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide;

Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence

Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,

Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime

Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. 40

Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,

With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;

Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,

Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;

Let them breed up the melancholy breeze,

To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees;

Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged

With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed,

They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,

Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; 50

Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe,

Who will may take the power, and rule the globe.

Others there are, who, in one solemn pace,

With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace,

Railing at needful ornament, depend

On Sense to bring them to their journey's end:

They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay,

Nor for a moment step out of the way,

To make the barren road those graces wear

Which Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. 60

Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan,

Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man;

Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land,

Scorn every thing they do not understand;

Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste,

Let all their little knowledge run to waste,

And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear

The robes of Learning with a sloven's air.

Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line,

Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,'

Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep, 70

Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep.

Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town,

Must have some vehicle to pass her down;

Nor can she for an hour insure her reign,

Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train.

Let her from day to day, from year to year,

In all her grave solemnities appear,

And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets,

Deal lectures out to every one she meets; 80

Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half

Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh.

Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride!

Taking for once Experience as a guide,

Quit this grand error, this dull college mode;

Be your pursuits the same, but change the road;

Write, or at least appear to write, with ease,

'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.'

In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim,

Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name: 90

Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man

Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan!

This, in himself, himself of course must bless,

But cannot with the world promote success.

He may be strong, but, with effect to speak,

Should recollect his readers may be weak;

Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear,

Will make the sinner tremble and despair.

True Virtue acts from love, and the great end

At which she nobly aims is to amend. 100

How then do those mistake who arm her laws

With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause

They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage

They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage

Our dearest love, in hideous terror rise!

Such may be honest, but they can't be wise.

In her own full and perfect blaze of light,

Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight;

The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense,

Shuts herself up in darkness for defence: 110

But to make strong conviction deeper sink,

To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think,

Like God, made man, she lays her glory by,

And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye:

In earnest most, when most she seems in jest,

She worms into, and winds around, the breast,

To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend,

And seems unlike herself to gain her end.

The sons of Sin, to while away the time

Which lingers on their hands, of each black crime 120

To hush the painful memory, and keep

The tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep,

Read on at random, nor suspect the dart

Until they find it rooted in their heart.

'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at first

That, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed;

They see not, till they fall into the snares,

Deluded into virtue unawares.

Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind,

When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind, 130

Discarding drugs, and striving how to please,

Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees,

The patient to those manly sports which bind

The slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind;

The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth,

And wonders on demand to find it health.

Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymes

In other lands, and here, in other times,

Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife Muse

Sprinkled all over with Castalian dews, 140

To whom true Genius gave his magic pen,

Whom Art by just degrees led up to men;

Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd between

These dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean;

Sense in their works maintains her proper state,

But never sleeps, or labours with her weight;

Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay,

But never dares from Sense to run astray:

So nice the master's touch, so great his care,

The colours boldly glow, not idly glare; 150

Mutually giving and receiving aid,

They set each other off, like light and shade,

And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend,

'Tis hard to say where they begin or end:

Both give us charms, and neither gives offence;

Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense.

Peace to the men who these high honours claim,

Health to their souls, and to their memories fame!

Be it my task, and no mean task, to teach

A reverence for that worth I cannot reach: 160

Let me at distance, with a steady eye,

Observe and mark their passage to the sky;

From envy free, applaud such rising worth,

And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth!

Had I the power, I could not have the time,

Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime,

Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design

A plan, to methodise each thought, each line

Highly to finish, and make every grace,

In itself charming, take new charms from place. 170

Nothing of books, and little known of men,

When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen,

Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down.

Rough as they run, discharge them on the town.

Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time,

Are born into this idle world of Rhyme,

And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed

'With all her imperfections on her head.'

Some, as no life appears, no pulses play

Through the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way, 180

Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call,

Whether the child can be baptized at all;

Others, on other grounds, objections frame,

And, granting that the child may have a name,

Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose,

Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose.

E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men,

In love to critics, stumble now and then.

Something I do myself, and something too,

If they can do it, leave for them to do. 190

In the small compass of my careless page

Critics may find employment for an age:

Without my blunders, they were all undone;

I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one.

When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state,

To praise the man I love, curse him I hate;

When Sense, in tides of passion borne along,

Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song,

The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds,

With as high relish on the carrion feeds 200

As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast,

Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast,

Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor,

Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more.

When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke,

Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke,

Bounds through the forest, wanders far astray

From the known path, and loves to lose her way,

'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel pack

To run the rambler down, and bring her back. 210

When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child,

Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild,

Waking with Nature at the morning hour

To the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flower

Which largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew,

And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew,

So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints,

Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints;

When thus Description sports, even at the time

That drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme, 220

Critics can live on such a fault as that

From one month to the other, and grow fat.

Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearth

Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth

Of my materials, which against your will

Oft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still;

Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought,

Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought

Take, use them as your own, a work begin

Which suits your genius well, and weave them in, 230

Framed for the critic loom, with critic art,

Till, thread on thread depending, part on part,

Colour with colour mingling, light with shade,

To your dull taste a formal work is made,

And, having wrought them into one grand piece,

Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece.

Nor think this much, for at one single word,

Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard,

Science attends their call; their power is own'd;

Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: 240

Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd

At means, as atoms danced into a world.

Me higher business calls, a greater plan,

Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man,

The good of man committed to my charge:

If idle Fancy rambles forth at large,

Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays

May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise.

The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume,

And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! 250

O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth!

To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth,

My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn,

How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?--

For monarchs, would they all but think like me,

Are only fathers in the best degree)

How must thy glories fade, in every land

Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand

Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd,

Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, 260

Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile,

The boast of ages, which adorns the isle

And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad,

Happy at home, secure from force and fraud;

How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised

On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised,

Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all,

In one short moment into ruins fall,

Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race,

Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace 270

Thy royal seat of empire! But what care,

What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair

And self-reproaches, should that hated line

Admittance gain through any fault of mine!

Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring,

Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king.

Let War, with all his needy ruffian band,

In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land

Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers

Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours 280

Become a den, where beasts may, if they can,

A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man;

Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found;

Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground;

Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills;

Barren the cattle on her thousand hills;

Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey;

Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray;

Let cormorants in churches make their nest,

And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; 290

Be all, though princes in the earth before,

Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more;

Much rather would I, might the will of Fate

Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state

By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down,

Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown.

Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host,

Those servants who their Maker know, who boast

Obedience as their glory, and fulfil,

Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; 300

Let raging winds root up the boiling deep,

And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep;

Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye,

Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky;

Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise;

Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes;

Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think,

In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink

Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel;

Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, 310

Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod,

And, having own'd the justice of my God,

Myself with firmness to the ruin give,

And die with those for whom I wish to live.

This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees

Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!)

This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear;

But that the Stuart race my crown should wear,

That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone

Bright as the glories of the midday sun; 320

Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule,

Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school,

To the whip crouch and tremble--Oh, that thought!

The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought

By the dread vision; at the mere surmise

The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise;

My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats,

And, turn me where I will, distraction meets.

O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms,

The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms 330

To high achievements; can your spirits bend,

Through base control (ye never can descend

So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain,

Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign?

If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide,

Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride,

The tyranny and falsehood of those lords,

Contents you not, search England's fair records;

England, where first the breath of life I drew,

Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; 340

There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand,

They rule no more, to curse that happy land.

The first,[160] who, from his native soil removed,

Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved:

Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring

In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king;

Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws.

To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause;

On practices most mean he raised his pride,

And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. 350

Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blest

In blessing those around him; in his breast,

Crowded with follies, Honour found no room;

Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb,

He was too proud without affronts to live,

Too timorous to punish or forgive.

To gain a crown which had, in course of time,

By fair descent, been his without a crime,

He bore a mother's exile; to secure

A greater crown, he basely could endure 360

The spilling of her blood by foreign knife,

Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life:

Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led,

Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed.[161]

Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne,

He fill'd her court with beggars from his own:

Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught,

Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought.

To vain expense unbounded loose he gave,

The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave; 370

On false pretences mighty sums he raised,

And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised;

From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread,

On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed,

He lavish'd sums, for her received, on men

Whose names would fix dishonour on my pen.

Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport;

Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court:

Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since,

The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince; 380

And having with some trifles stored his brain,

Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign.

Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud,

Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd;

False friend, false son, false father,[162] and false king,

False wit, false statesman, and false everything,

When he should act, he idly chose to prate,

And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state.

Religious, if religion holds in whim;

To talk with all, he let all talk with him; 390

Not on God's honour, but his own intent,

Not for religion's sake, but argument;

More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave,

Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knave

Conviction feign'd, than if, to peace restored

By his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord.

Power was his wish, unbounded as his will,

The power, without control, of doing ill;

But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach,

And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach 400

He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride,

That freedom to the realm his will denied.

Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts,

In every treaty of his own mean arts

He fell the dupe; peace was his coward care,

E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war:

His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit,

But rather than unsheath the sword, submit.

Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to live

In league with Mercy, Justice may forgive 410

Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain,

But never can forgive a Raleigh slain.

At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year)

Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear,

Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love,

He went to answer for his faults above;

To answer to that God, from whom alone

He claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne;

Leaving behind, a curse to all his line,

The bloody legacy of Right Divine.[163] 420

With many virtues which a radiance fling

Round private men; with few which grace a king,

And speak the monarch; at that time of life

When Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife,

Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone,

Who envied virtue even in a son.

His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild;

He took the Man up ere he left the Child;

His soul was eager for imperial sway,

Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. 430

Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng,

Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong;

Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed,

And all his follies left to run to seed.

What ills from such beginnings needs must spring!

What ills to such a land from such a king!

What could she hope! what had she not to fear!

Base Buckingham[164] possess'd his youthful ear;

Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne,

Engross'd his love, and made him all their own; 440

Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avow

The traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now;

Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour,

The first with pleasure, and the last with power.

Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!)

That all mankind were made for kings alone;

That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim,

Or worse, in common men, was law in him;

Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreed

To guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead; 450

Which in a fair proportion to deny

Allegiance dares not; which to hold too high,

No good can wish, no coward king can dare,

And, held too high, no English subject bear;

Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts,

Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts,

Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool,

Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule;

Taking all public steps for private ends,

Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends, 460

He had not strength enough of soul to find

That monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind,

Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone,

When what was meant for all, they give to one.

Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate[165]

Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state,

Whilst (in the state not more than women read)

High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head;

Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes;

Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries; 470

Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?)

He heard a nation, hearing one or two;

Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think,

And out of danger e'en on danger's brink;

Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand,

Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land,

As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound,

He proudly sought the ruin which he found.

Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years,[166]

Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears, 480

Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root,

Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute.

Illegal taxes and oppressive loans,

In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans;

Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell,

And Loyalty was tempted to rebel.

Each day new acts of outrage shook the state,

New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight;

State inquisitions kept the realm in awe,

And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law; 490

Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound;

Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found.

From the first moments of his giddy youth

He hated senates, for they told him truth.

At length, against his will compell'd to treat,

Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat;

With base dissembling every grievance heard,

And, often giving, often broke his word.

Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly,

If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? 500

Those who, the general good their real aim,

Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame;

Those who were anxious for his safety; those

Who were induced by duty to oppose,

Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown,

He held as foes and traitors to his throne;

Nor found his fatal error till the hour

Of saving him was gone and past; till power

Had shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign,

Making their faith and his repentance vain. 510

Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!)

War, dread to mention, Civil War arose;

All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame,

Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name;

Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand,

Spread universal havoc through the land;

With zeal for party, and with passion drunk,

In public rage all private love was sunk;

Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood,

And the son's weapon drank the father's blood; 520

Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reign

Should last no longer, bled in every vein.

Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that name

Grates on my ear, I should have died with shame

To see my king before his subjects stand,

And at their bar hold up his royal hand;

At their commands to hear the monarch plead,

By their decrees to see that monarch bleed.

What though thy faults were many and were great?

What though they shook the basis of the state? 530

In royalty secure thy person stood,

And sacred was the fountain of thy blood.

Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust,

Who dared seduce a king to be unjust,

Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong,

Had nobly crush'd--'The king could do no wrong.'

Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame;

They took thy life, but they secured thy fame.

Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear,

From which the sun in glory is not clear. 540

Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath

At Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in death

As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne

On the four winds, had been in pieces torn.

Pity, the virtue of a generous soul,

Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole.

Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give,

And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live.

Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few!

Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue; 550

Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great;

Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate;

Who own no law, no reason, but your will,

And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill;

Who of all passions groan beneath the worst,

Then only bless'd when they make others cursed;

Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live;

Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive;

But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day,

Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay; 560

Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you alone

Shall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone;

No, like some base distemper, which remains,

Transmitted from the tainted father's veins,

In the son's blood, such broad and general crimes

Shall call down vengeance e'en to latest times,

Call vengeance down on all who bear your name,

And make their portion bitterness and shame.

From land to land for years compell'd to roam,

Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home, 570

Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly,

Not daring, like a king, to reign or die,

Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne,

More at his people's seeking than his own,

Another Charles succeeded. In the school

Of Travel he had learn'd to play the fool;

And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sent

To shame their country on the Continent,

From love of England by long absence wean'd,

From every court he every folly glean'd, 580

And was--so close do evil habits cling--

Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king.

Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd,

An instance of his mercy to mankind,

Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd,

Nor would he give one hour to bless a world;

Lighter than levity which strides the blast,

And, of the present fond, forgets the past,

He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse,

Changed only from one folly to a worse: 590

State he resign'd to those whom state could please;

Careless of majesty, his wish was ease;

Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim;

Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame;

Dignity through his reign was made a sport,

Nor dared Decorum show her face at court;

Morality was held a standing jest,

And Faith a necessary fraud at best.

Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view,

Possess'd great talents, and abused them too; 600

Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain,

Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane,

(So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit)

Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit.

In gratitude, alas! but little read,

He let his father's servants beg their bread--

His father's faithful servants, and his own,

To place the foes of both around his throne.

Bad counsels he embraced through indolence,

Through love of ease, and not through want of sense; 610

He saw them wrong, but rather let them go

As right, than take the pains to make them so.

Women ruled all, and ministers of state

Were for commands at toilets forced to wait:

Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land,

But never govern'd well at second-hand.

To make all other errors slight appear,

In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk[167] and Tangier;[168]

In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vain

Shall strive to wipe those records from the brain, 620

Amboyna[169] stands--Gods! that a king could hold

In such high estimate vile paltry gold,

And of his duty be so careless found,

That when the blood of subjects from the ground

For vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry,

And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by,

Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd,

And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned!

Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame,

To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! 630

Of all the passions which from frailty spring,

Avarice is that which least becomes a king.

To crown the whole, scorning the public good,

Which through his reign he little understood,

Or little heeded, with too narrow aim

He reassumed a bigot brother's claim,

And having made time-serving senates bow,

Suddenly died--that brother best knew how.

No matter how--he slept amongst the dead,

And James his brother reigned in his stead: 640

But such a reign--so glaring an offence

In every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense,

'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan,

'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman,

That the relation would mere fiction seem,

The mock creation of a poet's dream;

And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age,

Appear as false as _their_ historian's page.

Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit,

Christians were forced by bigots to submit; 650

Pride without sense, without religion Zeal,

Made daring inroads on the Commonweal;

Stern Persecution raised her iron rod,

And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God;

Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome,

And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb.

Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'd

From its due natural frame, her rights retrench'd

Beyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced,

And healing Justice from the Crown divorced, 660

Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power,

Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower,

Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name)

Branded with arbitrary marks of shame,

She wept--but wept not long: to arms she flew,

At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew,

Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head,

And sent him in despair to beg his bread;

Whilst she, (may every State in such distress

Dare with such zeal, and meet with such success!) 670

Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mind

Choose to enslave rather than free mankind,

Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down,

Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!)

Whilst she, (through every age, in every land,

Written in gold, let Revolution stand!)

Whilst she, secured in liberty and law,

Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau.

Book III

Can the fond mother from herself depart?[170]

Can she forget the darling of her heart,

The little darling whom she bore and bred,

Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed;

To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,

And in whose life alone she seem'd to live?

Yes, from herself the mother may depart,

She may forget the darling of her heart,

The little darling whom she bore and bred,

Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed, 10

To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,

And in whose life alone she seem'd to live;

But I cannot forget, whilst life remains,

And pours her current through these swelling veins,

Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine;

But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine.

Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,

From her disnatured breast tear her young child,

Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,

And dash the smiling babe against a stone? 20

Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,

From her disnatured breast may tear her child,

Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,

And dash the smiling babe against a stone;

But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er

The love of Gotham from this bosom tear;

Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert

From its fair course, to do my people hurt.

With how much ease, with how much confidence--

As if, superior to each grosser sense, 30

Reason had only, in full power array'd,

To manifest her will, and be obey'd--

Men make resolves, and pass into decrees

The motions of the mind! with how much ease,

In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw,

And bring to nothing what was raised to law!

In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne,

The dangers and the sweets of power unknown,

Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child,

Whose little senses each new toy turns wild, 40

How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown,

And wanton with dominion, how lay down,

Without the sanction of a precedent,

Rules of most large and absolute extent;

Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring,

And all at once commence a Patriot King!

But, for the day of trial is at hand,

And the whole fortunes of a mighty land

Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe

Must from my good or evil conduct flow, 50

Will I, or can I, on a fair review,

As I assume that name, deserve it too?

Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part

I'm now to play? have I explored my heart,

That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell,

Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell

Ten thousand follies? have I found out there

What I am fit to do, and what to bear?

Have I traced every passion to its rise,

Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? 60

Have I familiar with my nature grown?

And am I fairly to myself made known?

A Patriot King!--why, 'tis a name which bears

The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears

The nearest, best resemblance we can show

Of God above, through all his works below.

To still the voice of Discord in the land;

To make weak Faction's discontented band,

Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay,

With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey; 70

Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd,

Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd;

To make a nation, nobly raised above

All meaner thought, grow up in common love;

To give the laws due vigour, and to hold

That secret balance, temperate, yet bold,

With such an equal hand, that those who fear

May yet approve, and own my justice clear;

To be a common father, to secure

The weak from violence, from pride the poor; 80

Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace,

To make Corruption dread to show her face;

To bid afflicted Virtue take new state,

And be at last acquainted with the great;

Of all religions to elect the best,

Nor let her priests be made a standing jest;

Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve,

To love the arts, nor let the artists starve;

To make fair Plenty through the realm increase,

Give fame in war, and happiness in peace; 90

To see my people virtuous, great, and free,

And know that all those blessings flow from me;

Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought

Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought;

'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard;

But no less great, less glorious the reward,

The best reward which here to man is given,

'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven;

A task (if such comparison may be)

The same in Nature, differing in degree, 100

Like that which God, on whom for aid I call,

Performs with ease, and yet performs to all.

How much do they mistake, how little know

Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow

From royalty, who fancy that a crown,

Because it glistens, must be lined with down!

With outside show, and vain appearance caught,

They look no further, and, by Folly taught,

Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find

One of the many cares which lurk behind. 110

The gem they worship which a crown adorns,

Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns.

Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply,

Would we one moment use her piercing eye,

Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs,

And learn to pity, not to envy kings!

The villager, born humbly and bred hard,

Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard,

In action simply just, in conscience clear,

By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, 120

His means but scanty, and his wants but few,

Labour his business, and his pleasure too,

Enjoys more comforts in a single hour

Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power.

Call'd up by health, he rises with the day,

And goes to work, as if he went to play,

Whistling off toils, one half of which might make

The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake;

'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint,

Harden'd by constant use, without complaint 130

He bears what we should think it death to bear;

Short are his meals, and homely is his fare;

His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook,

Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook.

When the dews fall, and when the sun retires

Behind the mountains, when the village fires,

Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh,

At distance catch, and fix his longing eye,

Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood

Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, 140

Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride

'Gainst his return is happy to provide;

Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps

Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps.

Not so the king--with anxious cares oppress'd

His bosom labours, and admits not rest:

A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight

Of majesty, and gives up ease for state.

E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride,

Are treasured and preserved from side to side, 150

Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form,

He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm.

Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone,

With all her nest of vipers, round his throne

By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep,

Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep;

When Misery herself no more complains,

And slaves, if possible, forget their chains;

Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim,

That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. 160

E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids

The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids;

From night to night she watches at his bed;

Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head;

Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings,

Croaks forth aloud--'Sleep was not made for kings!'

Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball,

Who rules most absolute o'er me and all;

To whom, by full conviction taught to bow,

At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; 170

Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued,

Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd,

Since, (bless'd be that season, for before

I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more,

One of the herd, a lump of common clay,

Inform'd with life, to die and pass away)

Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne,

With full and ample power, became my own;

Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued,

Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, 180

Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies

New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes.

Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success,

And I am made an instrument to bless

The people whom I love, shall I repine;

Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine.

Mindful of that high rank in which I stand,

Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land,

Let me,--and Reason shall her aid afford,--

Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. 190

With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown,

Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown

'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while

Meets his own vices with a partial smile.

How can a king (yet on record we find

Such kings have been, such curses of mankind)

Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf

Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself?

Can he some petty rogue to justice call

For robbing one, when he himself robs all? 200

Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly

Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye,

To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd

And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd?

Against himself doth he not sentence give;

If one must die, t' other's not fit to live.

Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound,

Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.

All envy power in others, and complain

Of that which they would perish to obtain. 210

Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold,

Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold,

Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway

Makes it their real interest to obey;

When kings, and none but fools can then rebel,

Not less in virtue, than in power, excel.

Be that my object, that my constant care,

And may my soul's best wishes centre there;

Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain,

Not only how to live, but how to reign; 220

And to those virtues which from Reason spring,

And grace the man, join those which grace the king.

First, (for strict duty bids my care extend

And reach to all who on that care depend,

Bids me with servants keep a steady hand,

And watch o'er all my proxies in the land)

First, (and that method Reason shall support)

Before I look into, and purge my court,

Before I cleanse the stable of the State,

Let me fix things which to myself relate. 230

That done, and all accounts well settled here,

In resolution firm, in honour clear,

Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust,

Who dare be villains, when your king is just.

Are there, amongst those officers of state,

To whom our sacred power we delegate,

Who hold our place and office in the realm,

Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm;

Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease,

Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees, 240

And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent,

To speak a language which they never meant;

Are there such men, and can the fools depend

On holding out in safety to their end?

Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free,

Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me,

To think that I will prove a statesman's tool,

And live a stranger where I ought to rule?

What! to myself and to my state unjust,

Shall I from ministers take things on trust, 250

And, sinking low the credit of my throne,

Depend upon dependants of my own?

Shall I,--most certain source of future cares,--

Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs?

Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state,

Have nothing but the name of being great;

Attend at councils which I must not weigh;

Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say;

Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair,

Only to be a royal cipher there? 260

Perish the thought--'tis treason to my throne--

And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known

Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell,

Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel.

The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues

A train of guilt; who acts with double views,

And wears a double face; whose base designs

Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines

E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support;

Who seizes all departments; packs a court; 270

Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat,

To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete;

New-models armies, and around the throne

Will suffer none but creatures of his own,

Conscious of such his baseness, well may try,

Against the light to shut his master's eye,

To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those

Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose,

Nor ever let him in one place appear,

Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. 280

Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim,

And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim.

Kings must be blind into such snares to run,

Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone.

The minister of honesty and worth

Demands the day to bring his actions forth;

Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays,

And braves that trial which must end in praise.

None fly the day, and seek the shades of night,

But those whose actions cannot bear the light; 290

None wish their king in ignorance to hold

But those who feel that knowledge must unfold

Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd

By which their places and their lives are held,

Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led,

In vengeance fall on every traitor's head.

Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit

Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit,

And rust in chains like these? shall I give way,

And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey 300

To power abused, in ignorance sit down,

Nor dare assert the honour of my crown?

When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name

Justly belongs to those whose only aim,

Is to preserve their country; who oppose,

In honour leagued, none but their country's foes;

Who only seek their own, and found their cause

In due regard for violated laws)

When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels

Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels, 310

A nation up in arms, though strong not proud,

Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud

For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen,

A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men:

How must that king be humbled, how disgrace

All that is royal in his name and place,

Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance

No other plea but that of ignorance!

A vile defence, which, was his all at stake,

The meanest subject well might blush to make; 320

A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs;

A stain to all, but most a stain to kings.

The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd,

Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd;

And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal,

Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel?

Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow

To me, whose first great duty is--to know?

Hence, Ignorance!--thy settled, dull, blank eye

Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. 330

Hence, Ignorance!--thy slavish shackles bind

The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind.

Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn

On every meaner match, of thee was born

That grave inflexibility of soul,

Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control;

Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach,

And nothing less than utter ruin teach.

Hence, Ignorance!--hence to that depth of night

Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light 340

May wound thine eye--hence to some dreary cell

Where monks with superstition love to dwell;

Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride,

And with the heads of colleges reside;

Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be,

And if no mate for kings, no mate for me.

Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains,

Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains

Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind,

Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind; 350

Come, Study!--painful though thy course, and slow,

Thy real worth by thy effects we know--

Parent of Knowledge, come!--Not thee I call,

Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall

Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh

Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay--

Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade,

A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd,

A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee,

Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C: 360

Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms,

As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms)

Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze,

A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways,

Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains,

Where, in full glory, real Science reigns;

Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye,

Though full rewards in thy possession lie

To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace;

Though (was I station'd in an humbler place) 370

I could be ever happy in thy sight,

Toil with thee all the day, and through the night,

Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye,

Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy;

Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow)

Must I thy sweet society forego,

And to some happy rival's arms resign

Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine!

No more from hour to hour, from day to day,

Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way 380

Where eager love of science calls; no more

Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before;

No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd,

Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost,

Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night,

From night to morn, yet travel with delight,

And having found thee, lay me down content,

Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent.

Farewell, ye Muses too!--for such mean things

Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings-- 390

Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart

E'en to the quick, we must for ever part.

When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake;

When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake,

Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom

Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume;

When all things with new vigour were inspired,

And seem'd to say they never could be tired;

How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme

Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time, 400

O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see,

Yourselves made visible to none but me,

The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare,

And seem to think that I conversed with air!

When the sun, beating on the parched soil,

Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil;

When a faint langour crept through every breast,

And things most used to labour wish'd for rest,

How often, underneath a reverend oak,

Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke, 410

Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove,

Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove

Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while

Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile,

Have we held converse sweet! How often laid,

Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade,

Amongst those poets which make up your train,

And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain,

Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray,

But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay 420

Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere,

And kept him from his office listening here!

When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train,

Led on by Silence to resume her reign,

With darkness covering, as with a robe,

The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe;

How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains,

Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains

Of music bound my soul; how oft have I,

Sounds more than human floating through the sky, 430

Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will,

Transported with the harmony, stood still!

How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear,

Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there;

Still heard their music, and, as mute as death,

Sat all attention, drew in every breath,

Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound,

And mar that magic excellence of sound;

Then, Sense returning with return of day,

Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! 440

Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore,

Such were my mates, but now my mates no more.

Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure,

Would never haunt the cottage of the poor,

Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays)

With some few friends, and some small share of praise,

Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife,

In peace I trod the humble vale of life.

Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state;

Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! 450

Light toys from this day forth I disavow;

They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now:

To common men all common things are free,

What honours them, might fix disgrace on me.

Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land

Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand,

Are all engross'd; each private view withstood,

And task'd to labour for the public good:

Be this my study; to this one great end

May every thought, may every action tend! 460

Let me the page of History turn o'er,

The instructive page, and needfully explore

What faithful pens of former times have wrote

Of former kings; what they did worthy note,

What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb

Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom,

Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine,

Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine.

Nor let me with a vain and idle eye

Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly, 470

Quick as the post, which travels day and night;

Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight;

And, into barren theory betray'd,

Forget that monarchs are for action made.

When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms,

Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms,

Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold,

Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold;

When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath

Of the rude North, and timorous of death, 480

To its kind mother earth for shelter fled,

And on her bosom hid its tender head,

Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties,

Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise;

The hive is up in arms--expert to teach,

Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each

Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch;

Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch,

The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies,

From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs 490

With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left,

Find not themselves made poorer by the theft,

Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair,

As if the pillager had not been there.

Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing;

Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring

Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast

Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest;

Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews

Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse 500

Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils,

To her own private use convert the spoils.

Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam,

And to the stock she brings her booty home.

Be this my pattern--as becomes a king,

Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing;

Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth

Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth,

In any place and time, nor let one man,

Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan, 510

Escape my note; be all, from the first day

Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey.

From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame,

Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame;

From those who, not in mercy, but in rage,

Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age,

Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil,

And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill.

Nor let these great researches, in my breast

A monument of useless labour rest; 520

No--let them spread--the effects let Gotham share,

And reap the harvest of their monarch's care:

Be other times, and other countries known,

Only to give fresh blessings to my own.

Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly,

On whom for needful succour I rely

In this great hour, that glorious God of truth,

Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth,

Assist my weakness, and direct me right;

From every speck which hangs upon the sight 530

Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain

To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!)

Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought,

Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought,

Examine well on what my power depends;

What are the general principles and ends

Of government; how empire first began;

And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man.

Let me consider, as from one great source

We see a thousand rivers take their course, 540

Dispersed, and into different channels led,

Yet by their parent still supplied and fed,

That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide,

In various modes to various lands applied)

Howe'er it differs in its outward frame,

In the main groundwork's every where the same;

The same her view, though different her plan,

Her grand and general view--the good of man.

Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams,

What system in itself most perfect seems, 550

Most worthy man, most likely to conduce

To all the purposes of general use;

Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried,

It fails, when to particulars applied;

Why in that mode all nations do not join,

And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine.

Let me the gradual rise of empires trace,

Till they seem founded on Perfection's base;

Then (for when human things have made their way

To excellence, they hasten to decay) 560

Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue

Step after step to their decline pursue,

Enabled by a chain of facts to tell

Not only how they rose, but why they fell.

Let me not only the distempers know

Which in all states from common causes grow,

But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate,

On each peculiar mode of empire wait;

Which in its very constitution lurk,

Too sure at last to do its destined work: 570

Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn,

That I my people's danger may discern,

Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure,

And, if it can be found, find out a cure.

Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown

Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down,

Making those jar whom Reason meant to join,

And vesting in themselves a right divine),

Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye,

Into the depth of that religion pry 580

Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there

What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air,

We well may change; and what, without a crime,

Cannot be changed to the last hour of time.

Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal

Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel,

Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound,

These separate points at random to confound.

The times have been when priests have dared to tread,

Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head; 590

When, whilst they made religion a pretence,

Out of the world they banish'd common-sense;

When some soft king, too open to deceit,

Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat,

Duped by mock piety, and gave his name

To serve the vilest purposes of shame.

Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear

Can justly rise--your king secures you here;

Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod,

Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. 600

Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid

Their monarch to behold what they wish hid,

And for the purposes of knavish gain,

Would have their trade a mystery remain)

Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe,

Dive to the very bottom of the law;

Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind)

Search out the principles, the spirit find,

Till, from the parts, made master of the whole,

I see the Constitution's very soul. 610

Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist,

And to my eyes present a fearful list

Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine,

Of men, great men, determined to resign)

Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king.

Conscious from what a source my actions spring,

Determined not by worlds to be withstood,

When my grand object is my country's good)

Unravel all low ministerial scenes,

Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means, 620

And track them step by step; let me well know

How places, pensions, and preferments go;

Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not,

And why one man of merit is forgot;

Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside,

And dare to know my way without a guide.

Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud,

Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,--

As if the sun shone with less powerful ray,

Less grace, less glory, shining every day,-- 630

Though when she comes forth into public sight,

Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright,

With such an air as we have often seen,

And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen,

Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook

The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look)

Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride,

All terrors of dominion laid aside,

All ornament, and needless helps of art,

All those big looks, which speak a little heart) 640

Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known)

How Affability becomes a throne,

Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live,

And gives those graces Pride can never give.

Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state,

And, hating all men, fear return of hate,

Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne,

Secure from all upbraidings but his own:

Let all my subjects have access to me,

Be my ears open, as my heart is free; 650

In full fair tide let information flow;

That evil is half cured, whose cause we know.

And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing,

Who art afraid to look up to a king,

Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain,

And, if I not redress thee, may my reign

Close up that very moment. To prevent

The course of Justice from her vain intent,

In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead,

In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed, 660

But must not change. When Justice draws the dart,

Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart,

'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim--

I know it duty, and I feel it fame.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[148] 'Gotham:' is designed as a satire on England and its kings, and

as a picture of what a king of England should be. The first book is a

wild and fanciful bravura.

[149] 'Mandeville:' the famous lying traveller.

[150] 'Monmouth:' in Wales, once visited, and ever afterwards hated by

the poet.

[151] 'Bonnell Thornton:' author of a humorous burlesque, 'Ode on St

Cecilia's Day.' See Boswell.

[152] 'William Boyce:' a celebrated musician.

[153] 'Hayman:' Francis Hayman, the painter, was monotonous in his

style.

[154] 'Saint James:' The 25th of July, St James's day, or the first day

of oysters.

[155] 'August:' alluding to a rowing match, held on 1st August, in

honour of George the First's accession; instituted by one Doggett, an

actor, &c.

[156] 'George:' George the Second was born on the 30th of October 1683.

[157] 'Augusta:' wife of Frederic, Prince of Wales, a great friend of

Lord Bute's.

[159] 'Colonel Norborne Berkeley:' second to Lord Talbot in his duel

with Wilkes.

[160] 'First:' James the First.

[161] 'Blood was shed:' Secretary Cecil, who had been a bitter foe of

Queen Mary, and became a favourite of James.

[162] 'False father:' alluding to the death of the very promising

Prince Henry, popularly supposed to have been hated and removed by

his father.

[163] 'Right Divine:' see, as a _per contra_ to this fierce invective

against poor 'King Jamie,' Scott's 'Fortunes of Nigel.'

[164] 'Buckingham:' George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.

[165] 'Woman's prate:' Henrietta, the intriguing Queen of Charles the

First.

[166] 'Inglorious years:' no parliament was summoned from 1628 to 1640.

[167] 'Dunkirk:' Dunkirk was, in 1662, sold by Charles the Second to

the French for £400,000.

[168] 'Tangier:' Tangier, in Africa, was also shamefully sacrificed

by Charles the Second.

[169] 'Amboyna:' where the Dutch inflicted dreadful and unavenged

cruelties on the English. This happened, however, in 1622, under James

the First, not Charles the Second.

[170] Isa. xlix. 15.

THE AUTHOR.[171]

Accursed the man, whom Fate ordains, in spite,

And cruel parents teach, to read and write!

What need of letters? wherefore should we spell?

Why write our names? A mark will do as well.

Much are the precious hours of youth misspent,

In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent;

When to the top the bold adventurer's got,

He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot;

Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below,

Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow; 10

Honours and wealth pour in on every side,

And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.

O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste,

To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste,

To bear the slavish drudgery of schools,

And tamely stoop to every pedant's rules;

For seven long years debarr'd of liberal ease,

To plod in college trammels to degrees;

Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan,

Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; 20

To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale,

And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail;

Manhood with vile submission to disgrace,

And cap the fool, whose merit is his place,

Vice-Chancellors, whose knowledge is but small,

And Chancellors, who nothing know at all:

Ill-brook'd the generous spirit in those days

When learning was the certain road to praise,

When nobles, with a love of science bless'd,

Approved in others what themselves possess'd. 30

But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne,

When lordly vassals her wide empire own;

When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside,

And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride;

What, now, should tempt us, by false hopes misled,

Learning's unfashionable paths to tread;

To bear those labours which our fathers bore,

That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore?

When with much pains this boasted learning's got,

'Tis an affront to those who have it not: 40

In some it causes hate, in others fear,

Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer.

With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool

Forgets the little which he learn'd at school:

The elder brother, to vast fortunes born,

Looks on all science with an eye of scorn;

Dependent brethren the same features wear,

And younger sons are stupid as the heir.

In senates, at the bar, in church and state,

Genius is vile, and learning out of date. 50

Is this--oh, death to think!--is this the land

Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand?

Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd,

By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd?

Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays,

And by their patrons sanctified their praise?

Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue,

Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung?

Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled,

Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? 60

Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd,

And wonder'd at the work herself had made?

Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge

And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large?

Where, finding in our laws a sure defence,

She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense?

Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side,

She spread her sacred empire far and wide;

Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile,

And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile; 70

Bade those, who dare obey the generous call,

Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?

Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign,

When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,

The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd

Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd

Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause,

Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws;

When Power was taught by Meanness where to go,

Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe; 80

When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head

To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread;

Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd;

And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd

The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,

Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain?

Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,

The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes

To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak

In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; 90

Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,

And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?

How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,

Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls;

Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod,

Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;

Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,

Dote from their birth, and are by system fools;

Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth,

Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth; 100

Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,

And lay out all their stock of faith in news;

How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these,

Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please,

Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime,

And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme!

How do I laugh, when Publius,[172] hoary grown

In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own,

By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn

In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, 110

Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send)

To have a foe, too proud to have a friend;

Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold,

Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old,

Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse

Subjects more equal to her weakness choose;

Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains,

Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains;

Bids her, indulging the poetic whim

In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, 120

Along the church-way path complain with Gray,

Or dance with Mason on the first of May!

'All sacred is the name and power of kings;

All states and statesmen are those mighty things

Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll,

Were never made for poets to control.'

Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem

Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme.

I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round,

In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: 130

(Our God alone except) above whose height

The poet cannot rise, and hold his state.

The blessed saints above in numbers speak

The praise of God, though there all praise is weak;

In numbers here below the bard shall teach

Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach;

Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat,

And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note,

Should an afflicted country, awed by men

Of slavish principles, demand his pen. 140

This is a great, a glorious point of view,

Fit for an English poet to pursue;

Undaunted to pursue, though, in return,

His writings by the common hangman burn

How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed

Above their betters, and by rank disgraced,

Who found their pride on titles which they stain,

And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain;

Who would a bill of privilege prefer,

And treat a poet like a creditor; 150

The generous ardour of the Muse condemn,

And curse the storm they know must break on them!

'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown,

Without one badge of merit but his own,

Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men,

Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?'

What's in this name of lord, that I should fear

To bring their vices to the public ear?

Flows not the honest blood of humble swains

Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? 160

Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow,

Cannot make virtues in succession flow.

Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above

The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love:

Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought;

Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught,

Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear,

Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir.

But if, regardless of the road to fame,

You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; 170

If such thy life, that should thy sire arise,

The sight of such a son would blast his eyes,

Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth,

Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth,

Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead

In endless night to hide his reverend head;

If such thy life, though kings had made thee more

Than ever king a scoundrel made before;

Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring,

Though God in vengeance had made thee a king, 180

Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,

The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light,

Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare

To the keen question of the searching air.

Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave,

Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave,

Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art

Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!

How do I laugh, when, with affected air,

(Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, 190

Whilst on his trembling lip pale Anger speaks,

And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks)

He talks of Conscience, which good men secures

From all those evil moments Guilt endures,

And seems to laugh at those who pay regard

To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.

'Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway

The mind of man, must always make her way;

Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught,

Is all her malice worth a single thought. 200

The wise have not the will, nor fools the power,

To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,

Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife

Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.

All things her prey, and every man her aim,

I can no patent for exemption claim,

Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart

Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart;

Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;

To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.' 210

Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school,

And there amongst thy brethren play the fool;

There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach.

Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach?

Lives there a man who calmly can stand by,

And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye?

When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing,

Short is her life, and impotent her sting;

But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives

Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. 220

When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,

And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot,

Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,

Live in her page, and stink to after-times.

Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride,

And own those passions which thou shalt not hide.

Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth,

Made human nature a reproach on earth,

Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay,

When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, 230

Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit,

Those actions which he blush'd not to commit.

Men the most infamous are fond of fame,

And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.

But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force,

Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course;

Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd

With courage, graced the science they profess'd;

When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood,

The bad to punish, and reward the good; 240

When, to a flame by public virtue wrought,

The foes of freedom they to justice brought,

And dared expose those slaves who dared support

A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court?

Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those

Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose.

Is there an Author, search the kingdom round,

In whom true worth and real spirit's found?

The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate

To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; 250

Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud

Which Honour scorns, for slavery roar aloud;

Others, half-palsied only, mutes become,

And what makes Smollett write, makes Johnson dumb.

Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye

Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by?

Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take,

Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake?

No, no, like other worldlings, you will find

He shifts his sails and catches every wind. 260

His soul the shock of Interest can't endure:

Give him a pension then, and sin secure.

With laurell'd wreaths the flatterer's brows adorn:

Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn;

Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight,

Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right.

Try, thou state-juggler, every paltry art;

Ransack the inmost closet of my heart;

Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way

Into my breast, and flatter to betray. 270

Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome doubt

Detects the fraud, and points the villain out;

Bribe those who daily at my board are fed,

And make them take my life who eat my bread.

On Authors for defence, for praise depend;

Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend:

He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes,

To varnish guilt, and consecrate thy crimes;

To make Corruption in false colours shine,

And damn his own good name, to rescue thine. 280

But, if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold,

And Vice no longer rains down showers of gold,

Expect no mercy; facts, well-grounded, teach,

Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.

What though each man of nice and juster thought,

Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour taught,

He ne'er can be a friend, who stoops so low

To be the base betrayer of a foe?

What though, with thine together link'd, his name

Must be with thine transmitted down to shame? 290

To every manly feeling callous grown,

Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his own.

To ope the fountain whence sedition springs,

To slander government, and libel kings;

With Freedom's name to serve a present hour,

Though born and bred to arbitrary power;

To talk of William with insidious art,

Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart;

And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head,

Flattering the living, to abuse the dead, 300

Where is Shebbeare?[173] Oh, let not foul reproach,

Travelling thither in a city-coach,

The pillory dare to name: the whole intent

Of that parade was fame, not punishment;

And that old staunch Whig, Beardmore,[174] standing by,

Can in full court give that report the lie.

With rude unnatural jargon to support,

Half-Scotch, half-English, a declining court;

To make most glaring contraries unite,

And prove beyond dispute that black is white; 310

To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame,

Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name;

To prove that chains and freedom are but one,

That to be saved must mean to be undone,

Is there not Guthrie?[175] Who, like him, can call

All opposites to proof, and conquer all?

He calls forth living waters from the rock;

He calls forth children from the barren stock;

He, far beyond the springs of Nature led,

Makes women bring forth after they are dead; 320

He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,

In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man;

And to complete the whole, most strange, but true,

By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too;

Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years,

Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.'

Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame,

Something which Nature shudders but to name,

Something which makes the soul of man retreat,

And the life-blood run backward to her seat? 330

Dost thou contrive, for some base private end,

Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend;

To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath,

And promise life, to work him surer death?

Grown old in villany, and dead to grace,

Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face,

Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands,

Lowering damnation, and with open hands,

Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward,

The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord![176] 340

Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed,

Ere it was known that I should learn to read;

Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew

What mighty Dulness of itself could do,

Never design'd me for a working priest,

But hoped I should have been a Dean at least:

Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men,

To whom I pledge the service of my pen)[177]

Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn,

Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) 350

In pomp of reverend beggary to appear,

To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year:

My friends, who never felt the galling load,

Lament that I forsook the packhorse road,

Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears,

In throwing off that gown which Francis[178] wears.

What creature's that, so very pert and prim,

So very full of foppery, and whim,

So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet,

So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; 360

Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,

And by his garb appears a man of God?

Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show;

The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd beau;

That's an informer; what avails the name?

Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came.

His tongue is deadly--from his presence run,

Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.

No ties can hold him, no affection bind,

And fear alone restrains his coward mind; 370

Free him from that, no monster is so fell,

Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in Hell.

His silken smiles, his hypocritic air,

His meek demeanour, plausible and fair,

Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way,

And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey.

Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view--

The preacher is a Christian, dull, but true;

But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er,

That plan of doctrine's never thought of more; 380

Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf,

And the vile priest is gospel to himself.

By Cleland[179] tutor'd, and with Blacow[180] bred,

(Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led,

Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame,

Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting shame)

Their steps he follows, and their crimes partakes;

To virtue lost, to vice alone he wakes,

Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes,

And whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes. 390

Are these the arts which policy supplies?

Are these the steps by which grave churchmen rise?

Forbid it, Heaven; or, should it turn out so,

Let me and mine continue mean and low.

Such be their arts whom interest controls;

Kidgell[181] and I have free and modest souls:

We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin,

And will, though poor without, have peace within.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[171] 'The Author:' published in 1763. For this poem and 'The

Duellist,' Churchill received £450.

[172] 'Publius:' Smollett.

[173] 'Shebbeare:' Dr John Shebbeare, a physician and notorious

jacobitical writer, who, after having been pilloried for a seditious

production, was pensioned by George the Third.

[174] 'Beardmore:' under sheriff.

[175] 'Guthrie:' William Guthrie, a literary hack. See Boswell. He

wrote an absurd History of the Peerage.

[176] 'Atheist lord:' See note on 'Epistle to William Hogarth.'

[177] 'Service of my pen:' he designed, and partly executed, a poem

entitled 'The Curate.'

[178] 'Francis:' the Rev. Philip Francis, the translator of Horace, and

father of Sir Philip Francis.

[179] 'Cleland:' John Cleland, an infamous witling of the time.

[180] 'Blacow:' an Oxfordian, who informed against some riotous

students, who were shouting out drunken Jacobitism.

[181] 'Kidgell:' Rector of Horne, the subject of the above sketch, and

here ironically praised, had obtained surreptitiously a copy of

Wilkes's 'Essay on Woman,' and betrayed it to the secretaries of state.

THE CONFERENCE.[182]

Grace said in form, which sceptics must agree,

When they are told that grace was said by me;

The servants gone to break the scurvy jest

On the proud landlord, and his threadbare guest;

'The King' gone round, my lady too withdrawn;

My lord, in usual taste, began to yawn,

And, lolling backward in his elbow-chair,

With an insipid kind of stupid stare,

Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about--

Churchill, you have a poem coming out: 10

You've my best wishes; but I really fear

Your Muse, in general, is too severe;

Her spirit seems her interest to oppose,

And where she makes one friend, makes twenty foes.

_C_. Your lordship's fears are just; I feel their force,

But only feel it as a thing of course.

The man whose hardy spirit shall engage

To lash, the vices of a guilty age,

At his first setting forward ought to know

That every rogue he meets must be his foe; 20

That the rude breath of satire will provoke

Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke.

But shall the partial rage of selfish men

From stubborn Justice wrench the righteous pen?

Or shall I not my settled course pursue,

Because my foes are foes to Virtue too?

_L_. What is this boasted Virtue, taught in schools,

And idly drawn from antiquated rules?

What is her use? Point out one wholesome end.

Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend? 30

When from long fasts fierce appetites arise,

Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries?

Can she the pittance of a meal afford,

Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board?

When northern winds the rough December arm

With frost and snow, can Virtue keep thee warm?

Canst thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun

Barely by saying, thou art Virtue's son?

Or by base blundering statesmen sent to jail,

Will Mansfield take this Virtue for thy bail? 40

Believe it not, the name is in disgrace;

Virtue and Temple now are out of place.

Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray

Prom wealth and honour leads thee far astray.

True virtue means--let Reason use her eyes--

Nothing with fools, and interest with the wise.

Wouldst thou be great, her patronage disclaim,

Nor madly triumph in so mean a name:

Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn,

And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn. 50

Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know

How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go?

To be successful try thy utmost force,

And Virtue follows as a thing of course.

Hirco--who knows not Hirco?--stains the bed

Of that kind master who first gave him bread;

Scatters the seeds of discord through the land,

Breaks every public, every private band;

Beholds with joy a trusting friend undone;

Betrays a brother, and would cheat a son: 60

What mortal in his senses can endure

The name of Hirco? for the wretch is poor!

Let him hang, drown, starve, on a dunghill rot,

By all detested live, and die forgot;

Let him--a poor return--in every breath

Feel all Death's pains, yet be whole years in death,

Is now the general cry we all pursue.

Let Fortune change, and Prudence changes too;

Supple and pliant, a new system feels,

Throws up her cap, and spaniels at his heels: 70

Long live great Hirco, cries, by interest taught,

And let his foes, though I prove one, be nought.

_C_. Peace to such men, if such men can have peace;

Let their possessions, let their state increase;

Let their base services in courts strike root,

And in the season bring forth golden fruit.

I envy not; let those who have the will,

And, with so little spirit, so much skill,

With such vile instruments their fortunes carve;

Rogues may grow fat, an honest man dares starve.[183] 80

_L_. These stale conceits thrown off, let us advance

For once to real life, and quit romance.

Starve! pretty talking! but I fain would view

That man, that honest man, would do it too.

Hence to yon mountain which outbraves the sky,

And dart from pole to pole thy strengthen'd eye,

Through all that space you shall not view one man,

Not one, who dares to act on such a plan.

Cowards in calms will say, what in a storm

The brave will tremble at, and not perform. 90

Thine be the proof, and, spite of all you've said,

You'd give your honour for a crust of bread.

_C_. What proof might do, what hunger might effect,

What famish'd Nature, looking with neglect

On all she once held dear; what fear, at strife

With fainting virtue for the means of life,

Might make this coward flesh, in love with breath,

Shuddering at pain, and shrinking back from death,

In treason to my soul, descend to boar,

Trusting to fate, I neither know nor care. 100

Once,--at this hour those wounds afresh I feel,

Which, nor prosperity, nor time, can heal;

Those wounds which Fate severely hath decreed,

Mention'd or thought of, must for ever bleed;

Those wounds which humbled all that pride of man,

Which brings such mighty aid to Virtue's plan--

Once, awed by Fortune's most oppressive frown,

By legal rapine to the earth bow'd clown,

My credit at last gasp, my state undone,

Trembling to meet the shock I could not shun, 110

Virtue gave ground, and blank despair prevail'd;

Sinking beneath the storm, my spirits fail'd

Like Peter's faith, till one, a friend indeed--

May all distress find such in time of need!--

One kind good man, in act, in word, in thought,

By Virtue guided, and by Wisdom taught,

Image of Him whom Christians should adore,

Stretch'd forth his hand, and brought me safe to shore.[184]

Since, by good fortune into notice raised,

And for some little merit largely praised, 120

Indulged in swerving from prudential rules,

Hated by rogues, and not beloved by fools;

Placed above want, shall abject thirst of wealth,

So fiercely war 'gainst my soul's dearest health,

That, as a boon, I should base shackles crave,

And, born to freedom, make myself a slave?

That I should in the train of those appear,

Whom Honour cannot love, nor Manhood fear?

That I no longer skulk from street to street,

Afraid lest duns assail, and bailiffs meet; 130

That I from place to place this carcase bear;

Walk forth at large, and wander free as air;

That I no longer dread the awkward friend.

Whose very obligations must offend;

Nor, all too froward, with impatience burn

At suffering favours which I can't return;

That, from dependence and from pride secure,

I am not placed so high to scorn the poor,

Nor yet so low that I my lord should fear,

Or hesitate to give him sneer for sneer; 140

That, whilst sage Prudence my pursuits confirms,

I can enjoy the world on equal terms;

That, kind to others, to myself most true,

Feeling no want, I comfort those who do,

And, with the will, have power to aid distress:

These, and what other blessings I possess,

From the indulgence of the public rise,

All private patronage my soul defies.

By candour more inclined to save, than damn,

A generous Public made me what I am. 150

All that I have, they gave; just Memory bears

The grateful stamp, and what I am is theirs.

_L_. To feign a red-hot zeal for Freedom's cause,

To mouth aloud for liberties and laws,

For public good to bellow all abroad,

Serves well the purposes of private fraud.

Prudence, by public good intends her own;

If you mean otherwise, you stand alone.

What do we mean by country and by court?

What is it to oppose? what to support? 160

Mere words of course; and what is more absurd

Than to pay homage to an empty word?

Majors and minors differ but in name;

Patriots and ministers are much the same;

The only difference, after all their rout,

Is, that the one is in, the other out.

Explore the dark recesses of the mind,

In the soul's honest volume read mankind,

And own, in wise and simple, great and small,

The same grand leading principle in all. 170

Whate'er we talk of wisdom to the wise,

Of goodness to the good, of public ties

Which to our country link, of private bands

Which claim most dear attention at our hands;

For parent and for child, for wife and friend,

Our first great mover, and our last great end

Is one, and, by whatever name we call

The ruling tyrant, Self is all in all.

This, which unwilling Faction shall admit,

Guided in different ways a Bute and Pitt; 180

Made tyrants break, made kings observe the law;

And gave the world a Stuart and Nassau.

Hath Nature (strange and wild conceit of pride!)

Distinguished thee from all her sons beside?

Doth virtue in thy bosom brighter glow,

Or from a spring more pure doth action flow?

Is not thy soul bound with those very chains

Which shackle us? or is that Self, which reigns

O'er kings and beggars, which in all we see

Most strong and sovereign, only weak in thee? 190

Fond man, believe it not; experience tells

'Tis not thy virtue, but thy pride rebels.

Think, (and for once lay by thy lawless pen)

Think, and confess thyself like other men;

Think but one hour, and, to thy conscience led

By Reason's hand, bow down and hang thy head:

Think on thy private life, recall thy youth,

View thyself now, and own, with strictest truth,

That Self hath drawn thee from fair Virtue's way

Farther than Folly would have dared to stray; 200

And that the talents liberal Nature gave,

To make thee free, have made thee more a slave.

Quit then, in prudence quit, that idle train

Of toys, which have so long abused thy brain.

And captive led thy powers; with boundless will

Let Self maintain her state and empire still;

But let her, with more worthy objects caught,

Strain all the faculties and force of thought

To things of higher daring; let her range

Through better pastures, and learn how to change; 210

Let her, no longer to weak Faction tied,

Wisely revolt, and join our stronger side.

_C_. Ah! what, my lord, hath private life to do

With things of public nature? Why to view

Would you thus cruelly those scenes unfold

Which, without pain and horror to behold,

Must speak me something more or less than man,

Which friends may pardon, but I never can?

Look back! a thought which borders on despair,

Which human nature must, yet cannot bear. 220

'Tis not the babbling of a busy world,

Where praise and censure are at random hurl'd,

Which can the meanest of my thoughts control,

Or shake one settled purpose of my soul;

Free and at large might their wild curses roam,

If all, if all, alas! were well at home.

No--'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells,

When she with more than tragic horror swells

Each circumstance of guilt; when, stern but true,

She brings bad actions forth into review; 230

And like the dread handwriting on the wall,

Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call;

Arm'd at all points, bids scorpion Vengeance pass,

And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass,--

The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt groan,

And hates that form she knows to be her own.

Enough of this,--let private sorrows rest,--

As to the public, I dare stand the test;

Dare proudly boast, I feel no wish above

The good of England, and my country's love. 240

Stranger to party-rage, by Reason's voice,

Unerring guide! directed in my choice,

Not all the tyrant powers of earth combined,

No, nor of hell, shall make me change my mind.

What! herd with men my honest soul disdains,

Men who, with servile zeal, are forging chains

For Freedom's neck, and lend a helping hand

To spread destruction o'er my native land?

What! shall I not, e'en to my latest breath,

In the full face of danger and of death, 250

Exert that little strength which Nature gave,

And boldly stem, or perish in the wave?

_L_. When I look backward for some fifty years,

And see protesting patriots turn'd to peers;

Hear men, most loose, for decency declaim,

And talk of character, without a name;

See infidels assert the cause of God,

And meek divines wield Persecution's rod;

See men transferred to brutes, and brutes to men;

See Whitehead take a place, Ralph[185] change his pen; 260

I mock the zeal, and deem the men in sport,

Who rail at ministers, and curse a court.

Thee, haughty as thou art, and proud in rhyme,

Shall some preferment, offer'd at a time

When Virtue sleeps, some sacrifice to Pride,

Or some fair victim, move to change thy side.

Thee shall these eyes behold, to health restored,

Using, as Prudence bids, bold Satire's sword,

Galling thy present friends, and praising those

Whom now thy frenzy holds thy greatest foes. 270

_C_. May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?)

Be born a Whitehead,[186] and baptized a Paul;

May I (though to his service deeply tied

By sacred oaths, and now by will allied),

With false, feign'd zeal an injured God defend,

And use his name for some base private end;

May I (that thought bids double horrors roll

O'er my sick spirits, and unmans my soul)

Ruin the virtue which I held most dear,

And still must hold; may I, through abject fear, 280

Betray my friend; may to succeeding times,

Engraved on plates of adamant, my crimes

Stand blazing forth, whilst, mark'd with envious blot,

Each little act of virtue is forgot;

Of all those evils which, to stamp men cursed,

Hell keeps in store for vengeance, may the worst

Light on my head; and in my day of woe,

To make the cup of bitterness o'erflow,

May I be scorn'd by every man of worth,

Wander, like Cain, a vagabond on earth; 200

Bearing about a hell in my own mind,

Or be to Scotland for my life confined;

If I am one among the many known

Whom Shelburne[187] fled, and Calcraft[188] blush'd to own.

_L_. Do you reflect what men you make your foes?

_C_. I do, and that's the reason I oppose.

Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend,

But not one foe whom I would wish a friend.

What if ten thousand Butes and Hollands bawl?

One Wilkes had made a large amends for all. 300

'Tis not the title, whether handed down

From age to age, or flowing from the crown

In copious streams, on recent men, who came

From stems unknown, and sires without a name:

Tis not the star which our great Edward gave

To mark the virtuous, and reward the brave,

Blazing without, whilst a base heart within

Is rotten to the core with filth and sin;

'Tis not the tinsel grandeur, taught to wait,

At Custom's call, to mark a fool of state 310

From fools of lesser note, that soul can awe,

Whose pride is reason, whose defence is law.

_L_. Suppose, (a thing scarce possible in art,

Were it thy cue to play a common part)

Suppose thy writings so well fenced in law,

That Norton cannot find nor make a flaw--

Hast thou not heard, that 'mongst our ancient tribes,

By party warp'd, or lull'd asleep by bribes,

Or trembling at the ruffian hand of Force,

Law hath suspended stood, or changed its course? 320

Art thou assured, that, for destruction ripe,

Thou may'st not smart beneath the self-same gripe?

What sanction hast thou, frantic in thy rhymes,

Thy life, thy freedom to secure?

_G_. The Times.

'Tis not on law, a system great and good,

By wisdom penn'd, and bought by noblest blood,

My faith relies; by wicked men and vain,

Law, once abused, may be abused again.

No; on our great Lawgiver I depend,

Who knows and guides her to her proper end; 330

Whose royalty of nature blazes out

So fierce, 'twere sin to entertain a doubt.

Did tyrant Stuarts now the law dispense,

(Bless'd be the hour and hand which sent them hence!)

For something, or for nothing, for a word

Or thought, I might be doom'd to death, unheard.

Life we might all resign to lawless power,

Nor think it worth the purchase of an hour;

But Envy ne'er shall fix so foul a stain

On the fair annals of a Brunswick's reign. 340

If, slave to party, to revenge, or pride;

If, by frail human error drawn aside,

I break the law, strict rigour let her wear;

'Tis hers to punish, and 'tis mine to bear;

Nor, by the voice of Justice doom'd to death

Would I ask mercy with my latest breath:

But, anxious only for my country's good,

In which my king's, of course, is understood;

Form'd on a plan with some few patriot friends,

Whilst by just means I aim at noblest ends, 350

My spirits cannot sink; though from the tomb

Stern Jeffries should be placed in Mansfield's room;

Though he should bring, his base designs to aid,

Some black attorney, for his purpose made,

And shove, whilst Decency and Law retreat,

The modest Norton from his maiden seat;

Though both, in ill confederates, should agree,

In damned league, to torture law and me,

Whilst George is king, I cannot fear endure;

Not to be guilty, is to be secure. 360

But when, in after-times, (be far removed

That day!) our monarch, glorious and beloved,

Sleeps with his fathers, should imperious Fate,

In vengeance, with fresh Stuarts curse our state;

Should they, o'erleaping every fence of law,

Butcher the brave to keep tame fools in awe;

Should they, by brutal and oppressive force,

Divert sweet Justice from her even course;

Should they, of every other means bereft,

Make my right hand a witness 'gainst my left; 370

Should they, abroad by inquisitions taught,

Search out my soul, and damn me for a thought;

Still would I keep my course, still speak, still write,

Till Death had plunged me in the shades of night.

Thou God of truth, thou great, all-searching eye,

To whom our thoughts, our spirits, open lie!

Grant me thy strength, and in that needful hour,

(Should it e'er come) when Law submits to Power,

With firm resolve my steady bosom steel,

Bravely to suffer, though I deeply feel. 380

Let me, as hitherto, still draw my breath,

In love with life, but not in fear of death;

And if Oppression brings me to the grave,

And marks me dead, she ne'er shall mark a slave.

Let no unworthy marks of grief be heard,

No wild laments, not one unseemly word;

Let sober triumphs wait upon my bier;

I won't forgive that friend who drops one tear.

Whether he's ravish'd in life's early morn,

Or in old age drops like an ear of corn, 390

Full ripe he falls, on Nature's noblest plan,

Who lives to Reason, and who dies a Man.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[182] 'The Conference:' this poem was published by our author in

November 1763, soon after his elopement with Miss Carr.

[183] 'Dares starve:' this will suggest Burns's noble line, 'We daur be

poor, for a' that.'

[184] 'Shore:' Churchill, sunk in deep debt, was delivered from the

impending horrors of a jail, by Dr Peirson Lloyd, second master of

Westminster school.

[185] 'Ralph:' Mr James Ralph a hack author. See 'The Dunciad,' and

Franklin's 'Autobiography.' He was hired by Pelham to abuse Sir R.

Walpole, whom he had supported before.

[186] 'Whitehead:' author of 'Manners, a Satire.'

[187] 'Shelburne:' William Petty, Earl of Shelburne, afterwards

Marquis of Lansdowne.

[188] 'Calcraft:' John Calcraft, Esq., M.P., army agent and

contractor.

THE GHOST.[189]

In Four Books.

BOOK I.

With eager search to dart the soul,

Curiously vain, from pole to pole,

And from the planets' wandering spheres

To extort the number of our years,

And whether all those years shall flow

Serenely smooth, and free from woe,

Or rude misfortune shall deform

Our life with one continual storm;

Or if the scene shall motley be.

Alternate joy and misery, 10

Is a desire which, more or less.

All men must feel, though few confess.

Hence, every place and every age

Affords subsistence to the sage,

Who, free from this world and its cares,

Holds an acquaintance with the stars,

From whom he gains intelligence

Of things to come some ages hence,

Which unto friends, at easy rates.

He readily communicates. 20

At its first rise, which all agree on,

This noble science was Chaldean;

That ancient people, as they fed

Their flocks upon the mountain's head,

Gazed on the stars, observed their motions,

And suck'd in astrologic notions,

Which they so eagerly pursue,

As folks are apt whate'er is new,

That things below at random rove,

Whilst they're consulting things above; 30

And when they now so poor were grown,

That they'd no houses of their own,

They made bold with their friends the stars,

And prudently made use of theirs.

To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd,

And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd:

The exotic science soon struck root,

And flourish'd into high repute.

Each learned priest, oh strange to tell!

Could circles make, and cast a spell; 40

Could read and write, and taught the nation

The holy art of divination.

Nobles themselves, for at that time

Knowledge in nobles was no crime,

Could talk as learned as the priest,

And prophesy as much, at least.

Hence all the fortune-telling crew,

Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue,

Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face,

Run up and down from place to place, 50

To gratify their friends' desires,

From Bampfield Carew,[190] to Moll Squires,[191]

Are rightly term'd Egyptians all;

Whom we, mistaking, Gypsies call.

The Grecian sages borrow'd this,

As they did other sciences,

From fertile Egypt, though the loan

They had not honesty to own.

Dodona's oaks, inspired by Jove,

A learned and prophetic grove, 60

Turn'd vegetable necromancers,

And to all comers gave their answers.

At Delphos, to Apollo dear,

All men the voice of Fate might hear;

Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool,

To take in wise men, play'd the fool.

A mystery, so made for gain,

E'en now in fashion must remain;

Enthusiasts never will let drop

What brings such business to their shop; 70

And that great saint we Whitefield call,

Keeps up the humbug spiritual.

Among the Romans, not a bird

Without a prophecy was heard;

Fortunes of empires often hung

On the magician magpie's tongue,

And every crow was to the state

A sure interpreter of Fate.

Prophets, embodied in a college[192]

(Time out of mind your seat of knowledge; 80

For genius never fruit can bear

Unless it first is planted there,

And solid learning never falls

Without the verge of college walls)

Infallible accounts would keep

When it was best to watch or sleep,

To eat or drink, to go or stay,

And when to fight or run away;

When matters were for action ripe,

By looking at a double tripe; 90

When emperors would live or die,

They in an ass's skull could spy;

When generals would their station keep,

Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep.

In matters, whether small or great,

In private families or state

As amongst us, the holy seer

Officiously would interfere;

With pious arts and reverend skill

Would bend lay bigots to his will; 100

Would help or injure foes or friends,

Just as it served his private ends.

Whether in honest way of trade

Traps for virginity were laid;

Or if, to make their party great,

Designs were form'd against the state,

Regardless of the common weal,

By interest led, which they call zeal,

Into the scale was always thrown

The will of Heaven to back their own. 110

England--a happy land we know,

Where follies naturally grow,

Where without culture they arise

And tower above the common size;

England, a fortune-telling host,

As numerous as the stars, could boast,--

Matrons, who toss the cup, and see

The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea,

Who, versed in every modest lore,

Can a lost maidenhead restore, 120

Or, if their pupils rather choose it,

Can show the readiest way to lose it;

Gypsies, who every ill can cure,

Except the ill of being poor,

Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell,

Who can in hen-roost set a spell,

Prepared by arts, to them best known,

To catch all feet except their own,

Who, as to fortune, can unlock it

As easily as pick a pocket; 130

Scotchmen, who, in their country's right,

Possess the gift of second-sight,

Who (when their barren heaths they quit,

Sure argument of prudent wit,

Which reputation to maintain,

They never venture back again)

By lies prophetic heap up riches,

And boast the luxury of breeches.

Amongst the rest, in former years,

Campbell[193] (illustrious name!) appears, 140

Great hero of futurity,

Who, blind, could every thing foresee,

Who, dumb, could every thing foretell,

Who, Fate with equity to sell,

Always dealt out the will of Heaven

According to what price was given.

Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,

Possess'd with native pride and scorn,

He hither came, by custom led,

To curse the hands which gave him bread. 150

With want of truth, and want of sense,

Amply made up by impudence

(A succedaneum, which we find

In common use with all mankind);

Caress'd and favour'd too by those

Whose heart with patriot feelings glows,

Who foolishly, where'er dispersed,

Still place their native country first;

(For Englishmen alone have sense

To give a stranger preference, 160

Whilst modest merit of their own

Is left in poverty to groan)

Campbell foretold just what he would,

And left the stars to make it good,

On whom he had impress'd such awe,

His dictates current pass'd for law;

Submissive, all his empire own'd;

No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd.

This sage deceased,--for all must die,

And Campbell's no more safe than I, 170

No more than I can guard the heart,

When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,--

Succeeded, ripe in art and years,

Another favourite of the spheres;

Another and another came,

Of equal skill, and equal fame;

As white each wand, as black each gown,

As long each beard, as wise each frown,

In every thing so like, you'd swear

Campbell himself was sitting there: 180

To all the happy art was known,

To tell our fortunes, make their own.

Seated in garret,--for, you know,

The nearer to the stars we go

The greater we esteem his art,--

Fools, curious, flock'd from every part;

The rich, the poor, the maid, the married,

And those who could not walk, were carried.

The butler, hanging down his head,

By chambermaid, or cookmaid led, 190

Inquires, if from his friend the Moon

He has advice of pilfer'd spoon.

The court-bred woman of condition,

(Who, to approve her disposition

As much superior as her birth

To those composed of common earth,

With double spirit must engage

In every folly of the age)

The honourable arts would buy,

To pack the cards, and cog a die. 200

The hero--who, for brawn and face,

May claim right honourable place

Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-row:[194]

Who might, some thirty years ago,

If we may be allow'd to guess

At his employment by his dress,

Put medicines off from cart or stage,

The grand Toscano of the age;

Or might about the country go

High-steward of a puppet-show,-- 210

Steward and stewardship most meet,

For all know puppets never eat:

Who would be thought (though, save the mark!

That point is something in the dark)

The man of honour, one like those

Renown'd in story, who loved blows

Better than victuals, and would fight,

Merely for sport, from morn to night:

Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue

Is with the triple thunder hung, 220

Who cries to Fear, 'Stand off--aloof,'

And talks as he were cannon-proof;

Would be deem'd ready, when you list,

With sword and pistol, stick and fist,

Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks,

At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box,

But at the same time bears about,

Within himself, some touch of doubt,

Of prudent doubt, which hints--that fame

Is nothing but an empty name; 230

That life is rightly understood

By all to be a real good;

That, even in a hero's heart,

Discretion is the better part;

That this same honour may be won,

And yet no kind of danger run--

Like Drugger[195] comes, that magic powers

May ascertain his lucky hours;

For at some hours the fickle dame,

Whom Fortune properly we name, 240

Who ne'er considers wrong or right,

When wanted most, plays least in sight,

And, like a modern court-bred jilt,

Leaves her chief favourites in a tilt.

Some hours there are, when from the heart

Courage into some other part,

No matter wherefore, makes retreat,

And Fear usurps the vacant seat;

Whence, planet-struck, we often find

Stuarts[196] and Sackvilles[197] of mankind. 250

Farther, he'd know (and by his art

A conjurer can that impart)

Whether politer it is reckon'd

To have, or not to have, a second;

To drag the friends in, or alone

To make the danger all their own;

Whether repletion is not bad,

And fighters with full stomachs mad;

Whether, before he seeks the plain,

It were not well to breathe a vein; 260

Whether a gentle salivation,

Consistently with reputation,

Might not of precious use be found,

Not to prevent, indeed, a wound,

But to prevent the consequence

Which oftentimes arises thence,

Those fevers, which the patient urge on

To gates of death, by help of surgeon;

Whether a wind at east or west

Is for green wounds accounted best; 270

Whether (was he to choose) his mouth

Should point towards the north or south;