Enough of Actors--let them play the player,

And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare;

Garrick[276] abroad, what motives can engage

To waste one couplet on a barren stage?

Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days,

In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise;

When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years,

Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears;

When in return for labour, time, and health,

The town had given some little share of wealth, 10

Couldst thou repine at being still a slave?

Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave?

Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those

Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes?

Whom, too refined for honesty and trade,

By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made;

Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules,

Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools;

With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,

In such a manner, and at such a time, 20

To quit the stage; but men of real sense,

Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,

Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace,

Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.

Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail,

Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale?

Why must they pity, why contempt express,

And why insult a brother in distress?

Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains

The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; 30

Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,

And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.

Let those who without genius write, and write,

Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite,

The pen laid down, their course of folly run

In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.

Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate,

That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?

Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head,

Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? 40

Why may not Langhorne,[277] simple in his lay,

Effusion on effusion pour away;

With friendship and with fancy trifle here,

Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere?

Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne,

Secure from any malice but their own.

Enough of Critics--let them, if they please,

Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees;

Wide and extensive be their infant state,

Their subjects many, and those subjects great, 50

Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed,

With fools who write, and greater fools who read.

What though they lay the realms of Genius waste,

Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste;

Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill,

Consult not how to cure, but how to kill;

Though by whim, envy, or resentment led,

They damn those authors whom they never read;

Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold,

To deal out so much praise for so much gold: 60

Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues,

Against the commonwealth of letters leagues;

Uncensured let them pilot at the helm,

And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm:

Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse,

(Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse,

To do our sense and honour deep despite)

To credit what they say, read what they write.

Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace;

The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 70

Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown,

And proudly swell'd with waters not his own,

Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led,

O'er our fair England desolation spread,

Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed

In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed,

Now that the river god, convinced, though late,

And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate,

Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides,

In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? 80

Enough of States, and such like trifling things;

Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings;

Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie,

Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly;

Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd

By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold,

Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan

Meets with compassion only from the throne.

Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man

Is only to be honest as he can: 90

Some have deceived, and some may still deceive;

'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe.

Would those, who, by opinion placed on high,

Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye,

Maintain that honour, let me in their ear

Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere.

Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace

Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place,

Their king and country sell, with endless shame

The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; 100

But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend,

And, proudly honest, hold out to the end,

Their grateful country shall their fame record,

And I myself descend to praise a lord.

Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men

His actions speak much stronger than my pen,

And future ages shall his name adore,

When he can act and I can write no more.

England may prove ungrateful and unjust,

But fostering France[278] shall ne'er betray her trust: 110

'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose,

To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes.

When the great warrior of Amilcar's race

Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base,

To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride,

Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied.

Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme,

O'er which philosophers in raptures dream;

Of which with seeming disregard they write,

Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; 120

Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride!

What man can from himself, himself divide?

For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim

(Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame;

Some little fame derived from some brave few,

Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too.

Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek)

Who know me well, what they know, freely speak,

So those (the greatest curse I meet below)

Who know me not, may not pretend to know. 130

Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above

My feeble genius, still I dare to love,

Doing more mischief than a thousand foes,

Posthumous nonsense to the world expose,

And call it mine; for mine though never known,

Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own.

Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find,

Die when I will, one couplet left behind.

Let none of those, whom I despise, though great,

Pretending friendship to give malice weight, 140

Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer,[279]

(Some such there are) to win the public ear,

Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote.

Nor soul-gall'd bishop[280] damn me with a note.

Let one poor sprig of bay around my head

Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead;

Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!)

Be planted on my grave, nor wither there;

And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest

Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, 150

Let it hold up this comment to his eyes--

'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;'

Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!)

Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.'

Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times

Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes.

I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave,

Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave;

Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms

From her one line, than from a world in arms. 160

When in her faithful and immortal page

They saw transmitted down from age to age

Recorded villains, and each spotted name

Branded with marks of everlasting shame,

Succeeding villains sought her as a friend,

And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend;

But in an age, when actions are allow'd

Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd

Too terrible to suffer the report,

Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, 170

Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born,

High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn;

When she is lost to every thought of fame,

And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame;

When Prudence a much easier task must hold

To make a new world, than reform the old,

Satire throws by her arrows on the ground,

And if she cannot cure, she will not wound.

Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains,

Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains 180

At the base instance of those men, who hold

No argument but power, no god but gold,

Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth,

She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth;

Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view,

And loves to praise, where praise is justly due.

Come, Panegyric--in a former hour,

My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power,

Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air,

Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; 190

E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand,

The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand,

Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine,

Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design,

Whilst, Hayter[281] brought too quickly to his end,

I lost a subject and mankind a friend.

Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne,

Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own

Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide,

And lead me safe through passes yet untried. 200

Broad is the road, nor difficult to find,

Which to the house of Satire leads mankind;

Narrow and unfrequented are the ways,

Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise.

What though no theme I choose of vulgar note,

Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote,

So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem

Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream;

What though a theme I choose, which might demand

The nicest touches of a master's hand; 210

Yet, if the inward workings of my soul

Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal,

And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised,

The poet praising, and the patron praised.

What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice,

Or private knowledge, influence my choice?

Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe,

Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's[282] go?

'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard,

Close standing at my elbow, every word) 220

'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure

One moment there to have thy head secure?

Are they not all, (let observation tell)

All mark'd in characters as black as Hell,

In Doomsday book, by ministers set down,

Who style their pride the honour of the crown?

Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof--

Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof.

That settled faith, that love which ever springs

In the best subjects, for the best of kings, 230

Must not be measured now by what men think,

Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink,

Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried,

And statesmen are the judges to decide;

No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe;

They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law.

Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks;

Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.'[283]

Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain;

Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; 240

Never the vengeance of the great incur,

Nor, without might, against the mighty stir.

If, from long proof, my temper you distrust,

Weigh my profession, to my gown be just;

Dost thou one parson know so void of grace

To pay his court to patrons out of place?

If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains)

Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins;

There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport,

A convert made by Sandwich to the court. 250

Let madmen follow error to the end,

I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend,

Strive to act better, being better taught,

Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought:

For such a change as this, must Justice speak;

My heart was honest, but my head was weak.

Bigot to no one man, or set of men,

Without one selfish view, I drew my pen;

My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid,

Obedient to that call, I left off trade; 260

A side I chose, and on that side was strong,

Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong:

Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?)

And have not greater patriots changed before?

Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?)

Without a single blush, that change confess;

Confess it with a manly kind of pride,

And quit the losing for the winning side,

Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein,

What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. 270

Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show,

Hearing the praises of so brave a foe--

Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse

The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse--

Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand,

Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land;

When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm;

When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm,

Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd;

But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 280

When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled,

Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head;

When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat)

We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat,

Into the seat of power, at one bold leap,

A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship;

When, like another Machiavel, we saw

Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law,

Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and where

She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; 290

Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might)

To do thy God, thy king, thy country right;

All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more,

Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before:

All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use,

What virtues such as thine must needs produce.

Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes)

Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose,

In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few,

Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) 300

Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal

Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal.

A place amongst the rest the Muses claim,

And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame;

To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known,

And, holding up thy fame, secure their own.

From his youth upwards to the present day,

When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray;

When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand,

Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, 310

Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth,

Untainted with one deed of real worth,

Lothario, holding honour at no price,

Folly to folly added, vice to vice,

Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame

With greater zeal than good men seek for fame.

Where (Reason left without the least defence)

Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense:

Where Impudence made Decency submit;

Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; 320

Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit

Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit;

Where the best things were ever held the worst,

Lothario was, with justice, always first.

To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw,

To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw,

To play at push-pin with dull brother peers,

To belch out catches in a porter's ears,

To reign the monarch of a midnight cell,

To be the gaping chairman's oracle; 330

Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whore

Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;'

Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there

In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair;

With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon,

To walk with torches through the streets at noon;

To force plain Nature from her usual way,

Each night a vigil, and a blank each day;

To match for speed one feather 'gainst another,

To make one leg run races with his brother; 340

'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind,

Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind;

To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em,

Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em;

Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives,

Without a rival stands, though March yet lives.

When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound,

Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground,

Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand,

Are held as rebels through the loyal land) 350

Queen every where, but most a queen in courts,

Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports;

Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage,

And prove her right to reign from age to age,

Lothario, great above the common size,

With all engaged, and won from all the prize;

Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore,

And every day deserves it more and more.

Nor in such limits rests his soul confined;

Folly may share but can't engross his mind; 360

Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim,

And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame.

Observe his follies well, and you would swear

Folly had been his first, his only care;

Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown,

And swear that he was born for vice alone.

Is the soft nature of some hapless maid,

Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd?

Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame,

And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? 370

Is some brave friend, who, men but little known,

Deems every heart as honest as his own,

And, free himself, in others fears no guile,

To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile?

Is Law to be perverted from her course?

Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?

Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every son

Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone?

Is base Corruption, creeping through the land,

To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, 380

With regular approaches, sure, though slow?

Or must she perish by a single blow?

Are kings, who trust to servants, and depend

In servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend,

To be abused, and made to draw their breath

In darkness thicker than the shades of death?

Is God's most holy name to be profaned,

His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd,

His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd,

His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? 390

Are debauchees in morals to preside?

Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide?

Is Science by a blockhead to be led?

Are States to totter on a drunkard's head?

To answer all these purposes, and more,

More black than ever villain plann'd before,

Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot find

An agent like Lothario to his mind.

Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings,

Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; 400

Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit,

Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root?

Were there but two, (search all the world around)

Were there but two such nobles to be found,

The very name would sink into a term

Of scorn, and man would rather be a worm

Than be a lord: but Nature, full of grace,

Nor meaning birth and titles to be base,

Made only one, and having made him, swore,

In mercy to mankind, to make no more: 410

Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend,

The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend,

And having brought Lothario forth to view,

To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too.

Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart,

Blunt as I am, and void of every art,

Of every art which great ones in the state

Practise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate,

To titles with reluctance taught to bend,

Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, 420

Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rare

Than Honesty could wish) the noble wear

His father's honours, when his life makes known

They're his by virtue, not by birth alone;

When he recalls his father from the grave,

And pays with interest back that fame he gave:

Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits,

To such a peer my willing soul submits,

And to such virtue is more proud to yield

Than 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. 430

Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow)

Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now.

O gentle Montague! in blessed hour

Didst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power;

England of all her fears at once was eased,

Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased:

France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain;

Spain heard, and told it cousin France again;

The Hollander relinquished his design

Of adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; 440

Of Indian villanies he thought no more,

Content to rob us on our native shore:

Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth

Shall blow from east to west, from north to south)

The western world shall yield us her increase,

And her wild sons be soften'd into peace;

Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores,

And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores;

Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes,

And all acquired by honourable means, 450

Some honourable chief shall hither steer,

To pay our debts, and set the nation clear.

Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown,

Shall pay due homage to the English crown;

Shall freely as their king our king receive--

Provided the Directors give them leave.

Union at home shall mark each rising year,

Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe;

Envy her own destroyer shall become,

And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: 460

With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail,

Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail:

Some to thy force of reason shall submit,

And some be converts to thy princely wit:

Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries,

A grand concurrence crown a grand excise;

And unbelievers of the first degree,

Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee.

When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain,

Possess'd the region of each heated brain; 470

When some were fools to censure, some to praise,

And all were mad, but mad in different ways;

When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shade

Which in their own wild fancy had been made,

Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown,

And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down;

When others, struck with fancies not less vain,

Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain,

And, in each friend of Liberty and Law,

With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, 480

Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease,

And sung each jarring atom into peace;

Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye,

Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die;

And, patronised by thee, Prerogative

Shall, striding forth at large, not die, but live;

Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky,

Shall not well know whether to live or die.

When on a rock which overhung the flood,

And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; 490

When Credit, building on a sandy shore,

Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar,

Heard death in every blast, and in each wave

Or saw, or fancied that she saw her grave;

When Property, transferr'd from hand to band,

Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land;

When mutual confidence was at an end,

And man no longer could on man depend;

Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight,

When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; 500

When, certain death to honour, and to trade,

A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid;

That to be saved we must be more undone,

And pay off all our debts, by paying none;

Like England's better genius, born to bless,

And snatch his sinking country from distress,

Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar,

Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore:

Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast,

She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! 510

Born in thy house, and in thy service bred,

Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed,

By thy sage counsels to reflection brought,

Yet more by pattern than by precept taught,

Economy her needful aid shall join

To forward and complete thy grand design,

And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm,

Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form.

Let friends of prodigals say what they will,

Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. 520

In vain have sly and subtle sophists tried

Private from public justice to divide;

For credit on each other they rely,

They live together, and together die,

'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence,

High treason in the eye of Common-sense,

To think a statesman ever can be known

To pay our debts, who will not pay his own:

But now, though late, now may we hope to see

Our debts discharged, our credit fair and free, 530

Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!)

Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power.

With what delight I view thee, wondrous man,

With what delight survey thy sterling plan,

That plan which all with wonder must behold,

And stamp thy age the only age of Gold.

Nor rest thy triumphs here--that Discord fled,

And sought with grief the hell where she was bred;

That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield,

Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, 540

Saw her best friends a standing jest become,

Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb;

That our most bitter foes (so much depends

On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;

That our offended friends (such terror flows

From men of name) dare not appear our foes;

That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death,

And ready to expire with every breath,

Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast saved

Thy drooping country; that thy name, engraved 550

On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time;

Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhyme

Embalms thy memory, bids thy glories live,

And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:--

These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame,

With thee in common other patriots claim.

But, that poor sickly Science, who had laid

And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade,

By those who knew her purposely forgot,

And made the jest of those who knew her not: 560

Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride,

'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,'

Recover'd from her wretched state, at length

Puts on new health, and clothes herself with strength,

To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand

Which raised, and gave her to possess the land:

This praise, though in a court, and near a throne,

This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone.

With what fond rapture did the goddess smile,

What blessings did she promise to this isle, 570

What honour to herself, and length of reign,

Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdain

To be her steward; but what grief, what shame,

What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame,

When her proud children dared her will dispute,

When Youth was insolent,[284] and Age was mute!

That young men should be fools, and some wild few,

To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too,

Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown gray

In search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway 580

Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept down

Each rising passion; men who wore the gown;

That they should cross her will, that they should dare

Against the cause of Interest to declare;

That they should be so abject and unwise,

Having no fear of loss before their eyes,

Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready means

Of being vicars, rectors, canons, deans,

With all those honours which on mitres wait,

And mark the virtuous favourites of state; 590

That they should dare a Hardwicke to support,

And talk, within the hearing of a court,

Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone,

And starved herself, starves every wretched son;

This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear

No more to throw away her time and care

On wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no more

To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore.

Rather than bear such insults, which disgrace

Her royalty of nature, birth, and place, 600

Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep,

Would she at Winchester with Burton[285] sleep;

Or, to exchange the mortifying scene

For something still more dull, and still more mean,

Rather than bear such insults, she would fly

Far, far beyond the search of English eye,

And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queen

Is worth ambition, though in Aberdeen.

Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some,

Some base-born children, rebels are become? 610

All are not rebels; some are duteous still,

Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;

Thy interest is opposed by those alone

Who either know not, or oppose their own.

Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid,

Behold in black, the livery of their trade,

Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led,

A grave, grave troop, and Smith[286] is at their head,

Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground

For faith in mysteries none more renown'd. 620

Next, (for the best of causes now and then

Must beg assistance from the worst of men)

Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece,

Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece:

Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust,

To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lust

The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold,

And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold.

But (to wipe off such traces from the mind,

And make us in good humour with mankind) 630

Leading on men, who, in a college bred,

No woman knew, but those which made their bed;

Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore,

Continued still male virgins at threescore,

Comes Sumner,[287] wise, and chaste as chaste can be,

With Long,[288] as wise, and not less chaste than he.

Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause

Who, for thy sake, defying penal laws,

Were, to support thy honourable plan,

Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? 640

Are there not Philomaths of high degree

Who, always dumb before, shall speak for thee?

Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will,

One of full growth, others in embryo still,

Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more,

Be ascertain'd that two and two make four,

Or may a still more happy method find,

And, taking one from two, leave none behind?

With such a mighty power on foot, to yield

Were death to manhood; better in the field 650

To leave our carcases, and die with fame,

Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame.

Sackvilles[289] alone anticipate defeat,

And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat.

But if persuasions ineffectual prove,

If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move,

Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe

Why talk of Burton? why to Scotland go?

Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms,

Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: 660

Shall for thy love her former loves resign,

And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine.

Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read,

Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed,

She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne,

And have no principles but thine alone;

She shall thy will implicitly receive,

Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave.

Where is the glory of imperial sway

If subjects none but just commands obey? 670

Then, and then only, is obedience seen,

When by command they dare do all that's mean:

Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand,

Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand.

Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies,

And lays the future open to my eyes)

Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet,

And Brother Litchfield[290] Brother Sandwich greet!

Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace;

Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. 680

Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach,

Which seem her baser nature to impeach,

Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd,

Outrageous, search the corners of the world,

Ransack the present times, look back to past,

Rip up the future, and confess at last,

No times, past, present, or to come, could e'er

Produce, and bless the world with such a pair.

Phillips,[291] the good old Phillips, out of breath,

Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, 690

Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal,

That glorious ardour for the commonweal,

Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue,

When on his lips the cause of rebels hung;

Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun,

At Medenham[292] lies, by backward monks undone;

A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score,

Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door,

Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up,

Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, 700

Libations to the goddess without eyes,

And hob or nob in cider and excise.

From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown,

Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone,

Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone,

Where she sees all, but can be seen by none;

Where she, no longer mistress of the schools,

Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools,

Or hears it at a distance, in despair

To join the crowd, and put in for a share, 710

Twisting each thought a thousand different ways,

For his new friends new-modelling old praise;

Where frugal sense so very fine is spun,

It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one,

King[293] shall arise, and, bursting from the dead,

Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head.

Burton (whilst awkward affectation hung

In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue,

Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak,

Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, 720

Not such as was in Greece and Latium known,

But of a modern cut, and all his own;

Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string,

They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing;

Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick,

They even make a Merry Andrew sick;

Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth,

They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both)

Shall (though by nature ever both to praise)

Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; 730

Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death,

Or in long periods run her out of breath;

Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame,

Adam could not have found a proper name,

Whilst, beating out his features to a smile,

He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style.

Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death;

Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath;

Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care,

Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; 740

Browne[294] comes--behold how cautiously he creeps--

How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps--

But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree;

He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee.

Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd,

Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound;

Physic, obtaining succour from the pen

Of her soft son, her gentle Heberden,[295]

If there are men who can thy virtue know,

Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, 750

Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath,

And in each recipe send classic death.

So deep in knowledge, that few lines can sound

And plumb the bottom of that vast profound,

Few grave ones with such gravity can think,

Or follow half so fast as he can sink;

With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text,

Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd,

With subtleties on subtleties refined,

Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, 760

Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe,

The scowling Blackstone[296] bears the train of law.

Divinity, enrobed in college fur,

In her right hand a new Court Calendar,

Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waits

With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates.

Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore,

A stranger long, but stranger now no more,

Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyes

Brimful of rapture, view her new allies; 770

Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, view

Men great at court, and great at Oxford too.

O sacred Loyalty! accursed be those

Who, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes,

Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name,

And soothe their passions to betray their fame;

Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clings

Contempt of government, and hate of kings,

Who, willing to be free, not knowing how,

A strange intemperance of zeal avow, 780

And start at Loyalty, as at a word

Which without danger Freedom never heard.

Vain errors of vain men--wild both extremes,

And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams,

Children of night, of Indigestion bred,

Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head;

Loyalty without Freedom is a chain

Which men of liberal notice can't sustain;

And Freedom without Loyalty, a name

Which nothing means, or means licentious shame. 790

Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil,

In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soil

To rear this plant of union, till at length,

Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength,

Shooting aloft, all danger it defies,

And proudly lifts its branches to the skies;

Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave,

Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave,

Free from the dull impertinence of thought,

Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought 800

And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose,

Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows,

True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed,

Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed,

And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twine

To grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[276] 'Garrick abroad:' Garrick, in September 1763, in order to make

his value more appreciated after his return, resolved to visit the

continent.

[277] 'Langhorne:' John Langhorne, D.D., the translator of Plutarch.

[278] 'France:' Wilkes had fled to France to escape the prosecutions

entered against him.

[279] 'Sneaking peer:' John Boyle, Earl of Cork and Orrery, was the

author of severe 'Observations on the Life of Swift.'

[280] 'Bishop:' Bishop Warburton.

[281] 'Hayter:' Dr Thomas Hayter, Bishop of Norwich, and next of

London, died prematurely.

[282] 'Wildman's:' a tavern in Albemarle Street.

[283] 'Almacks:' Old Almacks, a noted Tory club-house in Pall Mall.

[284] 'Youth was insolent:' the younger members of the University were

unanimous in favour of Lord Hardwicke, and incurred the censure of

their superiors.

[285] 'Burton:' Dr John Burton, head master of Winchester school.

[286] 'Smith:' Dr Smith, master of Trinity College, Cambridge, a

mechanical and musical genius.

[287] 'Sumner:' the Rev. Dr Humphrey Sumner, Vice Chancellor of the

University of Cambridge.

[288] 'Long:' Roger Long, D.D., professor of Astronomy, Cambridge.

[289] 'Sackville:' Sir George, who behaved scandalously at the battle

of Minden.

[290] 'Brother Litchfield:' the last Earl of Litchfield succeeded the

Earl of Westmoreland as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, in

1762, through Lord Bute's influence.

[291] 'Phillips:' Sir John Phillips, a barrister and active member of

the House of Commons, a defender of the rebellion in 1745.

[292] 'Medenham:' or as it was commonly called, Mednam Abbey, was a

very large house on the banks of the Thames, near Marlow, in Bucks,

where infamous doings went on under the auspices of Sir F. Dashwood,

Lord Sandwich, and others.

[293] 'King:' Dr William King, LL.D., Principal of St Mary's Hall.

[294] 'Browne:' Dr William Browne, Lord Litchfield's Vice-Chancellor

of the University of Oxford from 1759 to 1769.

[295] 'Heberden:' Dr William Heberden, the celebrated physician, the

first who used the wet-sheet.

[296] 'Blackstone:' Dr Blackstone, afterwards Sir William Blackstone,

Solicitor-General, and a Judge of the Court of Common Pleas.

THE FAREWELL.

_P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell

To all the follies which in Europe dwell;

To Eastern India now, a richer clime,

Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme,

The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change,

At large, in other worlds, desire to range;

Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play,

To do it in a different place, and way.

_F_. What whim is this, what error of the brain,

What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign? 10

Why into foreign countries would you roam,

Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?

If satire be thy object--and thy lays

As yet have shown no talents fit for praise--

If satire be thy object, search all round,

Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found

Like England, where, to rampant vigour grown,

Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown,

The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold,

And every seed brings forth a hundredfold. 20

_P_. No more of this--though Truth, (the more our shame,

The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim,

And justify her part in this, yet here,

For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear;

Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,

Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born,

I hear, and hate--be England what she will,

With all her faults, she is my country still.

_F_. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere word

Against the voice of Reason to be heard? 30

Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth,

To counteract, and make thee hate the truth?

'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soul

To draw its grand attachment from the whole,

And take up with a part; men, not confined

Within such paltry limits, men design'd

Their nature to exalt, where'er they go,

Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,

Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the sky

To watch this subject world, can dart his eye, 40

Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown,

Consider every country as their own;

At one grand view they take in Nature's plan,

Not more at home in England than Japan.

_P_. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,

Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet,

'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine

On vain refinements vainly to refine,

To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,

To boast of apathy when out of pain, 50

And in each sentence, worthy of the schools,

Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules

Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault

That into practice they can ne'er be brought.

At home, and sitting in your elbow-chair,

You praise Japan, though you was never there:

But was the ship this moment under sail,

Would not your mind be changed, your spirits fail?

Would you not cast one longing eye to shore,

And vow to deal in such wild schemes no more? 60

Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal

Those passions which we cannot choose but feel,

There's a strange something, which, without a brain,

Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain,

Planted in man to bind him to that earth,

In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.

If Honour calls, where'er she points the way

The sons of Honour follow, and obey;

If need compels, wherever we are sent

'Tis want of courage not to be content; 70

But, if we have the liberty of choice,

And all depends on our own single voice,

To deem of every country as the same

Is rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claim

Of Nature, and such dull indifference

May be philosophy, but can't be sense.

_F_. Weak and unjust distinction, strange design,

Most peevish, most perverse, to undermine

Philosophy, and throw her empire down

By means of Sense, from whom she holds her crown, 80

Divine Philosophy! to thee we owe

All that is worth possessing here below;

Virtue and wisdom consecrate thy reign,

Doubled each joy, and pain no longer pain.

When, like a garden, where, for want of toil

And wholesome discipline, the rich, rank soil

Teems with incumbrances; where all around,

Herbs, noxious in their nature, make the ground,

Like the good mother of a thankless son,

Curse her own womb, by fruitfulness undone; 90

Like such a garden, when the human soul,

Uncultured, wild, impatient of control,

Brings forth those passions of luxuriant race,

Which spread, and stifle every herb of grace;

Whilst Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn,

Seems withering on the bed where she was born,

Philosophy steps in; with steady hand,

She brings her aid, she clears the encumber'd land;

Too virtuous to spare Vice one stroke, too wise

One moment to attend to Pity's cries-- 100

See with what godlike, what relentless power

She roots up every weed!

_P_. And every flower.

Philosophy, a name of meek degree,

Embraced, in token of humility,

By the proud sage, who, whilst he strove to hide,

In that vain artifice reveal'd his pride;

Philosophy, whom Nature had design'd

To purge all errors from the human mind,

Herself misled by the philosopher,

At once her priest and master, made us err: 110

Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour,

Tainted her laws, and made e'en Virtue sour.

Had she, content within her proper sphere,

Taught lessons suited to the human ear,

Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce,

Made not for ornament, but real use,

The heart of man, unrivall'd, she had sway'd,

Praised by the good, and by the bad obey'd;

But when she, overturning Reason's throne,

Strove proudly in its place to plant her own; 120

When she with apathy the breast would steel,

And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel;

When she would wildly all her force employ,

Not to correct our passions, but destroy;

When, not content our nature to restore,

As made by God, she made it all new o'er;

When, with a strange and criminal excess,

To make us more than men, she made us less;

The good her dwindled power with pity saw,

The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe. 130

Truth, with a simple and unvarnish'd tale,

E'en from the mouth of Norton might prevail,

Could she get there; but Falsehood's sugar'd strain

Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain,

Nor make one convert, though the Siren hung,

Where she too often hangs, on Mansfield's tongue.

Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the sun

Hath seen, or past, or present, rise in one;

Should he, whilst pleasure in each sentence flows,

Like Plato, give us poetry in prose; 140

Should he, full orator, at once impart

The Athenian's genius with the Roman's art;

Genius and Art should in this instance fail,

Nor Rome, though join'd with Athens, here prevail.

'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man,

To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.

Placed low ourselves, we censure those above,

And, wanting judgment, think that she wants love;

Blame, where we ought in reason to commend,

And think her most a foe when most a friend. 150

Such be philosophers--their specious art,

Though Friendship pleads, shall never warp my heart,

Ne'er make me from this breast one passion tear,

Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there.

_F_. Forgiving as a friend, what, whilst I live,

As a philosopher I can't forgive,

In this one point at last I join with you,

To Nature pay all that is Nature's due;

But let not clouded Reason sink so low,

To fancy debts she does not, cannot owe: 160

Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear,

Which Nature meant us for a time to wear,

As we wear leading-strings, which, useless grown,

Are laid aside, when we can walk alone;

But on thyself, by peevish humour sway'd,

Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid?

Wilt thou make faults, whilst Judgment weakly errs,

And then defend, mistaking them for hers?

Darest thou to say, in our enlighten'd age,

That this grand master passion, this brave rage, 170

Which flames out for thy country, was impress'd

And fix'd by Nature in the human breast?

If you prefer the place where you were born,

And hold all others in contempt and scorn,

On fair comparison; if on that land

With liberal, and a more than equal hand,

Her gifts, as in profusion, Plenty sends;

If Virtue meets with more and better friends;

If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great;

If Honesty is minister of state; 180

If Power, the guardian of our rights design'd,

Is to that great, that only end, confined;

If riches are employ'd to bless the poor;

If Law is sacred, Liberty secure;

Let but these facts depend on proofs of weight,

Reason declares thy love can't be too great,

And, in this light could he our country view,

A very Hottentot must love it too.

But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth

To some most barren and penurious earth, 190

Where, every comfort of this life denied,

Her real wants are scantily supplied;

Where Power is Reason, Liberty a joke,

Laws never made, or made but to be broke;

To fix thy love on such a wretched spot,

Because in Lust's wild fever there begot;

Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear,

By chance, not choice, thy mother dropp'd thee there,

Is folly, which admits not of defence;

It can't be Nature, for it is not sense. 200

By the same argument which here you hold,

(When Falsehood's insolent, let Truth be told)

If Propagation can in torments dwell,

A devil must, if born there, love his Hell.

_P_. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend,

And e'en in punishment confess a friend,

Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untried,

On purpose made to mortify my pride,

Where the sun never gave one glimpse of day,

Where Science never yet could dart one ray, 210

Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plain

Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign,

Or in some kingdom, where men, weak, or worse,

Turn'd Nature's every blessing to a curse;

Where crowns of freedom, by the fathers won,

Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degenerate son;

In spite of all the wisdom you display,

All you have said, and yet may have to say,

My weakness here, if weakness I confess,

I, as my country, had not loved her less. 220

Whether strict Reason bears me out in this,

Let those who, always seeking, always miss

The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal;

Theirs be the praise to argue, mine to feel.

Wish we to trace this passion to the root,

We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit;

From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring,

Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling;

Yet in the circle of revolving years

Not one misfortune, not one vice, appears. 230

Hence, then, and what you Reason call, adore;

This, if not Reason, must be something more.

But (for I wish not others to confine;

Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine)

Whether this love's of good or evil growth,

A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both,

Let men of nicer argument decide;

If it is virtuous, soothe an honest pride

With liberal praise; if vicious, be content,

It is a vice I never can repent; 240

A vice which, weigh'd in Heaven, shall more avail

Than ten cold virtues in the other scale.

_F_. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which, after all,

We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call)

Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend;

Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend,

Which draws us off from and dissolves the force

Of private ties, nay, stops us in our course

To that grand object of the human soul,

That nobler love which comprehends the whole? 250

Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle,

This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile,

Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone,

Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one.

The generous soul, by Nature taught to soar,

Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore,

At one grand view takes in a world with ease,

And, seeing all mankind, loves all she sees.

_P_. Was it most sure, which yet a doubt endures,

Not found in Reason's creed, though found in yours, 260

That these two services, like what we're told,

And know, of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold

And draw together; that, however both,

We neither serve, attempting to serve both,

I could not doubt a moment which to choose,

And which in common reason to refuse.

Invented oft for purposes of art,

Born of the head, though father'd on the heart,

This grand love of the world must be confess'd

A barren speculation at the best. 270

Not one man in a thousand, should he live

Beyond the usual term of life, could give,

So rare occasion comes, and to so few,

Proof whether his regards are feign'd, or true.

The love we bear our country is a root

Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit;

'Tis in the mind an everlasting spring

Of glorious actions, which become a king,

Nor less become a subject; 'tis a debt

Which bad men, though they pay not, can't forget; 280

A duty, which the good delight to pay,

And every man can practise every day.

Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye,

Or dull your argument) can I descry

What you with faith assert, how that dear love,

Which binds me to my country, can remove,

And make me of necessity forego,

That general love which to the world I owe.

Those ties of private nature, small extent,

In which the mind of narrow cast is pent, 290

Are only steps on which the generous soul

Mounts by degrees till she includes the whole.

That spring of love, which, in the human mind,

Founded on self, flows narrow and confined,

Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends

The social charities of blood and friends,

Till, smaller streams included, not o'erpast,

It rises to our country's love at last;

And he, with liberal and enlarged mind,

Who loves his country, cannot hate mankind. 300

_F_. Friend, as you would appear, to Common Sense,

Tell me, or think no more of a defence,

Is it a proof of love by choice to run

A vagrant from your country?

_P_. Can the son

(Shame, shame on all such sons!) with ruthless eye,

And heart more patient than the flint, stand by,

And by some ruffian, from all shame divorced,

All virtue, see his honour'd mother forced?

Then--no, by Him that made me! not e'en then,

Could I with patience, by the worst of men, 310

Behold my country plunder'd, beggar'd, lost

Beyond redemption, all her glories cross'd,

E'en when occasion made them ripe, her fame

Fled like a dream, while she awakes to shame.

_F_. Is it not more the office of a friend,

The office of a patron, to defend

Her sinking state, than basely to decline

So great a cause, and in despair resign?

_P_. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies,

And, whilst more able patriots doubt, she dies. 320

From a foul source, more deep than we suppose,

Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows.

'Tis not that peace our glorious hopes defeats:

'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets;

'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom made;

Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd,

Against the subject, whilst she wears no sting

To disappoint the purpose of a king;

These are no ills, or trifles, if compared

With those which are contrived, though not declared. 330

Tell me, Philosopher, is it a crime

To pry into the secret womb of Time;

Or, born in ignorance, must we despair

To reach events, and read the future there?

Why, be it so--still 'tis the right of man,

Imparted by his Maker, where he can,

To former times and men his eye to cast,

And judge of what's to come, by what is past.

Should there be found, in some not distant year,

(Oh, how I wish to be no prophet here!) 340

Amongst our British Lords should there be found

Some great in power, in principles unsound,

Who look on Freedom with an evil eye,

In whom the springs of Loyalty are dry;

Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings,

Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings;

Who would divide the people and the throne,

To set up separate interests of their own;

Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth,

And only join with, to destroy them both; 350

Should there be found such men in after-times,

May Heaven, in mercy to our grievous crimes,

Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them,

And to their rage, this wretched land condemn,

Thou God above, on whom all states depend,

Who knowest from the first their rise, and end,

If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate,

When ruin must involve our equal state;

When law, alas! must be no more, and we,

To freedom born, must be no longer free; 360

Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm,

Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm;

Let not, whatever other ills assail,

A damned aristocracy prevail.

If, all too short, our course of freedom run,

'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone,

Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring,

Be slaves to one, and be that one a king.

_F_. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign,

Oft substitute creations of the brain 370

For real substance, and, themselves deceived,

Would have the fiction by mankind believed.

Such is your case--but grant, to soothe your pride,

That you know more than all the world beside,

Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt?

Resolved, and like a man, at once speak out;

Show us our danger, tell us where it lies,

And, to ensure our safety, make us wise.

_P_. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools stray;

The proud will rather lose than ask their way: 380

To men of sense what needs it to unfold,

And tell a tale which they must know untold?

In the bad, interest warps the canker'd heart,

The good are hoodwink'd by the tricks of art;

And, whilst arch, subtle hypocrites contrive

To keep the flames of discontent alive;

Whilst they, with arts to honest men unknown,

Breed doubts between the people and the throne,

Making us fear, where Reason never yet

Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit, 390

Themselves pass unsuspected in disguise,

And 'gainst our real danger seal our eyes.

_F_. Mark them, and let their names recorded stand

On Shame's black roll, and stink through all the land.

_P_. That might some courage, but no prudence be;

No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me.

_F_. Leave out their names.

_P_. For that kind caution, thanks;

But may not judges sometimes fill up blanks?

_F_. Your country's laws in doubt then you reject? 400

_P_. The laws I love, the lawyers I suspect.

Amongst twelve judges may not one be found

(On bare, bare possibility I ground

This wholesome doubt) who may enlarge, retrench,

Create, and uncreate, and from the bench,

With winks, smiles, nods, and such like paltry arts,

May work and worm into a jury's hearts?

Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of soul,

Cramp their high office, and their rights control;

Who may, though judge, turn advocate at large, 410

And deal replies out by the way of charge,

Making Interpretation all the way,

In spite of facts, his wicked will obey,

And, leaving Law without the least defence,

May damn his conscience to approve his sense?

_F_. Whilst, the true guardians of this charter'd land,

In full and perfect vigour, juries stand,

A judge in vain shall awe, cajole, perplex.

_P_. Suppose I should be tried in Middlesex?

_F_. To pack a jury they will never dare. 420

_P_. There's no occasion to pack juries there.[297]

_F_. 'Gainst prejudice all arguments are weak;

Reason herself without effect must speak.

Fly then thy country, like a coward fly,

Renounce her interest, and her laws defy.

But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thine eyes?

Cannot our Europe thy vast wrath suffice?

Cannot thy misbegotten Muse lay bare

Her brawny arm, and play the butcher there?

_P_. Thy counsel taken, what should Satire do? 430

Where could she find an object that is new?

Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean,

And send abroad to see, and to be seen;

With whom, lest they should fornicate, or worse,

A tutor's sent by way of a dry nurse;

Each of whom just enough of spirit bears

To show our follies, and to bring home theirs,

Have made all Europe's vices so well known,

They seem almost as natural as our own.

_F_. Will India for thy purpose better do? 440

_P_. In one respect, at least--there's something new.

_F_. A harmless people, in whom Nature speaks

Free and untainted,'mongst whom Satire seeks,

But vainly seeks, so simply plain their hearts,

One bosom where to lodge her poison'd darts.

_P_. From knowledge speak you this? or, doubt on doubt

Weigh'd and resolved, hath Reason found it out?

Neither from knowledge, nor by Reason taught,

You have faith every where, but where you ought.

India or Europe--what's there in a name? 450

Propensity to vice in both the same,

Nature alike in both works for man's good,

Alike in both by man himself withstood.

Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down,

Deserve a cord much better than a crown,

And a Mogul can thrones as much debase

As any polish'd prince of Christian race.

_F_. Could you,--a task more hard than you suppose,--

Could you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows,

Make all their follies to the life appear, 460

'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here;

Howe'er well drawn, the picture, after all,

Because we know not the original,

Would not find favour in the public eye.

_P_. That, having your good leave, I mean to try:

And if your observations sterling hold,

If the piece should be heavy, tame, and cold,

To make it to the side of Nature lean,

And meaning nothing, something seem to mean:

To make the whole in lively colours glow, 470

To bring before us something that we know,

And from all honest men applause to win,

I'll group the Company,[298] and put them in.

_F_. Be that ungenerous thought by shame suppress'd,

Add not distress to those too much distress'd;

Have they not, by blind zeal misled, laid bare

Those sores which never might endure the air?

Have they not brought their mysteries so low,

That what the wise suspected not, fools know?

From their first rise e'en to the present hour, 480

Have they not proved their own abuse of power,

Made it impossible, if fairly view'd,

Ever to have that dangerous power renew'd,

Whilst, unseduced by ministers, the throne

Regards our interests, and knows its own?

_P_. Should every other subject chance to fail,

Those who have sail'd, and those who wish'd to sail

In the last fleet, afford an ample field,

Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield.

_F_. On such vile food Satire can never thrive. 490

_P_. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive.[299]

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[297] 'Juries there:' alluding to the then recent acquittal from the

charge of perjury, by the petty jury, of Mr Philip Carteret Webb,

solicitor to the Treasury, who had sworn against Wilkes.

[298] 'Company:' East Indian Co.

[299] 'Clive:' See Macaulay's Essay.

THE TIMES.

The time hath been, a boyish, blushing time,

When modesty was scarcely held a crime;

When the most wicked had some touch of grace,

And trembled to meet Virtue face to face;

When those, who, in the cause of Sin grown gray,

Had served her without grudging day by day,

Were yet so weak an awkward shame to feel

And strove that glorious service to conceal:

We, better bred, and than our sires more wise,

Such paltry narrowness of soul despise: 10

To virtue every mean pretence disclaim,

Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame.

Time was, ere Temperance had fled the realm,

Ere Luxury sat guttling at the helm

From meal to meal, without one moment's space

Reserved for business or allow'd for grace;

Ere Vanity had so far conquer'd Sense

To make us all wild rivals in expense,

To make one fool strive to outvie another,

And every coxcomb dress against his brother; 20

Ere banish'd Industry had left our shores,

And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors;

Ere Idleness prevail'd sole queen in courts,

Or only yielded to a rage for sports;

Ere each weak mind was with externals caught,

And dissipation held the place of thought;

Ere gambling lords in vice so far were gone

To cog the die, and bid the sun look on;

Ere a great nation, not less just than free,

Was made a beggar by economy; 30

Ere rugged Honesty was out of vogue;

Ere Fashion stamp'd her sanction on the rogue;

Time was, that men had conscience, that they made

Scruples to owe what never could be paid.

Was one then found, however high his name,

So far above his fellows damn'd to shame,

Who dared abuse, and falsify his trust,

Who, being great, yet dared to be unjust,

Shunn'd like a plague, or but at distance view'd,

He walk'd the crowded streets in solitude, 40

Nor could his rank and station in the land

Bribe one mean knave to take him by the hand.

Such rigid maxims (Oh! might such revive

To keep expiring Honesty alive)

Made rogues, all other hopes of fame denied,

Not just through principle, be just through pride.

Our times, more polish'd, wear a different face;

Debts are an honour, payment a disgrace.

Men of weak minds, high-placed on Folly's list,

May gravely tell us trade cannot subsist, 50

Nor all those thousands who're in trade employ'd,

If faith 'twixt man and man is once destroy'd.

Why--be it so--we in that point accord;

But what are trade, and tradesmen, to a lord?

Faber, from day to day, from year to year,

Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear,

Of tradesmen by his villany betray'd,

And, vainly seeking justice, bankrupts made.

What is't to Faber? Lordly as before,

He sits at ease, and lives to ruin more: 60

Fix'd at his door, as motionless as stone,

Begging, but only begging for their own,

Unheard they stand, or only heard by those,

Those slaves in livery, who mock their woes.

What is't to Faber? He continues great,

Lives on in grandeur, and runs out in state.

The helpless widow, wrung with deep despair,

In bitterness of soul pours forth her prayer,

Hugging her starving babes with streaming eyes,

And calls down vengeance, vengeance from the skies. 70

What is't to Faber? He stands safe and clear,

Heaven can commence no legal action here;

And on his breast a mighty plate he wears,

A plate more firm than triple brass, which bears

The name of Privilege, 'gainst vulgar awe;

He feels no conscience, and he fears no law.

Nor think, acquainted with small knaves alone,

Who have not shame outlived, and grace outgrown,

The great world hidden from thy reptile view,

That on such men, to whom contempt is due, 80

Contempt shall fall, and their vile author's name

Recorded stand through all the land of shame.

No--to his porch, like Persians to the sun,

Behold contending crowds of courtiers run;

See, to his aid what noble troops advance,

All sworn to keep his crimes in countenance;

Nor wonder at it--they partake the charge,

As small their conscience, and their debts as large.

Propp'd by such clients, and without control

From all that's honest in the human soul; 90

In grandeur mean, with insolence unjust,

Whilst none but knaves can praise, and fools will trust,

Caress'd and courted, Faber seems to stand

A mighty pillar in a guilty land.

And (a sad truth, to which succeeding times

Will scarce give credit, when 'tis told in rhymes)

Did not strict Honour with a jealous eye

Watch round the throne, did not true Piety

(Who, link'd with Honour for the noblest ends,

Ranks none but honest men amongst her friends) 100

Forbid us to be crush'd with such a weight,

He might in time be minister of state.

But why enlarge I on such petty crimes?

They might have shock'd the faith of former times,

But now are held as nothing--we begin

Where our sires ended, and improve in sin,

Rack our invention, and leave nothing new

In vice and folly for our sons to do.

Nor deem this censure hard; there's not a place

Most consecrate to purposes of Grace, 110

Which Vice hath not polluted; none so high,

But with bold pinion she hath dared to fly,

And build there for her pleasure; none so low

But she hath crept into it, made it know

And feel her power; in courts, in camps, she reigns,

O'er sober citizens, and simple swains;

E'en in our temples she hath fix'd her throne,

And 'bove God's holy altars placed her own.

More to increase the horror of our state,

To make her empire lasting as 'tis great; 120

To make us, in full-grown perfection, feel

Curses which neither Art nor Time can heal;

All shame discarded, all remains of pride,

Meanness sits crown'd, and triumphs by her side:

Meanness, who gleans out of the human mind

Those few good seeds which Vice had left behind,

Those seeds which might in time to virtue tend,

And leaves the soul without a power to mend;

Meanness, at sight of whom, with brave disdain,

The breast of Manhood swells, but swells in vain; 130

Before whom Honour makes a forced retreat,

And Freedom is compell'd to quit her seat;

Meanness, which, like that mark by bloody Cain

Borne in his forehead for a brother slain,

God, in his great and all-subduing rage,

Ordains the standing mark of this vile age.

The venal hero trucks his fame for gold,

The patriot's virtue for a place is sold;

The statesman bargains for his country's shame,

And, for preferment, priests their God disclaim; 140

Worn out with lust, her day of lechery o'er,

The mother trains the daughter whom she bore

In her own paths; the father aids the plan,

And, when the innocent is ripe for man,

Sells her to some old lecher for a wife,

And makes her an adulteress for life;

Or in the papers bids his name appear,

And advertises for a L----:

Husband and wife (whom Avarice must applaud)

Agree to save the charge of pimp and bawd; 150

Those parts they play themselves, a frugal pair,

And share the infamy, the gain to share;

Well pleased to find, when they the profits tell,

That they have play'd the whore and rogue so well.

Nor are these things (which might imply a spark

Of shame still left) transacted in the dark:

No--to the public they are open laid,

And carried on like any other trade:

Scorning to mince damnation, and too proud

To work the works of darkness in a cloud, 160

In fullest vigour Vice maintains her sway;

Free are her marts, and open at noonday.

Meanness, now wed to Impudence, no more

In darkness skulks, and trembles, as of yore,

When the light breaks upon her coward eye;

Boldly she stalks on earth, and to the sky

Lifts her proud head, nor fears lest time abate,

And turn her husband's love to canker'd hate,

Since Fate, to make them more sincerely one,

Hath crown'd their loves with Montague their son; 170

A son so like his dam, so like his sire,

With all the mother's craft, the father's fire,

An image so express in every part,

So like in all bad qualities of heart,

That, had they fifty children, he alone

Would stand as heir apparent to the throne.

With our own island vices not content,

We rob our neighbours on the Continent;

Dance Europe round, and visit every court,

To ape their follies, and their crimes import: 180

To different lands for different sins we roam,

And, richly freighted, bring our cargo home,

Nobly industrious to make Vice appear

In her full state, and perfect only here.

To Holland, where politeness ever reigns,

Where primitive sincerity remains,

And makes a stand; where Freedom in her course

Hath left her name, though she hath lost her force

In that as other lands; where simple Trade

Was never in the garb of Fraud array'd; 190

Where Avarice never dared to show his head;

Where, like a smiling cherub, Mercy, led

By Reason, blesses the sweet-blooded race,

And Cruelty could never find a place;

To Holland for that charity we roam,

Which happily begins and ends at home.

France, in return for peace and power restored,

For all those countries which the hero's sword

Unprofitably purchased, idly thrown

Into her lap, and made once more her own; 200

France hath afforded large and rich supplies

Of vanities full trimm'd; of polish'd lies;

Of soothing flatteries, which through the ears

Steal to, and melt the heart; of slavish fears

Which break the spirit, and of abject fraud--

For which, alas! we need not send abroad.

Spain gives us Pride--which Spain to all the earth

May largely give, nor fear herself a dearth--

Gives us that Jealousy, which, born of Fear

And mean Distrust, grows not by Nature here-- 210

Gives us that Superstition, which pretends

By the worst means to serve the best of ends--

That Cruelty, which, stranger to the brave,

Dwells only with the coward and the slave;

That Cruelty, which led her Christian bands

With more than savage rage o'er savage lands,

Bade her, without remorse, whole countries thin,

And hold of nought, but Mercy, as a sin.

Italia, nurse of every softer art,

Who, feigning to refine, unmans the heart; 220

Who lays the realms of Sense and Virtue waste;

Who mars while she pretends to mend our taste;

Italia, to complete and crown our shame,

Sends us a fiend, and Legion is his name.

The farce of greatness without being great,

Pride without power, titles without estate,

Souls without vigour, bodies without force,

Hate without cause, revenge without remorse,

Dark, mean revenge, murder without defence,

Jealousy without love, sound without sense, 230

Mirth without humour, without wit grimace,

Faith without reason, Gospel without Grace,

Zeal without knowledge, without nature art,

Men without manhood, women without heart;

Half-men, who, dry and pithless, are debarr'd

From man's best joys--no sooner made than marr'd--

Half-men, whom many a rich and noble dame,

To serve her lust, and yet secure her fame,

Keeps on high diet, as we capons feed,

To glut our appetites at last decreed; 240

Women, who dance in postures so obscene,

They might awaken shame in Aretine;

Who when, retired from the day's piercing light,

They celebrate the mysteries of Night,

Might make the Muses, in a corner placed

To view their monstrous lusts, them Sappho chaste;

These, and a thousand follies rank as these,

A thousand faults, ten thousand fools, who please

Our pall'd and sickly taste, ten thousand knaves,

Who serve our foes as spies, and us as slaves, 250

Who, by degrees, and unperceived, prepare

Our necks for chains which they already wear,

Madly we entertain, at the expense

Of fame, of virtue, taste, and common sense.

Nor stop we here--the soft luxurious East,

Where man, his soul degraded, from the beast

In nothing different but in shape we view,

They walk on four legs, and he walks on two,

Attracts our eye; and flowing from that source,

Sins of the blackest character, sins worse 260

Than all her plagues, which truly to unfold,

Would make the best blood in my veins run cold,

And strike all manhood dead, which but to name,

Would call up in my cheeks the marks of shame:

Sins, if such sins can be, which shut out grace,

Which for the guilty leave no hope, no place,

E'en in God's mercy; sins 'gainst Nature's plan

Possess the land at large, and man for man

Burns, in those fires, which Hell alone could raise

To make him more than damn'd; which, in the days 270

Of punishment, when guilt becomes her prey,

With all her tortures she can scarce repay.

Be grace shut out, be mercy deaf, let God

With tenfold terrors arm that dreadful nod

Which speaks them lost, and sentenced to despair;

Distending wide her jaws, let Hell prepare,

For those who thus offend amongst mankind,

A fire more fierce, and tortures more refined.

On earth, which groans beneath their monstrous weight,

On earth, alas! they meet a different fate; 280

And whilst the laws, false grace, false mercy shown,

Are taught to wear a softness not their own,

Men, whom the beasts would spurn, should they appear

Amongst the honest herd, find refuge here.

No longer by vain fear or shame controll'd,

From long, too long, security grown bold,

Mocking rebuke, they brave it in our streets,

And Lumley e'en at noon his mistress meets:

So public in their crimes, so daring grown,

They almost take a pride to have them known, 290

And each unnatural villain scarce endures

To make a secret of his vile amours.

Go where we will, at every time and place,

Sodom confronts, and stares us in the face;

They ply in public at our very doors,

And take the bread from much more honest whores.

Those who are mean high paramours secure,

And the rich guilty screen the guilty poor;

The sin too proud to feel from reason awe,

And those who practise it, too great for law. 300

Woman, the pride and happiness of man,

Without whose soft endearments Nature's plan

Had been a blank, and life not worth a thought;

Woman, by all the Loves and Graces taught,

With softest arts, and sure, though hidden skill,

To humanise, and mould us to her will;

Woman, with more than common grace form'd here,

With the persuasive language of a tear

To melt the rugged temper of our isle,

Or win us to her purpose with a smile; 310

Woman, by Fate the quickest spur decreed,

The fairest, best reward of every deed

Which bears the stamp of honour; at whose name

Our ancient heroes caught a quicker flame,

And dared beyond belief, whilst o'er the plain,

Spurning the carcases of princes slain,

Confusion proudly strode, whilst Horror blew

The fatal trump, and Death stalk'd full in view;

Woman is out of date, a thing thrown by,

As having lost its use: no more the eye, 320

With female beauty caught, in wild amaze,

Gazes entranced, and could for ever gaze;

No more the heart, that seat where Love resides,

Each breath drawn quick and short, in fuller tides

Life posting through the veins, each pulse on fire,

And the whole body tingling with desire,

Pants for those charms, which Virtue might engage,

To break his vow, and thaw the frost of Age,

Bidding each trembling nerve, each muscle strain,

And giving pleasure which is almost pain. 330

Women are kept for nothing but the breed;

For pleasure we must have a Ganymede,

A fine, fresh Hylas, a delicious boy,

To serve our purposes of beastly joy.

Fairest of nymphs, where every nymph is fair,

Whom Nature form'd with more than common care,

With more than common care whom Art improved,

And both declared most worthy to be loved,

---- neglected wanders, whilst a crowd

Pursue and consecrate the steps of ----; 340

She, hapless maid, born in a wretched hour,

Wastes life's gay prime in vain, like some fair flower,

Sweet in its scent, and lively in its hue,

Which withers on the stalk from whence it grew,

And dies uncropp'd; whilst he, admired, caress'd,

Beloved, and everywhere a welcome guest,

With brutes of rank and fortune plays the whore,

For their unnatural lust a common sewer.

Dine with Apicius--at his sumptuous board

Find all, the world of dainties can afford-- 350

And yet (so much distemper'd spirits pall

The sickly appetite) amidst them all

Apicius finds no joy, but, whilst he carves

For every guest, the landlord sits and starves.

The forest haunch, fine, fat, in flavour high,

Kept to a moment, smokes before his eye,

But smokes in vain; his heedless eye runs o'er

And loathes what he had deified before:

The turtle, of a great and glorious size,

Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize 360

For which a man of taste all risks would run,

Itself a feast, and every dish in one;

The turtle in luxurious pomp comes in,

Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepared, and dress'd by Quin;[300]

In vain it comes, in vain lies full in view;

As Quin hath dress'd it, he may eat it too;

Apicius cannot. When the glass goes round,

Quick-circling, and the roofs with mirth resound,

Sober he sits, and silent--all alone

Though in a crowd, and to himself scarce known: 370

On grief he feeds: nor friends can cure, nor wine

Suspend his cares, and make him cease to pine.

Why mourns Apicius thus? Why runs his eye,

Heedless, o'er delicates, which from the sky

Might call down Jove? Where now his generous wish,

That, to invent a new and better dish,

The world might burn, and all mankind expire,

So he might roast a phoenix at the fire?

Why swims that eye in tears, which, through a race

Of sixty years, ne'er show'd one sign of grace? 380

Why feels that heart, which never felt before?

Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more,

Who only lived to eat, his stomach pall'd,

And drown'd in floods of sorrow? Hath Fate call'd

His father from the grave to second life?

Hath Clodius on his hands return'd his wife?

Or hath the law, by strictest justice taught,

Compell'd him to restore the dow'r she brought?

Hath some bold creditor, against his will,

Brought in, and forced him to discharge, a bill, 390

Where eating had no share? Hath some vain wench

Run out his wealth, and forced him to retrench?

Hath any rival glutton got the start,

And beat him in his own luxurious art--

Bought cates for which Apicius could not pay,

Or dress'd old dainties in a newer way?

Hath his cook, worthy to be flain with rods,

Spoil'd a dish fit to entertain the gods?

Or hath some varlet, cross'd by cruel Fate,

Thrown down the price of empires in a plate? 400

None, none of these--his servants all are tried:

So sure, they walk on ice, and never slide;

His cook, an acquisition made in France,

Might put a Chloe[301] out of countenance;

Nor, though old Holles still maintains his stand,

Hath he one rival glutton in the land.

Women are all the objects of his hate;

His debts are all unpaid, and yet his state

In full security and triumph held,

Unless for once a knave should be expell'd: 410

His wife is still a whore, and in his power,

The woman gone, he still retains the dower;

Sound in the grave (thanks to his filial care

Which mix'd the draught, and kindly sent him there)

His father sleeps, and, till the last trump shake

The corners of the earth, shall not awake.

Whence flows this sorrow, then? Behind his chair,

Didst thou not see, deck'd with a solitaire,

Which on his bare breast glittering play'd, and graced

With nicest ornaments, a stripling placed, 420

A smooth, smug stripling, in life's fairest prime?

Didst thou not mind, too, how from time to time,

The monstrous lecher, tempted to despise

All other dainties, thither turn'd his eyes?

How he seem'd inly to reproach us all,

Who strove his fix'd attention to recall,

And how he wish'd, e'en at the time of grace,

Like Janus, to have had a double face?

His cause of grief behold in that fair boy;

Apicius dotes, and Corydon is coy. 430

Vain and unthinking stripling! when the glass

Meets thy too curious eye, and, as you pass,

Flattering, presents in smiles thy image there,

Why dost thou bless the gods, who made thee fair?

Blame their large bounties, and with reason blame;

Curse, curse thy beauty, for it leads to shame;

When thy hot lord, to work thee to his end,

Bids showers of gold into thy breast descend,

Suspect his gifts, nor the vile giver trust;

They're baits for virtue, and smell strong of lust. 440

On those gay, gaudy trappings, which adorn

The temple of thy body, look with scorn;

View them with horror; they pollution mean,

And deepest ruin: thou hast often seen

From 'mongst the herd, the fairest and the best

Carefully singled out, and richly dress'd,

With grandeur mock'd, for sacrifice decreed,

Only in greater pomp at last to bleed.

Be warn'd in time, the threaten'd danger shun,

To stay a moment is to be undone. 450

What though, temptation proof, thy virtue shine,

Nor bribes can move, nor arts can undermine?

All other methods failing, one resource

Is still behind, and thou must yield to force.

Paint to thyself the horrors of a rape,

Most strongly paint, and, while thou canst, escape.

Mind not his promises--they're made in sport--

Made to be broke--was he not bred at court?

Trust not his honour, he's a man of birth:

Attend not to his oaths--they're made on earth, 460

Not register'd in heaven--he mocks at Grace,

And in his creed God never found a place;

Look not for Conscience--for he knows her not,

So long a stranger, she is quite forgot;

Nor think thyself in law secure and firm,

Thy master is a lord, and thou a worm,

A poor mean reptile, never meant to think,

Who, being well supplied with meat and drink,

And suffer'd just to crawl from place to place,

Must serve his lusts, and think he does thee grace. 470

Fly then, whilst yet 'tis in thy power to fly;

But whither canst thou go? on whom rely

For wish'd protection? Virtue's sure to meet

An armed host of foes in every street.

What boots it, of Apicius fearful grown,

Headlong to fly into the arms of Stone?

Or why take refuge in the house of prayer

If sure to meet with an Apicius there?

Trust not old age, which will thy faith betray;

Saint Socrates is still a goat, though gray: 480

Trust not green youth; Florio will scarce go down,

And, at eighteen, hath surfeited the town:

Trust not to rakes--alas! 'tis all pretence--

They take up raking only as a fence

'Gainst common fame--place H---- in thy view,

He keeps one whore, as Barrowby kept two:

Trust not to marriage--T---- took a wife,

Who chaste as Dian might have pass'd her life,

Had she not, far more prudent in her aim,

(To propagate the honours of his name, 490

And save expiring titles) taken care,

Without his knowledge, to provide an heir:

Trust not to marriage, in mankind unread;

S----'s a married man, and S---- new wed.

Wouldst thou be safe? Society forswear,

Fly to the desert, and seek shelter there;

Herd with the brutes--they follow Nature's plan--

There's not one brute so dangerous as man

In Afric's wilds--'mongst them that refuge find

Which Lust denies thee here among mankind: 500

Renounce thy name, thy nature, and no more

Pique thy vain pride on Manhood: on all four

Walk, as you see those honest creatures do,

And quite forget that once you walk'd on two.

But, if the thoughts of solitude alarm,

And social life hath one remaining charm;

If still thou art to jeopardy decreed

Amongst the monsters of Augusta's[302] breed,

Lay by thy sex, thy safety to procure;

Put off the man, from men to live secure; 510

Go forth a woman to the public view,

And with their garb assume their manners too.

Had the light-footed Greek[303] of Chiron's school

Been wise enough to keep this single rule,

The maudlin hero, like a puling boy

Robb'd of his plaything, on the plains of Troy

Had never blubber'd at Patroclus' tomb,

And placed his minion in his mistress' room.

Be not in this than catamites more nice,

Do that for virtue, which they do for vice. 520

Thus shalt thou pass untainted life's gay bloom,

Thus stand uncourted in the drawing-room;

At midnight thus, untempted, walk the street,

And run no danger but of being beat.

Where is the mother, whose officious zeal,

Discreetly judging what her daughters feel

By what she felt herself in days of yore,

Against that lecher man makes fast the door?

Who not permits, e'en for the sake of prayer,

A priest, uncastrated, to enter there, 530

Nor (could her wishes, and her care prevail)

Would suffer in the house a fly that's male?

Let her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,

Her daughters cannot, if they would, be whores;

Nor can a man be found, as times now go,

Who thinks it worth his while to make them so.

Though they more fresh, more lively than the morn,

And brighter than the noonday sun, adorn

The works of Nature; though the mother's grace

Revives, improved, in every daughter's face, 540

Undisciplined in dull Discretion's rules,

Untaught and undebauch'd by boarding-schools,

Free and unguarded let them range the town,

Go forth at random, and run Pleasure down,

Start where she will; discard all taint of fear,

Nor think of danger, when no danger's near.

Watch not their steps--they're safe without thy care,

Unless, like jennets, they conceive by air,

And every one of them may die a nun, 550

Unless they breed, like carrion, in the sun.

Men, dead to pleasure, as they're dead to grace,

Against the law of Nature set their face,

The grand primeval law, and seem combined

To stop the propagation of mankind;

Vile pathics read the Marriage Act with pride,

And fancy that the law is on their side.

Broke down, and strength a stranger to his bed,

Old L----[304], though yet alive, is dead;

T---- lives no more, or lives not to our isle;

No longer bless'd with a Cz----'s[305] smile; 560

T---- is at P----[306] disgraced,

And M---- grown gray, perforce grows chaste;

Nor to the credit of our modest race,

Rises one stallion to supply their place.

A maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,

In mid December the rank fly would blow,

Though closely kept, now, when the Dog-star's heat

Inflames the marrow, in the very street

May lie untouch'd, left for the worms, by those

Who daintily pass by, and hold their nose; 570

Poor, plain Concupiscence is in disgrace,

And simple Lechery dares not show her face,

Lest she be sent to bridewell; bankrupts made,

To save their fortunes, bawds leave off their trade,

Which first had left off them; to Wellclose Square

Fine, fresh, young strumpets (for Dodd[307] preaches there)

Throng for subsistence; pimps no longer thrive,

And pensions only keep L---- alive.

Where is the mother, who thinks all her pain,

And all her jeopardy of travail, gain 580

When a man-child is born; thinks every prayer

Paid to the full, and answer'd in an heir?

Short-sighted woman! little doth she know

What streams of sorrow from that source may flow:

Little suspect, while she surveys her boy,

Her young Narcissus, with an eye of joy

Too full for continence, that Fate could give

Her darling as a curse; that she may live,

Ere sixteen winters their short course have run,

In agonies of soul, to curse that son. 590

Pray then for daughters, ye wise mothers, pray;

They shall reward your love, nor make ye gray

Before your time with sorrow; they shall give

Ages of peace, and comfort; whilst ye live

Make life most truly worth your care, and save,

In spite of death, your memories from the grave.

That sense with more than manly vigour fraught,

That fortitude of soul, that stretch of thought,

That genius, great beyond the narrow bound

Of earth's low walk, that judgment perfect found 600

When wanted most, that purity of taste,

Which critics mention by the name of chaste;

Adorn'd with elegance, that easy flow

Of ready wit, which never made a foe;

That face, that form, that dignity, that ease,

Those powers of pleasing, with that will to please,

By which Lepel,[308] when in her youthful days,

E'en from the currish Pope extorted praise,

We see, transmitted, in her daughter shine,

And view a new Lepel in Caroline.[309] 610

Is a son born into this world of woe?

In never-ceasing streams let sorrow flow;

Be from that hour the house with sables hung,

Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue;

E'en from the moment that he first began

To wail and whine, let him not see a man;

Lock, lock him up, far from the public eye;

Give him no opportunity to buy,

Or to be bought; B----, though rich, was sold,

And gave his body up to shame for gold. 620

Let it be bruited all about the town,

That he is coarse, indelicate, and brown,

An antidote to lust; his face deep scarr'd

With the small-pox, his body maim'd and marr'd;

Ate up with the king's evil, and his blood

Tainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood,

Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er,

From head to foot, a rank and running sore.

Shouldst thou report him, as by Nature made,

He is undone, and by thy praise betray'd; 630

Give him out fair, lechers, in number more,

More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the door

Of Lot in Sodom, shall to thine repair,

And force a passage, though a God is there.

Let him not have one servant that is male;

Where lords are baffled, servants oft prevail.

Some vices they propose to all agree;

H---- was guilty, but was M---- free?

Give him no tutor--throw him to a punk,

Rather than trust his morals to a monk-- 640

Monks we all know--we, who have lived at home,

From fair report, and travellers, who roam,

More feelingly;--nor trust him to the gown,

'Tis oft a covering in this vile town

For base designs: ourselves have lived to see

More than one parson in the pillory.

Should he have brothers, (image to thy view

A scene, which, though not public made, is true)

Let not one brother be to t' other known,

Nor let his father sit with him alone. 650

Be all his servants female, young and fair;

And if the pride of Nature spur thy heir

To deeds of venery, if, hot and wild,

He chance to get some score of maids with child,

Chide, but forgive him; whoredom is a crime

Which, more at this than any other time,

Calls for indulgence, and,'mongst such a race,

To have a bastard is some sign of grace.

Born in such times, should I sit tamely down,

Suppress my rage, and saunter through the town 660

As one who knew not, or who shared these crimes?

Should I at lesser evils point my rhymes,

And let this giant sin, in the full eye

Of observation, pass unwounded by?

Though our meek wives, passive obedience taught,

Patiently bear those wrongs, for which they ought,

With the brave spirit of their dams possess'd,

To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,

To cut off male increase from this fair isle,

And turn our Thames into another Nile; 670

Though, on his Sunday, the smug pulpiteer,

Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is silent here,

And thinks himself absolved, in the pretence

Of decency, which, meant for the defence

Of real virtue, and to raise her price,

Becomes an agent for the cause of vice;

Though the law sleeps, and through the care they take

To drug her well, may never more awake;

Born in such times, nor with that patience cursed

Which saints may boast of, I must speak or burst. 680

But if, too eager in my bold career,

Haply I wound the nice, and chaster ear;

If, all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,

And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,

Forgive, ye fair--my real motives view,

And to forgiveness add your praises too.

For you I write--nor wish a better plan,

The cause of woman is most worthy man--

For you I still will write, nor hold my hand

Whilst there's one slave of Sodom in the land, 690

Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,

Not daring to meet manhood face to face,

Their steps I'll track, nor yield them one retreat

Where they may hide their heads, or rest their feet,

Till God, in wrath, shall let his vengeance fall,

And make a great example of them all,

Bidding in one grand pile this town expire,

Her towers in dust, her Thames a lake of fire;

Or they (most worth our wish) convinced, though late,

Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate, 700

Pardon of women with repentance buy,

And learn to honour them, as much as I.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[300] 'Quin:' was a great voluptuary.

[301] 'Chloe:' M. St Clouet, or Chloe, cook to Holles, Duke of

Newcastle.

[302] 'Augusta:' London.

[303] 'Light-footed Greek:' Achilles, who was left at Scyros, dressed

in female attire.

[304] 'L----:' Ligonier.

[305] 'Cz----'s:' Czarina's.

[306] 'P----:' Petersburg.

[307] 'Dodd:' the Rev. Dr William Dodd, the unfortunate divine,

afterwards hanged for forgery. See Boswell.

[308] 'Lepel:' Mary, daughter of Brigadier-General Le Pell, married in

1720 to John Lord Hervey.

[309] 'Caroline:' Lady Caroline Hervey was the youngest daughter of

John Lord Hervey.

INDEPENDENCE.

Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)

Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;

Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear,

And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear:

Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need

Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead

To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail

When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail,

Quality in full plumage passes by;

He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, 10

And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state,

And is above conversing with the great.

Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill,

Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill

Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain,

And sunk the mountain level with the plain;

Who, with mean, private views, and servile art,

No spark of virtue living in their heart,

Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased

Their dignity of office; have disgraced, 20

Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand,

And caused their name to stink through all the land;

Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen

For the support of great, but guilty men;

Have made the bard, of their own vile accord,

Inferior to that thing we call a lord.

What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word

Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard,

Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear,

Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear 30

Than other words? Whether we will or no,

Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go

E'en on the mention, and of course transmit

Notions of something excellent; of wit

Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste;

Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced;

Of virtue far above temptation's reach,

And honour, which not malice can impeach?

Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent,

Before their rank became their punishment, 40

They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize

The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes,

And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard;

The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd;

Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink,

To talk, and (every now and then) to think;

Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake

Of singularity, disclaim'd that make;

Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode,

Flew off, and struck into another road, 50

More fitting Quality, and to our view

Came forth a species altogether new,

Something we had not known, and could not know,

Like nothing of God's making here below;

Nature exclaim'd with wonder--'Lords are things,

Which, never made by me, were made by kings.'

A lord (nor let the honest and the brave,

The true old noble, with the fool and knave

Here mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine,

Which with a B----[310] and E----[311] should Grafton[312] join),

A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call 61

My just contempt of some, abuse of all,

And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme,

Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme,

Because she stops not, rapid in her song,

To make exceptions as she goes along,

Though well she hopes to find, another year,

A whole minority exceptions here),

A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name,

Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, 70

Lives on another man, himself a blank,

Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank

For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf;

A bard owes all to Nature, and himself.

Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain,

When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train

Might view with pride, lackey the heels of those

Whom Genius ranks among her greatest foes!

And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn,

No thanks to them, were to a title born, 80

And could not help it; by chance hither sent,

And only deities by accident.

Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine,

Their birthright honours had been yours or mine,

'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne

Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown,

Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet:

But Felix never can be made a wit.

No, in good faith--that's one of those few things

Which Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: 90

Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards,

Play how we will, to turn lords into bards.

A bard!--a lord!--why, let them, hand in hand,

Go forth as friends, and travel through the land;

Observe which word the people can digest

Most readily, which goes to market best,

Which gets most credit, whether men will trust

A bard, because they think he may be just,

Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains,

Though privilege in that point still remains. 100

A bard!--a lord!--let Reason take her scales,

And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails,

Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam,

And which, by sinking, we the victor deem.

'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove,

Summons a synod in the sacred grove,

Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high,

And sit in state, the senate of the sky,

Whilst, in a kind of parliament below,

Men stare at those above, and want to know 110

What they're transacting: Reason takes her stand

Just in the midst, a balance in her hand,

Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true:

From either side, conducted full in view,

A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer;

We now and then see something like them here.

The first[313] was meagre, flimsy, void of strength,

But Nature kindly had made up in length

What she in breadth denied; erect and proud,

A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, 120

He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skin

O'er his bare bones; his face so very thin,

So very narrow, and so much beat out,

That physiognomists have made a doubt,

Proportion lost, expression quite forgot,

Whether it could be call'd a face or not;

At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard,

Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd;

With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate

Meant only to support a spider's weight, 130

Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride,

Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride,

Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry,

'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.'

In his right hand a paper did he hold,

On which, at large, in characters of gold,

Distinct, and plain for those who run to see,

Saint Archibald[314] had wrote L, O, R, D.

This, with an air of scorn, he from afar

Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, 140

Which from his soul he hated, yet admired,

Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired.

The judge to all around his name declared;

Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared,

And the whole people cried, with one accord,

'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!'

Such was the first--the second[315] was a man

Whom Nature built on quite a different plan;

A bear, whom, from the moment he was born,

His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; 150

A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone,

She could not finish when she had begun;

An utter Chaos, out of which no might,

But that of God, could strike one spark of light.

Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade

A H---- might at full length have laid;

Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong;

His face was short, but broader than 'twas long;

His features, though by Nature they were large,

Contentment had contrived to overcharge, 160

And bury meaning, save that we might spy

Sense lowering on the penthouse of his eye;

His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout

That they might bear a Mansion-house about;

Nor were they, look but at his body there,

Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear.

O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black,

Which hung in tatters on his brawny back,

A sight most strange, and awkward to behold,

He threw a covering of blue and gold. 170

Just at that time of life, when man, by rule,

The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,

He started up a fop, and, fond of show,

Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau,

A subject met with only now and then,

Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;

Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow)

E'en to the life, was Hogarth[316] living now.

With such accoutrements, with such a form,

Much like a porpoise just before a storm, 180

Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around;

E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound

(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth

Himself he studied by the glass of Truth)

He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn,

If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them.

Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,

Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,

And, from his hand received, with fair regard

Placed in her other scale the name of Bard. 190

Then, (for she did as judges ought to do,

She nothing of the case beforehand knew,

Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,

Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,

Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,

To show those briefs she had no right to see)

Then she with equal hand her scales held out,

Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;

She held her scales out fair to public view,

The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, 200

More light than air, deceitful in the weight;

The Bard, preponderating, kept his state;

Reason approved, and with a voice, whose sound

Shook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest ground

Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree,

Cried--'Those must honour them, who honour me;

They from this present day, where'er I reign,

In their own right, precedence shall obtain;

Merit rules here: be it enough that Birth

Intoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' 210

Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,

I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record;

Search when you will, (I am not now in sport)

You'll find it register'd in Reason's court.

Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre,

That I depreciate what I most admire,

And look on titles with an eye of scorn,

Because I was not to a title born.

By Him that made me, I am much more proud,

More inly satisfied to have a crowd 220

Point at me as I pass, and cry--'That's he--

A poor but honest bard, who dares be free

Amidst corruption,' than to have a train

Of flickering levee slaves, to make me vain

Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly,

And live but in the motion of my eye;

When I am less than man, my faults to adore,

And make me think that I am something more.

Recall past times, bring back the days of old,

When the great noble bore his honours bold, 230

And in the face of peril, when he dared

Things which his legal bastard, if declared,

Might well discredit; faithful to his trust,

In the extremest points of justice, just,

Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew,

True to his king, and to his country true;

Honest at court, above the baits of gain,

Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain;

Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse,

Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; 240

Possessing much, and yet deserving more,

Deserving those high honours which he wore

With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame

Which all men paid, because he did not claim.

When the grim war was placed in dread array,

Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,

Or lioness of royal whelps foredone;

In peace, as mild as the departing sun,

A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd,

Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; 250

Ever awake at Pity's tender call,

A father of the poor, a friend to all;

Recall such times, and from the grave bring back

A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack,

My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,

And every Muse conspire to swell his fame,

Till Envy shall to him that praise allow

Which she cannot deny to Temple now.

This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,

Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, 260

To pay it like a man, and in his lays,

Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise.

But let not pride and prejudice misdeem,

And think that empty titles are my theme;

Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth;

I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth.

Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave,

I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;

Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend

To make a slave, where they may make a friend; 270

I love his virtues, and will make them known,

Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.

Give me a lord, who, to a title born,

Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.

What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)

Tamely make way if such a wretch appear?

Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee

To such a shadow of nobility,

A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown

For any real merit of his own, 280

And never had come forth to public note

Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat.

To think a M----[317] worth my least regards,

Is treason to the majesty of bards.

By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake,

She something more than common strove to make,

When, overlooking each minute defect,

And all too eager to be quite correct,

In her full heat and vigour she impress'd

Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) 290

The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean

Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween

Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage,

The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age,

Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,

And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse)

The real bard, whom native genius fires,

Whom every maid of Castaly inspires,

Let him consider wherefore he was meant,

Let him but answer Nature's great intent, 300

And fairly weigh himself with other men,

Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,

Would in full state, like a true monarch, live,

Nor bate one inch of his prerogative.

Methinks I see old Wingate[318] frowning here,

(Wingate may in the season be a peer,

Though now, against his will, of figures sick,

He's forced to diet on arithmetic,

E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets,

Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) 310

Methinks (his mind with future honours big,

His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig)

I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean?

Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen?

Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--Disdain

Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain:

To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw--

I'm very sensible he's mad in law.

A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus

To set himself upon a par with us; 320

If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool,

May, when he pleases, send us all to school,

Why, then our only business is outright

To take our caps, and bid the world good night.

I've kept a bard myself this twenty years,

But nothing of this kind in him appears;

He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks

The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks;

He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,

Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; 330

A creature of the right chameleon hue,

He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,

Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him

Whether I change through conscience, or through whim.

Now this is something like; on such a plan

A bard may find a friend in a great man;

But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all

Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.'[319]

Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue

On which the vile insinuation hung, 340

The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those,

Those bards, who not themselves alone expose,

But me, but all, and make the very name

By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame.

Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea,

Current with fools, but passes not with me;

An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried

By numbers to o'erpower the better side.

Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme,

No matter when, down to the present time, 350

As by the original decree of Fate,

Bards have protection sought amongst the great;

Conscious of weakness, have applied to them

As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem,

Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support

E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court?

As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,

But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,

From which it rose; had bards but truly known

That strength, which is most properly their own, 360

Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood,

And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.

But why, when present times my care engage,

Must I go back to the Augustan age?

Why, anxious for the living, am I led

Into the mansions of the ancient dead?

Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome,

And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb?

Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note

Start up, and from report Maecenas quote; 370

Under his colours lords are proud to fight,

Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight:

They mention him, as if to use his name

Was, in some measure, to partake his fame,

Though Virgil, was he living, in the street

Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.

See how they redden, and the charge disclaim--

Virgil, and in the Fleet!--forbid it, Shame!

Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair,

And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! 380

Patrons in days of yore were men of sense,

Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence

To rule in letters--some of them were heard

To read off-hand, and never spell a word;

Some of them, too, to such a monstrous height

Was learning risen, for themselves could write,

And kept their secretaries, as the great

Do many other foolish things, for state.

Our patrons are of quite a different strain,

With neither sense nor taste; against the grain 390

They patronise for Fashion's sake--no more--

And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore.

Melcombe (on such occasions I am loth

To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.

Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,

Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed;

Others can write, but such a Pagan hand,

A Willes[320] should always at our elbow stand:

Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor,[321] of right,

Would order into keeping at first sight. 400

Those who stand fairest to the public view

Take to themselves the praise to others due,

They rob the very spital, and make free

With those, alas! who've least to spare. We see

---- hath not had a word to say,

Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech[322] away.

Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now,

Expected that the bard should make his bow

At coming in, and every now and then

Hint to the world that they were more than men; 410

But, like the patrons of the present day,

They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.

Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm,

Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm,

Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days

In his own way, and pay his rent in praise.

Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court,

Could buy it off the quay in every port:

Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too;

They met, they laugh'd, as Goy[323] and I may do, 420

Nor in those moments paid the least regard

To which was minister, and which was bard.

Not so our patrons--grave as grave can be,

They know themselves, they keep up dignity;

Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit

That men of fortune rank with men of wit:

Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength--

'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length.

'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give,

From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. 430

Such is their language, and their practice such;

They promise little, and they give not much.

Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain,

Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain;

What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,

He may obtain a patent for the run

Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time,

With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme;

Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace)

May at the second table get a place; 440

With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,

And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine.

And are there bards, who, on creation's file,

Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle

The air of freedom, with so little gall,

So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall

Before these idols, and without a groan

Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone?

Better, and much more noble, to abjure

The sight of men, and in some cave, secure 450

From all the outrages of Pride, to feast

On Nature's salads, and be free at least.

Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse

Than almost any other modern curse)

Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse,

Critics commence, and write in the Reviews;

Write without tremor, Griffiths[324] cannot read;

No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed.

But (not to make a brave and honest pride

Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) 460

There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,

By which, and fairly, men of real parts

May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;

Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.

Our real wants in a small compass lie,

But lawless appetite, with eager eye,

Kept in a constant fever, more requires,

And we are burnt up with our own desires.

Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs;

Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. 470

Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;

We may be independent, if we will.

The man who suits his spirit to his state

Stands on an equal footing with the great;

Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he

Who rules the English nation, not more free.

Chains were not forged more durable and strong

For bards than others, but they've worn them long,

And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot

What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. 480

Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know

The blessings which from Independence flow;

Could they but have a short and transient gleam

Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream,

They would no more in bondage bend their knee,

But, once made freemen, would be always free.

The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains,

Can nevermore submit to sing in chains.

Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,

The bird repays his keeper with his song; 490

But if some playful child sets wide the door,

Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,

With love of liberty begins to burn,

And rather starves than to his cage return.

Hail, Independence!--by true reason taught,

How few have known, and prized thee as they ought!

Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys,

Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;

Ambition some, some avarice, misleads,

And in both cases Independence bleeds. 500

Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,

Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;

Some, though about their paths, their beds about,

Have never had the sense to find thee out:

Others, who know of what they are possess'd,

Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest,

Nor have the resolution to produce,

In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use.

Hail, Independence!--though thy name's scarce known,

Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, 510

Though all despise thee, I will not despise,

Nor live one moment longer than I prize

Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate

Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late,

Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth,

And made me know what life was truly worth.

Hail, Independence!--never may my cot,

Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot:

Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair;

Cotes,[325] whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. 520

All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er,

Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door.

O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law?

The law of England. To control and awe

Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb,

Behold, in state, Administration come!

Why, let her come, in all her terrors too;

I dare to suffer all she dares to do.

I know her malice well, and know her pride,

I know her strength, but will not change my side. 530

This melting mass of flesh she may control

With iron ribs--she cannot chain my soul.

No--to the last resolved her worst to bear,

I'm still at large, and independent there.

Where is this minister? where is the band

Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand

To hear, and to perform his wicked will?

Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill?

When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done,

Doth ---- sleep; doth blood-hound ---- run 540

To L----, and worry those small deer,

When he might do more precious mischief here?

Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to draw

Illegal warrants, and to call them law?

Doth ----, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run,

With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son,

And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat,

Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?

Believe it not; ---- is ---- still,

And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: 550

---- doth lesser mischiefs by the by,

The great ones till the term in _petto_ lie:

---- lives, and, to the strictest justice true,

Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due.

O my poor Country!--weak, and overpower'd

By thine own sons--ate to the bone--devour'd

By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,

Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,

With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see,

And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. 560

I grieve, but can't despair--for, lo! at hand

Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band

Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare

In such a noble cause; men fit to bear

The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense,

Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence,

March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file

Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile

Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,

As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) 570

One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,

And seems to say, Why is not Granby[326] here?'

O ye brave few, in whom we still may find

A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind!

Go forth--in majesty of woe array'd,

See at your feet your Country kneels for aid,

And, (many of her children traitors grown)

Kneels to those sons she still can call her own;

Seeming to breathe her last in every breath,

She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-- 580

Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief,

And to your drooping parent bring relief.

Go forth--nor let the siren voice of Ease

Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas;

Go forth--nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue

With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung,

Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way,

When your great errand brooks not of delay;

Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets,

Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' 590

Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright,

Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight:

Be as one man--concord success ensures--

There's not an English heart but what is yours.

Go forth--and Virtue, ever in your sight,

Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night--

Go forth--the champions of your native land,

And may the battle prosper in your hand--

It may, it must--ye cannot be withstood--

Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good! 600

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[310] 'B----:' Bute.

[311] 'F----:' Fox.

[312] 'Grafton:' see Junius, _passim_.

[313] 'First:' Lyttelton.

[314] 'Archibald:' Archibald Bower, the infamous author of 'Lives of

the Popes,' patronised at first by Lyttelton, but detected and

exposed by Dr Douglas.

[315] 'Second:' Churchill himself.

[316] 'Hogarth:' here satirically represented as dead, lived four weeks

after this poem was published, and died nine days before Churchill.

[317] 'M----:' Melcombe.

[318] 'Wingate:' the purse-proud upstarts of the day are here

designated by the generic name of Wingate, an eminent arithmetician,

who lived early in the seventeenth century.

[319] 'Old Paul:' Paul Whitehead, a contemptible sycophant as well as

profligate.

[320] 'Willes:' Dr Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells.

[321] 'Chancellor:' the Lord High Chancellor is intrusted with the

custody of all idiots and lunatics.

[322] 'Singlespeech:' the Right Honourable William Gerrard Hamilton.

See Boswell, who describes him as a man of great talent; others have

ascribed his single speech to the aid of Burke.

[323] 'Goy:' M. Pierre Goy, a Frenchman of brilliant accomplishments.

[324] 'Griffiths:' Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller, who, in 1749,

published the first number of the 'Monthly Review.'

[325] 'Cotes:' Humphrey Cotes, a staunch supporter of Wilkes.

[326] 'Granby:' the Marquis of Granby, in 1766, was appointed

Commander-in-Chief of all his Majesty's land forces in Great Britain.

See Junius.

THE JOURNEY.[327]

Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose

All, who, not daring to appear my foes,

Feign great good will, and, not more full of spite

Than full of craft, under false colours fight),

Some of my friends (so lavishly I print),

As more in sorrow than in anger, hint

(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)

That I shall run my stock of genius out,

My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,

Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. 10

'The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil,

Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil

More than a hundredfold, which swells his store

E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,

By long Experience taught, who teaches best,

Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest:

The land, allow'd its losses to repair,

Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wear

A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes

Bids richer crops, and double harvests rise. 20

'Nor think this practice to the earth confined,

It reaches to the culture of the mind.

The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,

Though next in power to God's, continual care.

Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)

Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,

And fallow'd well: had Churchill known but this,

Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,

He might have flourish'd twenty years or more,

Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four.'[328] 30

Recover'd from the vanity of youth,

I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,

Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,

And am, if not too late, resolved to mend,

Resolved to give some respite to my pen,

Apply myself once more to books and men;

View what is present, what is past review,

And, my old stock exhausted, lay in new.

For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear

This oath to Heaven), for twice six moons, I swear, 40

No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,

Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way.

Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,

Who, in my hearing, shall a rhyme commend.

It cannot be--whether I will, or no,

Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.

Convinced, determined, I in prose begin,

But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,

And taints me through and through; by this good light,

In verse I talk by day, I dream by night! 50

If now and then I curse, my curses chime,

Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme.

E'en now I err, in spite of Common Sense,

And my confession doubles my offence.

Rest then, my friends;--spare, spare your precious breath,

And be your slumbers not less sound than death;

Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear,

To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear;

On your grave lessons I cannot subsist,

Nor even in verse become economist. 60

Rest then, my friends; nor, hateful to my eyes,

Let Envy, in the shape of Pity, rise

To blast me ere my time; with patience wait,

('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate

Shall glut your pride, and every son of phlegm

Find ample room to censure and condemn.

Read some three hundred lines (no easy task,

_But probably the last that I shall ask_),

And give me up for ever; wait one hour,

Nay not so much, revenge is in your power, 70

And ye may cry, ere Time hath turn'd his glass,

Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass.

Let those, who poetry in poems claim,

Or not read this, or only read to blame;

Let those who are by Fiction's charms enslaved,

Return me thanks for half-a-crown well saved;

Let those who love a little gall in rhyme

Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;

Let those who, void of Nature, look for Art,

Take up their money, and in peace depart; 80

Let those who energy of diction prize,

For Billingsgate quit Flexney,[329] and be wise:

Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force,

Mean are the words, and such as come of course;

The subject not less simple than the lay;

A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a Day.

Far from me now be every tuneful maid,

I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.

Pegasus turn'd into a common hack,

Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, 90

Nor would I have the Sisters of the hill

Behold their bard in such a dishabille.

Absent, but only absent for a time,

Let them caress some dearer son of Rhyme;

Let them, as far as decency permits,

Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,

'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,

Wits are safe things; there's danger in a fool.

Let them, though modest, Gray more modest woo;

Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo; 100

Let them with Franklin,[330] proud of some small Greek,

Make Sophocles, disguised, in English speak;

Let them, with Glover,[331] o'er Medea doze;

Let them, with Dodsley, wail Cleone's[332] woes,

Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,

Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;

Let them, with simple Whitehead[333] taught to creep

Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;

Let them with Browne,[334] contrive, no vulgar trick,

To cure the dead, and make the living sick; 110

Let them, in charity, to Murphy give

Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;

Let them with antic Foote, subscriptions get,

And advertise a summer-house of wit.

Thus, or in any better way they please,

With these great men, or with great men like these,

Let them their appetite for laughter feed;

I on my Journey all alone proceed.

If fashionable grown, and fond of power,

With humorous Scots let them disport their hour, 120

Let them dance, fairy like, round Ossian's tomb;

Let them forge lies and histories for Hume;

Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,

Make something like a tragedy in Erse;

Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil,

Let them, with Ogilvie,[335] spin out a tale

Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure,

Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor

Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;

With every pert, prim prettiness of youth, 130

Born of false taste, with Fancy (like a child

Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,

With bloated style, by Affectation taught,

With much false colouring, and little thought,

With phrases strange, and dialect decreed

By Reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,

With words, which Nature meant each other's foe,

Forced to compound whether they will or no;

With such materials, let them, if they will,

To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, 140

Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common Sense,

By way of compliment to Providence;

Let them, with Armstrong[336], taking leave of Sense,

Read musty lectures on Benevolence,

Or con the pages of his gaping Day,

Where all his former fame was thrown away,

Where all, but barren labour, was forgot,

And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;

Let them, with Armstrong, pass the term of light,

But not one hour of darkness: when the night 150

Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,

When for our past misdoings, Conscience takes

A deep revenge, when, by Reflection led,

She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,

Let every Muse be gone; in vain he turns,

And tries to pray for sleep; an Aetna burns,

A more than Aetna, in his coward breast,

And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:

Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing,

His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring; 160

Ingratitude hath planted daggers there

No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.

Thus, or in any better way they please,

With these great men, or with great men like these,

Let them their appetite for laughter feed;

I on my Journey all alone proceed.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[327] 'Journey:' a posthumous publication.

[328] 'In four:' he did not complete the fourth.

[329] 'Flexney.' the publisher of his poems.

[330] 'Franklin:' Dr Franklin, author of a translation of Sophocles.

[331] 'Glover:' Dr Glover in his tragedy of Medea.

[332] 'Cleone:' a tragedy by Robert Dodsley.

[333] 'Whitehead:' Whitehead dedicated his 'School for Lovers' to the

memory of Fontenelle.

[334] 'Browne:' 'The Cure of Saul,' a sacred ode by Dr Browne, was set

to music.

[335] 'Ogilvie:' John Ogilvie, A.M., was the author of 'Providence,' an

allegorical poem.

[336] 'Armstrong:' Dr John Armstrong, author of that beautiful poem,

'The Art of Preserving Health,' also of one entitled 'Day,' in which he

reflected on Churchill, who had been his friend.

DEDICATION

To Churchill's Sermons.

The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers

Churchill left behind him.

Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown,

Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,

Accept this greeting--nor let modest fear

Call up one maiden blush--I mean not here

To wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art,

And suits not with the frankness of my heart.

Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,

And, spite of Hell, that character is mine:

To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;

But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. 10

Health to great Glo'ster!--nor, through love of ease,

Which all priests love, let this address displease.

I ask no favour, not one _note_ I crave,

And when this busy brain rests in the grave,

(For till that time it never can have rest)

I will not trouble you with one bequest.

Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,

More near in blood, a nephew or a son,

In that dread hour executor I'll leave,

For I, alas! have many to receive; 20

To give, but little.--To great Glo'ster health!

Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth

Here take a false alarm--in purse though poor,

In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure

The mention of a bribe--thy pocket's free:

I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee.

Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;

I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.

Think not,--a thought unworthy thy great soul,

Which pomps of this world never could control, 30

Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,--

Think not that pomp and power can work on mine.

'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great,

'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,

'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art,

'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart.

State is a farce; names are but empty things,

Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,

Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine

So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, 40

Unless set off by virtue; who deceives

Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves

Enhances guilt, commits a double sin;

So fair without, and yet so foul within.

'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,

Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,

Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,

Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,

Which can from sixty to sixteen impart

The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 50

'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made

An index to thy soul; though there display'd

We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin

Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within;

'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,

Around our heads no lineal glories shine--

But what is birth,--when, to delight mankind,

Heralds can make those arms they cannot find,

When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,

A whole Welsh genealogy alone? 60

No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,

Thy right just estimation here on earth,

Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,

And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind;

Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod,

Thy charity for man, thy love of God,

Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men,

Which now give life and utterance to my pen.

Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays;

'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: 70

Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong,

And burst forth into praise withheld too long.

Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep

Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,--

Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice,

Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice,

Which did not know, yet would not learn their way,

Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray;

Those sheep which my good father (on his bier

Let filial duty drop the pious tear) 80

Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that time

Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme,

Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view,

Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,--

Much did I wish, though little could I hope,

A friend in him who was the friend of Pope.

His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide,

And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;

His temper, his experience, shall control,

And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; 90

His judgment teach me, from the critic school,

How not to err, and how to err by rule;

Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,

Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right;

Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim,

How little's due to them, how much to him.

Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules,

Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools,

Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all,

Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, 100

He by his great example might impart

A better something, and baptize it Art;

He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,

Might show me what is taste by what is not;

By him supported, with a proper pride,

I might hold all mankind as fools beside;

He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown,

Explode his maxims and assert their own)

Might teach me, like himself, to be content,

And let their folly be their punishment; 110

Might, like himself, teach his adopted son,

'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton.

Fool that I was! could I so much deceive

My soul with lying hopes? could I believe

That he, the servant of his Maker sworn,

The servant of his Saviour, would be torn

From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,

The cure of souls, his duty and his joy,

For toys like mine, and waste his precious time,

On which so much depended, for a rhyme? 120

Should he forsake the task he undertook,

Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook?

Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place,

So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace,

And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill,

Let the salvation of mankind stand still?

Far, far be that from thee--yes, far from thee

Be such revolt from grace, and far from me

The will to think it--guilt is in the thought--

Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, 130

Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known,

When (to maintain God's honour, and his own)

He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I now

See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,

And arm'd with tenfold terrors--from his tongue,

Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung,

Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll,

And chill with horror every sinner's soul,

In vain they strive to fly--flight cannot save.

And Potter trembles even in his grave-- 140

With all the conscious pride of innocence,

Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,

Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew,

By gospel rules his witness to be true.

O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend,

Though it deprived me of my dearest friend;

The real motives of thy anger known,

Wilkes must the justice of that anger own;

And, could thy bosom have been bared to view,

Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. 150

Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown,

Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down;

Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew,

Me she got rid of, and made prize of you.

I, like an idle truant fond of play,

Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,

Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip;

But you, my lord, renounced attorneyship

With better purpose, and more noble aim,

And wisely played a more substantial game: 160

Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son,

For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done.

Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord!

If haply these high titles may accord

With thy meek spirit; if the barren sound

Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round

Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one

For want of smooth hypocrisy undone,

Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye,

And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: 170

Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might)

Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height,

Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill

And wonted powers of knowing good from ill,

Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes;

Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose,

Nor turn his back on men who made him great;

Let him not, gorged with power, and drunk with state,

Forget what once he was, though now so high,

How low, how mean, and full as poor as I. 180

* * * * *

_Caetera desunt_.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR PARK.

These verses appeared with Churchill's name to them in the London

Magazine for 1763, and there is no reason to doubt their being

genuine.

When Pope to Satire gave its lawful way,

And made the Nimrods of Mankind his prey;

When haughty Windsor heard through every wood

Their shame, who durst be great, yet not be good;

Who, drunk with power, and with ambition blind,

Slaves to themselves, and monsters to mankind,

Sinking the man, to magnify the prince,

Were heretofore, what Stuarts have been since:

Could he have look'd into the womb of Time,

How might his spirit in prophetic rhyme, 10

Inspired by virtue, and for freedom bold,

Matters of different import have foretold!

How might his Muse, if any Muse's tongue

Could equal such an argument, have sung

One William,[337] who makes all mankind his care,

And shines the saviour of his country there!

One William, who to every heart gives law;

The son of George, the image of Nassau!

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Footnotes:

[337] 'William:' Duke of Cumberland--the Whig hero.

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THE END.