Book III.

Esse quoque in fatis reminiscitur, affore tempus,

Quo mare, quo tellus, correptaque regia caeli

Ardeat; et mundi moles operosa laboret.

--OVID. MET.

The book unfolding; the resplendent seat

Of saints and angels; the tremendous fate

Of guilty souls; the gloomy realms of woe;

And all the horrors of the world below;

I next presume to sing: what yet remains

Demands my last, but most exalted strains.

And let the muse or now affect the sky,

Or in inglorious shades for ever lie.

She kindles, she's inflam'd so near the goal;

She mounts, she gains upon the starry pole;

The world grows less as she pursues her flight,

And the sun darkens to her distant sight.

Heaven op'ning, all its sacred pomp displays,

And overwhelms her with the rushing blaze!

The triumph rings! archangels shout around!

And echoing nature lengthens out the sound!

Ten thousand trumpets now at once advance;

Now deepest silence lulls the vast expanse:

So deep the silence, and so strong the blast,

As nature died, when she had groan'd her last.

Nor man, nor angel, moves; the Judge on high

Looks round, and with his glory fills the sky:

Then on the fatal book his hand he lays,

Which high to view supporting seraphs raise;

In solemn form the rituals are prepar'd,

The seal is broken, and a groan is heard.

And thou, my soul, (oh fall to sudden pray'r,

And let the thought sink deep!) shalt thou be there?

See on the left (for by the great command

The throng divided falls on either hand);

How weak, how pale, how haggard, how obscene,

What more than death in ev'ry face and mien!

With what distress, and glarings of affright.

They shock the heart, and turn away the sight!

In gloomy orbs their trembling eye-balls roll,

And tell the horrid secrets of the soul.

Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care,

And ev'ry groan is loaden with despair.

Reader, if guilty, spare the muse, and find

A truer image pictur'd in thy mind.

Shouldst thou behold thy brother, father, wife,

And all the soft companions of thy life,

Whose blended int'rests levell'd at one aim,

Whose mix'd desires sent up one common flame,

Divided far; thy wretched self alone

Cast on the left, of all whom thou hast known;

How would it wound! what millions wouldst thou give

For one more trial, one more day to live!

Flung back in time an hour, a moment's space,

To grasp with eagerness the means of grace;

Contend for mercy with a pious rage,

And in that moment to redeem an age?

Drive back the tide, suspend a storm in air,

Arrest the sun!--but still of this despair.

Mark, on the right, how amiable a grace!

Their Maker's image fresh in ev'ry face!

What purple bloom my ravish'd soul admires!

And their eyes sparkling with immortal fires!

Triumphant beauty! charms that rise above

This world, and in blest angels kindle love!

To the great Judge with holy pride they turn,

And dare behold th' Almighty's anger burn;

Its flash sustain, against its terror rise,

And on the dread tribunal fix their eyes.

Are these the forms that moulder'd in the dust?

Oh the transcendent glory of the just!

Yet still some thin remains of fear and doubt,

Th' infected brightness of their joy pollute.

Thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws nigh,

Beholds his blessing with a trembling eye,

Feels doubtful passions throb in every vein,

And in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain,

Lest still some intervening chance should rise,

Leap forth at once, and snatch the golden prize;

Inflame his woe, by bringing it so late,

And stab him in the crisis of his fate.

Since Adam's family, from first to last,

Now into one distinct survey is cast;

Look round, vainglorious muse, and you whoe'er

Devote yourselves to fame, and think her fair;

Look round, and seek the lights of human race,

Whose shining acts time's brightest annals grace;

Who founded sects; crowns conquer'd, or resign'd;

Gave names to nations: or fam'd empires join'd;

Who raised the vale, and laid the mountain low;

And taught obedient rivers where to flow;

Who with vast fleets, as with a mighty chain,

Could bind the madness of the roaring main:

All lost? all undistinguish'd? nowhere found?

How will this truth in Bourbon's palace sound?

That hour, on which the Almighty King on high

From all eternity has fix'd his eye,

Whether his right hand favour'd, or annoy'd,

Continu'd, alter'd, threaten'd, or destroy'd;

Southern or eastern sceptre downward hurl'd,

Gave north or west dominion o'er the world;

The point of time, for which the world was built,

For which the blood of God himself was spilt,

That dreadful moment is arriv'd.

Aloft, the seats of bliss their pomp display

Brighter than brightness, this distinguish'd day;

Less glorious, when of old th' eternal Son

From realms of night return'd with trophies won:

Thro' heaven's high gates, when he triumphant rode,

And shouting angels hail'd the victor God.

Horrors, beneath, darkness in darkness, hell

Of hell, where torments behind torments dwell;

A furnace formidable, deep, and wide,

O'erboiling with a mad sulphureous tide,

Expands its jaws, most dreadful to survey,

And roars outrageous for the destin'd prey.

The sons of light scarce unappall'd look down,

And nearer press heaven's everlasting throne.

Such is the scene; and one short moment's space

Concludes the hopes and fears of human race.

Proceed who dares!--I tremble as I write,

The whole creation swims before my sight:

I see, I see, the Judge's frowning brow;

Say not, 'tis distant; I behold it now;

I faint, my tardy blood forgets to flow,

My soul recoils at the stupendous woe;

That woe, those pangs, which from the guilty breast,

In these, or words like these, shall be exprest.

"Who burst the barriers of my peaceful grave?

Ah! cruel death, that would no longer save,

But grudg'd me e'en that narrow dark abode,

And cast me out into the wrath of God;

Where shrieks, the roaring flame, the rattling chain,

And all the dreadful eloquence of pain,

Our only song; black fire's malignant light,

The sole refreshment of the blasted sight.

Must all those pow'rs, heaven gave me to supply

My soul with pleasure, and bring in my joy,

Rise up in arms against me, join the foe,

Sense, reason, memory, increase my woe?

And shall my voice, ordain'd on hymns to dwell,

Corrupt to groans, and blow the fires of hell?

Oh! must I look with terror on my gain,

And with existence only measure pain?

What! no reprieve, no least indulgence given,

No beam of hope, from any point of heaven!

Ah mercy! mercy! art thou dead above?

Is love extinguish'd in the source of love?

"Bold that I am, did heaven stoop down to hell?

Th' expiring Lord of life my ransom seal?

Have I not been industrious to provoke?

From his embraces obstinately broke?

Pursu'd and panted for his mortal hate,

Earn'd my destruction, labour'd out my fate?

And dare I on extinguish'd love exclaim?

Take, take full vengeance, rouse the slack'ning flame;

Just is my lot--but oh! must it transcend

The reach of time, despair a distant end?

With dreadful growth shoot forward, and arise,

Where thought can't follow, and bold fancy dies?

"Never! where falls the soul at that dread sound?

Down an abyss how dark, and how profound?

Down, down, (I still am falling, horrid pain!)

Ten thousand thousand fathoms still remain;

My plunge but still begun--And this for sin?

Could I offend, if I had never been,

But still increas'd the senseless happy mass,

Flow'd in the stream, or shiver'd in the grass?

"Father of mercies! why from silent earth

Didst thou awake, and curse me into birth?

Tear me from quiet, ravish me from night,

And make a thankless present of thy light?

Push into being a reverse of thee,

And animate a clod with misery?

"The beasts are happy; they come forth, and keep

Short watch on earth, and then lie down to sleep.

Pain is for man; and oh! how vast a pain

For crimes, which made the Godhead bleed in vain!

Annull'd his groans, as far as in them lay,

And flung his agonies, and death, away!

As our dire punishment for ever strong,

Our constitution too for ever young,

Curs'd with returns of vigour, still the same,

Powerful to bear, and satisfy the flame:

Still to be caught, and still to be pursu'd!

To perish still, and still to be renew'd!

"And this, my help! my God! at thy decree?

Nature is chang'd, and hell should succour me.

And canst thou then look down from perfect bliss,

And see me plunging in the dark abyss?

Calling thee Father, in a sea of fire?

Or pouring blasphemies at thy desire?

With mortals' anguish wilt thou raise thy name,

And by my pangs omnipotence proclaim?

"Thou, who canst toss the planets to and fro,

Contract not thy great vengeance to my woe;

Crush worlds; in hotter flames fall'n angels lay;

On me Almighty wrath is cast away.

Call back thy thunders, Lord, hold in thy rage,

Nor with a speck of wretchedness engage:

Forget me quite, nor stoop a worm to blame;

But lose me in the greatness of thy name.

Thou art all love, all mercy, all divine,

And shall I make these glories cease to shine?

Shall sinful man grow great by his offence,

And from its course turn back Omnipotence?

"Forbid it! and oh! grant, great God, at least

This one, this slender, almost no request;

When I have wept a thousand lives away,

When torment is grown weary of its prey,

When I have rav'd ten thousand years in fire,

Ten thousand thousand, let me then expire."

Deep anguish! but too late; the hopeless soul,

Bound to the bottom of the burning pool,

Though loth, and ever loud blaspheming, owns

He's justly doom'd to pour eternal groans;

Enclos'd with horrors, and transfix'd with pain,

Rolling in vengeance, struggling with his chain:

To talk to fiery tempests; to implore

The raging flame to give its burnings o'er;

To toss, to writhe, to pant beneath his load,

And bear the weight of an offended God.

The favour'd of their Judge, in triumph move

To take possession of their thrones above;

Satan's accurs'd desertion to supply,

And fill the vacant stations of the sky;

Again to kindle long-extinguish'd rays,

And with new lights dilate the heavenly blaze;

To crop the roses of immortal youth,

And drink the fountain-head of sacred truth

To swim in seas of bliss, to strike the string,

And lift the voice to their Almighty King;

To lose eternity in grateful lays,

And fill heaven's wide circumference with praise.

But I attempt the wondrous height in vain,

And leave unfinish'd the too lofty strain:

What boldly I begin, let others end;

My strength exhausted, fainting I descend,

And choose a less, but no ignoble, theme,

Dissolving elements, and worlds, in flame.

The fatal period, the great hour, is come,

And nature shrinks at her approaching doom;

Loud peals of thunder give the sign, and all

Heaven's terrors in array surround the ball;

Sharp lightnings with the meteor's blaze conspire,

And, darted downward, set the world on fire;

Black rising clouds the thicken'd ether choke,

And spiry flames dart through the rolling smoke,

With keen vibrations cut the sullen night,

And strike the darken'd sky with dreadful light;

From heaven's four regions, with immortal force,

Angels drive on the wind's impetuous course,

T' enrage the flame: It spreads, it soars on high,

Swells in the storm, and billows through the sky:

Here winding pyramids of fire ascend,

Cities and deserts in one ruin blend;

Here blazing volumes wafted, overwhelm

The spacious face of a far distant realm;

There, undermin'd, down rush eternal hills,

The neighb'ring vales the vast destruction fills.

Hear'st thou that dreadful crack? that sound which broke

Like peals of thunder, and the centre shook?

What wonders must that groan of nature tell?

Olympus there, and mightier Atlas, fell;

Which seem'd above the reach of fate to stand,

A tow'ring monument of God's right hand;

Now dust and smoke, whose brow, so lately, spread

O'er shelter'd countries its diffusive shade.

Show me that celebrated spot, where all

The various rulers of the sever'd ball

Have humbly sought wealth, honour, and redress,

That land which heaven seem'd diligent to bless,

Once call'd Britannia: can her glories end?

And can't surrounding seas her realms defend?

Alas! in flames behold surrounding seas!

Like oil, their waters but augment the blaze.

Some angel say, where ran proud Asia's bound?

Or where with fruits was fair Europa crown'd?

Where stretch'd waste Lybia? Where did India's shore

Sparkle in diamonds, and her golden ore?

Each lost in each, their mingling kingdoms glow,

And all dissolv'd, one fiery deluge flow:

Thus earth's contending monarchies are join'd,

And a full period of ambition find.

And now whate'er or swims, or walks, or flies,

Inhabitants of sea, or earth, or skies;

All on whom Adam's wisdom fix'd a name,

All plunge, and perish in the conquering flame.

This globe alone would but defraud the fire,

Starve its devouring rage: the flakes aspire,

And catch the clouds, and make the heavens their prey;

The sun, the moon, the stars, all melt away;

All, all is lost; no monument, no sign,

Where once so proudly blaz'd the gay machine.

So bubbles on the foaming stream expire,

So sparks that scatter from the kindling fire;

The devastations of one dreadful hour

The great Creator's six days' work devour.

A mighty, mighty ruin! yet one soul

Has more to boast, and far outweighs the whole

Exalted in superior excellence,

Casts down to nothing, such a vast expense.

Have you not seen th' eternal mountains nod,

An earth dissolving, a descending God?

What strange surprises through all nature ran?

For whom these revolutions, but for man?

For him, Omnipotence new measures takes,

For him, through all eternity, awakes;

Pours on him gifts sufficient to supply

Heaven's loss, and with fresh glories fill the sky.

Think deeply then, O man, how great thou art;

Pay thyself homage with a trembling heart;

What angels guard, no longer dare neglect,

Slighting thyself, affront not God's respect.

Enter the sacred temple of thy breast,

And gaze, and wander there, a ravish'd guest;

Gaze on those hidden treasures thou shalt find,

Wander through all the glories of thy mind.

Of perfect knowledge, see, the dawning light

Foretells a noon most exquisitely bright!

Here, springs of endless joy are breaking forth!

There, buds the promise of celestial worth!

Worth, which must ripen in a happier clime,

And brighter sun, beyond the bounds of time.

Thou, minor, canst not guess thy vast estate,

What stores, on foreign coasts, thy landing wait:

Lose not thy claim, let virtue's path be trod;

Thus glad all heaven, and please that bounteous God,

Who, to light thee to pleasures, hung on high

Yon radiant orb, proud regent of the sky:

That service done, its beams shall fade away,

And God shine forth in one eternal day.

THE FORCE OF RELIGION; OR, VANQUISHED LOVE.

Gratior et pulchro veniens in corpore virtus.

--VIRG.

Book I.

----Ad coelum ardentia lumina tollens,

Lumina; nam teneras arcebant vincula palmas.

VIRG.

From lofty themes, from thoughts that soar'd on high,

And open'd wondrous scenes above the sky,

My muse descend: indulge my fond desire;

With softer thoughts my melting soul inspire,

And smooth my numbers to a female's praise:

A partial world will listen to my lays,

While Anna reigns, and sets a female name

Unrival'd in the glorious lists of fame.

Hear, ye fair daughters of this happy land,

Whose radiant eyes the vanquish'd world command,

Virtue is beauty: but when charms of mind

With elegance of outward form are join'd;

When youth makes such bright objects still more bright,

And fortune sets them in the strongest light;

'Tis all of heaven that we below may view,

And all, but adoration, is your due.

Fam'd female virtue did this isle adorn,

Ere Ormond, or her glorious queen, was born:

When now Maria's powerful arms prevail'd,

And haughty Dudley's bold ambition fail'd,

The beauteous daughter of great Suffolk's race,

In blooming youth adorn'd with every grace;

Who gain'd a crown by treason not her own,

And innocently fill'd another's throne;

Hurl'd from the summit of imperial state,

With equal mind sustain'd the stroke of fate.

But how will Guilford, her far dearer part,

With manly reason fortify his heart?

At once she longs, and is afraid, to know:

Now swift she moves, and now advances slow,

To find her lord; and, finding, passes by,

Silent with fear, nor dares she meet his eye;

Lest that, unask'd, in speechless grief, disclose

The mournful secret of his inward woes.

Thus, after sickness, doubtful of her face,

The melancholy virgin shuns the glass.

At length, with troubled thought, but look serene,

And sorrow soften'd by her heavenly mien,

She clasps her lord, brave, beautiful, and young,

While tender accents melt upon her tongue;

Gentle, and sweet, as vernal zephyr blows,

Fanning the lily, or the blooming rose.

"Grieve not, my lord; a crown indeed is lost;

What far outshines a crown, we still may boast;

A mind compos'd; a mind that can disdain

A fruitless sorrow for a loss so vain.

Nothing is loss that virtue can improve

To wealth eternal; and return above;

Above, where no distinction shall be known

'Twixt him whom storms have shaken from a throne,

And him, who, basking in the smiles of fate,

Shone forth in all the splendour of the great:

Nor can I find the diff'rence here below;

I lately was a queen; I still am so,

While Guilford's wife: thee rather I obey,

Than o'er mankind extend imperial sway.

When we lie down in some obscure retreat,

Incens'd Maria may her rage forget;

And I to death my duty will improve,

And what you miss in empire, add in love--

Your godlike soul is open'd in your look,

And I have faintly your great meaning spoke,

For this alone I'm pleas'd I wore the crown,

To find with what content we lay it down.

Heroes may win, but 't is a heavenly race

Can quit a throne with a becoming grace."

Thus spoke the fairest of her sex, and cheer'd

Her drooping lord; whose boding bosom fear'd

A darker cloud of ills would burst, and shed

Severer vengeance on her guiltless head:

Too just, alas, the terrors which he felt!

For, lo! a guard!--Forgive him, if he melt--

How sharp her pangs, when sever'd from his side,

The most sincerely lov'd, and loving bride,

In space confin'd, the muse forbears to tell;

Deep was her anguish, but she bore it well.

His pain was equal, but his virtue less;

He thought in grief there could be no excess.

Pensive he sat, o'ercast with gloomy care,

And often fondly clasp'd his absent fair;

Now, silent, wander'd thro' his rooms of state,

And sicken'd at the pomp, and tax'd his fate;

Which thus adorn'd, in all her shining store,

A splendid wretch, magnificently poor.

Now on the bridal-bed his eyes were cast,

And anguish fed on his enjoyments past;

Each recollected pleasure made him smart,

And every transport stabb'd him to the heart.

That happy moon, which summon'd to delight,

That moon which shone on his dear nuptial night,

Which saw him fold her yet untasted charms

(Denied to princes) in his longing arms;

Now sees the transient blessing fleet away,

Empire and love! the vision of a day.

Thus, in the British clime, a summer-storm

Will oft the smiling face of heaven deform;

The winds with violence at once descend,

Sweep flowers and fruits, and make the forest bend;

A sudden winter, while the sun is near,

O'ercomes the season, and inverts the year.

But whither is the captive borne away,

The beauteous captive, from the cheerful day?

The scene is chang'd indeed; before her eyes

Ill boding looks and unknown horrors rise:

For pomp and splendour, for her guard and crown,

A gloomy dungeon, and a keeper's frown:

Black thoughts, each morn, invade the lover's breast,

Each night, a ruffian locks the queen to rest.

Ah mournful change, if judg'd by vulgar minds!

But Suffolk's daughter its advantage finds.

Religion's force divine is best display'd

In deep desertion of all human aid:

To succour in extremes, is her delight,

And cheer the heart, when terror strikes the sight.

We, disbelieving our own senses, gaze,

And wonder what a mortal's heart can raise

To triumph o'er misfortunes, smile in grief,

And comfort those who come to bring relief:

We gaze; and as we gaze, wealth, fame, decay,

And all the world's vain glories fade away.

Against her cares she rais'd a dauntless mind,

And with an ardent heart, but most resign'd,

Deep in the dreadful gloom, with pious heat,

Amid the silence of her dark retreat,

Address'd her God,--"Almighty power divine!

'Tis thine to raise, and to depress, is thine;

With honour to light up the name unknown,

Or to put out the lustre of a throne.

In my short span both fortunes I have prov'd,

And though with ill frail nature will be mov'd,

I'll bear it well: (O strengthen me to bear!)

And if my piety may claim thy care;

If I remember'd, in youth's giddy heat,

And tumult of a court, a future state;

O favour, when thy mercy I implore

For one who never guilty sceptre bore!

'Twas I receiv'd the crown; my lord is free;

If it must fall, let vengeance fall on me.

Let him survive, his country's name to raise,

And in a guilty land to speak thy praise!

O may th' indulgence of a father's love,

Pour'd forth on me, be doubled from above!

If these are safe, I'll think my prayers succeed,

And bless thy tender mercies, whilst I bleed."

'Twas now the mournful eve before that day

In which the queen to her full wrath gave way;

Thro' rigid justice, rush'd into offence,

And drank in zeal the blood of innocence:

The sun went down in clouds, and seem'd to mourn

The sad necessity of his return;

The hollow wind, and melancholy rain,

Or did, or was imagin'd to, complain:

The tapers cast an inauspicious light;

Stars there were none, and doubly dark the night.

Sweet innocence in chains can take her rest;

Soft slumber gently creeping through her breast,

She sinks; and in her sleep is reinthron'd,

Mock'd by a gaudy dream, and vainly crown'd.

She views her fleets and armies, seas and land,

And stretches wide her shadow of command:

With royal purple is her vision hung;

By phantom hosts are shouts of conquest rung;

Low at her feet the suppliant rival lies;

Our prisoner mourns her fate, and bids her rise.

Now level beams upon the waters play'd,

Glanc'd on the hills, and westward cast the shade;

The busy trades in city had began

To sound, and speak the painful life of man.

In tyrants' breasts the thoughts of vengeance rouse,

And the fond bridegroom turns him to his spouse.

At this first birth of light, while morning breaks,

Our spouseless bride, our widow'd wife, awakes;

Awakes, and smiles; nor night's imposture blames;

Her real pomps were little more than dreams;

A short-liv'd blaze, a lightning quickly o'er,

That died in birth, that shone, and were no more:

She turns her side, and soon resumes a state

Of mind, well suited to her alter'd fate,

Serene, though serious; when dread tidings come

(Ah wretched Guilford!) of her instant doom.

Sun, hide thy beams; in clouds as black as night

Thy face involve; be guiltless of the sight;

Or haste more swiftly to the western main;

Nor let her blood the conscious daylight stain!

Oh! how severe! to fall so new a bride,

Yet blushing from the priest, in youthful pride;

When time had just matur'd each perfect grace,

And open'd all the wonders of her face!

To leave her Guilford dead to all relief,

Fond of his woe, and obstinate in grief.

Unhappy fair! whatever fancy drew,

(Vain promis'd blessings,) vanish from her view;

No train of cheerful days, endearing nights,

No sweet domestic joys, and chaste delights;

Pleasures that blossom e'en from doubts and fears;

And bliss and rapture rising out of cares:

No little Guilford, with paternal grace,

Lull'd on her knee, or smiling in her face;

Who, when her dearest father shall return,

From pouring tears on her untimely urn,

Might comfort to his silver hairs impart,

And fill her place in his indulgent heart:

As where fruits fall, quick rising blossoms smile,

And the bless'd Indian of his care beguile,

In vain these various reasons jointly press,

To blacken death, and heighten her distress;

She, thro' th' encircling terrors darts her sight

To the bless'd regions of eternal light,

And fills her soul with peace: to weeping friends

Her father, and her lord, she recommends;

Unmov'd herself: her foes her air survey,

And rage to see their malice thrown away.

She soars; now nought on earth detains her care----

But Guilford; who still struggles for his share.

Still will his form importunately rise,

Clog and retard her transport to the skies;

As trembling flames now take a feeble flight,

Now catch the brand with a returning light,

Thus her soul onward from the seats above

Falls fondly back, and kindles into love:

At length she conquers in the doubtful field;

That heaven she seeks will be her Guilford's shield.

Now death is welcome; his approach is slow;

'Tis tedious longer to expect the blow.

Oh! mortals, short of sight, who think the past

O'erblown misfortune still shall prove the last:

Alas! misfortunes travel in a train,

And oft in life form one perpetual chain;

Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend,

Till life and sorrow meet one common end.

She thinks that she has nought but death to fear,

And death is conquer'd. Worse than death is near.

Her rigid trials are not yet complete;

The news arrives of her great father's fate.

She sees his hoary head, all white with age,

A victim to th' offended monarch's rage.

How great the mercy, had she breath'd her last,

Ere the dire sentence on her father past!

A fonder parent nature never knew;

And as his age increas'd, his fondness grew.

A parent's love ne'er better was bestow'd;

The pious daughter in her heart o'erflow'd.

And can she from all weakness still refrain?

And still the firmness of her soul maintain?

Impossible! a sigh will force its way;

One patient tear her mortal birth betray;

She sighs and weeps! but so she weeps and sighs,

As silent dews descend, and vapours rise.

Celestial patience! how dost thou defeat

The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate!

While passion takes his part, betrays our peace;

To death and torture swells each slight disgrace;

By not opposing, thou dost ills destroy,

And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.

Now she revolves within her anxious mind,

What woe still lingers in reserve behind.

Griefs rise on griefs, and she can see no bound,

While nature lasts, and can receive a wound.

The sword is drawn; the queen to rage inclin'd,

By mercy, nor by piety, confin'd.

What mercy can the zealot's heart assuage,

Whose piety itself converts to rage?

She thought, and sigh'd. And now the blood began

To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan.

New sorrow dimm'd the lustre of her eye,

And on her cheek the fading roses die.

Alas! should Guilford too--when now she's brought

To that dire view, that precipice of thought,

While there she trembling stands, nor dares look down,

Nor can recede, till heaven's decrees are known;

Cure of all ills, till now, her lord appears--

But not to cheer her heart, and dry her tears!

Not now, as usual, like the rising day,

To chase the shadows, and the damps away:

But, like a gloomy storm, at once to sweep

And plunge her to the bottom of the deep.

Black were his robes, dejected was his air,

His voice was frozen by his cold despair;

Slow, like a ghost, he mov'd with solemn pace;

A dying paleness sat upon his face.

Back she recoil'd, she smote her lovely breast,

Her eyes the anguish of her heart confess'd;

Struck to the soul, she stagger'd with the wound,

And sunk, a breathless image, to the ground.

Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,

At first but shudders in the feeble blast;

But when the winds and weighty rains descend,

The fair and upright stem is forc'd to bend;

Till broke at length, its snowy leaves are shed,

And strew with dying sweets their native bed.

Book II.

Hic pietatis honos? sic nos in sceptra reponis!

--VIRG.

Her Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,

And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath,

To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,

A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire:

She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,

And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:

Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,

But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:

Ah! Guilford, she began, and would have spoke;

But sobs rush'd in, and ev'ry accent broke:

Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,

Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.

So the youth lost his image in the well,

When tears upon the yielding surface fell.

The scatter'd features slid into decay,

And spreading circles drove his face away.

To touch the soft affections, and control

The manly temper of the bravest soul,

What with afflicted beauty can compare,

And drops of love distilling from the fair?

It melts us down; our pains delight bestow;

And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.

This Guilford prov'd; and, with excess of pain,

And pleasure too, did to his bosom strain

The weeping fair: sunk deep in soft desire,

Indulg'd his love, and nurs'd the raging fire:

Then tore himself away; and, standing wide,

As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,

With ill-dissembled grief; "My life, forbear!

You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear:

Did you not chide my grief? repress your own;

Nor want compassion for yourself alone:

Have you beheld, how, from the distant main,

The thronging waves roll on, a num'rous train,

And foam, and bellow, till they reach the shore;

There burst their noisy pride, and are no more?

Thus the successive flows of human race,

Chas'd by the coming, the preceding, chase;

They sound, and swell, their haughty heads they rear;

Then fall, and flatten, break, and disappear.

Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;

And where's the mighty lucre of a day?

Why should you mourn my fate? 'tis most unkind;

Your own you bore with an unshaken mind:

And which, can you imagine, was the dart

That drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart?

I cannot live without you; and my doom

I meet with joy, to share one common tomb.--

And are again your tears profusely spilt!

Oh! then, my kindness blackens to my guilt;

It foils itself, if it recall your pain;--

Life of my life, I beg you to refrain!

The load which fate imposes, you increase;

And help Maria to destroy my peace."

But, oh! against himself his labour turn'd;

The more he comforted, the more she mourn'd:

Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kind

But soothe our weakness, and dissolve the mind:

Her sorrow flow'd in streams; nor hers alone,

While that he blam'd, he yielded to his own.

Where are the smiles she wore, when she, so late,

Hail'd him great partner of the regal state;

When orient gems around her temples blaz'd,

And bending nations on the glory gaz'd?

'Tis now the queen's command, they both retreat,

To weep with dignity, and mourn in state:

She forms the decent misery with joy,

And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy.

A spacious hall is hung with black; all light

Shut out, and noon-day darken'd into night.

From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,

Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:

It sheds a quiv'ring melancholy gloom,

Which only shows the darkness of the room.

A shining axe is on the table laid;

A dreadful sight! and glitters through the shade.

In this sad scene the lovers are confin'd;

A scene of terrors, to a guilty mind!

A scene, that would have damp'd with rising cares,

And quite extinguish'd every love but theirs.

What can they do? They fix their mournful eyes----

Then Guilford, thus abruptly; "I despise

An empire lost; I fling away the crown;

Numbers have laid that bright delusion down;

But where's the Charles, or Dioclesian where,

Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair?

Oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to stand

In full possession of thy snowy hand!

And, thro' th' unclouded crystal of thine eye,

The heavenly treasures of thy mind to spy!

Till rapture reason happily destroys,

And my soul wanders through immortal joys!

Give me the world, and ask me, where's my bliss?

I clasp thee to my breast, and answer, this.

And shall the grave"--He groans, and can no more;

But all her charms in silence traces o'er;

Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought;

And, wond'ring, sees, in sad presaging thought,

From that fair neck, that world of beauty fall,

And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball!

Oh! let those tremble, who are greatly bless'd!

For who, but Guilford, could be thus distress'd?

Come hither, all you happy, all you great,

From flowery meadows, and from rooms of state;

Nor think I call, your pleasures to destroy,

But to refine, and to exalt your joy:

Weep not; but, smiling, fix your ardent care

On nobler titles than the brave or fair.

Was ever such a mournful, moving sight?

See, if you can, by that dull, trembling light:

Now they embrace; and, mix'd with bitter woe,

Like Isis and her Thames, one stream they flow:

Now they start wide; fix'd in benumbing care,

They stiffen into statues of despair:

Now, tenderly severe, and fiercely kind,

They rush at once; they fling their cares behind,

And clasp, as if to death; new vows repeat;

And, quite wrapp'd up in love, forget their fate.

A short delusion! for the raging pain

Returns; and their poor hearts must bleed again.

Meantime, the queen new cruelty decreed;

But, ill content that they should only bleed,

A priest is sent; who, with insidious art,

Instills his poison into Suffolk's heart;

And Guilford drank it: banging on the breast,

He from his childhood was with Rome possest.

When now the ministers of death draw nigh,

And in her dearest lord she first must die,

The subtle priest, who long had watch'd to find

The most unguarded passes of her mind,

Bespoke her thus: "Grieve not; 'tis in your power

Your lord to rescue from this fatal hour."

Her bosom pants; she draws her breath with pain;

A sudden horror thrills through every vein;

Life seems suspended, on his words intent;

And her soul trembles for the great event.

The priest proceeds: "Embrace the faith of Rome,

And ward your own, your lord's, and father's doom."

Ye blessed spirits! now your charge sustain;

The past was ease; now first she suffers pain.

Must she pronounce her father's death? must she

Bid Guilford bleed?--It must not, cannot, be.

It cannot be! But 'tis the Christian's praise,

Above impossibilities to raise

The weakness of our nature; and deride

Of vain philosophy the boasted pride.

What though our feeble sinews scarce impart

A moment's swiftness to the feather'd dart;

Though tainted air our vig'rous youth can break,

And a chill blast the hardy warrior shake,

Yet are we strong: hear the loud tempest roar

From east to west, and call us weak no more;

The lightning's unresisted force proclaims

Our might; and thunders raise our humble names;

'Tis our Jehovah fills the heavens; as long

As he shall reign Almighty, we are strong:

We, by devotion, borrow from his throne;

And almost make Omnipotence our own:

We force the gates of heaven, by fervent prayer;

And call forth triumph out of man's despair.

Our lovely mourner, kneeling, lifts her eyes

And bleeding heart, in silence, to the skies,

Devoutly sad--then, bright'ning, like the day,

When sudden winds sweep scatter'd clouds away,

Shining in majesty, till now unknown,

And breathing life and spirit scarce her own;

She, rising, speaks: "If these the terms----"

Here, Guilford, cruel Guilford, (barb'rous man!

Is this thy love?) as swift as lightning ran;

O'erwhelm'd her with tempestuous sorrow fraught,

And stifled, in its birth, the mighty thought;

Then bursting fresh into a flood of tears,

Fierce, resolute, delirious with his fears;

His fears for her alone: he beat his breast,

And thus the fervour of his soul exprest:

"Oh! let thy thought o'er our past converse rove,

And show one moment uninflam'd with love!

Oh! if thy kindness can no longer last,

In pity to thyself, forget the past!

Else wilt thou never, void of shame and fear,

Pronounce his doom, whom thou hast held so dear:

Thou who hast took me to thy arms, and swore

Empires were vile, and fate could give no more:

That to continue, was its utmost power,

And make the future like the present hour.

Now call a ruffian; bid his cruel sword

Lay wide the bosom of thy worthless lord;

Transfix his heart (since you its love disclaim),

And stain his honour with a traitor's name.

This might perhaps be borne without remorse;

But sure a father's pangs will have their force!

Shall his good age, so near its journey's end,

Through cruel torment to the grave descend?

His shallow blood all issue at a wound,

Wash a slave's feet, and smoke upon the ground?

But he to you has ever been severe;

Then take your vengeance"--Suffolk now drew near;

Bending beneath the burden of his care;

His robes neglected, and his head was bare;

Decrepid winter, in the yearly ring,

Thus slowly creeps, to meet the blooming spring:

Downward he cast a melancholy look;

Thrice turn'd, to hide his grief; then faintly spoke:

"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,

That axe can only rob me of a day;

For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain;

And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?

When you shall know a mother's tender name,

My heart's distress no longer will you blame."

At this, afar his bursting groans were heard;

The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:

He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he prest,

And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;

Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,

And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.

Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?

Has the queen brib'd you to distress her foe?

O weak deserters to misfortune's part,

By false affection thus to pierce her heart!

When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,

And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!

And can her virtue, springing from the ground,

Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,

When cleaving love, and human interest, bind

The broken force of her aspiring mind;

As round the gen'rous eagle, which in vain

Exerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,

Her struggling wings entangles, curling plies

His pois'nous tail, and stings her as she flies!

While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she feels,

And with its force her resolution reels;

Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,

To view discover, welt'ring on the ground,

Three headless trunks, of those whose arms maintain'd,

And in her wars immortal glory gain'd:

The lifted axe assur'd her ready doom,

And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.

Shall I proceed; or here break off my tale;

Nor truths, to stagger human faith, reveal?

She met this utmost malice of her fate

With Christian dignity, and pious state:

The beating storm's propitious rage she blest,

And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast:

Her lord and father, for a moment's space,

She strictly folded in her soft embrace!

Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,

And sudden gladness smil'd along the sky:

"Your over fondness has not mov'd my hate;

I am well pleas'd you make my death so great;

I joy I cannot save you; and have giv'n

Two lives, much dearer than my own, to heaven,

If so the queen decrees:(4)--But I have cause

To hope my blood will satisfy the laws;

And there is mercy still, for you, in store:

With me the bitterness of death is o'er.

He shot his sting in that farewell embrace;

And all, that is to come, is joy and peace.

Then let mistaken sorrow be supprest,

Nor seem to envy my approaching rest."

Then, turning to the ministers of fate,

She, smiling, says, "My victory complete:

And tell your queen, I thank her for the blow,

And grieve my gratitude I cannot show:

A poor return I leave in England's crown,

For everlasting pleasure, and renown:

Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;

Her guilt,--the only vengeance in her power."

Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate;

And fierce Maria pitied her too late.

LOVE OF FAME, THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.

In Seven Characteristical Satires.

----Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru.

Non minus ignotos generosis.

--HOR.

Preface.

These satires have been favourably received at home and abroad. I am not

conscious of the least malevolence to any particular person through all

the characters; though some persons may be so selfish, as to engross a

general application to themselves. A writer in polite letters should be

content with reputation; the private amusement he finds in his

compositions; the good influence they have on his severer studies; that

admission they give him to his superiors; and the possible good effect

they may have on the public; or else he should join to his politeness some

more lucrative qualification.

But it is possible, that satire may not do much good: men may rise in

their affections to their follies, as they do to their friends, when they

are abused by others: it is much to be feared, that misconduct will never

be chased out of the world by satire; all therefore that is to be said for

it is, that misconduct will certainly be never chased out of the world by

satire, if no satires are written: nor is that term unapplicable to graver

compositions. Ethics, heathen and Christian, and the Scriptures

themselves, are, in a great measure, a satire on the weakness and iniquity

of men; and some part of that satire is in verse too: nay, in the first

ages, philosophy and poetry were the same thing; wisdom wore no other

dress: so that, I hope, these satires will be the more easily pardoned

that misfortune by the severe. Nay, historians themselves may be

considered as satirists, and satirists most severe; since such are most

human actions, that to relate, is to expose them.

No man can converse much in the world, but, at what he meets with, he must

either be insensible, or grieve, or be angry, or smile. Some passion (if

we are not impassive) must be moved; for the general conduct of mankind is

by no means a thing indifferent to a reasonable and virtuous man. Now to

smile at it, and turn it into ridicule, I think most eligible; as it hurts

ourselves least, and gives vice and folly the greatest offence: and that

for this reason; because what men aim at by them, is, generally, public

opinion and esteem; which truth is the subject of the following satire;

and joins them together, as several brandies from the same root: a unity

of design, which has not, I think, in a set of satires, been attempted

before.

Laughing at the misconduct of the world, will, in a great measure, ease us

of any more disagreeable passion about it. One passion is more effectually

driven out by another, than by reason; whatever some may teach: for to

reason we owe our passions: had we not reason, we should not be offended

at what we find amiss: and the cause seems not to be the natural cure of

any effect.

Moreover, laughing satire bids the fairest for success: the world is too

proud to be fond of a serious tutor; and when an author is in a passion,

the laugh, generally, as in conversation, turns against him. This kind of

satire only has any delicacy in it. Of this delicacy Horace is the best

master: he appears in good humour while he censures; and therefore his

censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment, not

from passion. Juvenal is ever in a passion; he has little valuable but his

eloquence and morality: the last of which I have had in my eye: but rather

for emulation, than imitation, through my whole work.

But though I comparatively condemn Juvenal, in part of the sixth satire

(where the occasion most required it), I endeavoured to touch on his

manner; but was forced to quit it soon, as disagreeable to the writer, and

reader too. Boileau has joined both the Roman satirists with great

success; but has too much of Juvenal in his very serious satire on woman,

which should have been the gayest of all. An excellent critic of our own

commends Boileau's closeness, or, as he calls it, pressness, particularly;

whereas, it appears to me, that repetition is his fault, if any fault

should be imputed to him.

There are some prose satirists of the greatest delicacy and wit; the last

of which can never, or should never, succeed without the former. An author

without it, betrays too great a contempt for mankind, and opinion of

himself, which are bad advocates for reputation and success. What a

difference is there between the merit, if not the wit, of Cervantes and

Rabelais? The last has a particular art of throwing a great deal of genius

and learning into frolic and jest; but the genius and the scholar is all

you can admire; you want the gentleman to converse with in him: he is like

a criminal who receives his life for some services; you commend, but you

pardon too. Indecency offends our pride, as men; and our unaffected taste,

as judges of composition: nature has wisely formed us with an aversion to

it; and he that succeeds in spite of it, is,(5) aliena venia, quam sua

providentia tutior.

Such wits, like false oracles of old (which were wits and cheats), should

set up for reputation among the weak, in some Boeotia, which was the land

of oracles; for the wise will hold them in contempt. Some wits, too, like

oracles, deal in ambiguities; but not with equal success: for though

ambiguities are the first excellence of an impostor, they are the last of

a wit.

Some satirical wits and humourists, like their father Lucian, laugh at

every thing indiscriminately; which betrays such a poverty of wit, as

cannot afford to part with any thing; and such a want of virtue, as to

postpone it to a jest. Such writers encourage vice and folly, which they

pretend to combat, by setting them on an equal foot with better things:

and while they labour to bring every thing into contempt, how can they

expect their own parts should escape? Some French writers, particularly,

are guilty of this in matters of the last consequence; and some of our

own. They that are for lessening the true dignity of mankind, are not sure

of being successful, but with regard to one individual in it. It is this

conduct that justly makes a wit a term of reproach.

Which puts me in mind of Plato's fable of the birth of love; one of the

prettiest fables of all antiquity; which will hold likewise with regard to

modern poetry. Love, says he, is the son of the goddess poverty, and the

god of riches: he has from his father his daring genius; his elevation of

thought; his building castles in the air; his prodigality; his neglect of

things serious and useful; his vain opinion of his own merit; and his

affectation of preference and distinction: from his mother he inherits his

indigence, which makes him a constant beggar of favours; that importunity

with which he begs; his flattery; his servility; his fear of being

despised, which is inseparable from him. This addition may be made; viz.

that poetry, like love, is a little subject to blindness, which makes her

mistake her way to preferments and honours; that she has her satirical

quiver; and, lastly, that she retains a dutiful admiration of her father's

family; but divides her favours, and generally lives with her mother's

relations.

However, this is not necessity, but choice: were wisdom her governess, she

might have much more of the father than the mother; especially in such an

age as this, which shows a due passion for her charms.

Satire I.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DORSET.

----Tanto major famae sitis est, quam

Virtutis.

JUV. SAT. X.

My verse is satire; Dorset, lend your ear,

And patronize a muse you cannot fear.

To poets sacred is a Dorset's name:

Their wonted passport through the gates of fame:

It bribes the partial reader into praise,

And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:

The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,

And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me.

But you decline the mistress we pursue;

Others are fond of fame, but fame of you.

Instructive satire, true to virtue's cause!

Thou shining supplement of public laws!

When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age

Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;

When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,

Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;

When the law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,

And south sea treasures are not brought to light;

When churchmen scripture for the classics quit,

Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;

When men grow great from their revenue spent,

And fly from bailiffs into parliament;

When dying sinners, to blot out their score,

Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;

To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,

Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?

Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,

And dedications wash an AEthiop white,

Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,

On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?

Shall fun'ral eloquence her colours spread,

And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?

Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,

And satirize with nothing--but their praise?

Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,

Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?

Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,

And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;

Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,

Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,

He will not write; and (more provoking still!)

Ye gods! he will not write, and Maevius will.

Doubly distrest, what author shall we find

Discreetly daring, and severely kind,

The courtly(6) Roman's shining path to tread,

And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?

Will no superior genius snatch the quill,

And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?

Tho' vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise,

What will not men attempt for sacred praise?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,

Reigns, more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart:

The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;

The modest shun it, but to make it sure.

O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;

Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:

'Tis tory, whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,

Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.

Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence

There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.

It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,

And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;

Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,

Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to see

So many like himself in high degree:

The whore is proud her beauties are the dread

Of peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed;

And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born

To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,

And come back much more guilty than they went:

One way they look, another way they steer,

Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;

And when their sins they set sincerely down,

They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wishful eyes on glory look,

When they have got their picture tow'rds a book;

Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,

Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.

If at his title T---- had dropt his quill,

T---- might have pass'd for a great genius still.

But T----, alas! (excuse him, if you can)

Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.

Imperious some a classic fame demand,

For heaping up, with a laborious hand,

A waggon-load of meanings for one word,

While A's deposed, and B with pomp restor'd.

Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,

And think they grow immortal as they quote.

To patch-work learn'd quotations are allied;

Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer!

Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain,

Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see;

And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;

Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,

By spitting on your face, to make it clean.

Nor is't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,

Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.

What can she not perform? The love of fame

Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame:

Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep:

And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.

Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,

Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.

This passion with a pimple have I seen

Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.

By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)

Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.

It makes Globose a speaker in the house;

He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.

It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,

And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour in,

Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin!

My glowing subject seems but just begun,

And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,

To take a catalogue of British fools.

Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,

A knave or fool should perish in each line;

Tho' for the first all Westminster should plead,

And for the last, all Gresham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace?

To quality belongs the highest place.

My lord comes forward; forward let him come!

Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:

He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,

By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet.

With what a decent pride he throws his eyes

Above the man by three descents less wise!

If virtues at his noble hands you crave,

You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.

Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase;

Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?

Nothing--but merit in a low estate.

To virtue's humblest son let none prefer

Vice, though descended from the conqueror.

Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,

Slight, or important, only by their place?

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;

The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,

Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.

Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,

Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the muse must own

We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone;

Mean sons of earth, who, on a south-sea tide

Of full success, swarm into wealth and pride;

Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,

And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,

They light a torch to show their shame the more.

Those governments which curb not evils, cause!

And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;

He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;

But builds himself a name; and, to be great,

Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!

In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll outdo;

And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.

The pile is finish'd! ev'ry toil is past;

And full perfection is arriv'd at last;

When, lo! my lord to some small corner runs,

And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,

Provides a home from which to run away.

In Britain, what is many a lordly seat,

But a discharge in full for an estate?

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;

Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame:

Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known,

Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.

The bailiffs come (rude men profanely bold!)

And bid him turn his Venus into gold.

"No, sirs," he cries; "I'll sooner rot in jail;

Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"

Such heads might make their very busto's laugh:

His daughter starves; but(7) Cleopatra's safe.

Men, overloaded with a large estate,

May spill their treasure in a nice conceit:

The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis sad

To say you're curious, when we swear you're mad.

By your revenue measure your expense;

And to your funds and acres join your sense.

No man is bless'd by accident or guess;

True wisdom is the price of happiness:

Yet few without long discipline are sage;

And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

But how, my muse, canst thou resist so long

The bright temptation of the courtly throng,

Thy most inviting theme? The court affords

Much food for satire;--it abounds in lords.

"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"

One is just out, and one as lately in.

"How comes it then to pass we see preside

On both their brows an equal share of pride?"

Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,

Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.

As in its home it triumphs in high place,

And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.

Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,

Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:

Some lords it bids resign; and turn their wands,

Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.

These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,

With pride inverted, of their honours lost.

But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,

To boast of merely being out, or in.

What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive

To seem the most transported things alive!

As if by joy, desert was understood;

And all the fortunate were wise and good.

Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,

And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.

Completely drest by(8) Monteuil, and grimace,

They take their birth-day suit, and public face:

Their smiles are only part of what they wear,

Put off at night, with Lady B----'s hair.

What bodily fatigue is half so bad?

With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What numbers, here, would into fame advance,

Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;

The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!

Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!

That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!

Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.

Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,

Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.

Courts can give nothing, to the wise and good,

But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.

High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:

None think the great unhappy, but the great:

Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,

Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.

I envy none their pageantry and show;

I envy none the gilding of their woe.

Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,

And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;

No splendid poverty, no smiling care,

No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:

There pleasing objects useful thought suggest;

The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;

On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;

In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

But some, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,

In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still;

Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom

In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The squire is proud to see his coursers strain,

Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.

Say, dear Hippolitus, (whose drink is ale,

Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,

Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,

And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back,)

When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,

And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,

Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;

Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;

Nor envies, when a gipsy you commit,

And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;

When you the dullest of dull things have said,

And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task renew:

Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.

Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;

Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;

Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;

Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;

Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;

And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.

Is there a man of an eternal vein,

Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,

At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,

And sweetly whistles, as the waters pass?

Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,

That runs for ages without winding up?

Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame?

Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:

Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;

For who can write so fast as men run mad?

Satire II

My muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;

Though toils and danger the bold task attend.

Heroes and gods make other poems fine;

Plain satire calls for sense in every line:

Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!

All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.

When such the foe, a war eternal wage;

'Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:

And if these strains some nobler muse excite,

I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,

Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,

Almighty vanity! to thee they owe

Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.

Thou, like the sun, all colours dost contain,

Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.

For every soul finds reasons to be proud,

Tho' hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.

Warm in pursuit of foxes, and renown,

(9)Hippolitus demands the sylvan crown;

But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,

Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!

Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?

Why shines the sun? To make(10) Paul Diack rise.

From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,

And wonder'd how the gods could be so good;

What shape! what hue! was ever nymph so fair!

He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there.

O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,

Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.

In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,

And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;

The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,

O C----! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all;

Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.

A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame;

A quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name;

To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,

Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent;

But came, and miss'd it, one ill-fated hour:

He rag'd! he roar'd! "What demon cropt my flower?"

Serene, quoth Adam, "Lo! 'twas crusht by me;

Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee."

But all men want amusement; and what crime

In such a paradise to fool their time?

None: but why proud of this? to fame they soar;

We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.

We smile at florists, we despise their joy,

And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy:

But are those wiser whom we most admire,

Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?

What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power?

Another Florio doting on a flower;

A short liv'd flower; and which has often sprung

From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?

The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.

The gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,

And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

How fit for thee! bound up in crimson too,

Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!

Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard

That science should be purchas'd by the yard;

And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home

The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end design'd,

Study's the specious trifling of the mind;

Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.

If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,

But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,

But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;

His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,

A choice collection! what is to be done?

He sells his last; for he the whole will buy;

Sells ev'n his house; nay, wants whereon to lie:

So high the gen'rous ardour of the man

For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,

Lorenzo sign'd the bargain--with his mark.

Unlearned men of books assume the care,

As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:

Editions various, at high prices bought,

Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;

And to his cost another must succeed

To pay a sage, who says that he can read;

Who titles knows, and indexes has seen;

But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between;

Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,

And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good

The promise of a long illustrious blood,

In arts and manners eminently grac'd,

The strictest honour! and the finest taste!

Accept this verse; if satire can agree

With so consummate a humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend,

How would it grace the talents of my friend,

Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,

Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!

But time his fervent petulance may cool;

For though he is a wit, he is no fool.

In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense;

Nor make a frailty of an excellence.

He spares nor friend, nor foe; but calls to mind,

Like doomsday, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles? tickling is unsafe,

If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart,

Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;

Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword;

And never on the weak; or you'll appear

As there no hero, no great genius here.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,

So wit is by politeness sharpest set:

Their want of edge from their offence is seen;

Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

The fame men give is for the joy they find;

Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit,

To pay my compliment, what place so fit?

His most facetious(11)letters came to hand,

Which my first satire sweetly reprimand:

If that a just offence to Marcus gave,

Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave?

For all but such with caution I forbore;

That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before:

I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;

No mask so good, but Marcus must shine through:

False names are vain, thy lines their author tell;

Thy best concealment had been writing well:

But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown,

Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.

Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,

The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull

Their peevish reason; vain of being dull;

When some home joke has stung their solemn souls,

In vengeance they determine to be fools;

Through spleen, that little nature gave, make less,

Quite zealous in the way of heaviness;

To lumps inanimate a fondness take;

And disinherit sons that are awake.

These, when their utmost venom they would spit,

Most barbarously tell you--"He's a wit."

Poor negroes, thus, to show their burning spite

To cacodemons, say, they're dev'lish white.

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast,

Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.

How just his grief! one carries in his head

A less proportion of the father's lead;

And is in danger, without special grace,

To rise above a justice of the peace.

The dunghill breed of men a diamond scorn,

And feel a passion for a grain of corn;

Some stupid, plodding, monkey-loving wight,

Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,

Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,

Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.

The booby father craves a booby son;

And by heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea;

One learns to lisp; another not to see:

Miss D----, tottering, catches at your hand:

Was ever thing so pretty born to stand?

Whilst these, what nature gave, disown, through pride,

Others affect what nature has denied;

What nature has denied, fools will pursue,

As apes are ever walking upon two.

Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport!

Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support.

He hems; and cries, with an important air,

"If yonder clouds withdraw it will be fair:"

Then quotes the Stagyrite, to prove it true;

And adds, "The learn'd delight in something new."

Is't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,

But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?

As far a formalist from wisdom sits,

In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,

Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)

For ever will hang out a solemn face,

To put off nonsense with a better grace:

As pedlers with some hero's head make bold,

Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold.

What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclin'd?

The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.

A man of sense can artifice disdain;

As men of wealth may venture to go plain;

And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,

Solemnity's a cover for a sot.

I find the fool, when I behold the screen;

For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.

Hence, Chesterfield, that openness of heart,

And just disdain for that poor mimic art;

Hence (manly praise!) that manner nobly free,

Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.

With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd

Of court and town the noontide masquerade;

Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace,

And hide secure behind a naked face?

Where nature's end of language is declin'd,

And men talk only to conceal the mind;

Where gen'rous hearts the greatest hazard run,

And he who trusts a brother, is undone?

These all their care expend on outward show

For wealth and fame; for fame alone, the beau.

Of late at White's was young Florello seen!

How blank his look! how discompos'd his mien!

So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!

Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.

Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace;

His health was mended with a silver lace.

A curious artist, long inur'd to toils

Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils,

Whether by chance, or by some god inspir'd,

So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fir'd.

The well swoln ties an equal homage claim,

And either shoulder has its share of fame;

His sumptuous watch-case, tho' conceal'd it lies,

Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.

He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)

Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.

Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye

On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,

With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,

And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.

So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,

A calf of genius, debonnair and gay,

Dance on the bank, as if inspir'd by fame,

Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surpris'd

In linen clean, or peruke undisguis'd.

No sublunary chance his vestments fear;

Valu'd, like leopards, as their spots appear.

A fam'd surtout he wears, which once was blue,

And his foot swims in a capacious shoe;

One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?)

Levell'd her barb'rous needle at his fame:

But open force was vain; by night she went,

And while he slept, surpris'd the darling rent:

Where yawn'd the frieze is now become a doubt;

And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out.(12)

He scorns Florello, and Florello him;

This hates the filthy creature; that, the prim:

Thus, in each other, both these fools despise

Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes;

Their methods various, but alike their aim;

The sloven and the fopling are the same.

Ye whigs and tories! thus it fares with you,

When party rage too warmly you pursue;

Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride,

And folly joins whom sentiments divide.

You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass,

Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass;

While both are one: and henceforth be it known,

Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone.

"But who art thou?" methinks Florello cries;

"Of all thy species art thou only wise?"

Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch,

As crossing straws retard a passing witch,

Florello, thou my monitor shalt be;

I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee.

O thou myself! abroad our counsels roam,

And, like ill husbands, take no care at home:

Thou too art wounded with the common dart,

And love of fame lies throbbing at thy heart;

And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose?

Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose.

Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme,

Thou unambitious fool, at this late time?

While I a moment name, a moment's past;

I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last:

What then is to be done? Be wise with speed;

A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what so foolish as the chance of fame?

How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!

For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,

But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,

That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more,

Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

Satire III.

To the Right Honorable Mr. Dodington.

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought

To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;

And now a poet's gratitude you see;

Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:

For whose the present glory, or the gain?

You give protection, I a worthless strain.

You love and feel the poet's sacred flame;

And know the basis of a solid fame;

Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,

You read with all the malice of a friend;

Nor favour my attempts that way alone,

But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,

When wanted Britain bright examples more?

Her learning, and her genius too, decays,

And dark and cold are her declining days;

As if men now were of another cast,

They meanly live on alms of ages past.

Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,

Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;

Or, if they fail, they justly still take place

Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;

Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,

And damn it with improvements of their own.

We bring some new materials, and what's old

New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;

Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;

And from sour critics vindicate the muse.

"Your work is long," the critics cry. "Tis true,

And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:

Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;

For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;

As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,

Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,

That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,

Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage,

And with the fell destroyer feed my page.

For what ambitious fools are more to blame,

Than those who thunder in the critic's name?

Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,

To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,

Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,

As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,

"Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!"

Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnassus teach,

Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates; right

The poem is at noon, and wrong at night:

Another judges by a surer gage,

An author's principles, or parentage;

Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,

The poem doubtless must be written well.

Another judges by the writer's look;

Another judges, for he bought the book;

Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;

Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,

To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.

The very best ambitiously advise,

Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,

Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;

Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry

Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown

Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Not all on books their criticism waste:

The genius of a dish some justly taste,

And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought

The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.

Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,

And bids December yield the fruits of May;

Their various cares in one great point combine

The business of their lives, that is--to dine.

Half of their precious day they give the feast;

And to a kind digestion spare the rest.

Apicius, here, the taster of the town,

Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care

The sacred annals of their bills of fare;

In those choice books their panegyrics read,

And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.

If man by feeding well commences great,

Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

To glory some advance a lying claim,

Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame:

Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;

They know a thousand lords, behind their backs.

Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,

When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;

And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen,

Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.

Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone

To covet shame still greater than his own.

Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,

Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.

Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,

Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;

Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,

And takes a memorandum to forget.

Thus vain, not knowing what adorns, or blots,

Men forge the patents, that create them sots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays,

So most grow infamous thro' love of praise.

But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,

When those, who bring that incense, we despise?

For such the vanity of great and small,

Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can ev'n satire blame them; for, 'tis true,

They have most ample cause for what they do.

O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant

A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.

Tho' Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow,

Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.

The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,

Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;

A Welsh descent, which well paid heralds damn;

Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.

When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,

In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

See Tityrus, with merriment possest,

Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest:

What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,

His teeth will be no whiter than before.

Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,

That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire;

Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire:

Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;

And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes, thro' pride, the sexes change their airs;

My lord has vapours, and my lady swears;

Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind,

My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength, and infamy of pride,

By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.

What numbers are there, which at once pursue

Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!

Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,

And therefore lays a stratagem for fame;

Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,

To win applause; and takes it by surprise.

"To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate."

You know your answer, he's exact in great.

"My style," says he, "is rude and full of faults."

But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!

That he wants algebra, he must confess;

But not a soul to give our arms success.

"Ah; that's a hit indeed," Vincenna cries;

"But who in heat of blood was ever wise?

I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back,

To make that hopeless, ill-advis'd attack;

All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny;

Sure never fool so well deserv'd to die."

Could this deceive in others, to be free,

It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;

Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,

So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.

Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;

And haunt the court, without a prospect there.

Are these expedients for renown? Confess

Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake;

Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make.

Ev'n men of merit, ere their point they gain,

In hardy service make a long campaign;

Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,

And oft repuls'd, as oft attack the great

With painful art, and application warm,

And take, at last, some little place by storm;

Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,

And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer Lane.

Already this thy fortune can afford;

Then starve without the favour of my lord.

'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;

But often, ev'n in doing right, they err:

From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;

They give, but think it toil to know to whom:

The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance:

'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.

If merit sues, and greatness is so loth

To break its downy trance, I pity both.

I grant at court, Philander, at his need,

(Thanks to his lovely wife) finds friends indeed.

Of every charm and virtue she's possest:

Philander! thou art exquisitely blest;

The public envy! Now then, 'tis allow'd,

The man is found, who may be justly proud:

But, see! how sickly is ambition's taste!

Ambition feeds on trash, and loaths a feast;

For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,

In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy;

And love a market where the rates run high:

Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;

Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:

Their taste would lessen, if the prices fell,

And Shakespeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;

Away the disenchanted fair would throng,

And own that English is their mother tongue.

To show how much our northern tastes refine,

Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine;

While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;

For generous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!

The legislature join'd with Drury Lane!

When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run,

And serve their country--if the dance is done.

"Are we not then allow'd to be polite?"

Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.

Worth, of politeness, is the needful ground;

Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.

Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;

'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet! For these latter days,

To turn a willing world from righteous ways!

Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve;

Well has he seen his servant should not starve.

Thou to his name hast splendid temples rais'd;

In various forms of worship seen him prais'd,

Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,

And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.

Inferior off'rings to thy god of vice

Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice;

Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids!

That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!

If maids the quite exhausted town denies,

A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.

Thou smil'st, well pleas'd with the converted land,

To see the fifty churches at a stand.

And that thy minister may never fail,

But what thy hand has planted still prevail,

Of minor prophets a succession sure

The propagation of thy zeal secure.

See commons, peers, and ministers of state,

In solemn council met, and deep debate!

What godlike enterprise is taking birth?

What wonder opens on th' expecting earth?

'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!

Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!

Tho' bold these truths, thou, muse, with truths like these,

Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please:

Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou,

Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.

How terrible it were to common sense,

To write a satire, which gave none offence!

And, since from life I take the draughts you see,

If men dislike them, do they censure me?

The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend,

And godlike an attempt the world to mend;

The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,

Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.

How hard for real worth to gain its price!

A man shall make his fortune in a trice,

If blest with pliant, tho' but slender, sense,

Feign'd modesty, and real impudence:

A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,

A curse within, a smile upon his face;

A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,

Are prizes in the lottery of life;

Genius and virtue they will soon defeat,

And lodge you in the bosom of the great.

To merit, is but to provide a pain

For men's refusing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,

Whom my presaging thoughts already view

By Walpole's conduct fir'd, and friendship grac'd,

Still higher in your prince's favour plac'd;

And lending, here, those awful councils aid,

Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd:

Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear;

What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

Satire IV.

To the Right Honourable Sir Spencer Compton.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious woodbine grows,

And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs;

So sweet the verse, th' ambitious verse, should be,

(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from thee;

Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,

Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;

Deep to discern, and widely to survey,

And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;

Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,

The crown's asserter, and the people's friend:

Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,

To listen to the labours of the muse;

Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,

And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public fame, so justly won,

The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone;

Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,

Devotes his service to the state and crown;

All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves,

Tho' Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves:

But patriots differ; some may shed their blood,

He drinks his coffee, for the public good;

Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees

What storms, or sunshine, Providence decrees;

Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate;

A quid nunc is an almanack of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use:

Why may not time his secret worth produce?

Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,

Since steeds of genius are expert at put;

Since half the senate not content can say,

Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray.

What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?

An incapacity for smaller things:

Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,

And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,

And boldly claims a province higher still:

To raise a name, th' ambitious boy has got,

At once, a Bible, and a shoulder-knot;

Deep in the secret, he looks thro' the whole,

And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;

To talk with rev'rence you must take good heed,

Nor shock his tender reason with the creed:

Howe'er well bred, in public he complies,

Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

Peerage is poison, good estates are bad

For this disease; poor rogues run seldom mad.

Have not attainders brought unhop'd relief,

And falling stocks quite cur'd an unbelief?

While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;

But thunder mars small beer, and weak discourse.

Such useful instruments the weather show,

Just as their mercury is high or low:

Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;

A fever argues better than a Clarke:

Let but the logic in his pulse decay,

The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray,

While C---- mourns, with an unfeign'd zeal,

Th' apostate youth, who reason'd once so well.

C----, who makes so merry with the creed;

He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;

But only thinks so; to give both their due,

Satan, and he, believe, and tremble too.

Of some for glory such the boundless rage,

That they're the blackest scandal of their age.

Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;

Nay, a free-mason, with some terror, names;

Omits no duty; nor can envy say,

He miss'd, these many years, the church, or play:

He makes no noise in parliament, 'tis true;

But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due;

His character and gloves are ever clean,

And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;

A smile eternal on his lip he wears,

Which equally the wise and worthless shares.

In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,

Patient of idleness beyond belief,

Most charitably lends the town his face,

For ornament, in ev'ry public place;

As sure as cards, he to th' assembly comes,

And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:

When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,

And, join'd to two, he fails not--to make three:

Narcissus is the glory of his race;

For who does nothing with a better grace?

To deck my list, by nature were design'd

Such shining expletives of human kind,

Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along,

Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode,

Some for renown are singular and odd;

What other men dislike, is sure to please,

Of all mankind, these dear antipodes;

Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still,

And birthdays are their days of dressing ill,

Arbuthnot is a fool, and F---- a sage,

S--ly will fright you, E---- engage;

By nature streams run backward, flame descends,

Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends;

They take their rest by day, and wake by night,

And blush, if you surprise them in the right;

If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,

A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,

A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out,

His passion for absurdity's so strong,

He cannot bear a rival in the wrong;

Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shown

In wearing others' follies, than your own.

If what is out of fashion most you prize,

Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.

But what in oddness can be more sublime

Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?

His nice ambition lies in curious fancies,

His daughter's portion a rich shell inhances,

And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,

Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!

How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore

That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!

He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin,

That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,

Since that great plague that swept as many more,

Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry,

"It has not brought us one new butterfly!"

In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,

Unhappy I----y! how came you to please?

Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game;

But, in effect, his chase is much the same;

Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,

Stanch to the foot of title and estate:

Where'er their lordships go, they never find

Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!

He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,

Close at their elbows, as a morning dun;

As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought,

And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:

But after seven years' dance, from place to place,

The(13) Dane is more familiar with his grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;

Or living pendant dangling at his ear,

For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blown

For months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?

Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,

Still to reflect the temper of his face;

Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,

When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;

Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please

To loll, or thump it, for his better ease;

Or a vile butt, for noon, or night, bespoke,

When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?

Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find

His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,

For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,

That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?

With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!

Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply?

The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;

The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold

Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold:

All men they flatter, but themselves the most,

With deathless fame, their everlasting boast:

For fame no cully makes so much her jest,

As her old constant spark, the bard profest.

"Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,

Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,

And what to my great soul like glory dear?"

Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,

That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.

And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:

Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,

And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,

That his triumphant name adorns a post?

Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)

Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compassion hears,

What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,

When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,

A prostitute on every bulk in town,

With other whores undone, tho' not in print,

Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?

Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?

Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?

Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,

Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?

Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,

Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.

All other trades demand, verse makers beg;

A dedication is a wooden leg;

A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,

Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.

Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;

Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend.

"Is 't then a crime to write?"--If talent rare

Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:

For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,

Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;

Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,

Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;

Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit;

My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.

Argyll true wit is studious to restore;

And Dorset smiles, if Phoebus smil'd before;

Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,

And Henrietta like a muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain

That fame, which poets languish for in vain.

How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive

To grasp, what no man can possess alive!

Fame's a reversion in which men take place

(O late reversion!) at their own decease.

This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,

He starves his authors, that their works may sell.

That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;

That wealth is fame, another clan reply;

Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;

And swell in just proportion to their bags.

Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,

Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;

The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,

Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,

From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,

And starves to join a penny to a plumb.

A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown

To former times, a scandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band

Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.

For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies:

Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.

Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;

No rival can prevail,--but half a crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd,

Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:

Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,

When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:

He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:

Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,

While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:

To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,--

Just is his title,--for he will not fight:

All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,

As maids of honour beauty,--by their place:

But, when indulging on the last campaign,

His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;

He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,

A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,

A soldier should be modest as a maid:

Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;

Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:

'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;

But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,

Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.

Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name

Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim,

Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,

The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

Satire V.

On Women.

O fairest of creation! last and best

Of all God's works! Creature in whom excell'd

Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd!

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

How art thou lost!------

MILTON.