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diff --git a/18827.txt b/18827.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e34523d --- /dev/null +++ b/18827.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11547 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of Edward Young, Volume +2 by Edward Young + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: The Poetical Works of Edward Young, Volume 2 + +Author: Edward Young + +Release Date: July 2006 [Ebook #18827] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF EDWARD YOUNG, VOLUME 2*** + + + + + +The Poetical Works of Edward Young +Volume II. + +Boston +Little, Brown and Company + +Cambridge +Allen and Farnham, Printers. + +1859 + + + + + + CONTENTS + + +The Last Day. In Three Books + Book I. + Book II. + Book III. +The Force of Religion; or, Vanquished Love. + Book I. + Book II. +Love of Fame, the Universal Passion. In Seven Characteristical Satires. + Preface. + Satire I. + Satire II + Satire III. + Satire IV. + Satire V. On Women + Satire VI. On Women + Satire VII. +Ocean: an Ode, occasioned by his Majesty's royal Encouragement of the Sea +Service. To which is prefixed an Ode to the King; and A Discourse on Ode +A Paraphrase on Part of the Book of Job. +On Michael Angelo's Famous Piece of the Crucifixion; +To Mr. Addison, on the Tragedy of Cato +Historical Epilogue to the Brothers. A Tragedy +Epitaph on Lord Aubrey Beauclerk, in Westminster Abbey, 1740 +Epitaph at Welwyn, Hertfordshire. +A Letter to Mr. Tickell, occasioned by the Death of the Right Hon. Joseph +Addison +Reflections on the Public Situation of the Kingdom +Resignation. In Two Parts. + Part I. + Part II. +On the Late Queen's Death, And His Majesty's Accession to the Throne +The Instalment. +And Epistle to the Right Hon. George Lord Lansdowne. +Two Epistles to Mr. Pope + Epistle I. + Epistle II. +An Epistle to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole. +The Old Man's Relapse. +Verses sent by Lord Melcombe to Dr. Young + + + + + + + THE LAST DAY. + + + In Three Books. + + + Venit summa dies.--VIRG. + + + + + Book I. + + + Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca + Fulmina molitur dextra. Quo maxima motu + Terra tremit: fugere ferae! et mortalia corda + Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. + + VIRG. + + + While others sing the fortune of the great; + Empire and arms, and all the pomp of state; + With Britain's hero(1) set their souls on fire, + And grow immortal as his deeds inspire; + I draw a deeper scene: a scene that yields + A louder trumpet, and more dreadful fields; + The world alarm'd, both earth and heaven o'erthrown, + And gasping nature's last tremendous groan; + Death's ancient sceptre broke, the teeming tomb, + The righteous Judge, and man's eternal doom. + 'Twixt joy and pain I view the bold design, + And ask my anxious heart, if it be mine. + Whatever great or dreadful has been done + Within the sight of conscious stars or sun, + Is far beneath my daring: I look down + On all the splendours of the British crown. + This globe is for my verse a narrow bound; + Attend me, all the glorious worlds around! + O! all ye angels, howsoe'er disjoin'd, + Of every various order, place, and kind, + Hear, and assist, a feeble mortal's lays; + 'Tis your Eternal King I strive to praise. + But chiefly thou, great Ruler! Lord of all! + Before whose throne archangels prostrate fall; + If at thy nod, from discord, and from night, + Sprang beauty, and yon sparkling worlds of light, + Exalt e'en me; all inward tumults quell; + The clouds and darkness of my mind dispel; + To my great subject thou my breast inspire, + And raise my lab'ring soul with equal fire. + Man, bear thy brow aloft, view every grace + In God's great offspring, beauteous nature's face: + See spring's gay bloom; see golden autumn's store; + See how earth smiles, and hear old ocean roar. + Leviathans but heave their cumbrous mail, + It makes a tide, and wind-bound navies sail. + Here, forests rise, the mountains awful pride; + Here, rivers measure climes, and worlds divide; + There, valleys fraught with gold's resplendent seeds, + Hold kings, and kingdoms' fortunes, in their beds: + There, to the skies, aspiring hills ascend, + And into distant lands their shades extend. + View cities, armies, fleets; of fleets the pride, + See Europe's law, in Albion's channel ride. + View the whole earth's vast landscape unconfin'd, + Or view in Britain all her glories join'd. + Then let the firmament thy wonder raise; + 'Twill raise thy wonder, but transcend thy praise. + How far from east to west? the lab'ring eye + Can scarce the distant azure bounds descry: + Wide theatre! where tempests play at large, + And God's right hand can all its wrath discharge. + Mark how those radiant lamps inflame the pole, + Call forth the seasons, and the year control: + They shine thro' time, with an unalter'd ray: + See this grand period rise, and that decay: + So vast, this world's a grain; yet myriads grace, + With golden pomp, the throng'd ethereal space; + So bright, with such a wealth of glory stor'd, + 'Twere sin in heathens not to have ador'd. + How great, how firm, how sacred, all appears! + How worthy an immortal round of years! + Yet all must drop, as autumn's sickliest grain, + And earth and firmament be sought in vain: + The tract forgot where constellations shone, + Or where the Stuarts fill'd an awful throne: + Time shall be slain, all nature be destroy'd, + Nor leave an atom in the mighty void. + Sooner, or later, in some future date, + (A dreadful secret in the book of fate!) + This hour, for aught all human wisdom knows, + Or when ten thousand harvests more have rose; + When scenes are chang'd on this revolving earth, + Old empires fall, and give new empires birth; + While other Bourbons rule in other lands, + And (if man's sin forbids not) other Annes; + While the still busy world is treading o'er + The paths they trod five thousand years before, + Thoughtless as those who now life's mazes run, + Of earth dissolv'd, or an extinguish'd sun; + (Ye sublunary worlds, awake, awake! + Ye rulers of the nation, hear, and shake!) + Thick clouds of darkness shall arise on day; + In sudden night all earth's dominions lay; + Impetuous winds the scatter'd forests rend; + Eternal mountains, like their cedars, bend: + The valleys yawn, the troubled ocean roar, + And break the bondage of his wonted shore; + A sanguine stain the silver moon o'erspread; + Darkness the circle of the sun invade; + From inmost heaven incessant thunders roll, + And the strong echo bound from pole to pole. + When, lo, a mighty trump, one half conceal'd + In clouds, one half to mortal eye reveal'd, + Shall pour a dreadful note; the piercing call + Shall rattle in the centre of the ball; + Th' extended circuit of creation shake, + The living die with fear, the dead awake. + Oh powerful blast! to which no equal sound + Did e'er the frighted ear of nature wound, + Tho' rival clarions have been strain'd on high, + And kindled wars immortal thro' the sky, + Tho' God's whole enginery discharg'd, and all + The rebel angels bellow'd in their fall. + Have angels sinn'd? and shall not man beware? + How shall a son of earth decline the snare? + Not folded arms, and slackness of the mind, + Can promise for the safety of mankind: + None are supinely good: thro' care and pain + And various arts, the steep ascent we gain. + This is the scene of combat, not of rest, + Man's is laborious happiness at best; + On this side death his dangers never cease, + His joys are joys of conquest, not of peace. + If then, obsequious to the will of fate, + And bending to the terms of human state, + When guilty joys invite us to their arms, + When beauty smiles, or grandeur spreads her charms, + The conscious soul would this great scene display, + Call down th' immortal hosts in dread array, + The trumpet sound, the Christian banner spread, + And raise from silent graves the trembling dead; + Such deep impression would the picture make, + No power on earth her firm resolve could shake; + Engag'd with angels she would greatly stand, + And look regardless down on sea and land; + Not proffer'd worlds her ardour could restrain, + And death might shake his threat'ning lance in vain! + Her certain conquest would endear the sight, + And danger serve but to exalt delight. + Instructed thus to shun the fatal spring, + Whence flow the terrors of that day I sing; + More boldly we our labours may pursue, + And all the dreadful image set to view. + The sparkling eye, the sleek and painted breast, + The burnish'd scale, curl'd train, and rising crest, + All that is lovely in the noxious snake, + Provokes our fear, and bids us flee the brake: + The sting once drawn, his guiltless beauties rise + In pleasing lustre, and detain our eyes; + We view with joy, what once did horror move, + And strong aversion softens into love. + Say then, my muse, whom dismal scenes delight, + Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night; + Say, melancholy maid, if bold to dare + The last extremes of terror and despair; + Oh say, what change on earth, what heart in man, + This blackest moment since the world began. + Ah mournful turn! the blissful earth, who late + At leisure on her axle roll'd in state; + While thousand golden planets knew no rest, + Still onward in their circling journey prest; + A grateful change of seasons some to bring, + And sweet vicissitude of fall and spring: + Some thro' vast oceans to conduct the keel, + And some those watery worlds to sink, or swell: + Around her some their splendours to display, + And gild her globe with tributary day: + This world so great, of joy the bright abode, + Heaven's darling child, and fav'rite of her God, + Now looks an exile from her father's care, + Deliver'd o'er to darkness and despair. + No sun in radiant glory shines on high; + No light, but from the terrors of the sky: + Fall'n are her mountains, her fam'd rivers lost, + And all into a second chaos tost: + One universal ruin spreads abroad; + Nothing is safe beneath the throne of God. + Such, earth, thy fate: what then canst thou afford + To comfort and support thy guilty lord? + Man, haughty lord of all beneath the moon, + How must he bend his soul's ambition down + Prostrate, the reptile own, and disavow + His boasted stature, and assuming brow? + Claim kindred with the clay, and curse his form, + That speaks distinction from his sister worm? + What dreadful pangs the trembling heart invade? + Lord, why dost thou forsake whom thou hast made? + Who can sustain thy anger? who can stand + Beneath the terrors of thy lifted hand? + It flies the reach of thought; oh, save me, Power + Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour! + Thou who beneath the frown of fate hast stood, + And in thy dreadful agony sweat blood; + Thou, who for me, thro' every throbbing vein, + Hast felt the keenest edge of mortal pain; + Whom death led captive thro' the realms below, + And taught those horrid mysteries of woe; + Defend me, O my God! Oh, save me, Power + Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour! + From east to west they fly, from pole to line, + Imploring shelter from the wrath divine; + Beg flames to wrap, or whelming seas to sweep, + Or rocks to yawn, compassionately deep; + Seas cast the monster forth to meet his doom, + And rocks but prison up for wrath to come. + So fares a traitor to an earthly crown; + While death sits threat'ning in his prince's frown + His heart's dismay'd; and now his fears command, + To change his native for a distant land: + Swift orders fly, the king's severe decree + Stands in the channel, and locks up the sea; + The port he seeks, obedient to her lord, + Hurls back the rebel to his lifted sword. + But why this idle toil to paint that day? + This time elaborately thrown away? + Words all in vain pant after the distress, + The height of eloquence would make it less; + Heavens! how the good man trembles!-- + And is there a last day? and must there come + A sure, a fix'd, inexorable doom? + Ambition swell, and, thy proud sails to show, + Take all the winds that vanity can blow; + Wealth on a golden mountain blazing stand, + And reach an India forth in either hand; + Spread all thy purple clusters, tempting vine, + And thou, more dreaded foe, bright beauty, shine; + Shine all; in all your charms together rise; + That all, in all your charms, I may despise; + While I mount upward on a strong desire, + Borne, like Elijah, in a car of fire. + In hopes of glory to be quite involv'd! + To smile at death! to long to be dissolv'd! + From our decays a pleasure to receive! + And kindle into transport at a grave! + What equals this? And shall the victor now + Boast the proud laurels on his loaded brow? + Religion! Oh, thou cherub, heavenly bright! + Oh, joys unmix'd, and fathomless delight! + Thou, thou art all; nor find I in the whole + Creation aught, but God and my own soul. + For ever, then, my soul, thy God adore, + Nor let the brute creation praise him more. + Shall things inanimate my conduct blame, + And flush my conscious cheek with spreading shame? + They all for him pursue, or quit, their end + The mountain flames their burning power suspend; + In solid heaps th' unfrozen billows stand, + To rest and silence aw'd by his command: + Nay, the dire monsters that infest the flood, + By nature dreadful, and athirst for blood, + His will can calm, their savage tempers bind, + And turn to mild protectors of mankind. + Did not the prophet this great truth maintain + In the deep chambers of the gloomy main; + When darkness round him all her horrors spread, + And the loud ocean bellow'd o'er his head? + When now the thunder roars, the lightning flies, + And all the warring winds tumultuous rise; + When now the foaming surges, tost on high, + Disclose the sands beneath, and touch the sky; + When death draws near, the mariners aghast, + Look back with terror on their actions past; + Their courage sickens into deep dismay, + Their hearts, thro' fear and anguish, melt away; + Nor tears, nor prayers, the tempest can appease; + Now they devote their treasure to the seas; + Unload their shatter'd barque, tho' richly fraught, + And think the hopes of life are cheaply bought + With gems and gold; but oh, the storm so high! + Nor gems nor gold the hopes of life can buy. + The trembling prophet then, themselves to save, + They headlong plunge into the briny wave; + Down he descends, and, booming o'er his head, + The billows close; he's number'd with the dead. + (Hear, O ye just! attend, ye virtuous few! + And the bright paths of piety pursue) + Lo! the great Ruler of the world, from high, + Looks smiling down with a propitious eye, + Covers his servant with his gracious hand, + And bids tempestuous nature silent stand; + Commands the peaceful waters to give place, + Or kindly fold him in a soft embrace: + He bridles in the monsters of the deep: + The bridled monsters awful distance keep: + Forget their hunger, while they view their prey; + And guiltless gaze, and round the stranger play. + But still arise new wonders; nature's Lord + Sends forth into the deep his powerful word, + And calls the great leviathan: the great + Leviathan attends in all his state; + Exults for joy, and, with a mighty bound, + Makes the sea shake, and heaven and earth resound; + Blackens the waters with the rising sand. + And drives vast billows to the distant land. + As yawns an earthquake, when imprison'd air + Struggles for vent, and lays the centre bare, + The whale expands his jaws' enormous size; + The prophet views the cavern with surprise; + Measures his monstrous teeth, afar descried, + And rolls his wond'ring eyes from side to side: + Then takes possession of the spacious seat, + And sails secure within the dark retreat. + Now is he pleas'd the northern blast to hear, + And hangs on liquid mountains, void of fear; + Or falls immers'd into the depths below, + Where the dead silent waters never flow; + To the foundation of the hills convey'd, + Dwells in the shelving mountain's dreadful shade: + Where plummet never reach'd, he draws his breath, + And glides serenely thro' the paths of death. + Two wondrous days and nights thro' coral groves, + Thro' labyrinths of rocks and sands, he roves: + When the third morning with its level rays + The mountains gilds, and on the billows plays, + It sees the king of waters rise and pour + His sacred guest uninjur'd on the shore: + A type of that great blessing, which the muse + In her next labour ardently pursues. + + + + + Book II. + + + {~GREEK CAPITAL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER KAPPA~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER GAMMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ETA~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER LAMDA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER XI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER MU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~} {~GREEK CAPITAL LETTER PHI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER LAMDA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER THETA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}. {~GREEK CAPITAL LETTER LAMDA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PSI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER CHI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER MU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMEGA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER SIGMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMEGA~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER DELTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~} {~GREEK CAPITAL LETTER THETA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~} + {~GREEK SMALL LETTER TAU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER LAMDA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON WITH TONOS~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER THETA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER TAU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}. + + PHOCYL. + + + ----We hope that the departed will rise again from the dust: after + which, like the gods, they will be immortal. + + + Now man awakes, and from his silent bed, + Where he has slept for ages, lifts his head; + Shakes off the slumber of ten thousand years, + And on the borders of new worlds appears. + Whate'er the bold, the rash, adventure cost, + In wide eternity I dare be lost. + The muse is wont in narrow bounds to sing, + To teach the swain, or celebrate the king. + I grasp the whole, no more to parts confin'd, + I lift my voice, and sing to humankind: + I sing to men and angels; angels join, + While such the theme, their sacred songs with mine. + Again the trumpet's intermitted sound + Rolls the wide circuit of creation round, + A universal concourse to prepare + Of all that ever breath'd the vital air: + In some wide field, which active whirlwinds sweep, + Drive cities, forests, mountains, to the deep, + To smooth and lengthen out th' unbounded space, + And spread an area for all human race. + Now monuments prove faithful to their trust, + And render back their long committed dust. + Now charnels rattle; scatter'd limbs, and all + The various bones, obsequious to the call, + Self-mov'd, advance; the neck perhaps to meet + The distant head; the distant legs the feet. + Dreadful to view, see thro' the dusky sky + Fragments of bodies in confusion fly, + To distant regions journeying, there to claim + Deserted members, and complete the frame. + When the world bow'd to Rome's almighty sword, + Rome bow'd to Pompey, and confess'd her lord. + Yet one day lost, this deity below + Became the scorn and pity of his foe. + His blood a traitor's sacrifice was made, + And smok'd indignant on a ruffian's blade. + No trumpet's sound, no gasping army's yell, + Bid, with due horror, his great soul farewell. + Obscure his fall! all welt'ring in his gore, + His trunk was cast to perish on the shore! + While Julius frown'd the bloody monster dead, + Who brought the world in his great rival's head. + This sever'd head and trunk shall join once more, + Tho' realms now rise between, and oceans roar. + The trumpet's sound each fragrant mote shall hear, + Or fix'd in earth, or if afloat in air, + Obey the signal wafted in the wind, + And not one sleeping atom lag behind. + So swarming bees, that on a summer's day + In airy rings, and wild meanders play, + Charm'd with the brazen sound, their wand'rings end, + And, gently circling, on a bough descend. + The body thus renew'd, the conscious soul, + Which has perhaps been flutt'ring near the pole, + Or midst the burning planets wond'ring stray'd, + Or hover'd o'er where her pale corpse was laid; + Or rather coasted on her final state, + And fear'd or wish'd for her appointed fate: + This soul, returning with a constant flame, + Now weds for ever her immortal frame. + Life, which ran down before, so high is wound, + The springs maintain an everlasting round. + Thus a frail model of the work design'd + First takes a copy of the builder's mind, + Before the structure firm with lasting oak, + And marble bowels of the solid rock, + Turns the strong arch, and bids the columns rise, + And bear the lofty palace to the skies; + The wrongs of time enabled to surpass, + With bars of adamant, and ribs of brass. + That ancient, sacred, and illustrious dome,(2) + Where soon or late fair Albion's heroes come, + From camps, and courts, tho' great, or wise, or just, + To feed the worm, and moulder into dust; + That solemn mansion of the royal dead, + Where passing slaves o'er sleeping monarchs tread, + Now populous o'erflows: a num'rous race + Of rising kings fill all th' extended space: + A life well spent, not the victorious sword, + Awards the crown, and styles the greater lord. + Nor monuments alone, and burial-earth, + Labours with man to this his second birth; + But where gay palaces in pomp arise, + And gilded theatres invade the skies, + Nations shall wake, whose unrespected bones + Support the pride of their luxurious sons. + The most magnificent and costly dome + Is but an upper chamber to the tomb. + No spot on earth but has supplied a grave, + And human skulls the spacious ocean pave. + All's full of man; and at this dreadful turn, + The swarm shall issue, and the hive shall burn. + Not all at once, nor in like manner, rise: + Some lift with pain their slow, unwilling eyes: + Shrink backward from the terror of the light, + And bless the grave, and call for lasting night. + Others, whose long-attempted virtue stood + Fix'd as a rock, and broke the rushing flood, + Whose firm resolve, nor beauty could melt down, + Nor raging tyrants from their posture frown; + Such, in this day of horrors, shall be seen + To face the thunders with a godlike mien; + The planets drop, their thoughts are fixt above; + The centre shakes, their hearts disdain to move; + An earth dissolving, and a heaven thrown wide, + A yawning gulf, and fiends on every side, + Serene they view, impatient of delay, + And bless the dawn of everlasting day. + Here, greatness prostrate falls; there, strength gives place; + Here, lazars smile; there, beauty hides her face. + Christians, and Jews, and Turks, and Pagans stand, + A blended throng, one undistinguish'd band. + Some who, perhaps, by mutual wounds expir'd, + With zeal for their distinct persuasions fir'd, + In mutual friendship their long slumber break, + And hand in hand their Saviour's love partake. + But none are flush'd with brighter joy, or, warm + With juster confidence, enjoy the storm, + Than those, whose pious bounties, unconfin'd, + Have made them public fathers of mankind. + In that illustrious rank, what shining light + With such distinguish'd glory fills my sight? + Bend down, my grateful muse, that homage show, + Which to such worthies thou art proud to owe. + Wickham! Fox! Chichley! hail, illustrious names,(3) + Who to far distant times dispense your beams; + Beneath your shades, and near your crystal springs, + I first presum'd to touch the trembling strings. + All hail, thrice honour'd! 'Twas your great renown + To bless a people, and oblige a crown. + And now you rise, eternally to shine, + Eternally to drink the rays divine. + Indulgent God! Oh how shall mortal raise + His soul to due returns of grateful praise, + For bounty so profuse to humankind, + Thy wondrous gift of an eternal mind? + Shall I, who, some few years ago, was less + Than worm, or mite, or shadow can express, + Was nothing; shall I live, when every fire + And every star shall languish and expire? + When earth's no more, shall I survive above, + And thro' the radiant files of angels move? + Or, as before the throne of God I stand, + See new worlds rolling from his spacious hand, + Where our adventures shall perhaps be taught, + As we now tell how Michael sung or fought? + All that has being in full concert join, + And celebrate the depths of love divine! + But oh! before this blissful state, before + Th' aspiring soul this wondrous height can soar, + The Judge, descending, thunders from afar, + And all mankind is summon'd to the bar. + This mighty scene I next presume to draw: + Attend, great Anna, with religious awe. + Expect not here the known successful arts + To win attention, and command our hearts: + Fiction, be far away; let no machine + Descending here, no fabled god, be seen; + Behold the God of gods indeed descend, + And worlds unnumber'd his approach attend! + Lo! the wide theatre, whose ample space + Must entertain the whole of human race, + At heaven's all-powerful edict is prepar'd, + And fenc'd around with an immortal guard. + Tribes, provinces, dominions, worlds, o'erflow + The mighty plain, and deluge all below: + And every age, and nation, pours along, + Nimrod and Bourbon mingle in the throng: + Adam salutes his youngest son; no sign, + Of all those ages, which their births disjoin. + How empty learning, and how vain is art, + But as it mends the life, and guides the heart! + What volumes have been swell'd, what time been spent, + To fix a hero's birth-day, or descent! + What joy must it now yield, what rapture raise, + To see the glorious race of ancient days! + To greet those worthies who perhaps have stood + Illustrious on record before the flood! + Alas! a nearer care your soul demands, + Caesar unnoted in your presence stands. + How vast the concourse! not in number more + The waves that break on the resounding shore, + The leaves that tremble in the shady grove, + The lamps that gild the spangled vaults above: + Those overwhelming armies, whose command + Said to one empire, fall; another, stand: + Whose rear lay wrapt in night, while breaking dawn + Rous'd the broad front, and call'd the battle on: + Great Xerxes' world in arms, proud Cannae's field, + Where Carthage taught victorious Rome to yield, + (Another blow had broke the fates' decree, + And earth had wanted her fourth monarchy,) + Immortal Blenheim, fam'd Ramillia's host, + They all are here, and here they all are lost: + Their millions swell to be discern'd in vain, + Lost as a billow in th' unbounded main. + This echoing voice now rends the yielding air, + For judgment, judgment, sons of men, prepare! + Earth shakes anew; I hear her groans profound; + And hell through all her trembling realms resound. + Whoe'er thou art, thou greatest power of earth, + Blest with most equal planets at thy birth; + Whose valour drew the most successful sword, + Most realms united in one common lord; + Who, on the day of triumph, saidst, Be thine + The skies, Jehovah, all this world is mine: + Dare not to lift thine eye--Alas! my muse, + How art thou lost! what numbers canst thou choose? + A sudden blush inflames the waving sky, + And now the crimson curtains open fly; + Lo! far within, and far above all height, + Where heaven's great Sov'reign reigns in worlds of light, + Whence nature he informs, and with one ray + Shot from his eye, does all her works survey, + Creates, supports, confounds! Where time, and place, + Matter, and form, and fortune, life, and grace, + Wait humbly at the footstool of their God, + And move obedient at his awful nod; + Whence he beholds us vagrant emmets crawl + At random on this air-suspended ball + (Speck of creation): if he pour one breath, + The bubble breaks, and 'tis eternal death. + Thence issuing I behold (but mortal sight + Sustains not such a rushing sea of light!) + I see, on an empyreal flying throne + Sublimely rais'd, heaven's everlasting Son; + Crown'd with that majesty which form'd the world, + And the grand rebel flaming downward hurl'd. + Virtue, dominion, praise, omnipotence, + Support the train of their triumphant prince. + A zone, beyond the thought of angels bright, + Around him, like the zodiac, winds its light. + Night shades the solemn arches of his brows, + And in his cheek the purple morning glows. + Where'er serene, he turns propitious eyes, + Or we expect, or find, a paradise: + But if resentment reddens their mild beams, + The Eden kindles, and the world's in flames. + On one hand, knowledge shines in purest light; + On one, the sword of justice fiercely bright. + Now bend the knee in sport, present the reed; + Now tell the scourg'd impostor he shall bleed! + Thus glorious thro' the courts of heav'n, the source + Of life and death eternal bends his course; + Loud thunders round him roll, and lightnings play; + Th' angelic host is rang'd in bright array: + Some touch the string, some strike the sounding shell, + And mingling voices in rich concert swell; + Voices seraphic; blest with such a strain, + Could Satan hear, he were a god again. + Triumphant King of Glory! Soul of bliss! + What a stupendous turn of fate is this! + O! whither art thou rais'd above the scorn + And indigence of him in Bethlem born; + A needless, helpless, unaccounted guest, + And but a second to the fodder'd beast! + How chang'd from him, who, meekly prostrate laid, + Vouchsaf'd to wash the feet himself had made! + From him who was betray'd, forsook, denied, + Wept, languish'd, pray'd, bled, thirsted, groan'd, and died; + Hung pierc'd and bare, insulted by the foe, + All heaven in tears above, earth unconcern'd below! + And was't enough to bid the sun retire? + Why did not nature at thy groan expire? + I see, I hear, I feel, the pangs divine; + The world is vanish'd,--I am wholly thine. + Mistaken Caiaphas! Ah! which blasphem'd; + Thou, or thy pris'ner? which shall be condemn'd? + Well might'st thou rend thy garments, well exclaim; + Deep are the horrors of eternal flame! + But God is good! 'Tis wondrous all! Ev'n he + Thou gav'st to death, shame, torture, died for thee. + Now the descending triumph stops its flight + From earth full twice a planetary height. + There all the clouds condens'd, two columns raise + Distinct with orient veins, and golden blaze. + One fix'd on earth, and one in sea, and round + Its ample foot the swelling billows sound. + These an immeasurable arch support, + The grand tribunal of this awful court. + Sheets of bright azure, from the purest sky, + Stream from the crystal arch, and round the columns fly. + Death, wrapt in chains, low at the basis lies, + And on the point of his own arrow dies. + Here high enthron'd th' eternal Judge is plac'd, + With all the grandeur of his godhead grac'd; + Stars on his robes in beauteous order meet, + And the sun burns beneath his awful feet. + Now an archangel eminently bright, + From off his silver staff of wondrous height, + Unfurls the Christian flag, which waving flies, + And shuts and opens more than half the skies: + The cross so strong a red, it sheds a stain, + Where'er it floats, on earth, and air, and main; + Flushes the hill, and sets on fire the wood, + And turns the deep-dy'd ocean, into blood. + Oh formidable glory! dreadful bright! + Refulgent torture to the guilty sight. + Ah turn, unwary muse, nor dare reveal + What horrid thoughts with the polluted dwell. + Say not, (to make the sun shrink in his beam,) + Dare not affirm, they wish it all a dream; + With, or their souls may with their limbs decay, + Or God be spoil'd of his eternal sway. + But rather, if thou know'st the means, unfold + How they with transport might the scene behold. + Ah how! but by repentance, by a mind + Quick, and severe its own offence to find? + By tears, and groans, and never-ceasing care, + And all the pious violence of prayer? + Thus then, with fervency till now unknown, + I cast my heart before th' eternal throne, + In this great temple, which the skies surround, + For homage to its lord, a narrow bound. + "O thou! whose balance does the mountains weigh, + Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey, + Whose breath can turn these watery worlds to flame, + That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; + Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, + And on the boundless of thy goodness calls. + "Oh! give the winds all past offence to sweep, + To scatter wide, or bury in the deep: + Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see, + And wholly dedicate my soul to thee: + Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow + At thy command, nor human motive know! + If anger boil, let anger be my praise, + And sin the graceful indignation raise. + My love be warm to succour the distress'd, + And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. + Oh may my understanding ever read + This glorious volume, which thy wisdom made! + Who decks the maiden spring with flow'ry pride? + Who calls forth summer, like a sparkling bride? + Who joys the mother autumn's bed to crown? + And bids old winter lay her honours down? + Not the great Ottoman, or greater Czar, + Not Europe's arbitress of peace and war. + May sea and land, and earth and heaven be join'd + To bring th' eternal author to my mind! + When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, + May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul! + When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, + Adore, my heart, the majesty divine! + "Thro' every scene of life, or peace, or war, + Plenty, or want, thy glory be my care! + Shine we in arms? or sing beneath our vine? + Thine is the vintage, and the conquest thine: + Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow; + The cluster blasts, or bids it brightly glow: + 'Tis thou that lead'st our powerful armies forth, + And giv'st great Anne thy sceptre o'er the north. + "Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, + Open with prayer the consecrated day; + Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, + And with the mounting sun ascend the skies: + As that advances, let my zeal improve, + And glow with ardour of consummate love; + Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun + My endless worship shall be still begun. + "And, oh! permit the gloom of solemn night + To sacred thought may forcibly invite. + When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, + Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies; + Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, + And show all nature in a milder light; + How every boisterous thought in calm subsides! + How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides! + O how divine! to tread the milky way, + To the bright palace of the lord of day; + His court admire, or for his favour sue, + Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew; + Pleas'd to look down, and see the world asleep, + While I long vigils to its founder keep! + "Canst thou not shake the centre? Oh! control, + Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul: + Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood, + Restrain the various tumults of my blood; + Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain + Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. + O may I pant for thee in each desire! + And with strong faith foment the holy fire! + Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize, + Which in eternity's deep bosom lies! + At the great day of recompense behold, + Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold! + Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, + From age to age, my grateful song repeat; + My light, my life, my God, my Saviour see, + And rival angels in the praise of thee." + + + + + 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. + + + Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone; + Soft female hearts the rude invader own: + But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, + Than routing armies, and dethroning kings: + Attend, and you discern it in the fair + Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair; + Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye; + Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh. + The sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame; + Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme: + A theme, fair ----! doubly kind to me, + Since satirizing those is praising thee; + Who wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd, + A panegyric of a grosser kind. + Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, + Too fond of admiration, lose their price; + Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight + To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight: + As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the sun, + Through every sign of vanity they run; + Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls, + Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls, + Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, + And fortune-tellers' caves, and lions' dens, + Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms, + Installments, pillories, coronations, tombs, + Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, + Sales, races, rabbits, (and still stranger!) pews. + Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame; + And love lies vanquished in a nobler flame; + Warm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses; then, + Like April suns, dives into clouds again: + With all her lustre, now, her lover warms; + Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms: + 'Tis, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain, + And to be taken with a sudden pain; + Then, she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss, + And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this: + O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite! + And looks delightfully with all her might! + But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise, + She conquers for the triumph, not the prize. + Zara resembles AEtna crown'd with snows; + Without she freezes, and within she glows: + Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspir'd, + From the vain converse of the world retir'd, + She reads the psalms and chapters for the day, + In ---- Cleopatra, or the last new play. + Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace, + Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face. + Nor far beneath her in renown, is she, + Who, through good breeding, is ill company; + Whose manners will not let her larum cease, + Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace; + To find you news, who racks her subtle head, + And vows--that her great-grandfather is dead. + A dearth of words a woman need not fear, + But 'tis a task indeed to learn--to hear: + In that the skill of conversation lies; + That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise. + Xantippe cries, "Let nymphs, who nought can say, + Be lost in silence, and resign the day; + And let the guilty wife her guilt confess, + By tame behaviour, and a soft address;" + Through virtue, she refuses to comply + With all the dictates of humanity; + Through wisdom, she refuses to submit + To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit; + Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain, + Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain: + But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word + Drops from the lip of her unwary lord, + Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent, + Just intimates the lady's discontent. + Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame; + But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame, + Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play, + O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea: + Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice, + She shakes the curtains with her kind advice: + Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight, + And the last word is her eternal right. + Is't not enough, plagues, wars, and famines rise + To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise? + Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng + Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong: + What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state! + What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate! + If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow; + We make misfortune; suicides in woe. + Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill! + Is nature backward to torment, or kill? + How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell, + (That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell, + On folly's errands as we vainly roam, + Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home! + Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread, + Few know so many friends alive, as dead. + Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase + We press coy fortune with unslacken'd pace; + Our ardent labours for the toys we seek, + Join night to day, and Sunday to the week: + Our very joys are anxious, and expire + Between satiety and fierce desire. + Now what reward for all this grief and toil? + But one; a female friend's endearing smile; + A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm, + And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm. + How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh, + Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye; + Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame, + Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame. + The Sylvan race our active nymphs pursue; + Man is not all the game they have in view: + In woods and fields their glory they complete; + Their Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate; + While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd, + Nor rashly tempts the barb'rous sun and wind. + Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed, + And volt from hunters to the manag'd steed; + Command his prancings with a martial air, + And Fobert has the forming of the fair. + More than one steed must Delia's empire feel, + Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel; + And as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng, + With what an air she smacks the silken thong! + Graceful as John, she moderates the reins, + And whistles sweet her diuretic strains; + Sesostris like, such charioteers as these + May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please: + They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, + Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit. + O'er the belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns; + Again the god Apollo wears her chains: + With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits + Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: + Of each performance she's the final test; + One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; + And then, pronouncing with decisive air, + Fully convinces all the town--she's fair. + Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, + How would her elegance of taste decrease! + Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, + And all their genius sparkles from their eyes. + "But hold," she cries, "lampooner! have a care; + Must I want common sense, because I'm fair?" + O no: see Stella; her eyes shine as bright + As if her tongue was never in the right; + And yet what real learning, judgment, fire! + She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire: + How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair) + Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear? + We grant that beauty is no bar to sense, + Nor is't a sanction for impertinence. + Sempronia lik'd her man; and well she might; + The youth in person, and in parts, was bright; + Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art, + That claims just empire o'er the female heart: + He met her passion, all her sighs return'd, + And, in full rage of youthful ardour, burn'd: + Large his possessions, and beyond her own: + Their bliss the theme, and envy of the town: + The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more, + In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseas'd threescore. + The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear: + Of pride, and av'rice, who can cure the fair? + Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; + Nature is frugal, and her wants are few; + Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights; + But fools create themselves new appetites: + Fancy, and pride, seek things at vast expense, + Which relish not to reason, nor to sense. + When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys, + In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys, + In fancy's airy land of noise and show, + Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures, grow; + Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive + On joys too thin to keep the soul alive. + Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call: + He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball. + The doctor stares; her woman curtsies low, + And cries, "My lady, Sir, is always so: + Diversions put her maladies to flight: + True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night: + I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) + For fevers take an opera in June: + And, tho' perhaps you'll think the practice bold, + A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold: + With cholics, breakfasts of green fruit agree; + With indigestions, supper just at three." + A strange alternative, replies Sir Hans, + Must women have a doctor, or a dance? + Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, + But droop and die, in perfect health, at home: + For want--but not of health, are ladies ill; + And tickets cure beyond the doctor's pill. + Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair + Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air! + Pale as a young dramatic author, when, + O'er darling lines, fell Cibber waves his pen. + Is her lord angry, or has(14) Veny chid? + Dead is her father, or the mask forbid? + "Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white." + Why went she not to bed? "Because 'twas night." + Did she then dance, or play? "Nor this, nor that." + Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat. + "No, all alone, her prayers she rather chose, + Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose." + Then lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade, + Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed: + This her pride covets, this her health denies; + Her soul is silly, but her body's wise. + Others, with curious arts, dim charms revive, + And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five. + You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite; + To keep her word, a brown one comes at night: + Next day she shines in glossy black; and then + Revolves into her native red again: + Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms, + And is her own dear rival in your arms. + But one admirer has the painted lass; + Nor finds that one, but in her looking-glass: + Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess, + That all her art scarce makes her please us less. + To deck the female cheek, he only knows, + Who paints less fair the lily, and the rose. + How gay they smile! Such blessings nature pours, + O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores: + In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, + She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green: + Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, + And waste their music on the savage race. + Is nature then a niggard of her bliss? + Repine we guiltless in a world like this? + But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse, + And painted art's depraved allurements choose. + Such Fulvia's passion for the town; fresh air + (An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair; + Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs, + And larks, and nightingales, are odious things; + But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight; + And to be press'd to death, transports her quite: + Where silver riv'lets play through flow'ry meads, + And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades, + Black kennels' absent odours she regrets, + And stops her nose at beds of violets. + Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene? + Or is the public to the private scene? + Retir'd, we tread a smooth and open way; + Through briers and brambles in the world we stray; + Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate, + And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate, + Which choke our passage, our career control, + And wound the firmest temper of our soul. + O sacred solitude! divine retreat! + Choice of the prudent! envy of the great! + By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade, + We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid: + The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, + (Strangers on earth!) are innocence and peace: + There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore, + We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; + There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd, + This life we relish, and ensure the next; + There too the muses sport; these numbers free, + Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee. + There sport the muses; but not there alone: + Their sacred force Amelia feels in town. + Nought but a genius can a genius fit; + A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit: + Both wits! though miracles are said to cease, + Three days, three wondrous days! they liv'd in peace; + With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose, + On Durfey's poesy, and Bunyan's prose: + The learned war both wage with equal force, + And the fifth morn concluded the divorce. + Phoebe, though she possesses nothing less, + Is proud of being rich in happiness: + Laboriously pursues delusive toys, + Content with pains, since they're reputed joys. + With what well-acted transport will she say, + "Well, sure, we were so happy yesterday! + And then that charming party for to-morrow!" + Though, well she knows, 'twill languish into sorrow: + But she dares never boast the present hour; + So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power: + For such is or our weakness, or our curse, + Or rather such our crime, which still is worse, + The present moment, like a wife, we shun, + And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own. + Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy; + Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright, and coy; + We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill, + Still it eludes us, and it glitters still: + If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty gains; + What is it, but rank poison in your veins? + As Flavia in her glass an angel spies, + Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies; + Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine, + There's no satiety of charms divine: + Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears + Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears: + She, fond and young, last week, her wish enjoy'd, + In soft amusement all the night employ'd; + The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found + (Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd. + "What miracle," says Strephon, "makes thee weep?" + "Ah, barb'rous man!" she cries, "how could you----sleep?" + Men love a mistress, as they love a feast; + How grateful one to touch, and one to taste! + Yet sure there is a certain time of day, + We wish our mistress, and our meat, away: + But soon the sated appetites return, + Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn: + Eternal love let man, then, never swear; + Let women never triumph, nor despair; + Nor praise, nor blame, too much, the warm, or chill; + Hunger and love are foreign to the will. + There is indeed a passion more refin'd, + For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind: + But not of that unfashionable set + Is Phyllis; Phyllis and her Damon met. + Eternal love exactly hits her taste; + Phyllis demands eternal love at least. + Embracing Phyllis with soft smiling eyes, + Eternal love I vow, the swain replies: + But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend! + What day next week th' eternity shall end? + Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love: + Elope from mortal man, and range above. + The fair philosopher to Rowley flies, + Where, in a box, the whole creation lies: + She sees the planets in their turns advance, + And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance; + Of Desagulier she bespeaks fresh air; + And Whiston has engagements with the fair. + What vain experiments Sophronia tries! + 'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. + But though to-day this rage of science reigns, + (O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains. + Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, + Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot. + To----turn; she never took the height + Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right. + She strikes each point with native force of mind, + While puzzled learning blunders far behind, + Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought, + The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught. + Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet, + When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet; + In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart, sincere; + In crowds, collected; and in courts, severe; + Sincere, and warm, with zeal well understood, + She takes a noble pride in doing good; + Yet not superior to her sex's cares, + The mode she fixes by the gown she wears; + Of silks and china she's the last appeal; + In these great points she leads the commonweal; + And if disputes of empire rise between + Mechlin the queen of lace, and colberteen, + 'Tis doubt! 'tis darkness! till suspended fate + Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate. + When such her mind, why will the fair express + Their emulation only in their dress? + But, oh! the nymph that mounts above the skies, + And, gratis, clears religious mysteries, + Resolv'd the church's welfare to ensure, + And make her family a sine-cure: + The theme divine at cards she'll not forget, + But takes in texts of Scripture at picquet; + In those licentious meetings acts the prude, + And thanks her Maker that her cards are good. + What angels would those be, who thus excel + In theologies, could they sew as well! + Yet why should not the fair her text pursue? + Can she more decently the doctor woo? + 'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat + Of her religion, should be barr'd in that. + Isaac, a brother of the canting strain, + When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain, + To beauteous Marcia often will repair + With a dark text, to light it at the fair. + O how his pious soul exults to find + Such love for holy men in woman-kind! + Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he + Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee! + Hums round about her, and with all his power + Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower! + The young and gay declining, Appia flies + At nobler game, the mighty and the wise: + By nature more an eagle than a dove, + She impiously prefers the world to love. + Can wealth give happiness? look round, and see + What gay distress! what splendid misery! + Whatever fortune lavishly can pour, + The mind annihilates, and calls for more! + Wealth is a cheat; believe not what it says; + Like any lord it promises--and pays. + How will the miser startle, to be told + Of such a wonder, as insolvent gold! + What nature wants has an intrinsic weight; + All more, is but the fashion of the plate, + Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view; + It charms us now; anon we cast anew; + To some fresh birth of fancy more inclin'd: + Then wed not acres, but a noble mind. + Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care, + And think accomplishments will win the fair: + The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won, + As flow'rs unfold their beauties to the sun; + And yet in female scales a fop outweighs, + And wit must wear the willow and the bays. + Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia's eye + As riot, impudence, and perfidy; + The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd, + And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid; + For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms, + Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms; + And amply gives (though treated long amiss) + The man of merit his revenge in this, + If you resent, and wish a woman ill, + But turn her o'er one moment to her will. + The languid lady next appears in state, + Who was not born to carry her own weight; + She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid + To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. + Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, + She, by just stages, journeys round the room: + But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs + To scale the Alps--that is, ascend the stairs. + My fan! let others say, who laugh at toil; + Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; + And that is spoke with such a dying fall, + That Betty rather sees, than hears the call: + The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, + Piece out th' idea her faint words deny. + O listen with attention most profound! + Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. + And help! oh help! her spirits are so dead, + One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. + If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, + She pants! she sinks away! and is more. + Let the robust and the gigantic carve, + Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve; + But chew she must herself; ah cruel fate! + That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat. + An antidote in female caprice lies + (Kind heaven!) against the poison of their eyes. + Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien; + Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. + In fair and open dealing where's the shame? + What nature dares to give, she dares to name. + This honest fellow is sincere and plain, + And justly gives the jealous husband pain. + (Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd, + If wanton language shows a naked mind.) + And now and then, to grace her eloquence, + An oath supplies the vacancies of sense. + Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air, + And teach the neighb'ring echoes how to swear. + By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain; + She, on the Christian system, is profane. + But though the volley rattles in your ear, + Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier. + If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, + When Jove deputes a lady in his stead? + A lady! pardon my mistaken pen, + A shameless woman is the worst of men. + Few to good breeding make a just pretence; + Good breeding is the blossom of good sense; + The last result of an accomplish'd mind, + With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd. + A violated decency now reigns; + And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. + With Chinese painters modern toasts agree, + The point they aim at is deformity: + They throw their persons with a hoyden air + Across the room, and toss into the chair. + So far their commerce with mankind is gone, + They, for our manners, have exchang'd their own. + The modest look, the castigated grace, + The gentle movement, and slow measur'd pace, + For which her lovers died, her parents pray'd, + Are indecorums with the modern maid. + Stiff forms are bad; but let not worse intrude, + Nor conquer art and nature, to be rude. + Modern good-breeding carry to its height, + And lady D----'s self will be polite. + Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle! + When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile, + Leads on your train, and sparkles at your head, + What seems most hard, is, not to be well bred. + Her bright example with success pursue, + And all, but adoration, is your due. + But adoration! give me something more, + Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore: + Nought treads so silent as the foot of time; + Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime; + 'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told, + The melancholy news, that we grow old. + Autumnal Lyce carries in her face + Memento mori to each public place. + O how your beating breast a mistress warms, + Who looks through spectacles to see your charms! + While rival undertakers hover round, + And with his spade the sexton marks the ground, + Intent not on her own, but others' doom, + She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb. + In vain the cock has summon'd sprites away, + She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day. + Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold, + And nought of Lyce but herself is old. + Her grizzled locks assume a smirking grace, + And art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face. + Her strange demand no mortal can approve, + We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love. + She grants, indeed, a lady may decline + (All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine. + O how unlike her is the sacred age + Of prudent Portia! her gray hairs engage; + Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline: + Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles shine. + That, and that only, can old age sustain; + Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain. + Not num'rous are our joys, when life is new; + And yearly some are falling of the few; + But when we conquer life's meridian stage, + And downward tend into the vale of age, + They drop apace; by nature some decay, + And some the blasts of fortune sweep away; + Till naked quite of happiness, aloud + We call for death, and shelter in a shroud. + Where's Portia now?--But Portia left behind + Two lovely copies of her form and mind. + What heart untouch'd their early grief can view, + Like blushing rose-buds dipp'd in morning dew? + Who into shelter takes their tender bloom, + And forms their minds to flee from ills to come? + The mind, when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide, + Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide; + Fancy and passion toss it to and fro; + Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe. + Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust + Your best example lies, my precepts trust. + Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid; + Where then is safety for a tender maid? + Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes, + And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes! + When kind, most cruel; when oblig'd the most, + The least obliging; and by favours lost. + Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate; + And scorn you for those ills themselves create. + If on your fame your sex a blot has thrown, + 'Twill ever stick, through malice of your own. + Most hard! in pleasing your chief glory lies; + And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise: + Then please the best; and know, for men of sense, + Your strongest charms are native innocence. + Art on the mind, like paint upon the face, + Fright him, that's worth your love, from your embrace. + In simple manners all the secret lies; + Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and wise. + Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain, + Begin with giddiness, and end in pain. + Affect not empty fame, and idle praise, + Which, all those wretches I describe, betrays. + Your sex's glory 'tis, to shine unknown; + Of all applause, be fondest of your own. + Beware the fever of the mind! that thirst + With which the age is eminently curst: + To drink of pleasure, but inflames desire; + And abstinence alone can quench the fire; + Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb; + Give peace in hand; and promise bliss to come. + + + + + Satire VI. + + + On Women. + + + Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Lady Elizabeth Germain. + + + Interdum tamen et tollit comoedia vocem. + + --HOR. + + + I sought a patroness, but sought in vain. + Apollo whisper'd in my ear--"Germain."-- + I know her not.--"Your reason's somewhat odd; + Who knows his patron, now?" replied the god. + "Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown; + Then steal great names, to shield them from the town. + Detected worth, like beauty disarray'd, + To covert flies, of praise itself afraid: + Should she refuse to patronize your lays, + In vengeance write a volume in her praise. + Nor think it hard so great a length to run; + When such the theme, 'twill easily be done." + Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length, + Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength; + You, here, in miniature your picture see; + Nor hope from Zincks more justice than from me. + My portraits grace your mind, as his your side; + His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride. + He's dear, you frugal; choose my cheaper lay; + And be your reformation all my pay. + Lavinia is polite, but not profane; + To church as constant as to Drury Lane. + She decently, in form, pays heaven its due; + And makes a civil visit to her pew. + Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air, + Conceals her face, which passes for a prayer: + Curtsies to curtsies, then, with grace, succeed; + Not one the fair omits, but at the creed. + Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak; + Thro' dreadful silence the pent heart might break; + Untaught to bear it, women talk away + To God himself, and fondly think they pray. + But sweet their accent, and their air refin'd; + For they're before their Maker--and mankind: + When ladies once are proud of praying well, + Satan himself will toll the parish bell. + Acquainted with the world, and quite well bred, + Drusa receives her visitants in bed; + But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy + The very blackest tongue of calumny, + When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts, + She begs you just would turn you, while she shifts. + Those charms are greatest which decline the sight, + That makes the banquet poignant and polite. + There is no woman, where there's no reserve; + And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve. + But with a modern fair, meridian merit + Is a fierce thing, they call a nymph of spirit. + Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye; + And tread on tiptoe, if you dare draw nigh. + "Or if you take a lion by the beard,(15) + Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard, + Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear," + First make your will, and then converse with her. + This lady glories in profuse expense; + And thinks distraction is magnificence. + To beggar her gallant, is some delight; + To be more fatal still, is exquisite; + Had ever nymph such reason to be glad? + In duel fell two lovers; one run mad. + Her foes their honest execrations pour; + Her lovers only should detest her more. + Flavia is constant to her old gallant, + And generously supports him in his want; + But marriage is a fetter, is a snare, + A hell, no lady so polite can bear. + She's faithful, she's observant, and with pains + Her angel brood of bastards she maintains. + Nor least advantage has the fair to plead, + But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed. + Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint; + Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint: + Her soul superior flies formality; + So gay her air, her conduct is so free, + Some might suspect the nymph not over good-- + Nor would they be mistaken, if they should. + Unmarried Abra puts on formal airs; + Her cushion's threadbare with her constant prayers. + Her only grief is, that she cannot be + At once engag'd in prayer and charity. + And this, to do her justice, must be said, + "Who would not think that Abra was a maid?" + Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed; + For where's the man that's worthy of their bed? + If no disease reduce her pride before, + Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore. + Then she submits to venture in the dark; + And nothing now is wanting--but her spark. + Lucia thinks happiness consists in state; + She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate. + The goods of fortune, which her soul possess, + Are but the ground of unmade happiness; + The rude material: wisdom add to this, + Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss; + She from herself, if so compell'd by need, + Of thin content can draw the subtle thread; + But (no detraction to her sacred skill) + If she can work in gold, 'tis better still. + If Tullia had been blest with half her sense, + None could too much admire her excellence: + But since she can make error shine so bright, + She thinks it vulgar to defend the right. + With understanding she is quite o'errun; + And by too great accomplishments undone: + With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue, + For ever most divinely in the wrong. + Naked in nothing should a woman be; + But veil her very wit with modesty: + Let man discover, let not her display, + But yield her charms of mind with sweet delay. + For pleasure form'd, perversely some believe, + To make themselves important, men must grieve. + Lesbia the fair, to fire her jealous lord, + Pretends, the fop she laughs at, is ador'd. + In vain she's proud of secret innocence; + The fact she fains were scarce a worse offence. + Mira, endow'd with every charm to bless, + Has no design, but on her husband's peace: + He lov'd her much; and greatly was he mov'd + At small inquietudes in her he lov'd. + "How charming this!"--The pleasure lasted long; + Now every day the fits come thick and strong: + At last he found the charmer only feign'd; + And was diverted when he should be pain'd. + What greater vengeance had the gods in store? + How tedious life, now she can plague no more! + She tries a thousand arts; but none succeed: + She's forc'd a fever to procure indeed: + Thus strictly prov'd this virtuous, loving wife, + Her husband's pain was dearer than her life. + Anxious Melania rises to my view, + Who never thinks her lover pays his due: + Visit, present, treat, flatter, and adore; + Her majesty, to-morrow, calls for more. + His wounded ears complaints eternal fill, + As unoil'd hinges, querulously shrill. + "You went last night with Celia to the ball." + You prove it false. "Not go! that's worst of all." + Nothing can please her, nothing not inflame; + And arrant contradictions are the same. + Her lover must be sad, to please her spleen; + His mirth is an inexpiable sin: + For of all rivals that can pain her breast, + There's one, that wounds far deeper than the rest; + To wreck her quiet, the most dreadful shelf + Is if her lover dares enjoy himself. + And this, because she's exquisitely fair: + Should I dispute her beauty, how she'd stare! + How would Melania be surpris'd to hear + She's quite deform'd! And yet the case is clear; + What's female beauty, but an air divine, + Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine? + They, like the sun, irradiate all between; + The body charms because the soul is seen. + Hence, men are often captives of a face, + They know not why, of no peculiar grace: + Some forms, tho' bright, no mortal man can bear; + Some, none resist, tho' not exceeding fair. + Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred, + Of taste refin'd, in life and manners read; + Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense, + But to be teaz'd by her own excellence. + "Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!" + She's elegantly pain'd from morn till night. + Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes; + Each creature's imperfections are her woes. + Heaven by its favour has the fair distrest, + And pour'd such blessings--that she can't be blest. + Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring, + Thou shining, frail, ador'd, and wretched thing? + Old age will come; disease may come before; + Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore. + Thy fortune, and thy charms, may soon decay: + But grant these fugitives prolong their stay, + Their basis totters, their foundation shakes; + Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks; + Then wrought into the soul let virtues shine; + The ground eternal, as the work divine. + Julia's a manager; she's born for rule; + And knows her wiser husband is a fool; + Assemblies holds, and spins the subtle thread + That guides the lover to his fair one's bed: + For difficult amours can smooth the way, + And tender letters dictate, or convey. + But if depriv'd of such important cares, + Her wisdom condescends to less affairs. + For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme, + Nor take her tea without a stratagem; + Presides o'er trifles with a serious face; + Important by the virtue of grimace. + Ladies supreme among amusements reign; + By nature born to soothe, and entertain. + Their prudence in a share of folly lies: + Why will they be so weak, as to be wise? + Syrena is for ever in extremes, + And with a vengeance she commends, or blames. + Conscious of her discernment, which is good, + She strains too much to make it understood. + Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong; + Because she's right, she's ever in the wrong. + Brunetta's wise in actions great, and rare; + But scorns on trifles to bestow her care. + Thus ev'ry hour Brunetta is to blame, + Because th' occasion is beneath her aim, + Think nought a trifle, though it small appear; + Small sands the mountain, moments make the year, + And trifles life. Your care to trifles give, + Or you may die, before you truly live. + Go breakfast with Alicia, there you'll see, + Simplex munditiis, to the last degree: + Unlac'd her stays, her night-gown is untied, + And what she has of head-dress is aside. + She drawls her words, and waddles in her pace; + Unwash'd her hands, and much besnuff'd her face. + A nail uncut, and head uncomb'd, she loves; + And would draw on jack-boots, as soon as gloves. + Gloves by Queen Bess's maidens might be miss'd; + Her blessed eyes ne'er saw a female fist. + Lovers, beware! to wound how can she fail + With scarlet finger, and long jetty nail? + For Harvey the first wit she cannot be, + Nor, cruel Richmond, the first toast for thee. + Since full each other station of renown, + Who would not be the greatest trapes in town? + Women were made to give our eyes delight; + A female sloven is an odious sight. + Fair Isabella is so fond of fame, + That her dear self is her eternal theme; + Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say, + "Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!" + When most the world applauds you, most beware; + 'Tis often less a blessing than a snare. + Distrust mankind; with your own heart confer; + And dread even there to find a flatterer. + The breath of others raises our renown; + Our own as surely blows the pageant down. + Take up no more than you by worth can claim, + Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame. + But own I must, in this perverted age, + Who most deserve, can't always most engage. + So far is worth from making glory sure, + It often hinders what it should procure. + Whom praise we most? The virtuous, brave, and wise? + No; wretches, whom, in secret, we despise. + And who so blind, as not to see the cause? + No rivals rais'd by such discreet applause; + And yet, of credit it lays in a store, + By which our spleen may wound true worth the more. + Ladies there are who think one crime is all: + Can women, then, no way but backward fall? + So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue, + To pay its loss, they think all others few. + Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim + Of injur'd modesty the sacred name. + But Clio thus: "What! railing without end? + Mean task! how much more gen'rous to commend!" + Yes, to commend as you are wont to do, + My kind instructor, and example too. + "Daphnis," says Clio, "has a charming eye: + What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry! + Aspasia's shape indeed--but then her air-- + The man has parts who finds destruction there. + Almeria's wit has something that's divine; + And wit's enough--how few in all things shine! + Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor-- + Who was it said Selina's near threescore? + At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice; + The world congratulates so wise a choice; + His lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great-- + But mortgages will sap the best estate. + In Sherley's form might cherubims appear; + But then--she has a freckle on her ear." + Without a but, Hortensia she commends, + The first of women, and the best of friends; + Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright: + But how comes this to pass?--She died last night. + Thus nymphs commend, who yet at satire rail: + Indeed that's needless, if such praise prevail. + And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown + On others' fame, thro' fondness for our own. + Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns; + For are not coronets akin to crowns? + Her greedy eye, and her sublime address, + The height of avarice and pride confess. + You seek perfections worthy of her rank; + Go, seek for her perfections at the bank. + By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontrol'd, + For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold. + As fond of five-pence, as the veriest cit; + And quite as much detested as a wit. + Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? + Can we dig peace, or wisdom, from the mine? + Wisdom to gold prefer; for 'tis much less + To make our fortune, than our happiness. + That happiness which great ones often see, + With rage and wonder, in a low degree; + Themselves unblest. The poor are only poor; + But what are they who droop amid their store? + Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state; + The happy only are the truly great. + Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings; + And those best satisfied with cheapest things. + Could both our Indies buy but one new sense, + Our envy would be due to large expense. + Since not, those pomps which to the great belong, + Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng. + See how they beg an alms of flattery! + They languish! oh support them with a lie! + A decent competence we fully taste; + It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast: + More, we perceive by dint of thought alone; + The rich must labor to possess their own, + To feel their great abundance; and request + Their humble friends to help them to be blest; + To see their treasures, hear their glory told, + And aid the wretched impotence of gold. + But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth divine, + Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine. + All hoarded treasures they repute a load; + Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd. + Grand reservoirs of public happiness, + Through secret streams diffusively they bless; + And, while their bounties glide conceal'd from view, + Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too. + But satire is my task; and these destroy + Her gloomy province, and malignant joy. + Help me, ye misers! help me to complain, + And blast our common enemy, Germain: + But our invectives must despair success; + For next to praise, she values nothing less. + What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame? + Or is't Asturia? that affected dame. + The brightest forms, through affectation, fade + To strange new things, which nature never made. + Frown not, ye fair! so much your sex we prize, + We hate those arts that take you from our eyes. + In Albucinda's native grace is seen + What you, who labour at perfection, mean. + Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease, + Retain your gentle selves, and you must please. + Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien, + And all the movements of the soft machine: + How two red lips affected zephyrs blow, + To cool the Bohea, and inflame the beau: + While one white finger, and a thumb, conspire + To lift the cup, and make the world admire. + Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream! + As Lethe, dreadful to the love of fame. + What devastations on thy banks are seen! + What shades of mighty names which once have been! + An hecatomb of characters supplies + Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice. + H----, P----, B----, aspers'd by thee, decay, + As grains of finest sugars melt away, + And recommend thee more to mortal taste: + Scandal's the sweet'ner of a female feast. + But this inhuman triumph shall decline, + And thy revolting naiads call for wine; + Spirits no longer shall serve under thee; + But reign in thy own cup, exploded tea! + Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh, + And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?(16) + The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd, + And what impair'd both health and virtue, blam'd; + At length, to rescue man, the generous lass + Stole from her consort the pernicious glass; + As glorious as the British queen renown'd, + Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound. + Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclin'd, + But every bolder vice of bold mankind. + O Juvenal! for thy severer rage! + To lash the ranker follies of our age. + Are there, among the females of our isle, + Such faults, at which it is a fault to smile? + There are. Vice, once by modest nature chain'd + And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd; + Without thin decency held up to view, + Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too. + Our matrons lead such exemplary lives, + Men sigh in vain for none, but for their wives; + Who marry to be free, to range the more, + And wed one man to wanton with a score. + Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate, + And one eternal tempest of debate. + What foul eruptions, from a look most meek! + What thunders bursting, from a dimpled cheek! + Their passions bear it with a lofty hand! + But then, their reason is at due command. + Is there whom you detest, and seek his life? + Trust no soul with the secret--but his wife. + Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn, + And ask, what kindred is a spouse to them? + What swarms of am'rous grandmothers I see! + And misses, ancient in iniquity? + What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming! + What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming! + Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence; + Such griping av'rice, such profuse expense; + Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes; + Such licens'd ill, such masquerading times; + Such venal faith, such misapplied applause; + Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws; + Such dissolution through the whole I find, + 'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind. + Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress'd belle + Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of hell; + And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all, + Who listens less to Collins than St. Paul. + Atheists have been but rare; since nature's birth, + Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth. + Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs + This daring character, in timorous things? + Who start at feathers, from an insect fly, + A match for nothing--but the Deity. + But, not to wrong the fair, the muse must own + In this pursuit they court not fame alone; + But join to that a more substantial view, + "From thinking free, to be free agents too." + They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down, + In complaisance to all the fools in town. + O how they tremble at the name of prude! + And die with shame at thought of being good! + For what will Artimis, the rich and gay, + What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs say? + They heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave; + Thro' cowardice, most execrably brave. + With our own judgments durst we to comply, + In virtue should we live, in glory die. + Rise then, my muse, in honest fury rise; + They dread a satire, who defy the skies. + Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own; + And nothing but his attributes dethrone. + From Atheists far, they steadfastly believe + God is, and is Almighty----to forgive. + His other excellence they'll not dispute; + But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute. + Shall pleasures of a short duration chain + A lady's soul in everlasting pain? + Will the great Author us poor worms destroy, + For now and then a sip of transient joy? + No, he's for ever in a smiling mood; + He's like themselves, or how could he be good? + And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.-- + Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose, + The pure! the just! and set up, in his stead, + A deity, that's perfectly well bred. + "Dear Tillotson! be sure the best of men; + Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen, + Though once upon a time he misbehav'd; + Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be sav'd. + Let priests do something for their one in ten; + It is their trade; so far they're honest men. + Let them cant on, since they have got the knack, + And dress their notions, like themselves, in black; + Fright us, with terrors of a world unknown, + From joys of this, to keep them all their own. + Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee; + But then they leave our untith'd virtue free. + Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show: + Did ever mortal write like Rochefocaut?" + Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist, + And, pleading, safely enters on his list. + Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain; + Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane. + For what's true beauty, but fair virtue's face? + Virtue made visible in outward grace? + She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind, + The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind. + But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep: + They sleep no more! (17)quadrille has murder'd sleep. + "Poor K--p! cries Livia; I have not been there + These two nights; the poor creature will despair. + I hate a crowd--but to do good, you know-- + And people of condition should bestow." + Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K--p's grave matrons run; + Now set a daughter, and now stake a son; + Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly; + And beggar half their race--thro' charity. + Immortal were we, or else mortal quite, + I less should blame this criminal delight: + But since the gay assembly's gayest room + Is but the upper story of some tomb, + Methinks, we need not our short beings shun, + And, thought to fly, contend to be undone. + We need not buy our ruin with our crime, + And give eternity to murder time. + The love of gaming is the worst of ills; + With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills; + Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood; + Destroys the power and will of doing good; + Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace, + And, what is still more dreadful--spoils your face. + See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil, + The scandal, and the ruin of our isle! + And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band, + A form divine high wave her snowy hand; + That rattles loud a small enchanted box, + Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks. + And as fierce storms, which earth's foundation shook, + From AEolus's cave impetuous broke, + From this small cavern a mix'd tempest flies, + Fear, rage, convulsion, tears, oaths, blasphemies! + For men, I mean,--the fair discharges none; + She (guiltless creature!) swears to heaven alone. + See her eyes start! cheeks glow! and muscles swell! + Like the mad maid in the Cumean cell. + Thus that divine one her soft nights employs! + Thus tunes her soul to tender nuptial joys! + And when the cruel morning calls to bed, + And on her pillow lays her aching head, + With the dear images her dreams are crown'd, + The die spins lovely, or the cards go round; + Imaginary ruin charms her still; + Her happy lord is cuckol'd by spadille: + And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one, + He marks the forehead of her darling son. + O scene of horror, and of wild despair, + Why is the rich Atrides' splended heir + Constrain'd to quit his ancient lordly seat, + And hide his glories in a mean retreat? + Why that drawn sword? And whence that dismal cry? + Why pale distraction thro' the family? + See my lord threaten, and my lady weep, + And trembling servants from the tempest creep. + Why that gay son to distant regions sent? + What fiends that daughter's destin'd match prevent? + Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid? + O nothing, but last night--my lady play'd. + But wanders not my satire from my theme? + Is this too owing to the love of fame? + Though now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd, + 'Twas first a vain devotion to the mode; + Nor cease we here, since 'tis a vice so strong, + The torrent sweeps all womankind along; + This may be said, in honour of our times, + That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes. + If sin you must, take nature for your guide: + Love has some soft excuse to soothe your pride: + Ye fair apostates from love's ancient power! + Can nothing ravish, but a golden shower? + Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize; + Must Cupid learn to punt, ere he can please? + When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast, + What can the preacher more, to make us chaste? + Why must strong youths unmarried pine away? + They find no woman disengag'd----from play. + Why pine the married--O severer fate! + They find from play no disengag'd--estate. + Flavia, at lovers false, untouch'd and hard, + Turns pale, and trembles at a cruel card. + Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age; + Her threescore years are shuffling with her page. + While death stands by, but till the game is done, + To sweep that stake, in justice, long his own; + Like old cards ting'd with sulphur, she takes fire; + Or, like snuffs sunk in sockets, blazes higher. + Ye gods! with new delights inspire the fair; + Or give us sons, and save us from despair. + Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close + In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose: + Yet I believe, as firmly as my creed, + In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed: + Our pride so great, our passion is so strong, + Advice to right confirms us in the wrong. + I hear you cry, "This fellow's very odd." + When you chastise, who would not kiss the rod? + But I've a charm your anger shall control, + And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole. + The charm begins! To yonder flood of light, + That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight. + What guardian power o'erwhelms your souls with awe? + Her deeds are precepts, her example law; + 'Midst empire's charms, how Carolina's heart + Glows with the love of virtue, and of art! + Her favour is diffus'd to that degree, + Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me: + When in my page, to balance numerous faults, + Or godlike deeds were shown, or gen'rous thoughts, + She smil'd, industrious to be pleas'd, nor knew + From whom my pen the borrow'd lustre drew. + (18)Thus the majestic mother of mankind, + To her own charms most amiably blind, + On the green margin innocently stood, + And gaz'd indulgent on the crystal flood; + Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave, + And, smiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave. + + + + + Satire VII. + + + To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole. + + + Carmina tum melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus. + + VIRG. + + + On this last labour, this my closing strain, + Smile, Walpole! or the Nine inspire in vain: + To thee, 'tis due; that verse how justly thine, + Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole design! + That glory, which thy counsels make so bright; + That glory, which on thee reflects a light. + Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known! + To give, and take, a lustre from the throne. + Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme; + The fountain is not foreign to the stream. + How all mankind will be surprised, to see + This flood of British folly charg'd on thee! + Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons, + Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs? + The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless; + For caprice is the daughter of success, + (A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!) + And gives our rulers undesign'd applause; + Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase, + And lulls us in the downy lap of peace. + While I survey the blessings of our isle, + Her arts triumphant in the royal smile, + Her public wounds bound up, her credit high, + Her commerce spreading sails in every sky, + The pleasing scene recalls my theme again, + And shows the madness of ambitious men, + Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword, + And burn to give mankind a single lord. + The follies past are of a private kind; + Their sphere is small; their mischief is confin'd: + But daring men there are (Awake, my muse, + And raise thy verse!) who bolder frenzy choose; + Who stung by glory, rave, and bound away; + The world their field, and humankind their prey. + The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride, + With rage and terror stalking by his side, + Raves round the globe; he soars into a god! + Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod. + The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns, + And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains, + What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze! + What wasted countries! and what crimson seas! + With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows, + And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose. + And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise + The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays? + Why want we then encomiums on the storm, + Or famine, or volcano? They perform + Their mighty deeds: they, hero-like, can slay, + And spread their ample desarts in a day. + O great alliance! O divine renown! + With dearth, and pestilence, to share the crown. + When men extol a wild destroyer's name, + Earth's builder and preserver they blaspheme. + One to destroy, is murder by the law; + And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; + To murder thousands, takes a specious name, + War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame. + When, after battle, I the field have seen + Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men; + A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave! + A realm of death! and on this side the grave! + Are there, said I, who from this sad survey, + This human chaos, carry smiles away? + How did my heart with indignation rise! + How honest nature swell'd into my eyes! + How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade + Of such materials, fame and triumph made! + How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they, + Who reach false glory by a smoother way: + Who wrap destruction up in gentle words, + And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords; + Who stifle nature, and subsist on art; + Who coin the face, and petrify the heart; + All real kindness for the show discard, + As marble polish'd, and as marble hard; + Who do for gold what Christians do thro' grace, + "With open arms their enemies embrace:" + Who give a nod when broken hearts repine; + "The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine:" + Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd, + And, in their height of kindness, are unkind. + Such courtiers were, and such again may be, + Walpole! when men forget to copy thee. + Here cease, my muse! the catalogue is writ; + Nor one more candidate for fame admit, + Tho' disappointed thousands justly blame + Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim: + Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here, + May furnish laughter for another year. + Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refused + The justice yet of being well abus'd, + With patience wait; and be content to reign + The pink of puppies in some future strain. + Some future strain, in which the muse shall tell + How science dwindles, and how volumes swell. + How commentators each dark passage shun, + And hold their farthing candle to the sun. + How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made, + And every vice is to the scripture laid. + How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer; + His sins to Lucifer not half so dear. + How Verres is less qualified to steal + With sword and pistol, than with wax and seal. + How lawyers' fees to such excess are run, + That clients are redress'd till they're undone. + How one man's anguish is another's sport; + And ev'n denials cost us dear at court. + How man eternally false judgments makes, + And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes. + This swarm of themes that settles on my pen, + Which I, like summer flies, shake off again, + Let others sing; to whom my weak essay + But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey: + That duty done, I hasten to complete + My own design; for Tonson's at the gate. + The love of fame in its effect survey'd, + The muse has sung; be now the cause display'd: + Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway, + What is this power, whom all mankind obey? + Shot from above, by heaven's indulgence, came + This generous ardour, this unconquer'd flame, + To warm, to raise, to deify, mankind, + Still burning brightest in the noblest mind. + By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd, + Wise laws were fram'd, and sacred arts were found; + Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest, + And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast; + It bids Argyll in fields and senate shine. + What more can prove its origin divine? + But, oh! this passion planted in the soul, + On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole, + The flaming minister of virtue meant, + Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent. + Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force, + Of blots, and beauties, an alternate source; + Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit, + Who thrives upon the carcasses of wit; + And in art-loving Scarborough is seen + How kind a pattern Pollio might have been. + Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools, + And into coxcombs burnishes our fools; + Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright, + And Newton lifts above a mortal height; + That key of nature, by whose wit she clears + Her long, long secrets of five thousand years. + Would you then fully comprehend the whole, + Why, and in what degrees, pride sways the soul? + (For though in all, not equally, she reigns,) + Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains. + Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose, + As true, as if't were writ in dullest prose; + As if a letter'd dunce had said, "'Tis right," + And imprimatur usher'd it to light. + Ambition, in the truly noble mind, + With sister virtue is for ever join'd; + As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread, + From guilt, and shame, by her last conduct, fled: + Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain, + And the sword pointed at her heart in vain; + But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid + Dead by her side, her love of fame obey'd. + In meaner minds ambition works alone; + But with such art puts virtue's aspect on, + That not more like in feature and in mien, + (19)The god and mortal in the comic scene. + False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise, + Soon made the Roman liberties his prize. + No mask in basest minds ambition wears, + But in full light pricks up her ass's ears: + All I have sung are instances of this, + And prove my theme unfolded not amiss. + Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife; + Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life, + The true ambition there alone resides, + Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides; + Where inward dignity joins outward state; + Our purpose good, as our achievement great; + Where public blessings public praise attend; + Where glory is our motive, not our end. + Wouldst thou be fam'd? Have those high deeds in view + Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue. + Behold a prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame; + No pride of thrones, no fever after fame! + But when the welfare of mankind inspires, + And death in view to dear-bought glory fires, + Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight; + Then crowns, then triumphs, sparkle in his sight; + Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring + His people's blessings to their ardent king: + But, when those great heroic motives cease, + His swelling soul subsides to native peace; + From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws, + A sudden foe to splendour and applause; + Greatly deferring his arrears of fame, + Till men and angels jointly shout his name. + O pride celestial! which can pride disdain; + O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain. + From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the sky, + In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie, + Here burst the Rhone, and sounding Po; there shine, + In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine; + From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies, + Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise. + In Brunswick such a source the muse adores, + Which public blessings thro' half Europe pours. + When his heart burns with such a godlike aim, + Angels and George are rivals for the fame; + George! who in foes can soft affections raise, + And charm envenom'd satire into praise. + (20)Nor human rage alone his power perceives, + But the mad winds, and the tumultuous waves. + Ev'n storms (death's fiercest ministers!) forbear, + And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare. + Thus, nature's self, supporting man's decree, + Styles Britain's sovereign, sovereign of the sea. + While sea and air, great Brunswick! shook our state, + And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate, + Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and press'd by fear + Of ever losing what she held most dear, + How did Britannia, like (21)Achilles, weep, + And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep! + Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm, + Strive, for thee, with the surge, and fight the storm + What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm! + Our Palinurus(22) slept not at the helm; + His eye ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake, + And out-watch every star for Brunswick's sake: + By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest, + He found the tempest pictur'd in his breast: + But, now, what joys that gloom of heart dispel, + No powers of language--but his own, can tell: + His own, which nature and the graces form, + At will, to raise, or hush, the civil storm. + + + + + + OCEAN: AN ODE + + + occasioned by His Majesty's Royal Encouragement of the Sea Service. + + + To Which is Prefixed an Ode to the King; and a Discourse on Ode. + + + I think myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the + greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great + happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the + foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase + and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be + invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter + into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall + require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people + great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to + mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be + taken, by some addition to that fund, to render comfortable and + effectual that charitable provision, for the support and + maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age + and infirmities, in the service of their country. + + [Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.] + + + + + To the King.--1728. + + + Old ocean's praise + Demands my lays; + A truly British theme I sing; + A theme so great, + I dare complete, + And join with ocean, ocean's king. + + The Roman ode + Majestic flow'd: + Its stream divinely clear, and strong; + In sense, and sound, + Thebes roll'd profound; + The torrent roar'd and foam'd along. + + Let Thebes, nor Rome, + So fam'd, presume + To triumph o'er a northern isle; + Late time shall know + The north can glow, + If dread Augustus deign to smile. + + The naval crown + Is all his own! + Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call, + His will performs + Through waves and storms, + And rides in triumph round the ball. + + No former race, + With strong embrace, + This theme to ravish durst aspire; + With virgin charms + My soul it warms, + And melts melodious on my lyre. + + My lays I file + With cautious toil; + Ye graces! turn the glowing lines; + On anvils neat + Your strokes repeat; + At every stroke the work refines! + + How music charms! + How metre warms! + Parent of actions, good and brave! + How vice it tames! + And worth inflames! + And holds proud empire o'er the grave! + + Jove mark'd for man + A scanty span, + But lent him wings to fly his doom; + Wit scorns the grave; + To wit he gave + The life of gods! immortal bloom! + + Since years will fly, + And pleasures die, + Day after day, as years advance; + Since, while life lasts, + Joy suffers blasts + From frowning fate, and fickle chance; + + Nor life is long; + But soon we throng, + Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore; + We make, at least, + Of bad the best, + If in life's phantom, fame, we soar. + + Our strains divide + The laurel's pride; + With those we lift to life, to live; + By fame enroll'd + With heroes bold, + And share the blessings which we give. + + What hero's praise + Can fire my lays, + Like his, with whom my lay begun? + "Justice sincere, + And courage clear, + Rise the two columns of his throne. + + "How form'd for sway! + Who look, obey; + They read the monarch in his port: + Their love and awe + Supply the law; + And his own lustre makes the court:" + + On yonder height, + What golden light + Triumphant shines? and shines alone? + Unrivall'd blaze! + The nations gaze! + 'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne. + + Our monarch, there, + Rear'd high in air, + Should tempests rise, disdains to bend; + Like British oak, + Derides the stroke; + His blooming honours far extend! + + Beneath them lies, + With lifted eyes, + Fair Albion, like an amorous maid; + While interest wings + Bold foreign kings + To fly, like eagles, to his shade. + + At his proud foot + The sea, pour'd out, + Immortal nourishment supplies; + Thence wealth and state, + And power and fate, + Which Europe reads in George's eyes. + + From what we view, + We take the clue, + Which leads from great to greater thing + Men doubt no more, + But gods adore, + When such resemblance shines in kings. + + + + + On Lyric Poetry. + + +How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak +a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at +least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; +and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration +for success in it. + +To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we +undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as +also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in +speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad +poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most +vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But +poetry in its own nature is certainly + + + Non hos quaesitum munus in usus. + + --VIRG. + + +He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in +it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little +degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly +by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to +himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with +which to chastise his opinion of it. + +Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other +kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and +because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the +non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence +the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity +consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick +resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and +justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from +this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, +things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as +consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on +them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they +become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel. + + + Concordes animae--dum nocte prementur; + Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitae + Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt! + Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires. + Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella. + Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo, + Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et coelestibus armis, + Projice tela manu, sanguis meus! + Nec te ullae facies, non terruit ipse Typhoeus + Arduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens, + Contemtorque Deum Mezentius. + + VIRG. + + +But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he +undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise +up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not +absolutely, impossible. + +These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is +infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, +and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who +have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance +or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of +modesty or conceit. + +Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in +things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to +himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, +before he begins his perusal of it. + +The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and +more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and +conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers +full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, +yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct +should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. +That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some +compositions, takes away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and +select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the +most pitiful error a pen can commit. + + + Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum. + + +And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; +otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary +burlesque. + +It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to +startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to +mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in +their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright +objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful +to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic +at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; +and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. +Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to +think they see a monster, when they see a man. + +And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she +has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the +comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow +limits of their own comprehensions and relish. + +Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all +compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, +as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only, +can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind. + +But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; +that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged +in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful +lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, +it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation. + +It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger; +the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's +style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error: +nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders +itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary. + +Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy +fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if +any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his +diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, +through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still +admirable; and, Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judaea +is to Scotland. + +Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric +poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a +stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of +art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest +commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to +taste of her charms; + + + Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus; + + +a danger which Horace declares he durst not run. + +Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all +over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she +seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find. + +Sappho's Muse, like Lady ----, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil +set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few +fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which +remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was +dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient +ornament for the goddess of beauty herself. + +Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, +and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the +fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a +felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by +this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, +which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing +full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the +world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own +understandings. + +But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think +Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this +kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to +the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express +majesty, (viz.) + + + Assumes the God, + Affects to nod, + And seems to shake the spheres, + + +are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great. + +For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which +laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and +pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which +the moderns are too fond) but from this truth. + +But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That +is, he must make rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, +as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives +neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, +reputation to the poet. + +To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not +flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not +ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not +loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least +sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work +of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted; +otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a +secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a +contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much +from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. +Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great +standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, +for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should +rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental +methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a +distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. +For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us their +inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not +so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage +are not so liable to the thief. + +The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects; +which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, +noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this +occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung. + +If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the +spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music +alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;" + + + Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae; + + +if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, +soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided +rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet +indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country +and my king. + +And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above +being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; +And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of +poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected +the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine air partakes more of the +negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life-- + + + Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suae pondus. + + --PETRON. + + +A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its +spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at +a hair or a nail. And we know the cause was + + + Quia ponere totum + Nescius. + + HOR. + + +To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that +those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole +of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only +envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he +that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual +means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the +knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very +celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should +condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its +full extent. + + + + + Ocean. An Ode. + + + Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands. + + PSALM XCVIII. + + + Sweet rural scene! + Of flocks and green! + At careless ease my limbs are spread; + All nature still, + But yonder rill; + And list'ning pines nod o'er my head: + + In prospect wide, + The boundless tide! + Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; + Without a breeze, + The curling seas + Dance on, in measure to the shore. + + Who sings the source + Of wealth and force? + Vast field of commerce, and big war, + Where wonders dwell! + Where terrors swell! + And Neptune thunders from his car? + + Where? where are they, + Whom Paean's ray + Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?-- + What! none aspire? + I snatch the lyre, + And plunge into the foaming wave. + + The wave resounds! + The rock rebounds! + The Nereids to my song reply! + I lead the choir, + And they conspire, + With voice and shell, to lift it high. + + They spread in air + Their bosoms fair, + Their verdant tresses pour behind: + The billows beat + With nimble feet, + With notes triumphant swell the wind. + + Who love the shore, + Let those adore + The god Apollo, and his Nine, + Parnassus' hill, + And Orpheus' skill; + But let Arion's harp be mine. + + The main! the main! + Is Britain's reign; + Her strength, her glory, is her fleet: + The main! the main! + Be Britain's strain; + As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet. + + Thro' nature wide + Is nought descried + So rich in pleasure or surprise; + When all-serene, + How sweet the scene! + How dreadful, when the billows rise; + + And storms deface + The fluid glass, + In which erewhile Britannia fair + Look'd down with pride, + Like Ocean's bride, + Adjusting her majestic air! + + When tempests cease, + And, hush'd in peace, + The flatten'd surges smoothly spread, + Deep silence keep, + And seem to sleep + Recumbent on their oozy bed; + + With what a trance, + The level glance, + Unbroken, shoots along the seas! + Which tempt from shore + The painted oar; + And every canvass courts the breeze! + + When rushes forth + The frowning north + On black'ning billows, with what dread + My shuddering soul + Beholds them roll, + And hears their roarings o'er my head! + + With terror mark + Yon flying bark! + Now center-deep descend the brave; + Now, toss'd on high, + It takes the sky, + A feather on the tow'ring wave! + + Now spins around + In whirls profound: + Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds; + Now stunn'd, it reels + 'Midst thunder's peals: + And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds. + + All ether burns! + Chaos returns! + And blends, once more, the seas and skies: + No space between + Thy bosom green, + O deep! and the blue concave, lies. + + The northern blast, + The shatter'd mast, + The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, + The breaking spout, + The stars gone out, + The boiling streight, the monsters shock, + + Let others fear; + To Britain dear + Whate'er promotes her daring claim; + Those terrors charm, + Which keep her warm + In chase of honest gain, or fame. + + The stars are bright + To cheer the night, + And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire; + And Phoebus' flames, + With burnish'd beams, + Which some adore, and all admire. + + Are then the seas + Outshone by these? + Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone; + With kinder beams, + And softer gleams, + Thy bosom wears them as thy own. + + There, set in green, + Gold stars are seen, + A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; + And when the sun + His race has run, + He falls enamour'd in thy lap. + + Those clouds, whose dyes + Adorn the skies, + That silver snow, that pearly rain, + Has Phoebus stole + To grace the pole, + The plunder of th' invaded main! + + The gaudy bow, + Whose colours glow, + Whose arch with so much skill is bent, + To Phoebus' ray, + Which paints so gay, + By thee the wat'ry woof was lent. + + In chambers deep, + Where waters sleep, + What unknown treasures pave the floor! + The pearl, in rows, + Pale lustre throws; + The wealth immense, which storms devour. + + From Indian mines, + With proud designs, + The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore; + The tempests rise, + And seize the prize, + And toss him breathless on the shore. + + His son complains + In pious strains, + "Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries; + Then ploughs the main, + In zeal for gain, + The tears yet swelling in his eyes. + + Thou wat'ry vast! + What mounds are cast + To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er! + Thy proudest foam + Must know its home; + But rage of gold disdains a shore. + + Gold pleasure buys; + But pleasure dies, + Too soon the gross fruition cloys; + Tho' raptures court, + The sense is short; + But virtue kindles living joys; + + Joys felt alone! + Joys ask'd of none! + Which time's and fortune's arrows miss: + Joys that subsist, + Tho' fates resist, + An unprecarious, endless bliss! + + The soul refin'd + Is most inclin'd + To every moral excellence; + All vice is dull, + A knave's a fool; + And virtue is the child of sense. + + The virtuous mind, + Nor wave, nor wind, + Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown, + The shaken ball, + Nor planet's fall, + From its firm basis can dethrone. + + This Britain knows, + And therefore glows + With gen'rous passions, and expends + Her wealth and zeal + On public weal, + And brightens both by god-like ends. + + What end so great + As that which late + Awoke the genius of the main; + Which tow'ring rose + With George to close, + And rival great Eliza's reign? + + A voice has flown + From Britain's throne + To re-inflame a grand design; + That voice shall rear + Yon (23)fabric fair, + As nature's rose at the divine. + + When nature sprung, + Blest angels sung, + And shouted o'er the rising ball; + For strains as high + As man's can fly, + These sea-devoted honours call. + + From boist'rous seas, + The lap of ease + Receives our wounded, and our old; + High domes ascend! + Stretch'd arches bend! + Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold! + + Here, soft reclin'd, + From wave, from wind, + And fortune's tempest safe ashore, + To cheat their care, + Of former war + They talk the pleasing shadows o'er. + + In lengthen'd tales, + Our fleet prevails; + In tales the lenitives of age! + And o'er the bowl, + They fire the soul + Of list'ning youth, to martial rage. + + Unhappy they! + And falsely gay! + Who bask for ever in success; + A constant feast + Quite palls the taste, + And long enjoyment is distress. + + When, after toil, + His native soil + The panting mariner regains, + What transport flows + From bare repose! + We reap our pleasure from our pains. + + Ye warlike slain! + Beneath the main, + Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet; + Who bought with blood + Your country's good, + Your country's (24)full-blown glory greet. + + What pow'rful charm + Can death disarm? + Your long, your iron slumbers break? + By Jove, by Fame, + By George's name, + Awake! awake! awake! awake! + + With spiral shell, + Full blasted, tell, + That all your wat'ry realms should ring; + Your pearl alcoves, + Your coral groves, + Should echo theirs, and Britain's king. + + As long as stars + Guide mariners, + As Carolina's virtues please, + Or suns invite + The ravish'd sight, + The British flag shall sweep the seas. + + Peculiar both! + Our soil's strong growth, + And our bold natives' hardy mind; + Sure heaven bespoke + Our hearts and oak, + To give a master to mankind. + + That noblest birth + Of teeming earth, + Of forests fair, that daughter proud, + To foreign coasts + Our grandeur boasts, + And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud: + + Now big with war, + Sends fate from far, + If rebel realms their fate demand, + Now, sumptuous spoils + Of foreign soils + Pours in the bosom of our land. + + Hence Britain lays + In scales, and weighs + The fate of kingdoms, and of kings; + And as she frowns, + Or smiles, on crowns + A night, or day of glory, springs. + + Thus ocean swells + The streams and rills, + And to their borders lifts them high; + Or else withdraws + The mighty cause, + And leaves their famish'd channels dry. + + How mixt, how frail, + How sure to fail, + Is every pleasure of mankind! + A damp destroys + My blooming joys, + While Britain's glory fires my mind. + + For who can gaze + On restless seas, + Unstruck with life's more restless state? + Where all are tost, + And most are lost, + By tides of passion, blasts of fate? + + The world's the main, + How vext! how vain! + Ambition swells, and anger foams; + May good men find, + Beneath the wind, + A noiseless shore, unruffled homes! + + The public scene + Of harden'd men + Teach me, O teach me to despise! + The world few know + But to their woe, + Our crimes with our experience rise; + + All tender sense + Is banish'd thence, + All maiden nature's first alarms + What shock'd before + Disgust no more, + And what disgusted has its charms. + + In landscapes green + True bliss is seen, + With innocence, in shades, she sports; + In wealthy towns + Proud labour frowns, + And painted sorrow smiles in courts. + + These scenes untried + Seduc'd my pride, + To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast; + Till wisdom came, + A hoary dame! + And told me pleasure was in rest. + + "O may I steal + Along the vale + Of humble life, secure from foes! + My friend sincere! + My judgment clear! + And gentle business my repose! + + "My mind be strong + To combat wrong! + Grateful, O king! for favours shown! + Soft to complain + For others' pain! + And bold to triumph o'er my own! + + "(When fortune's kind) + Acute to find, + And warm to relish every boon! + And wise to still + Fantastic ill, + Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon! + + "No fruitless toils! + No brainless broils! + Each moment levell'd at the mark! + Our day so short + Invites to sport; + Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark. + + "Yet, prudence, still + Rein thou my will! + What's most important, make most dear! + For 'tis in this + Resides true bliss; + True bliss, a deity severe! + + "When temper leans + To gayer scenes, + And serious life void moments spares, + The sylvan chase + My sinews brace! + Or song unbend my mind from cares! + + "Nor shun, my soul! + The genial bowl, + Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow! + Ingredients these, + Above, to please + The laughing gods, the wise, below. + + "Though rich the vine, + More wit than wine, + More sense than wit, good-will than art, + May I provide! + Fair truth, my pride! + My joy, the converse of the heart! + + "The gloomy brow, + The broken vow, + To distant climes, ye gods! remove! + The nobly soul'd + Their commerce hold + With words of truth and looks of love! + + "O glorious aim! + O wealth supreme! + Divine benevolence of soul! + That greatly glows, + And freely flows, + And in one blessing grasps the whole; + + "Prophetic schemes, + And golden dreams, + May I, unsanguine, cast away! + Have, what I have! + And live, not leave, + Enamour'd of the present day! + + "My hours my own! + My faults unknown! + My chief revenue in content! + Then, leave one beam + Of honest fame! + And scorn the labour'd monument! + + "Unhurt my urn! + Till that great turn + When mighty nature's self shall die! + Time cease to glide, + With human pride, + Sunk in the ocean of eternity." + + + + + + A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.(25) + + + To the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Parker, Baron of Macclesfield, Lord + High Chancellor of Great Britain, etc. etc. + + +My Lord, + +Though I have not the honour of being known to your lordship, I presume to +take a privilege which men of retirement are apt to think themselves in +possession of, as being the only method they have of making their way to +persons of your lordship's high station without struggling through +multitudes for access. I may possibly fail in my respect to your lordship, +even while I endeavour to show it most; but if I err, it is because I +imagined I ought not to make my first approach to one of your lordship's +exalted character with less ceremony than that of a dedication. It is +annexed to the condition of eminent merit, not to suffer more from the +malice of its enemies, than from the importunity of its admirers; and +perhaps it would be unjust, that your lordship should hope to be exempted +from the troubles, when you possess all the talents, of a patron. + +I have here a fair occasion to celebrate those sublime qualities, of which +a whole nation is sensible, were it not inconsistent with the design of my +present application. By the just discharge of your great employments, your +lordship may well deserve the prayers of the distressed, the thanks of +your country, and the approbation of your royal master: this indeed is a +reason why every good Briton should applaud your lordship; but it is +equally a reason why none should disturb you in the execution of your +important affairs by works of fancy and amusement. I was therefore induced +to make this address to your lordship, by considering you rather in the +amiable light of a person distinguished for a refined taste of the polite +arts, and the candour that usually attends it, than in the dignity of your +public character. + +The greatness and solemnity of the subjects treated of in the following +work cannot fail in some measure to recommend it to a person who holds in +the utmost veneration those sacred books from which it is taken; and would +at the same time justify to the world my choice of the great name prefixed +to it, could I be assured that the undertaking had not suffered in my +hands. Thus much I think myself obliged to say; that if this little +performance had not been very indulgently spoken of by some, whose +judgment is universally allowed in writings of this nature, I had not +dared to gratify my ambition in offering it to your lordship: I am +sensible that I am endeavouring to excuse one vanity by another; but I +hope I shall meet with pardon for it, since it is visibly intended to show +the great submission and respect with which I am, my lord, your lordship's +most obedient and most humble servant, + + EDWARD YOUNG. + + Thrice happy Job(26) long liv'd in regal state, + Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great; + Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd, + Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd. + At length misfortunes take their turn to reign, + And ills on ills succeed; a dreadful train! + What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong, + The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue, + And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er + So thick with pains, they wanted room for more? + A change so sad what mortal heart could bear? + Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear; + But gave him all to grief. Low earth he prest, + Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast. + His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd, + Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd; + In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent, + And seven long days in solemn silence spent; + A debt of rev'rence to distress so great! + Then Job contain'd no more; but cursed his fate. + His day of birth, its inauspicious light + He wishes sunk in shades of endless night, + And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave + Death, instant death; impatient for the grave, + That seat of bliss, that mansion of repose, + Where rest and mortals are no longer foes; + Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings + (O happy turn!) no more are wretched things. + His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends; + His conduct they reprove, and he defends; + And now they kindled into warm debate, + And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat; + Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield, + And summon all their reason to the field: + So high at length their arguments were wrought, + They reach'd the last extent of human thought: + A pause ensu'd.--When, lo! Heaven interpos'd, + And awfully the long contention clos'd. + Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise, + A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies: + (They saw, and trembled!(27)) From the darkness broke + A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke. + Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain, + Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign? + Lifts up his thoughts against me from the dust, + And tells the world's Creator what is just? + Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye, + Face my demand, and give it a reply: + Where didst thou dwell at nature's early birth? + Who laid foundations for the spacious earth? + Who on its surface did extend the line, + Its form determine, and its bulk confine? + Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare, + Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air; + When the bright morning stars in concert sung, + When heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung; + When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd, + And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound? + Earth's num'rous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them all? + And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? + Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, + And casts its shadow into distant lands? + Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, + Can that wide world in due subjection keep? + I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow'd side, + And did a bason for the floods provide; + I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea, + Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree; + "(28)Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd; + And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd." + Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep, + Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep? + Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day, + Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea? + Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread, + Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head? + Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee? + Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see? + E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade + To the black portal through th' incumbent shade? + Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide + My counsels from the ken of human pride. + Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome? + And where has darkness made her dismal home? + Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught + With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought; + Since nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, + And into being rose beneath thine eye! + Are mists begotten? Who their father knew? + From whom descend the pearly drops of dew? + To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast, + Or whiten morning with the hoary frost? + Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown, + Touches the sea, and turns it into stone? + The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent + argument, that Moses is author of the book of Job.] + A sudden desart spreads o'er realms defac'd, + And lays one half of the creation waste? + Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot see + How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. + Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou + In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow? + And, when day triumphs in meridian light, + Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night? + Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll + Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole? + Who can refresh the burning sandy plain, + And quench the summer with a waste of rain? + Who, in rough desarts, far from human toil, + Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile? + There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone, + And spreads its beauties to the sun alone. + To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high, + And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky + When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins, + Her naked mountains, and her russet plains; + But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields + Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields; + When groves and forests lavish all their bloom, + And earth and heaven are fill'd with rich perfume? + Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen + Of hail and snows my northern magazine? + These the dread treasures of mine anger are, + My funds of vengeance for the day of war, + When clouds rain death, and storms, at my command, + Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land. + Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast, + Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast? + Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour? + Who strikes through nature with the solemn roar + Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall, + And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball? + Not he who trembles at the darted fires, + Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires. + Who drew the comet out to such a size, + And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies? + Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he + Glare on the nations, and denounce, from thee? + Who on low earth can moderate the rein, + That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain? + Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, + Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? + Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, + And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? + Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, + Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? + Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, + And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow? + Mine is the night, with all her stars; I pour + Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store. + Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall be born, + And draw the purple curtain of the morn; + Awake the sun, and bid him come away, + And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? + Hast thou, inthron'd in flaming glory, driven + Triumphant round the spacious ring of heaven? + That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, + That distant earth lies basking in the blaze? + Who did the soul with her rich powers invest, + And light up reason in the human breast? + To shine, with fresh increase of lustre, bright, + When stars and sun are set in endless night? + To these my various questions make reply. + Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky. + What then, Chaldaean sire, was thy surprise! + Thus thou, with trembling heart, and downcast eyes: + "Once and again, which I in groans deplore, + My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more. + My voice is in eternal silence bound, + And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground." + He ceas'd: when, lo! again th' Almighty spoke; + The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke. + Can that arm measure with an arm divine? + And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine? + Or in the hollow of thy hand contain + The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main, + When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise + In all their rage, and dash the distant skies? + Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd; + And be the grandeur of thy power display'd; + Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make + The spacious round of the creation shake; + Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthow + Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low, + And crumble them to dust. When this is done, + I grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone; + Of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand + Behind the buckler of thine own right hand. + Fond man! the vision of a moment made! + Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! + What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd, + What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd? + When (29)pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood + Loud calls on God, importunate for food, + Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, + And stills the clamour of the craving nest? + Who in the stupid ostrich(30) has subdu'd + A parent's care, and fond inquietude? + While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, + Without an owner, on the sandy ground; + Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie, + And borrow life from an indulgent sky; + Adopted by the sun, in blaze of day, + They ripen under his prolific ray. + Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread + May crush her young in their neglected bed. + (31)What time she skims along the field with speed, + (32)She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed. + How rich the peacock!(33) what bright glories run + From plume to plume, and vary in the sun! + He proudly spreads them, to the golden ray + Gives all his colours, and adorns the day; + With conscious state the specious round displays, + And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. + Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, + Perpetual summer, and a change of skies? + When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, + Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; + The sun returning, she returns again, + Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. + Tho' strong the hawk,(34) tho' practis'd well to fly, + An eagle drops her in a lower sky; + An eagle, when, deserting human sight, + She seeks the sun in her unwearied flight: + Did thy command her yellow pinion lift + So high in air, and set her on the clift, + Where far above thy world she dwells alone, + And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own; + (35)Thence wide o'er nature takes her dread survey, + And with a glance predestinates her prey? + She feasts her young with blood; and, hov'ring o'er + Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore. + (36)Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd, + Roll o'er the mountain goat, and forest hind, + While pregnant they a mother's load sustain? + They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain. + Hale are their young, from human frailties freed; + Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed; + They live at once; forsake the dam's warm side; + Take the wide world, with nature for their guide; + Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade; + And find a home in each delightful shade. + Will the tall reem, which knows no lord but me, + Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee; + Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke, + Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke? + Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care; + Lay on his neck the toil of all the year; + Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors, + And cast his load among thy gather'd stores. + Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge, + And break his bonds, and bid him live at large, + Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam, + And lose himself in his unbounded home? + By nature's hand magnificently fed, + His meal is on the range of mountains spread; + As in pure air aloft he bounds along, + He sees in distant smoke the city throng; + Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train, + The threat'ning driver, and the servile rein. + Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest + With thunder his robust distended chest? + No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays; + 'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze; + To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, + And triumphs in the fulness of his might; + High rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar, + And burns to plunge amid the raging war; + And mocks at death, and throws his foam around, + And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. + How does his firm, his rising heart, advance + Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance; + While his fix'd eyeballs meet the dazzling shield, + Gaze, and return the lightning of the field! + He sinks the sense of pain in gen'rous pride, + Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side; + But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast + Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last. + But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks, + Grimly majestic in his lonely walks; + When round he glares, all living creatures fly; + He clears the desart with his rolling eye. + Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command, + And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand? + Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow, + And to his gloomy den the morsel throw, + Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood, + And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood; + Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day, + In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey? + (37)By the pale moon they take their destin'd round, + And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground. + Now shrieks, and dying groans, the desart fill; + They rage, they rend; their rav'nous jaws distill + With crimson foam; and, when the banquet's o'er, + They stride away, and paint their steps with gore; + In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust, + And shudders at the talon in the dust. + Mild is my behemoth, though large his frame; + Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame, + While unprovok'd. This native of the flood + Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food; + Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along + To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng. + See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound, + All over proof and shut against a wound. + How like a mountain cedar moves his tail! + Nor can his complicated sinews fail. + Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass + The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass; + His port majestic, and his armed jaw, + Give the wide forest, and the mountain, law. + The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire + The mighty stranger, and in dread retire: + At length his greatness nearer they survey, + Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey. + The fens and marshes are his cool retreat, + His noontide shelter from the burning heat; + Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made, + And groves of willows give him all their shade. + His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fir'd with drought, + He trusts to turn its current down his throat; + In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain: + (38)He sinks a river, and he thirsts again. + (39)Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side, + Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide: + With slender hair leviathan command, + And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand. + Will he become thy servant? Will he own + Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown? + Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day, + And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play? + Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize? + And the bowl journey round his ample size? + Or the debating merchants share the prey, + And various limbs to various marts convey? + Thro' his firm skull what steel its way can win? + What forceful engine can subdue his skin? + Fly far, and live; tempt not his matchless might: + The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight; + (40)The rashest dare not rouse him up: Who then + Shall turn on me, among the sons of men? + Am I a debtor? Hast thou ever heard + Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd? + My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills, + And mine the herds, that graze a thousand hills: + Earth, sea, and air, all nature is my own; + And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne. + And dar'st thou with the world's great Father vie, + Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye? + At full my huge leviathan shall rise, + Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size. + Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail, + Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale? + Whose heart sustains him to draw near? (41)Behold, + Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold, + And, marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose + Teeth edg'd with death, and crowding rows on rows: + What hideous fangs on either side arise! + And what a deep abyss between them lies! + Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound, + The one how long, the other how profound. + His bulk is charg'd with such a furious soul, + That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll, + As from a furnace; and, when rous'd his ire, + (42)Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire. + The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas, + Thy terror, this thy great superior please; + Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state; + His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete; + His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part; + As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart. + When, late awak'd, he rears him from the floods, + And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds, + Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height, + And strikes the distant hills with transient light, + Far round are fatal damps of terror spread, + The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread. + (43)Large is his front; and, when his burnish'd eyes + Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise. + In vain may death in various shapes invade, + The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade; + His naked breast their impotence defies; + The dart rebounds, the brittle fauchion flies. + Shut in himself, the war without he hears, + Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears; + The cumber'd strand their wasted volleys strow; + His sport, the rage and labour of the foe. + His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood, + And blacken ocean with the rising mud; + The billows feel him, as he works his way; + His hoary footsteps shine along the sea; + The foam high-wrought, with white divides the green, + And distant sailors point where death has been. + His like earth bears not on her spacious face: + Alone in nature stands his dauntless race, + For utter ignorance of fear renown'd, + In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around: + Makes every swoln, disdainful heart, subside, + And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride. + Then the Chaldaean eas'd his lab'ring breast, + With full conviction of his crime opprest. + "Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might: + And every thought is naked to thy sight. + But, oh! thy ways are wonderful, and lie + Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye. + Oft have I heard of thine Almighty power; + But never saw thee till this dreadful hour. + O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see, + Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee. + Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more: + Man is not made to question, but adore." + + + + + + ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION; + + + Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More + Naturally.(44) + + + Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies, + Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies: + The daring artist, cruelly serene, + Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien; + He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries, + Examines every spirit as it flies: + He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, + To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; + Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, + Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face. + Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught! + With its full charge of death each feature fraught, + Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, + From his own skill he starts in horror lost. + + + + + + TO MR. ADDISON, + + + On the Tragedy of Cato. + + + What do we see? Is Cato then become + A greater name in Britain than in Rome? + Does mankind now admire his virtues more, + Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before? + How will posterity this truth explain? + "Cato begins to live in Anna's reign." + The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms, + Rise in your lines with more exalted charms; + Illustrious deeds in distant nations wrought, + And virtues by departed heroes taught, + Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame, + Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame; + To your renown all ages you subdue, + And Caesar fought, and Cato bled for you. + + All Souls Coll. Oxon. + + + + + + HISTORICAL EPILOGUE TO THE BROTHERS. + + + A Tragedy. + + + An Epilogue, through custom, is your right, + But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night: + To-night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies, + Guilt's dreadful close our narrow scene denies. + In history's authentic record read + What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade; + Vengeance so great, that, when his tale is told, + With pity some e'en Perseus may behold. + Perseus surviv'd, indeed, and fill'd the throne, + But ceaseless cares in conquest made him groan: + Nor reign'd he long; from Rome swift thunder flew, + And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw: + Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led, + For this night's deed his perjur'd bosom bled: + His brother's ghost each moment made him start, + And all his father's anguish rent his heart. + When, rob'd in black, his children round him hung, + And their rais'd arms in early sorrow wrung; + The younger smil'd, unconscious of their woe; + At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow; + So sad the scene! What then must Perseus feel, + To see Jove's race attend the victor's wheel: + To see the slaves of his worst foes increase, + From such a source!--An emperor's embrace! + He sicken'd soon to death; and, what is worse, + He well deserv'd, and felt, the coward's curse; + Unpitied, scorn'd, insulted his last hour, + Far, far from home, and in a vassal's power: + His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain, + No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign; + No suit retards, no comfort soothes his doom, + And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb. + Nor ends it thus--dire vengeance to complete, + His ancient empire falling shares his fate: + His throne forgot! his weeping country chain'd! + And nations ask--where Alexander reign'd. + As public woes a prince's crime pursue, + So public blessings are his virtue's due. + Shout, Britons, shout--auspicious fortune bless! + And cry, Long live--Our title to success! + + + + + + EPITAPH + + + On Lord Aubrey Beauclerk(45), in Westminster Abbey, 1740. + + + Whilst Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep, + This marble shall compel the brave to weep: + As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn; + 'Tis dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn. + Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great, + And ripe his worth, though immature his fate; + Each tender grace that joy and love inspires, + Living, he mingled with his martial fires: + Dying, he bid Britannia's thunders roar; + And Spain still felt him, when he breath'd no more. + + + + + + EPITAPH AT WELWYN, HERTFORDSHIRE. + + + If fond of what is rare, attend! + Here lies an honest man, + Of perfect piety, + Of lamblike patience, + My friend, James Barker; + To whom I pay this mean memorial, + For what deserves the greatest. + An example + Which shone through all the clouds of fortune, + Industrious in low estate, + The lesson and reproach of those above him. + To lay this little stone + Is my ambition; + While others rear + The polish'd marbles of the great! + Vain pomp; + A turf o'er virtue charms us more. + + E. Y. 1749. + + + + + + A LETTER TO MR. TICKELL, + + + Occasioned by the Death of the Right Hon. Joseph Addison, Esq., 1719. + + + --Tu nunc eris alter ab illo. + + --VIRG. + + + O long with me in Oxford groves confin'd, + In social arts and sacred friendship join'd; + Fair Isis' sorrow, and fair Isis' boast, + Lost from her side, but fortunately lost; + Thy wonted aid, my dear companion! bring, + And teach me thy departed friend to sing: + A darling theme! once powerful to inspire, + And now to melt, the muses' mournful choir: + Now, and now first, we freely dare commend + His modest worth, nor shall our praise offend. + + Early he bloom'd amid the learned train, + And ravish'd Isis listen'd to his strain. + "See, see," she cried, "old Maro's muse appears, + Wak'd from her slumber of two thousand years: + Her finish'd charms to Addison she brings, + Thinks in his thought, and in his numbers sings. + All read transported his pure classic page; + Read, and forget their climate and their age." + The state, when now his rising fame was known, + Th' unrival'd genius challeng'd for her own, + Nor would that one, for scenes for action strong, + Should let a life evaporate in song. + As health and strength the brightest charms dispense, + Wit is the blossom of the soundest sense: + Yet few, how few, with lofty thoughts inspir'd, + With quickness pointed, and with rapture fir'd, + In conscious pride their own importance find, + Blind to themselves, as the hard world is blind! + Wit they esteem a gay but worthless power, + The slight amusement of a leisure hour; + Unmindful that, conceal'd from vulgar eyes, + Majestic wisdom wears the bright disguise. + Poor Dido fondled thus, with idle joy, + Dread Cupid, lurking in the Trojan boy; + Lightly she toy'd, and trifled with his charms, + And knew not that a god was in her arms. + Who greatest excellence of thought could boast, + In action, too, have been distinguish'd most: + This Sommers(46) knew, and Addison sent forth + From the malignant regions of the north, + To be matur'd in more indulgent skies, + Where all the vigour of the soul can rise; + Thro' warmer veins where sprightlier spirits run, + And sense enliven'd sparkles in the sun. + With secret pain the prudent patriot gave + The hopes of Britain to the rolling wave, + Anxious, the charge to all the stars resign'd, + And plac'd a confidence in sea and wind. + Ausonia soon receiv'd her wondering guest, + And equal wonder in her turn confess'd, + To see her fervours rival'd by the pole, + Her lustre beaming from a northern soul: + In like surprise was her AEneas lost, + To find his picture grace a foreign coast. + Now the wide field of Europe he surveys, + Compares her kings, her thrones and empires weighs, + In ripen'd judgment and consummate thought; + Great work! by Nassau's favour cheaply bought. + He now returns to Britain a support, + Wise in her senate, graceful in her court; + And when the public welfare would permit, + The source of learning, and the soul of wit. + O Warwick! (whom the muse is fond to name, + And kindles, conscious of her future theme,) + O Warwick! by divine contagion bright! + How early didst thou catch his radiant light! + By him inspir'd, how shine before thy time, + And leave thy years, and leap into thy prime! + On some warm bank, thus, fortunately born, + A rose-bud opens to a summer's morn, + Full-blown ere noon her fragrant pride displays, + And shows th' abundance of her purple rays. + Wit, as her bays, was once a barren tree; + We now, surpris'd, her fruitful branches see; + Or, orange-like, till his auspicious time + It grew indeed, but shiver'd in our clime: + He first the plant to richer gardens led, + And fix'd, indulgent, in a warmer bed: + The nation, pleas'd, enjoys the rich produce, + And gathers from her ornament her use. + When loose from public cares the grove he sought, + And fill'd the leisure interval with thought, + The various labours of his easy page, + A chance amusement, polish'd half an age. + Beyond this truth old bards could scarce invent, + Who durst to frame a world by accident. + What he has sung, how early and how well, + The Thames shall boast, and Roman Tiber tell. + A glory more sublime remains in store, + Since such his talents, that he sung no more. + No fuller proof of power th' Almighty gave, + Making the sea, than curbing her proud wave. + Nought can the genius of his works transcend, + But their fair purpose and important end; + To rouse the war for injur'd Europe's laws, + To steel the patriot in great Brunswick's cause; + With virtue's charms to kindle sacred love, + Or paint th' eternal bowers of bliss above. + Where hadst thou room, great author! where to roll + The mighty theme of an immortal soul? + Through paths unknown, unbeaten, whence were brought + Thy proofs so strong for immaterial thought? + One let me join, all other may excel. + "How could a mortal essence think so well?" + But why so large in the great writer's praise? + More lofty subjects should my numbers raise; + In him (illustrious rivalry!) contend + The statesman, patriot, Christian, and the friend! + His glory such, it borders on disgrace + To say he sung the best of human race. + In joy once join'd, in sorrow now for years, + Partner in grief, and brother of my tears, + Tickell! accept this verse, thy mournful due; + Thou further shalt the sacred theme pursue; + And, as thy strain describes the matchless man, + Thy life shall second what thy muse began. + Though sweet the numbers, though a fire divine + Dart through the whole, and burn in every line, + Who strives not for that excellence he draws, + Is stain'd by fame, and suffers from applause. + But haste to thy illustrious task; prepare + The noble work well trusted to thy care, + The gift(47) bequeath'd by Addison's command, + To Craggs made sacred by his dying hand. + Collect the labours, join the various rays, + The scatter'd light in one united blaze; + Then bear to him so true, so truly lov'd, + In life distinguished, and in death approv'd, + Th' immortal legacy. He hangs awhile + In generous anguish o'er the glorious pile; + With anxious pleasure the known page reviews, + And the dear pledge with falling tears bedews. + What though thy tears, pour'd o'er thy godlike friend, + Thy other cares for Britain's weal suspend? + Think not, O patriot! while thy eyes o'erflow, + Those cares suspended for a private woe; + Thy love to him is to thy country shown; + He mourns for her who mourns for Addison. + + + + + + REFLECTIONS ON THE PUBLIC SITUATION OF THE KINGDOM + + + Inscribed to the Duke of Newcastle. + + + Holles! immortal in far more than fame! + Be thou illustrious in far more than power. + Great things are small when greater rise to view + Tho' station'd high, and press'd with public cares, + Disdain not to peruse my serious song, + Which peradventure may push by the world: + Of a few moments rob Britannia's weal, + And leave Europa's counsels less mature! + For thou art noble, and the theme is great. + Nor shall or Europe or Britannia blame + Thine absent ear, but gain by the delay. + Long vers'd in senates and in cabinets, + States' intricate demands and high debates! + As thou of use to those, so this to thee; + And in a point that empire far outweighs, + That far outweighs all Europe's thrones in one. + Let greatness prove its title to be great. + 'Tis power's supreme prerogative to stamp + On other minds an image of its own. + Bend the strong influence of high place, to stem + The stream that sweeps away the country's weal; + The Stygian stream, the torrent of our guilt. + Far as thou mayst give life to virtue's cause; + Let not the ties of personal regard + Betray the nation's trust to feeble hands: + Let not fomented flames of private pique + Prey on the vitals of the public good: + Let not our streets with blasphemies resound, + Nor lewdness whisper where the laws can reach: + Let not best laws, the wisdom of our sires, + Turn satires on their sunk degenerate sons, + The bastards of their blood! and serve no point + But with more emphasis to call them fools: + Let not our rank enormities unhinge + Britannia's welfare from divine support. + Such deeds the minister, the prince adorn; + No power is shown but in such deeds as these: + All, all is impotence but acting right; + And where's the statesman but would show his power? + To prince and people thou, of equal zeal! + Be it henceforward but thy second care + To grace thy country, and support the throne; + Though this supported, that adorn'd so well, + A throne superior our first homage claims; + To Caesar's Caesar our first tribute due: + A tribute which, unpaid, makes specious wrong + And splendid sacrilege of all beside: + Illustrious followers; we must first be just; + And what so just as awe for the supreme? + Less fear we rugged ruffians of the north, + Than virtue's well-clad rebels nearer home + Less Loyola's disguis'd, all-aping sons, + Than traitors lurking in our appetites; + Less all the legions Seine and Tagus send, + Than unrein'd passions rushing on our peace: + Yon savage mountaineers are tame to these. + Against those rioters send forth the laws, + And break to reason's yoke their wild careers. + Prudence for all things points the proper hour, + Though some seem more importunate and great. + Tho' Britain's generous views and interests spread + Beyond the narrow circle of her shores, + And their grand entries make on distant lands; + Though Britain's genius the wide wave bestrides, + And, like a vast Colossus, towering stands + With one foot planted on the continent; + Yet be not wholly wrapp'd in public cares, + Tho' such high cares should call as call'd of late; + The cause of kings and emperors adjourn, + And Europe's little balance drop awhile; + For greater drop it: ponder and adjust + The rival interests and contending claims + Of life and death, of now and of for-ever; + Sublimest theme; and needful as sublime. + Thus great Eliza's oracles renown'd, + Thus Walsingham and Raleigh, (Britain's boasts!) + Thus every statesman thought that ever--died. + There's inspiration in a sable hour, + And Death's approach makes politicians wise. + When thunderstruck, that eagle Wolsey fell; + When royal favour, as an ebbing sea, + Like a leviathan, his grandeur left, + His gasping grandeur! naked on the strand, + Naked of human, doubtful of divine, + Assistance; no more wallowing in his wealth, + Spouting proud foams of insolence no more, + On what, then, smote his heart, uncardinal'd, + And sunk beneath the level of a man! + On the grand article, the sum of things! + The point of the first magnitude! that point + Tubes mounted in a court, but rarely reach; + Some painted cloud still intercepts their sight. + First right to judge; then choose; then persevere, + Steadfast, as if a crown or mistress call'd.-- + These, these are politics will stand the test, + When finer politics their masters sting, + And statesmen fain would shrink to common men. + These, these are politics will answer now, + (When common men would fain to statesmen swell,) + Beyond a Machiavel's or Tencin's scheme. + All safety rests on honest counsels: these + Immortalize the statesman, bless the state, + Make the prince triumph, and the people smile; + In peace rever'd, or terrible in arms, + Close-leagued with an invincible ally, + Which honest counsels never fail to fix + In favour of an unabandon'd land; + A land--that starts at such a land as this, + A parliament, so principled, will sink + All ancient schools of empire in disgrace, + And Britain's glory, rising from the dead, + Will fill the world, loud fame's superior song. +Britain!--that word pronounc'd is an alarm; + It warms the blood, though frozen in our veins; + Awakes the soul, and sends her to the field, + Enamour'd of the glorious face of Death. + Britain!--there's noble magic in the sound. + O what illustrious images arise! + Embattled, round me, blaze the pomps of war! + By sea, by land, at home, in foreign climes, + What full-blown laurels on our fathers' brows! + Ye radiant trophies! and imperial spoils! + Ye scenes!--astonishing to modern sight! + Let me, at least, enjoy you in a dream. + Why vanish? Stay, ye godlike strangers! stay: + Strangers!--I wrong my countrymen: they wake; + High beats the pulse: the noble pulse of war + Beats to that ancient measure, that grand march + Which then prevail'd, when Britain highest soar'd, + And every battle paid for heroes slain. + No more our great forefathers stain our cheeks + With blushes; their renown our shame no more. + In military garb, and sudden arms, + Up starts old Britain; crosiers are laid by; + Trade wields the sword, and agriculture leaves + Her half-turn'd furrow: other harvests fire + A nobler avarice, avarice of renown! + And laurels are the growth of every field. + In distant courts is our commotion felt; + And less like gods sit monarches on their thrones. + What arm can want or sinews or success, + Which, lifted from an honest heart, descends, + With all the weight of British wrath, to cleave + The papal mitre, or the Gallic chain, + At every stroke, and save a sinking land? + Or death or victory must be resolv'd; + To dream of mercy, O how tame! how mad! + Where, o'er black deeds the crucifix display'd, + Fools think Heaven purchas'd by the blood they shed; + By giving, not supporting, pains and death! + Nor simple death! where they the greatest saints + Who most subdue all tenderness of heart; + Students in torture! where, in zeal to him, + Whose darling title is the Prince of Peace, + The best turn ruthless butchers, for our sakes; + To save us in a world they recommend, + And yet forbear, themselves with earth content; + What modesty!--such virtues Rome adorn! + And chiefly those who Rome's first honours wear, + Whose name from Jesus, and whose hearts from hell! + And shall a pope-bred princeling crawl ashore, + Replete with venom, guiltless of a sting, + And whistle cut-throats, with those swords that scrap'd + Their barren rocks for wretched sustenance, + To cut his passage to the British throne? + One that has suck'd in malice with his milk, + Malice, to Britain, liberty, and truth? + Less savage was his brother-robber's nurse, + The howling nurse of plundering Romulus, + Ere yet far worse than pagan harbour'd there. + Hail to the brave! be Britain Britain still: + Britain! high favour'd of indulgent Heaven! + Nature's anointed empress of the deep! + The nurse of merchants, who can purchase crowns! + Supreme in commerce! that exuberant source + Of wealth, the nerve of war; of wealth, the blood, + The circling current in a nation's veins, + To set high bloom on the fair face of peace! + This once so celebrated seat of power, + From which escap'd the mighty Caesar triumph'd! + Of Gallic lilies this eternal blast! + This terror of armadas! this true bolt, + Ethereal-temper'd, to repress the vain + Salmonean thunders from the papal chair! + This small isle wide-realm'd monarchs eye with awe! + Which says to their ambition's foaming waves, + "Thus far, nor farther!"--Let her hold, in life, + Nought dear disjoin'd from freedom and renown; + Renown, our ancestors' great legacy, + To be transmitted to their latest sons. + By thoughts inglorious, and un-British deeds, + Their cancel'd will is impiously profan'd. + Inhumanly disturb'd their sacred dust. + Their sacred dust with recent laurels crown, + By your own valour won. This sacred isle, + Cut from the continent, that world of slaves; + This temple built by Heaven's peculiar care, + In a recess from the contagious world, + With ocean pour'd around it for its guard, + And dedicated, long, to liberty, + That health, that strength, that bloom, of civil life! + This temple of still more divine; of faith + Sifted from errors, purified by flames, + Like gold, to take anew truth's heavenly stamp, + And (rising both in lustre and in weight) + With her bless'd Master's unmaim'd image shine; + Why should she longer droop? why longer act + As an accomplice with the plots of Rome? + Why longer lend an edge to Bourbon's sword, + And give him leave, among his dastard troops, + To muster that strong succour, Albion's crimes? + Send his self-impotent ambition aid, + And crown the conquest of her fiercest foes? + Where are her foes most fatal? Blushing truth, + "In her friends' vices,"--with a sigh replies. + Empire on virtue's rock unshaken stands; + Flux as the billows, when in vice dissolv'd. + If Heaven reclaims us by the scourge of war, + What thanks are due to Paris and Madrid? + Would they a revolution?--Aid their aim, + But be the revolution--in our hearts! + Wouldst thou (whose hand is at the helm) the bark, + The shaken bark of Britain, should outride + The present blast, and every future storm? + Give it that ballast which alone has weight + With Him whom wind, and waves, and war, obey, + Persist. Are others subtle? Thou be wise: + Above the Florentine's court-science raise; + Stand forth a patriot of the moral world; + The pattern, and the patron, of the just: + Thus strengthen Britain's military strength; + Give its own terror to the sword she draws. + Ask you, "What mean I?"--The most obvious truth; + Armies and fleets alone ne'er won the day. + When our proud arms are once disarm'd, disarm'd + Of aid from Him by whom the mighty fall; + Of aid from Him by whom the feeble stand; + Who takes away the keenest edge of battle, + Or gives the sword commission to destroy; + Who blasts, or bids the martial laurel bloom-- + Emasculated, then, most manly might; + Or, though the might remains, it nought avails: + Then wither'd weakness foils the sinewy arm + Of man's meridian and high-hearted power: + Our naval thunders, and our tented fields + With travel'd banners fanning southern climes, + What do they? This; and more what can they do? + When heap'd the measure of a kingdom's crimes, + The prince most dauntless, the first plume of war, + By such bold inroads into foreign lands, + Such elongation of our armaments, + But stretches out the guilty nation's neck, + While Heaven commands her executioner, + Some less abandon'd nation, to discharge + Her full-ripe vengeance in a final blow, + And tell the world, "Not strong is human strength; + And that the proudest empire holds of Heaven." + O Britain! often rescued, often crown'd, + Beyond thy merit and most sanguine hopes, + With all that's great in war, or sweet in peace! + Know from what source thy signal blessings flow. + Though bless'd with spirits ardent in the field, + Though cover'd various oceans with thy fleets, + Though fenc'd with rocks, and moated by the main, + Thy trust repose in a far stronger guard; + In Him, who thee, though naked, could defend; + Tho' weak, could strengthen; ruin'd, could restore. + How oft, to tell what arm defends thine isle, + To guard her welfare, and yet check her pride, + Have the winds snatch'd the victory from war? + Or, rather, won the day, when war despair'd? + How oft has providential succour aw'd, + Aw'd while it bless'd us, conscious of our guilt; + Struck dead all confidence in human aid, + And, while we triumph'd, made us tremble too! + Well may we tremble now; what manners reign? + But wherefore ask we, when a true reply + Would shock too much? Kind Heaven! avert events + Whose fatal nature might reply too plain! + Heaven's half-bar'd arm of vengeance has been wav'd + In northern skies, and pointed to the south. + Vengeance delay'd but gathers and ferments; + More formidably blackens in the wind; + Brews deeper draughts of unrelenting wrath, + And higher charges the suspended storm. + "That public vice portends a public fall"-- + Is this conjecture of adventurous thought! + Or pious coward's pulpit cushion'd dream; + Far from it. This is certain; this is fate. + What says experience, in her awful chair + Of ages, her authentic annals spread + Around her? What says reason eagle-eyed? + Nay, what says common sense, with common care + Weighing events, and causes, in her scale? + All give one verdict, one decision sign; + And this the sentence Delphos could not mend: + "Whatever secondary props may rise + From politics, to build the public peace, + The basis is the manners of the land. + When rotten these, the politician's wiles + But struggle with destruction, as a child + With giants huge, or giants with a Jove. + The statesman's arts to conjure up a peace, + Or military phantoms void of force, + But scare away the vultures for an hour; + The scent cadaverous (for, oh! how rank + The stench of profligates!) soon lures them back + On the proud flutter of a Gallic wing + Soon they return; soon make their full descent; + Soon glut their rage, and riot in our ruin; + Their idols grac'd and gorgeous with our spoils, + Of universal empire sure presage! + Till now repell'd by seas of British blood." + And whence the manners of the multitude? + The colours of their manners, black or fair, + Falls from above; from the complexion falls + Of state Othellos, or white men in power: + And from the greater height example falls, + Greater the weight, and deeper its impress + In ranks inferior, passive to the stroke: + From the court-mint, of hearts the current coin, + The pupil presses, but the pattern drives. + What bonds then, bonds how manifold, and strong + To duty, double duty, are the great! + And are there Samsons that can burst them all? + Yes; and great minds that stand in need of none, + Whose pulse beats virtues, and whose generous blood + Aids mental motives to push on renown, + In emulation of their glorious sires, + From whom rolls down the consecrated stream. + Some sow good seeds in the glad people's hearts, + Some cursed tares, like Satan in the text: + This makes a foe most fatal to the state; + A foe who (like a wizard in his cell) + In his dark cabinet of crooked schemes, + Resembling Cuma's gloomy grot, the forge + Of boasted oracles, and real lies, + (Aided, perhaps, by second-sighted Scots, + French magi, relics riding post from Rome, + A gothic hero(48) rising from the dead, + And changing for spruce plaid his dirty shroud, + With succour suitable from lower still,) + A foe who, these concurring to the charm, + Excites those storms that shall o'erturn the state, + Rend up her ancient honours by the root, + And lay the boast of ages, the rever'd + Of nations, the dear-bought with sumless wealth + And blood illustrious, (spite of her La Hogues, + Her Cresseys, and her Blenheims,) in the dust. + How must this strike a horror thro' the breast, + Thro' every generous breast where honour reigns, + Thro' every breast where honour claims a share! + Yes, and thro' every breast of honour void! + This thought might animate the dregs of men; + Ferment them into spirit; give them fire + To fight the cause, the black opprobrious cause, + Foul core of all!--corruption at our hearts. + What wreck of empire has the stream of time + Swept, with her vices, from the mountain height + Of grandeur, deified by half mankind, + To dark oblivion's melancholy lake, + Or flagrant infamy's eternal brand! + Those names, at which surrounding nations shook, + Those names ador'd, a nuisance! or forgot! + Nor this the caprice of a doubtful die, + But Nature's course; no single chance against it. + For know, my lord! 'tis writ in adamant, + 'Tis fixt, as is the basis of the world, + Whose kingdoms stand or fall by the decree. + What saw these eyes, surpris'd!--Yet why surpris'd-- + For aid divine the crisis seem'd to call, + And how divine was the monition given! + As late I walk'd the night in troubled thought, + My peace disturb'd by rumours from the north, + While thunder o'er my head, portentous, roll'd, + As giving signal of some strange event, + And ocean groan'd beneath for her he lov'd, + Albion the fair! so long his empire's queen, + Whose reign is, now, contested by her foes, + On her white cliffs (a tablet broad and bright, + Strongly reflecting the pale lunar ray) + By fate's own iron pen I saw it writ, + And thus the title ran: + + + + + + THE STATEMAN'S CREED. + + + "Ye states! and empires! nor of empires least, + Though least in size, hear, Britain! thou whose lot, + Whose final lot, is in the balance laid, + Irresolutely play the doubtful scales, + Nor know'st thou which will win.--Know then from me, + As govern'd well or ill, states sink or rise: + State ministers, as upright or corrupt, + Are balm or poison in a nation's veins! + Health or distemper, hasten or retard + The period of her pride, her day of doom: + And though, for reasons obvious to the wise, + Just Providence deals otherwise with men, + Yet believe, Britons! nor too late believe, + 'Tis fix'd! by fate irrevocably fix'd! + Virtue and vice are empire's life and death." + + Thus it is written--Heard you not a groan? + Is Britain on her death-bed?--No, that groan + Was utter'd by her foes--but soon the scale, + If this divine monition is despis'd, + May turn against us. Read it, ye who rule! + With reverence read; with steadfastness believe; + With courage act as such belief inspires; + Then shall your glory stand like fate's decree; + Then shall your name in adamant be writ, + In records that defy the tooth of time, + By nations sav'd, resounding your applause. + While deep beyond your monument's proud base, + In black oblivion's kennel, shall be trod + Their execrable names, who, high in power, + And deep in guilt, most ominously shine, + (The meteors of the state!) give vice her head, + To license lewd let loose the public rein; + Quench every spark of conscience in the land, + And triumph in the profligate's applause: + Or who to the first bidder sell their souls, + Their country sell, sell all their fathers bought + With funds exhausted and exhausted veins, + To demons, by his holiness ordain'd + To propagate the gospel--penn'd at Rome; + Hawk'd through the world by consecrated bulls; + And how illustrated?--by Smithfleld flames: + Who plunge (but not like Curtius) down the gulf, + Down narrow-minded self's voracious gulf, + Which gapes and swallows all they swore to save: + Hate all that lifted heroes into gods, + And hug the horrors of a victor's chain: + Of bodies politic that destin'd hell, + Inflicted here, since here their beings end; + And fall from foes detested and despis'd, + On disbelievers--of the statesman's creed. + Note, here, my lord, (unnoted yet it lies + By most, or all,) these truths political + Serve more than public ends: this creed of states + Seconds, and irresistibly supports, + The Christian creed. Are you surpris'd?--Attend + And on the statesman's build a nobler name. + This punctual justice exercis'd on states, + With which authentic chronicle abounds, + As all men know, and therefore must believe; + This vengeance pour'd on nations ripe in guilt, + Pour'd on them here, where only they exist, + What is it but an argument of sense, + Or rather demonstration, to support + Our feeble faith--"That they who states compose, + That men who stand not bounded by the grave, + Shall meet like measure at their proper hour?" + For God is equal, similarly deals + With states and persons, or he were not God! + What means a rectitude immutable? + A pattern here of universal right. + What, then, shall rescue an abandon'd man? + Nothing, it is replied. Replied, by whom? + Replied by politicians well as priests: + Writ sacred set aside, mankind's own writ, + The whole world's annals; these pronounce his doom. + Thus (what might seem a daring paradox) + E'en politics advance divinity: + True masters there are better scholars here, + Who travel history in quest of schemes + To govern nations, or perhaps oppress, + May there start truths that other aims inspire, + And, like Candace's eunuch, as they read, + By Providence turn Christians on their road: + Digging for silver, they may strike on gold; + May be surpris'd with better than they sought, + And entertain an angel unawares. + Nor is divinity ungrateful found. + As politics advance divinity, + Thus, in return, divinity promotes + True politics, and crowns the statesman's praise. + All wisdoms are but branches of the chief, + And statesmen found but shoots of honest men. + Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excuse + For deviations in our moral line? + This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye + As suits a statesman, such as keeps in view + His own exalted science, both conspire + To recommend and fix us in the right. + If we reward the politics of Heaven, + The grand administration of the whole, + What's the next world? A supplement of this: + Without it, justice is defective here; + Just as to states, defective as to men: + If so, what is this world? As sure as right + Sits in Heaven's throne, a prophet of the next. + Prize you the prophet? then believe him too: + His prophecy more precious than his smile. + How comes it then to pass, with most on earth, + That this should charm us, that should discompose? + Long as the statesman finds this case his own, + So long his politics are uncomplete; + In danger he; nor is the nation safe, + But soon must rue his inauspicious power. + What hence results? a truth that should resound + For ever awful in Britannia's ear: + "Religion crowns the statesman and the man, + Sole source of public and of private peace." + This truth all men must own, and therefore will, + And praise and preach it too:--and when that's done, + Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot. + What highland pole-axe half so deep can wound? + But how dare I, so mean, presume so far? + Assume my seat in the dictator's chair? + Pronounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd), + Promulge my censures, lay out all my throat, + Till hoarse in clamour on enormous crimes? + Two mighty columns rise in my support; + In their more awful and authentic voice, + Record profane and sacred, drown the muse, + Tho' loud, and far out-thread her threatening song. + Still further, Holles! suffer me to plead + That I speak freely, as I speak to thee: + Guilt only startles at the name of guilt; + And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wise. + Thus what seem'd my presumption is thy praise. + Praise, and immortal praise, is virtue's claim; + And virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant + Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm, + Whose clangour kindles cowards into men. + Nor shall the verse, perhaps, be quite forgot, + Which talks of immortality, and bids, + In every British breast, true glory rise, + As now the warbling lark awakes the morn. + To close, my lord! with that which all should close + And all begin, and strike us every hour, + Though no war wak'd us, no black tempest frown'd. + The morning rises gay; yet gayest morn + Less glorious after night's incumbent shades; + Less glorious far bright nature, rich array'd + With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon, + Than the first feeble dawn of moral day? + Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend,) + Though the sun ripens diamonds for their crowns; + Sole day worth his regard whom Heaven ordains, + Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date, + From the sun's death, and every planet's fall, + His all-illustrious and eternal year; + Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of awe + And distance here,) shall rank with common men, + Yet own their glory never dawn'd before. + + + + + + RESIGNATION. + + + In Two Parts. + + + My soul shall be satisfied even as it were with marrow and + fatness, when my mouth praiseth thee with joyful lips. + + PSALM lxiii. 6. + + + + + Advertisement. + + +This was not intended for the public; there were many and strong reasons +against it, and are so still; but some extracts of it, from the few copies +which were given away, being got into the printed papers, it was thought +necessary to publish something, lest a copy still more imperfect than this +should fall into the press: and it is hoped, that this unwelcome occasion +of publication may be some excuse for it. + +As for the following stanzas, God Almighty's infinite power, and +marvellous goodness to man, is dwelt on, as the most just and cogent +reason for our cheerful and absolute resignation to his will; nor are any +of those topics declined, which have a just tendency to promote that +supreme virtue: such as the vanity of this life, the value of the next, +the approach of death, &c. + + + + + Part I. + + + The days how few, how short the years + Of man's too rapid race! + Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, + A shorter in its place. + + They who the longest lease enjoy, + Have told us with a sigh, + That to be born seems little more + Than to begin to die. + + Numbers there are who feel this truth + With fears alarm'd; and yet, + In life's delusions lull'd asleep, + This weighty truth forget: + + And am not I to these akin? + Age slumbers o'er the quill; + Its honour blots, whate'er it writes, + And am I writing still? + + Conscious of nature in decline, + And languor in my thoughts; + To soften censure, and abate + Its rigour on my faults + + Permit me, madam! ere to you + The promis'd verse I pay, + To touch on felt infirmity, + Sad sister of decay. + + One world deceas'd, another born, + Like Noah they behold, + O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, + Too many suns have roll'd: + + Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd + His second world to see: + My second world, though gay the scene, + Can boast no charms for me. + + To me this brilliant age appears + With desolation spread; + Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd, + Whilst life was life, are dead; + + And with them died my joys; the grave + Has broken nature's laws; + And clos'd, against this feeble frame, + Its partial cruel jaws; + + Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life! + A cloud impairs my sight; + My weak hand disobeys my will, + And trembles as I write. + + What shall I write? Thalia, tell; + Say, long abandon'd muse! + What field of fancy shall I range? + What subject shall I choose? + + A choice of moment high inspire, + And rescue me from shame, + For doting on thy charms so late, + By grandeur in my theme. + + Beyond the themes, which most admire, + Which dazzle, or amaze, + Beyond renown'd exploits of war, + Bright charms, or empire's blaze, + + Are themes, which, in a world of woe + Can best appease our pain; + And, in an age of gaudy guilt, + Gay folly's flood restrain; + + Amidst the storms of life support + A calm, unshaken mind; + And with unfading laurels crown + The brow of the resign'd. + + O resignation! yet unsung, + Untouch'd by former strains; + Though claiming every muse's smile, + And every poet's pains, + + Beneath life's evening, solemn shade, + I dedicate my page + To thee, thou safest guard of youth! + Thou sole support of age! + + All other duties crescents are + Of virtue faintly bright, + The glorious consummation, thou! + Which fills her orb with light: + + How rarely fill'd! the love divine + In evils to discern, + This the first lesson which we want, + The latest, which we learn; + + A melancholy truth! for know, + Could our proud hearts resign, + The distance greatly would decrease + 'Twixt human and divine. + + But though full noble is my theme, + Full urgent is my call + To soften sorrow, and forbid + The bursting tear to fall: + + The task I dread; dare I to leave + Of humble prose the shore, + And put to sea? a dangerous sea? + What throngs have sunk before! + + How proud the poet's billow swells! + The God! the God! his boast: + A boast how vain! What wrecks abound! + Dead bards stench every coast. + + What then am I? Shall I presume, + On such a moulten wing, + Above the general wreck to rise, + And in my winter, sing; + + When nightingales, when sweetest bards + Confine their charming song + To summer's animating heats, + Content to warble young? + + Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues; + How shameful her request! + My brain in labour for dull rhyme! + Hers teeming with the best! + + But you a stranger will excuse, + Nor scorn his feeble strain; + To you a stranger, but, through fate, + No stranger to your pain. + + The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends, + His old wound bleeds anew; + His sorrows are recall'd to life + By those he sees in you; + + Too well he knows the twisting strings + Of ardent hearts combin'd + When rent asunder, how they bleed, + How hard to be resign'd: + + Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed; + The pang you feel, he felt; + Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids + His heart at yours to melt. + + But what can heart, or head, suggest? + What sad experience say? + Through truths austere, to peace we work + Our rugged, gloomy way: + + What are we? whence? for what? and whither? + Who know not, needs must mourn; + But thought, bright daughter of the skies! + Can tears to triumph turn. + + Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's + Impenetrable shield, + When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, + In sore affliction's field; + + It plucks the frightful mask from ills, + Forbids pale fear to hide, + Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, + Which turns affection's tide. + + Affection frail! train'd up by sense, + From reason's channel strays: + And whilst it blindly points at peace, + Our peace to pain betrays. + + Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream + From daily dying flowers, + To nourish rich immortal blooms, + In amaranthine bowers; + + Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down + On what once shock'd their sight; + And thank the terrors of the past + For ages of delight. + + All withers here; who most possess + Are losers by their gain, + Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, + Life's idle all is vain: + + Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; + Did not its course offend, + But murmur cease; life, then, would seem + Still vainer, from its end. + + How wretched! who, through cruel fate, + Have nothing to lament! + With the poor alms this world affords + Deplorably content! + + Had not the Greek his world mistook, + His wish had been most wise; + To be content with but one world, + Like him, we should despise. + + Of earth's revenue would you state + A full account and fair? + We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast + The total up------ + _Despair._ + + Since vain all here, all future, vast, + Embrace the lot assign'd; + Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; + Its stroke severe, most kind. + + But in laps'd nature rooted deep, + Blind error domineers; + And on fools' errands, in the dark, + Sends out our hopes and fears; + + Bids us for ever pains deplore, + Our pleasures overprize; + These oft persuade us to be weak; + Those urge us to be wise. + + From virtue's rugged path to right + By pleasure are we brought, + To flowery fields of wrong, and there + Pain chides us for our fault: + + Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace + If folly is withstood; + And says, time pays an easy price, + For our eternal good. + + In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, + And in delusion great, + What an economist is man + To spend his whole estate, + + And beggar an eternity! + For which as he was born, + More worlds than one against it weigh'd, + As feathers he should scorn. + + Say not, your loss in triumph leads + Religion's feeble strife; + Joys future amply reimburse + Joys bankrupts of this life. + + But not deferr'd your joy so long, + It bears an early date; + Affliction's ready pay in hand, + Befriends our present state; + + What are the tears, which trickle down + Her melancholy face, + Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, + They purchase lasting peace. + + Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will, + Impetuous passion tames, + And keeps insatiate, keen desire + From launching in extremes. + + Through time's dark womb, our judgment right, + If our dim eye was thrown, + Clear should we see, the will divine + Has but forestall'd our own; + + At variance with our future wish, + Self-sever'd we complain; + If so, the wounded, not the wound, + Must answer for the pain: + + The day shall come, and swift of wing, + Though you may think it slow, + When, in the list of fortune's smiles, + You'll enter frowns of woe. + + For mark the path of Providence; + This course it has pursued-- + "Pain is the parent, woe the womb, + Of sound, important good:" + + Our hearts are fasten'd to this world + By strong and endless ties: + And every sorrow cuts a string, + And urges us to rise: + + 'Twill sound severe--Yet rest assur'd + I'm studious of your peace; + Though I should dare to give you joy-- + Yes, joy of his decease: + + An hour shall come, (you question this,) + An hour, when you shall bless, + Beyond the brightest beams of life, + Dark days of your distress. + + Hear then without surprise a truth, + A daughter truth to this, + Swift turns of fortune often tie + A bleeding heart to bliss: + + Esteem you this a paradox? + My sacred motto read; + A glorious truth! divinely sung + By one, whose heart had bled; + + To resignation swift he flew, + In her a friend he found, + A friend, which bless'd him with a smile + When gasping with his wound. + + On earth nought precious is obtain'd + But what is painful too; + By travel, and to travel born, + Our sabbaths are but few: + + To real joy we work our way, + Encountering many a shock, + Ere found what truly charms; as found + A Venus in the block. + + In some disaster, some severe + Appointment for our sins, + That mother blessing, (not so call'd,) + True happiness, begins. + + No martyr e'er defied the flames, + By stings of life unvext; + First rose some quarrel with this world, + Then passion for the next. + + You see, then, pangs are parent pangs, + The pangs of happy birth; + Pangs, by which only can be born + True happiness on earth. + + The peopled earth look all around, + Or through time's records run! + And say, what is a man unstruck? + It is a man undone. + + This moment, am I deeply stung-- + My bold pretence is tried; + When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof + The vauntings of his pride; + + Now need I, madam! your support.-- + How exquisite the smart; + How critically tim'd the news(50) + Which strikes me to the heart! + + The pangs of which I spoke, I feel: + If worth like thine is born, + O long-belov'd! I bless the blow, + And triumph, whilst I mourn. + + Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued, + By reason's empire shown; + Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree, + Continues by our own; + + And when continued past its point, + Indulg'd in length of time, + Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate, + Corrupts into a crime: + + And shall I, criminally mean, + Myself and subject wrong? + No; my example shall support + The subject of my song. + + Madam! I grant your loss is great; + Nor little is your gain? + Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright, + It richly pays your pain: + + When heaven would kindly set us free, + And earth's enchantment end; + It takes the most effectual means, + And robs us of a friend. + + But such a friend! and sigh no more? + 'Tis prudent; but severe: + Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop + All sorrow--with this tear. + + Perhaps your settled grief to soothe, + I should not vainly strive, + But with soft balm your pain assuage, + Had he been still alive; + + Whose frequent aid brought kind relief, + In my distress of thought, + Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page, + And beautified a fault: + + To touch our passions' secret springs + Was his peculiar care; + And deep his happy genius div'd + In bosoms of the fair; + + Nature, which favours to the few, + All art beyond, imparts, + To him presented, at his birth, + The key of human hearts. + + But not to me by him bequeath'd + His gentle, smooth address; + His tender hand to touch the wound + In throbbing of distress; + + Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd + With Esculapian art: + Know, love sometimes, mistaken love! + Plays disaffection's part: + + Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars, + Can soul from soul divide; + They correspond from distant worlds, + Though transports are denied: + + Are you not, then, unkindly kind? + Is not your love severe? + O! stop that crystal source of woe; + Nor wound him with a tear. + + As those above from human bliss + Receive increase of joy; + May not a stroke from human woe, + In part, their peace destroy? + + He lives in those he left;--to what? + Your, now, paternal care, + Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye, + It will discern him there; + + In features, not of form alone, + But those, I trust, of mind; + Auspicious to the public weal, + And to their fate resign'd. + + Think on the tempests he sustain'd; + Revolve his battles won; + And let those prophesy your joy + From such a father's son: + + Is consolation what you seek? + Fan, then, his martial fire: + And animate to flame the sparks + Bequeath'd him by his sire: + + As nothing great is born in haste, + Wise nature's time allow; + His father's laurels may descend, + And flourish on his brow. + + Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear + That laurels may be due + Not more to heroes of the field, + (Proud boasters!) than to you: + + Tender as is the female frame, + Like that brave man you mourn, + You are a soldier, and to fight + Superior battles born; + + Beneath a banner nobler far + Than ever was unfurl'd + In fields of blood; a banner bright! + High wav'd o'er all the world. + + It, like a streaming meteor, casts + A universal light; + Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day + On nations whelm'd in night. + + Beneath that banner, what exploit + Can mount our glory higher, + Than to sustain the dreadful blow, + When those we love expire? + + Go forth a moral Amazon; + Arm'd with undaunted thought; + The battle won, though costing dear, + You'll think it cheaply bought: + + The passive hero, who sits down + Unactive, and can smile + Beneath affliction's galling load, + Out-acts a Caesar's toil: + + The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes + Inferior praise afford; + Reason's a bloodless conqueror, + More glorious than the sword. + + Nor can the thunders of huzzas, + From shouting nations, cause + Such sweet delight, as from your heart + Soft whispers of applause: + + The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms, + With what delight he'll view + His triumphs on the main outdone, + Thus conquer'd, twice, by you. + + Share his delight; take heed to shun + Of bosoms most diseas'd + That odd distemper, an absurd + Reluctance to be pleas'd: + + Some seem in love with sorrow's charms, + And that foul fiend embrace: + This temper let me justly brand, + And stamp it with disgrace: + + Sorrow! of horrid parentage! + Thou second-born of hell! + Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd + How dar'st thou to rebel? + + From black and noxious vapours bred, + And nurs'd by want of thought, + And to the door of phrensy's self + By perseverance brought, + + Thy most inglorious, coward tears + From brutal eyes have ran: + Smiles, incommunicable smiles! + Are radiant marks of man; + + They cast a sudden glory round + Th' illumin'd human face; + And light in sons of honest joy + Some beams of Moses' face: + + Is resignation's lesson hard? + Examine, we shall find + That duty gives up little more + Than anguish of the mind; + + Resign; and all the load of life + That moment you remove, + Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares + Devolve on one above; + + Who bids us lay our burthen down + On his almighty hand, + Softens our duty to relief, + To blessing a command. + + For joy what cause! how every sense + Is courted from above + The year around, with presents rich, + The growth of endless love! + + But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd, + Forget the wonders done, + And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense, + Their prospect at the sun; + + From that, their final point of view, + From that their radiant goal, + On travel infinite of thought, + Sets out the nobler soul, + + Broke loose from time's tenacious ties, + And earth's involving gloom, + To range at last its vast domain, + And talk with worlds to come: + + They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd, + Life's idle moments run; + And doing nothing for themselves, + Imagine nothing done; + + Fatal mistake! their fate goes on, + Their dread account proceeds, + And their not doing is set down + Amongst their darkest deeds; + + Though man sits still, and takes his ease; + God is at work on man; + No means, no moment unemployed, + To bless him, if he can. + + But man consents not, boldly bent + To fashion his own fate; + Man, a mere bungler in the trade, + Repents his crime too late; + + Hence loud laments: let me thy cause, + Indulgent father! plead; + Of all the wretches we deplore, + Not one by thee was made. + + What is thy whole creation fair? + Of love divine the child; + Love brought it forth; and, from its birth, + Has o'er it fondly smil'd: + + Now, and through periods distant far, + Long ere the world began, + Heaven is, and has in travail been, + Its birth the good of man; + + Man holds in constant service bound + The blustering winds and seas; + Nor suns disdain to travel hard + Their master, man, to please: + + To final good the worst events + Through secret channels run; + Finish for man their destin'd course, + As 'twas for man begun. + + One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few) + Has often smote, and smites + My mind, as demonstration strong; + That heaven in man delights: + + What's known to man of things unseen, + Of future worlds, or fates? + So much, nor more, than what to man's + Sublime affairs relates; + + What's revelation then? a list, + An inventory just + Of that poor insect's goods, so late + Call'd out of night and dust. + + What various motives to rejoice! + To render joy sincere, + Has this no weight? our joy is felt + Beyond this narrow sphere: + + Would we in heaven new heaven create, + And double its delight? + A smiling world, when heaven looks down, + How pleasing in its sight! + + Angels stoop forward from their thrones + To hear its joyful lays; + As incense sweet enjoy, and join, + Its aromatic praise: + + Have we no cause to fear the stroke + Of heaven's avenging rod, + When we presume to counteract + A sympathetic God? + + If we resign, our patience makes + His rod an armless wand; + If not, it darts a serpent's sting, + Like that in Moses' hand; + + Like that, it swallows up whate'er + Earth's vain magicians bring, + Whose baffled arts would boast below + Of joys a rival spring. + + Consummate love! the list how large + Of blessings from thy hand! + To banish sorrow, and be blest, + Is thy supreme command. + + Are such commands but ill obey'd? + Of bliss, shall we complain? + The man, who dares to be a wretch, + Deserves still greater pain. + + Joy is our duty, glory, health; + The sunshine of the soul; + Our best encomium on the power + Who sweetly plans the whole: + + Joy is our Eden still possess'd: + Begone, ignoble grief! + 'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts, + Their nature, our relief; + + Relief, for man to that must stoop, + And his due distance know; + Transport's the language of the sides, + Content the style below. + + Content is joy, and joy in pain + Is joy and virtue too; + Thus, whilst good present we possess, + More precious we pursue: + + Of joy the more we have in hand, + The more have we to come; + Joy, like our money, interest bears, + Which daily swells the sum. + + "But how to smile; to stem the tide + Of nature in our veins; + Is it not hard to weep in joy? + What then to smile in pains?" + + Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds, + And struggles through a storm; + Proclaims the mind as great, as good + And bids it doubly charm: + + If doubly charming in our sex, + A sex, by nature, bold; + What then in yours? 'tis diamond there + Triumphant o'er our gold. + + And should not this complaint repress, + And check the rising sigh? + Yet farther opiate to your pain + I labour to supply. + + Since spirits greatly damp'd distort + Ideas of delight, + Look through the medium of a friend, + To set your notions right: + + As tears the sight, grief dims the soul; + Its object dark appears; + True friendship, like a rising sun, + The soul's horizon clears. + + A friend's an optic to the mind + With sorrow clouded o'er; + And gives it strength of sight to see + Redress unseen before. + + Reason is somewhat rough in man; + Extremely smooth and fair, + When she, to grace her manly strength, + Assumes a female air: + + A friend(51) you have, and I the same, + Whose prudent, soft address + Will bring to life those healing thoughts + Which died in your distress; + + That friend, the spirit of my theme + Extracting for your ease, + Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts + Too common; such as these: + + Let those lament to whom full bowls + Of sparkling joys are given; + That triple bane inebriates life, + Imbitters death, and hazards heaven: + + Woe to the soul at perfect ease! + 'Tis brewing perfect pains; + Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king; + Despotic body reigns; + + Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes, + And deem'd their glory dark? + Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind, + And quite mistakes her mark: + + Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades, + But sorrow well subdu'd; + And in proud fortune's frown defied + By meek, unborrow'd good. + + By resignation; all in that + A double friend may find, + A wing to heaven, and, while on earth, + The pillow of mankind: + + On pillows void of down, for rest + Our restless hopes we place; + When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart, + Our hearts repose in peace: + + The peace, which resignation yields, + Who feel alone can guess; + 'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds, + They must conclude it less: + + The loss, or gain, of that alone + Have we to hope or fear; + That fate controls, and can invert + The seasons of the year: + + O! the dark days, the year around, + Of an impatient mind! + Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks, + To shine on the resign'd: + + While man by that of every grace, + And virtue, is possess'd; + Foul vice her pandaemonium builds + In the rebellious breast; + + By resignation we defeat + The worst that can annoy; + And suffer, with far more repose, + Than worldlings can enjoy. + + From small experience this I speak; + O! grant to those I love + Experience fuller far, ye powers, + Who form our fates above! + + My love were due, if not to those + Who, leaving grandeur, came + To shine on age in mean recess, + And light me to my theme! + + A theme themselves! A theme, how rare! + The charms, which they display, + To triumph over captive heads, + Are set in bright array: + + With his own arms proud man's o'ercome, + His boasted laurels die: + Learning and genius, wiser grown, + To female bosoms fly. + + This revolution, fix'd by fate, + In fable was foretold; + The dark prediction puzzled wits, + Nor could the learn'd unfold: + + But as those ladies'(53) works I read, + They darted such a ray, + The latent sense burst out at once, + And shone in open day: + + So burst, full ripe, distended fruits, + When strongly strikes the sun; + And from the purple grape unpress'd + Spontaneous nectars run. + + Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull, + Forsook his drowsy brain; + And sprightly leap'd into the throne + Of wisdom's brighter reign; + + Her helmet took; that is, shot rays + Of formidable wit; + And lance,--or, genius most acute, + Which lines immortal writ; + + And gorgon shield,--or, power to fright + Man's folly, dreadful shone, + And many a blockhead (easy change!) + Turn'd, instantly, to stone. + + Our authors male, as, then, did Jove, + Now scratch a damag'd head, + And call for what once quarter'd there, + But find the goddess fled. + + The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit! + That once forbidden tree, + Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now + To Britain's daughters free: + + In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair + The noble thirst began; + And they, like her, have caus'd a fall, + A fall of fame in man: + + And since of genius in our sex, + O Addison! with thee + The sun is set; how I rejoice + This sister lamp to see! + + It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams + On man's nocturnal state; + His lessen'd light, and languid powers, + I show, whilst I relate. + + + + + Part II. + + + But what in either sex, beyond + All parts, our glory crowns? + "In ruffling seasons to be calm, + And smile, when fortune frowns." + + Heaven's choice is safer than our own; + Of ages past inquire, + What the most formidable fate? + "To have our own desire." + + If, in your wrath, the worst of foes + You wish extremely ill; + Expose him to the thunder's stroke, + Or that of his own will. + + What numbers, rushing down the steep + Of inclination strong, + Have perish'd in their ardent wish! + Wish ardent, ever wrong! + + 'Tis resignation's full reverse, + Most wrong, as it implies + Error most fatal in our choice, + Detachment from the skies. + + By closing with the skies, we make + Omnipotence our own; + That done, how formidable ill's + Whole army is o'erthrown! + + No longer impotent, and frail, + Ourselves above we rise: + We scarce believe ourselves below! + We trespass on the skies! + + The Lord, the soul, and source of all, + Whilst man enjoys his ease, + Is executing human will, + In earth, and air, and seas; + + Beyond us, what can angels boast? + Archangels what require? + Whate'er below, above, is done, + Is done as----we desire. + + What glory this for man so mean, + Whose life is but a span! + This is meridian majesty! + This, the sublime of man! + + Beyond the boast of pagan song + My sacred subject shines! + And for a foil the lustre takes + Of Rome's exalted lines. + + "All, that the sun surveys, subdued, + But Cato's mighty mind." + How grand! most true; yet far beneath + The soul of the resign'd: + + To more than kingdoms, more than worlds, + To passion that gives law; + Its matchless empire could have kept + Great Cato's pride in awe; + + That fatal pride, whose cruel point + Transfix'd his noble breast; + Far nobler! if his fate sustain'd + And left to heaven the rest; + + Then he the palm had borne away, + At distance Caesar thrown; + Put him off cheaply with the world, + And made the skies his own. + + What cannot resignation do? + It wonders can perform; + That powerful charm, "Thy will be done," + Can lay the loudest storm. + + Come, resignation! then, from fields, + Where, mounted on the wing, + A wing of flame, blest martyrs' souls + Ascended to their king. + + Who is it calls thee? one whose need + Transcends the common size; + Who stands in front against a foe + To which no equal rise: + + In front he stands, the brink he treads + Of an eternal state; + How dreadful his appointed post! + How strongly arm'd by fate: + + His threatening foe! what shadows deep + O'erwhelm his gloomy brow! + His dart tremendous!----at fourscore + My sole asylum, thou! + + Haste, then, O resignation! haste, + 'Tis thine to reconcile + My foe, and me; at thy approach + My foe begins to smile: + + O! for that summit of my wish, + Whilst here I draw my breath, + That promise of eternal life, + A glorious smile in death: + + What sight, heaven's azure arch beneath, + Has most of heaven to boast? + The man resign'd; at once serene, + And giving up the ghost. + + At death's arrival they shall smile, + Who, not in life o'er gay, + Serious and frequent thought send out + To meet him on his way: + + My gay coevals! (such there are) + If happiness is dear; + Approaching death's alarming day + Discreetly let us fear: + + The fear of death is truly wise, + Till wisdom can rise higher; + And, arm'd with pious fortitude, + Death dreaded once, desire: + + Grand climacteric vanities + The vainest will despise; + Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age + Man immaturely dies: + + But am not I myself the man? + No need abroad to roam + In quest of faults to be chastis'd; + What cause to blush at home? + + In life's decline, when men relapse + Into the sports of youth, + The second child out-fools the first, + And tempts the lash of truth; + + Shall a mere truant from the grave + With rival boys engage? + His trembling voice attempt to sing, + And ape the poet's rage? + + Here, madam! let me visit one, + My fault who, partly, shares, + And tell myself, by telling him, + What more becomes our years; + + And if your breast with prudent zeal + For resignation glows, + You will not disapprove a just + Resentment at its foes. + + In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead + For some indulgence due; + When heads are white, their thoughts and aims + Should change their colour too: + + How are you cheated by your wit! + Old age is bound to pay, + By nature's law, a mind discreet, + For joys it takes away; + + A mighty change is wrought by years, + Reversing human lot; + In age 'tis honour to lie hid, + 'Tis praise to be forgot; + + The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon, + And all their charms expose, + When evening damps and shades descend, + Their evolutions close. + + What though your muse has nobly soar'd, + Is that our truth sublime? + Ours, hoary friend! is to prefer + Eternity to time: + + Why close a life so justly fam'd + With such bold trash as this?(54) + This for renown? yes, such as makes + Obscurity a bliss: + + Your trash, with mine, at open war, + Is obstinately bent,(55) + Like wits below, to sow your tares + Of gloom and discontent: + + With so much sunshine at command, + Why light with darkness mix? + Why dash with pain our pleasure? + Your Helicon with Styx? + + Your works in our divided minds + Repugnant passions raise, + Confound us with a double stroke, + We shudder whilst we praise; + + A curious web, as finely wrought + As genius can inspire, + From a black bag of poison spun, + With horror we admire. + + Mean as it is, if this is read + With a disdainful air, + I can't forgive so great a foe + To my dear friend Voltaire: + + Early I knew him, early prais'd, + And long to praise him late; + His genius greatly I admire, + Nor would deplore his fate; + + A fate how much to be deplor'd! + At which our nature starts; + Forbear to fall on your own sword. + To perish by your parts: + + "But great your name"--To feed on air, + Were then immortals born? + Nothing is great, of which more great, + More glorious is the scorn. + + Can fame your carcass from the worm + Which gnaws us in the grave, + Or soul from that which never dies, + Applauding Europe save? + + But fame you lose; good sense alone + Your idol, praise, can claim; + When wild wit murders happiness, + It puts to death our fame! + + Nor boast your genius, talents bright; + E'en dunces will despise, + If in your western beams is miss'd + A genius for the skies; + + Your taste too fails; what most excels + True taste must relish most! + And what, to rival palms above, + Can proudest laurels boast? + + Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56) + Resplendent are its rays, + Let that suffice; it needs no plume, + Of sublunary praise. + + May this enable couch'd Voltaire + To see that--"All is right,"(57) + His eye, by flash of wit struck blind, + Restoring to its sight; + + If so, all's well: who much have err'd, + That much have been forgiven; + I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear, + "Voltaires are, now, in heaven." + + Nay, such philanthropy divine, + So boundless in degree, + Its marvellous of love extends + (Stoops most profound!) to me: + + Let others cruel stars arraign, + Or dwell on their distress; + But let my page, for mercies pour'd, + A grateful heart express: + + Walking, the present God was seen, + Of old, in Eden fair; + The God as present, by plain steps + Of providential care, + + I behold passing through my life; + His awful voice I hear; + And, conscious of my nakedness, + Would hide myself for fear: + + But where the trees, or where the clouds, + Can cover from his sight? + Naked the centre to that eye, + To which the sun is night. + + As yonder glittering lamps on high + Through night illumin'd roll; + My thoughts of him, by whom they shine, + Chase darkness from my soul; + + My soul, which reads his hand as clear + In my minute affairs, + As in his ample manuscript + Of sun, and moon, and stars; + + And knows him not more bent aright + To wield that vast machine, + Than to correct one erring thought + In my small world within; + + A world, that shall survive the fall + Of all his wonders here; + Survive, when suns ten thousand drop, + And leave a darken'd sphere. + + Yon matter gross, how bright it shines! + For time how great his care! + Sure spirit and eternity + Far richer glories share; + + Let those our hearts impress, on those + Our contemplation dwell; + On those my thoughts how justly thrown, + By what I now shall tell: + + When backward with attentive mind + Life's labyrinth I trace, + I find him far myself beyond + Propitious to my peace: + + Through all the crooked paths I trod, + My folly he pursued; + My heart astray to quick return + Importunately woo'd; + + Due resignation home to press + On my capricious will, + How many rescues did I meet, + Beneath the mask of ill! + + How many foes in ambush laid + Beneath my soul's desire! + The deepest penitents are made + By what we most admire. + + Have I not sometimes (real good + So little mortals know!) + Mounting the summit of my wish, + Profoundly plung'd in woe? + + I rarely plann'd, but cause I found + My plan's defeat to bless: + Oft I lamented an event; + It turn'd to my success. + + By sharpen'd appetite to give + To good intense delight, + Through dark and deep perplexities + He led me to the right. + + And is not this the gloomy path, + Which you are treading now? + The path most gloomy leads to light, + When our proud passions bow: + + When labouring under fancied ill, + My spirits to sustain, + He kindly cur'd with sovereign draughts + Of unimagin'd pain. + + Pain'd sense from fancied tyranny + Alone can set us free; + A thousand miseries we feel, + Till sunk in misery. + + Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish, + Our wish we relish less; + Success, a sort of suicide, + Is ruin'd by success: + + Sometimes he led me near to death, + And, pointing to the grave, + Bid terror whisper kind advice; + And taught the tomb to save: + + To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds + As spangles o'er us shine, + One day he gave, and bid the next + My soul's delight resign. + + We to ourselves, but through the means + Of mirrors, are unknown; + In this my fate can you descry + No features of your own? + + And if you can, let that excuse + These self-recording lines; + A record, modesty forbids, + Or to small bound confines: + + In grief why deep ingulf'd? You see + You suffer nothing rare; + Uncommon grief for common fate! + That wisdom cannot bear. + + When streams flow backward to their source, + And humbled flames descend, + And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft, + Then human sorrows end; + + But human prudence too must cease, + When sorrows domineer, + When fortitude has lost its fire, + And freezes into fear: + + The pang most poignant of my life + Now heightens my delight; + I see a fair creation rise + From chaos, and old night: + + From what seem'd horror, and despair, + The richest harvest rose; + And gave me in the nod divine + An absolute repose. + + Of all the plunders of mankind, + More gross, or frequent, none, + Than in their grief and joy misplac'd, + Eternally are shown. + + But whither points all this parade? + It says, that near you lies + A book, perhaps yet unperus'd, + Which you should greatly prize: + + Of self-perusal, science rare! + Few know the mighty gain; + Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read + Their Bibles o'er in vain: + + Self-knowledge, which from heaven itself + (So sages tell us) came, + What is it, but a daughter fair + Of my maternal theme? + + Unletter'd and untravel'd men + An oracle might find, + Would they consult their own contents, + The Delphos of the mind. + + Enter your bosom; there you'll meet + A revelation new, + A revelation personal; + Which none can read but you. + + There will you clearly read reveal'd + In your enlighten'd thought, + By mercies manifold, through life, + To fresh remembrance brought, + + A mighty Being! and in him + A complicated friend, + A father, brother, spouse; no dread + Of death, divorce, or end: + + Who such a matchless friend embrace, + And lodge him in their heart, + Full well, from agonies exempt, + With other friends may part: + + As when o'erloaded branches bear + Large clusters big with wine, + We scarce regret one falling leaf + From the luxuriant vine. + + My short advice to you may sound + Obscure or somewhat odd, + Though 'tis the best that man can give,-- + "E'en be content with God." + + Through love he gave you the deceas'd, + Through greater took him hence; + This reason fully could evince, + Though murmur'd at by sense. + + This friend, far past the kindest kind, + Is past the greatest great; + His greatness let me touch in points + Not foreign to your state; + + His eye, this instant, reads your heart; + A truth less obvious hear; + This instant its most secret thoughts + Are sounding in his ear: + + Dispute you this? O! stand in awe, + And cease your sorrow; know, + That tears now trickling down, he saw + Ten thousand years ago; + + And twice ten thousand hence, if you + Your temper reconcile + To reason's bound, will he behold + Your prudence with a smile; + + A smile, which through eternity + Diffuses so bright rays, + The dimmest deifies e'en guilt, + If guilt, at last, obeys: + + Your guilt (for guilt it is to mourn + When such a sovereign reigns), + Your guilt diminish; peace pursue; + How glorious peace in pains! + + Here, then, your sorrows cease; if not, + Think how unhappy they, + Who guilt increase by streaming tears, + Which guilt should wash away; + + Of tears that gush profuse restrain; + Whence burst those dismal sighs? + They from the throbbing breast of one + (Strange truth!) most happy rise; + + Not angels (hear it, and exult!) + Enjoy a larger share + Than is indulg'd to you, and yours, + Of God's impartial care; + + Anxious for each, as if on each + His care for all was thrown; + For all his care as absolute, + As all had been but one. + + And is he then so near! so kind!-- + How little then, and great, + That riddle, man! O! let me gaze + At wonders in his fate; + + His fate, who yesterday did crawl + A worm from darkness deep, + And shall, with brother worms, beneath + A turf, to-morrow sleep; + + How mean!--And yet, if well obey'd + His mighty Master's call, + The whole creation for mean man + Is deem'd a boon too small: + + Too small the whole creation deem'd + For emmets in the dust! + Account amazing! yet most true; + My song is bold, yet just: + + Man born for infinite, in whom + Nor period can destroy + The power, in exquisite extremes, + To suffer, or enjoy; + + Give him earth's empire (if no more) + He's beggar'd, and undone! + Imprison'd in unbounded space! + Benighted by the sun! + + For what the sun's meridian blaze + To the most feeble ray + Which glimmers from the distant dawn + Of uncreated day? + + 'Tis not the poet's rapture feign'd + Swells here the vain to please; + The mind most sober kindles most + At truths sublime as these; + + They warm e'en me.--I dare not say, + Divine ambition strove + Not to bless only, but confound, + Nay, fright us with its love; + + And yet so frightful what, or kind, + As that the rending rock, + The darken'd sun, and rising dead, + So formidable spoke? + + And are we darker than that sun? + Than rocks more hard, and blind? + We are;--if not to such a God + In agonies resigned. + + Yes, e'en in agonies forbear + To doubt almighty love; + Whate'er endears eternity, + Is mercy from above; + + What most imbitters time, that most + Eternity endears, + And thus, by plunging in distress, + Exalts us to the spheres; + + Joy's fountain head! where bliss o'er bliss, + O'er wonders wonders rise, + And an Omnipotence prepares + Its banquet for the wise: + + Ambrosial banquet! rich in wines + Nectareous to the soul! + What transports sparkle from the stream, + As angels fill the bowl! + + Fountain profuse of every bliss! + Good-will immense prevails; + Man's line can't fathom its profound + An angel's plummet fails. + + Thy love and might, by what they know, + Who judge, nor dream of more; + They ask a drop, how deep the sea! + One sand, how wide the shore! + + Of thy exuberant good-will, + Offended Deity! + The thousandth part who comprehends, + A deity is he. + + How yonder ample azure field + With radiant worlds is sown! + How tubes astonish us with those + More deep in ether thrown! + + And those beyond of brighter worlds + Why not a million more?-- + In lieu of answer, let us all + Fall prostrate, and adore. + + Since thou art infinite in power, + Nor thy indulgence less; + Since man, quite impotent and blind, + Oft drops into distress; + + Say, what is resignation? 'T is + Man's weakness understood; + And wisdom grasping, with a hand + Far stronger, every good. + + Let rash repiners stand appall'd, + In thee who dare not trust; + Whose abject souls, like demons dark, + Are murmuring in the dust; + + For man to murmur, or repine + At what by thee is done, + No less absurd, than to complain + Of darkness in the sun. + + Who would not, with a heart at ease, + Bright eye, unclouded brow, + Wisdom and goodness at the helm, + The roughest ocean plough? + + What, though I'm swallow'd in the deep? + Though mountains o'er me roar? + Jehovah reigns! as Jonah safe, + I'm landed, and adore: + + Thy will is welcome, let it wear + Its most tremendous form; + Roar, waves; rage, winds! I know that thou + Canst save me by a storm. + + From the immortal spirits born, + To thee, their fountain, flow, + If wise; as curl'd around to theirs + Meandering streams below: + + Not less compell'd by reason's call, + To thee our souls aspire, + Than to thy skies, by nature's law, + High mounts material fire; + + To thee aspiring they exult, + I feel my spirits rise, + I feel myself thy son, and pant + For patrimonial skies; + + Since ardent thirst of future good, + And generous sense of past, + To thee man's prudence strongly ties, + And binds affection fast; + + Since great thy love, and great our want, + And men the wisest blind, + And bliss our aim; pronounce us all + Distracted, or resigned; + + Resign'd through duty, interest, shame; + Deep shame! dare I complain, + When (wondrous truth!) in heaven itself + Joy ow'd its birth to pain? + + And pain for me! for me was drain'd + Gall's overflowing bowl; + And shall one drop to murmur bold + Provoke my guilty soul? + + If pardon'd this, what cause, what crime + Can indignation raise? + The sun was lighted up to shine, + And man was born to praise; + + And when to praise the man shall cease, + Or sun to strike the view; + A cloud dishonors both; but man's + The blacker of the two: + + For oh! ingratitude how black! + With most profound amaze + At love, which man belov'd o'erlooks, + Astonish'd angels gaze. + + Praise cheers, and warms, like generous wine; + Praise, more divine than prayer; + Prayer points our ready path to heaven; + Praise is already there. + + Let plausive resignation rise, + And banish all complaint; + All virtues thronging into one, + It finishes the saint; + + Makes the man bless'd, as man can be; + Life's labours renders light; + Darts beams through fate's incumbent gloom, + And lights our sun by night; + + 'T is nature's brightest ornament, + The richest gift of grace, + Rival of angels, and supreme + Proprietor of peace; + + Nay, peace beyond, no small degree + Of rapture 't will impart; + Know, madam! when your heart's in heaven, + "All heaven is in your heart." + + But who to heaven their hearts can raise? + Denied divine support, + All virtue dies; support divine + The wise with ardour court: + + When prayer partakes the seraph's fire, + 'T is mounted on his wing, + Bursts thro' heaven's crystal gates, and + Sure audience of its king: + + The labouring soul from sore distress + That bless'd expedient frees; + I see you far advanc'd in peace; + I see you on your knees: + + How on that posture has the beam + Divine for ever shone! + An humble heart, God's other seat!(58) + The rival of his throne: + + And stoops Omnipotence so low! + And condescends to dwell, + Eternity's inhabitant, + Well pleas'd, in such a cell? + + Such honour how shall we repay? + How treat our guest divine? + The sacrifice supreme be slain! + Let self-will die: resign. + + Thus far, at large, on our disease; + Now let the cause be shown, + Whence rises, and will ever rise, + The dismal human groan: + + What our sole fountain of distress? + Strong passion for this scene; + That trifles make important, things + Of mighty moment mean: + + When earth's dark maxims poison shed + On our polluted souls, + Our hearts and interests fly as far + Asunder, as the poles. + + Like princes in a cottage nurs'd, + Unknown their royal race, + With abject aims, and sordid joys, + Our grandeur we disgrace; + + O! for an Archimedes new, + Of moral powers possess'd, + The world to move, and quite expel + That traitor from the breast. + + No small advantage may be reap'd + From thought whence we descend; + From weighing well, and prizing weigh'd + Our origin, and end: + + From far above the glorious sun + To this dim scene we came: + And may, if wise, for ever bask + In great Jehovah's beam: + + Let that bright beam on reason rous'd + In awful lustre rise, + Earth's giant ills are dwarf'd at once, + And all disquiet dies. + + Earth's glories too their splendour lose, + Those phantoms charm no more; + Empire's a feather for a fool, + And Indian mines are poor: + + Then levell'd quite, whilst yet alive, + The monarch and his slave; + Not wait enlighten'd minds to learn + That lesson from the grave: + + A George the Third would then be low + As Lewis in renown, + Could he not boast of glory more + Than sparkles from a crown. + + When human glory rises high + As human glory can; + When, though the king is truly great, + Still greater is the man; + + The man is dead, where virtue fails; + And though the monarch proud + In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe + Is but a gaudy shroud. + + Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth, + Though grasping wealth, fame, power, + But what, O death! through thy approach, + Is wiser every hour; + + Approach how swift, how unconfin'd! + Worms feast on viands rare, + Those little epicures have kings + To grace their bill of fare: + + From kings what resignation due + To that almighty will, + Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail, + Can throne them higher still! + + Who truly great? The good and brave, + The masters of a mind + The will divine to do resolv'd, + To suffer it resign'd. + + Madam! if that may give it weight, + The trifle you receive + Is dated from a solemn scene, + The border of the grave; + + Where strongly strikes the trembling soul + Eternity's dread power, + As bursting on it through the thin + Partition of an hour; + + Hear this, Voltaire! but this, from me, + Runs hazard of your frown; + However, spare it; ere you die, + Such thoughts will be your own. + + In mercy to yourself forbear + My notions to chastise, + Lest unawares the gay Voltaire + Should blame Voltaire the wise: + + Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear, + Now, makes us disagree; + When a far louder trumpet sounds, + Voltaire will close with me: + + How shocking is that modesty, + Which keeps some honest men + From urging what their hearts suggest, + When brav'd by folly's pen. + + Assaulting truths, of which in all + Is sown the sacred seed! + Our constitution's orthodox, + And closes with our creed: + + What then are they, whose proud conceits + Superior wisdom boast? + Wretches, who fight their own belief, + And labour to be lost! + + Though vice by no superior joys + Her heroes keeps in pay; + Through pure disinterested love + Of ruin they obey! + + Strict their devotion to the wrong, + Though tempted by no prize; + Hard their commandments, and their creed + A magazine of lies + + From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles + At reason plain, and cool; + Fancy, whose curious trade it is + To make the finest fool. + + Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse + That mortals can receive, + When they imagine the chief end + Of living is to live; + + Quite thoughtless of their day of death, + That birthday of their sorrow! + Knowing, it may be distant far, + Nor crush them till--to-morrow. + + These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd + Beneath an humble cot; + Not mine, your genius, or your state, + No castle is my lot:(59) + + But soon, quite level shall we lie; + And, what pride most bemoans, + Our parts, in rank so distant now, + As level as our bones; + + Hear you that sound? Alarming sound! + Prepare to meet your fate! + One, who writes finis to our works, + Is knocking at the gate; + + Far other works will soon be weigh'd; + Far other judges sit; + Far other crowns be lost or won, + Than fire ambitious wit: + + Their wit far brightest will be prov'd, + Who sunk it in good sense; + And veneration most profound + Of dread omnipotence. + + 'Tis that alone unlocks the gate + Of blest eternity; + O! mayst thou never, never lose + That more than golden key!(60) + + Whate'er may seem too rough excuse, + Your good I have at heart: + Since from my soul I wish you well; + As yet we must not part: + + Shall you, and I, in love with life, + Life's future schemes contrive, + The world in wonder not unjust, + That we are still alive? + + What have we left? How mean in man + A shadow's shade to crave! + When life, so vain! is vainer still, + 'Tis time to take your leave: + + Happier, than happiest life, is death, + Who, falling in the field + Of conflict with his rebel will, + Writes vici, on his shield; + + So falling man, immortal heir + Of an eternal prize; + Undaunted at the gloomy grave, + Descends into the skies. + + O! how disorder'd our machine, + When contradictions mix! + When nature strikes no less than twelve, + And folly points at six! + + To mend the moments of your heart, + How great is my delight + Gently to wind your morals up, + And set your hand aright! + + That hand, which spread your wisdom wide + To poison distant lands: + Repent, recant; the tainted age + Your antidote demands; + + To Satan dreadfully resign'd, + Whole herds rush down the steep + Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd, + And perish in the deep. + + Men's praise your vanity pursues; + 'Tis well, pursue it still; + But let it be of men deceas'd, + And you'll resign the will; + + And how superior they to those + At whose applause you aim; + How very far superior they + In number, and in name! + + + + + Postscript. + + + Thus have I written, when to write + No mortal should presume; + Or only write, what none can blame, + Hic jacet--for his tomb: + + The public frowns, and censures loud + My puerile employ; + Though just the censure, if you smile, + The scandal I enjoy; + + But sing no more--no more I sing + Or reassume the lyre, + Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part + Where Raphael leads the choir: + + What myriads swell the concert loud! + Their golden harps resound + High as the footstool of the throne, + And deep as hell profound: + + Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song + Of raptur'd angels drowns + In self-will's peal of blasphemies, + And hideous burst of groans; + + But drowns them not to me; I hear + Harmonious thunders roll + (In language low of men to speak) + From echoing pole to pole! + + Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies-- + "Above, beneath the sun, + Through boundless age, by men, by gods, + Jehovah's will be done!" + + 'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd + Self-will with Satan fell; + And must from earth be banish'd too, + Or earth's another hell; + + Madam! self-will inflicts your pains: + Self-will's the deadly foe + Which deepens all the dismal shades, + And points the shafts of woe: + + Your debt to nature fully paid, + Now virtue claims her due: + But virtue's cause I need not plead, + 'Tis safe; I write to you: + + You know, that virtue's basis lies + In ever judging right; + And wiping error's clouds away, + Which dim the mental sight: + + Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave, + From storm that safe resort; + We still are tossing out at sea, + Our admiral in port. + + Was death denied, this world, a scene + How dismal and forlorn! + To death we owe, that 'tis to man + A blessing to be born; + + When every other blessing fails, + Or sapp'd by slow decay, + Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate, + Is swiftly whirl'd away; + + How happy! that no storm, or time, + Of death can rob the just! + None pluck from their unaching heads + Soft pillows in the dust! + + Well pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown, + Your utmost power employ; + 'Tis noble chemistry to turn + Necessity to joy. + + Whate'er the colour of my fate, + My fate shall be my choice: + Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe, + To praise and to rejoice; + + What ample cause! triumphant hope! + O rich eternity! + I start not at a world in flames, + Charm'd with one glimpse of thee: + + And thou! its great inhabitant! + How glorious dost thou shine! + And dart through sorrow, danger, death, + A beam of joy divine! + + The void of joy (with some concern + The truth severe I tell) + Is an impenitent in guilt, + A fool or infidel! + + Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire! + From joyless murmur free; + Or, let us know, which character + Shall crown you of the three. + + Resign, resign: this lesson none + Too deeply can instill; + A crown has been resign'd by more, + Than have resign'd the will; + + Though will resign'd the meanest makes + Superior in renown, + And richer in celestial eyes, + Than he who wears a crown; + + Hence, in the bosom cold of age, + It kindled a strange aim + To shine in song; and bid me boast + The grandeur of my theme: + + But oh! how far presumption falls + Its lofty theme below! + Our thoughts in life's December freeze, + And numbers cease to flow. + + First! greatest! best! grant what I wrote + For others, ne'er may rise + To brand the writer! thou alone + Canst make our wisdom wise; + + And how unwise! how deep in guilt! + How infamous the fault! + "A teacher thron'd in pomp of words, + Indeed, beneath the taught!" + + Means most infallible to make + The world an infidel; + And, with instructions most divine, + To pave a path to hell; + + O! for a clean and ardent heart, + O! for a soul on fire, + Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound + Where angels string the lyre; + + How cold is man! to him how hard + (Hard, what most easy seems) + "To set a just esteem on that, + Which yet he--most esteems!" + + What shall we say, when boundless bliss + Is offer'd to mankind, + And to that offer when a race + Of rationals is blind? + + Of human nature ne'er too high + Are our ideas wrought; + Of human merit ne'er too low + Depress'd the daring thought. + + + + + + ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE + + + Inscribed to Joseph Addison, Esq. Secretary to Their Excellencies the + Lords Justices. + + + Gaudia curis. + + --HOR. + + + Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought + To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, + My fame at once, and duty to pursue, + And please the public, by respect to you. + Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, + Have spread your country's glory with your own; + To me you never did more lovely shine, + Than when so late the kindled wrath divine + Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate, + And darken'd all the pomp of human state. + Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, + Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away, + Your lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom + With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. + Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, + I chose that moment to profess to you, + When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe, + Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere. + And when no motives could have force to raise + A serious value, and provoke my praise, + But such as rise above, and far transcend, + Whatever glories with this world shall end, + Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot + The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot. + I sing--but ah! my theme I need not tell, + See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: + Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, + Can only show his duty, not his choice. + How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain! + We languish, and to speak is to complain. + Let us look back, (for who too oft can view + That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) + See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, + And pay a constant tribute, not their own. + Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow, + They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; + And when black storms confess the distant sun, + Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. + Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, + And triumphs are the product of the year. + To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, + And glorious victory is lost in peace. + Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle? + Did partial fortune on our virtue smile? + Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, + Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? + Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, + Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same. + Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; + 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. + We spread our canvass to the southern shore; + 'Tis Anna reigns! the south resigns her store. + Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, + And swells the field with mountains of the slain + Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, + While millions lie subdu'd by Anna's prayer. + How great her zeal! how fervent her desire! + How did her soul in holy warmth expire! + Constant devotion did her time divide, + Not set returns of pleasure or of pride. + Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray, + But finish'd duty, limited the day. + How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes + Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams! + Her royal couch descending angels spread, + And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head. + Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part, + Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart: + She saw, and griev'd to see, the mean estate + Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait; + She shed her bounty, piously profuse, + And thought it more her own in sacred use. + Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, + And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; + He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, + And providently scatters all his grain. + What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise + New to behold, and awfully surprise! + Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, + And sacred domes on palaces look down: + A noble pride of piety is shown, + And temples cast a lustre on the throne. + How would this work another's glory raise! + But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise. + Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears, + Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears? + Who stoop'd from high to succour the distrest + And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? + Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, + Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave. + Misfortune lost her name, her guiltless frown + But made another debtor to the crown; + And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, + Became our title to the regal store. + Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot, + And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. + Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, + When first the dreadful blast of fame arriv'd, + Say what a shock, what agonies you felt, + How did your souls with tender anguish melt! + That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd, + Shook like a tempest every grateful breast, + A second fate our sinking fortunes tried! + A second time our tender parents died! + Heroes returning from the field we crown, + And deify the haughty victor's frown. + His splendid wealth too rashly we admire, + Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire: + Wisely to spend, is the great art of gain; + And one reliev'd transcends a million slain. + When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay, + Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away, + One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry, + Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy. + But ah! to that unknown and distant date + Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate; + Here random shafts in every breast are found, + Virtue and merit but provoke the wound. + August in native worth and regal state, + Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate; + To distant realms did every accent fly, + And nations watch'd each motion of her eye. + Silent, nor longer awful to be seen, + How small a spot contains the mighty queen! + No throng of suppliant princes mark the place, + Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace: + The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise, + And a stone tells us where the monarch lies. + Thus end maturest honours of the crown! + This is the last conclusion of renown! + So when with idle skill the wanton boy + Breathes through his tube; he sees, with eager joy, + The trembling bubble, in its rising small; + And by degrees expands the glittering ball. + But when, to full perfection blown, it flies + High in the air, and shines in various dyes, + The little monarch, with a falling tear, + Sees his world burst at once, and disappear, + 'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom, + No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb! + Why then this fond indulgence of our woe! + What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow! + Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress + We learn how much in George the gods can bless + Had a less glorious princess left the throne, + But half the hero had at first been shown: + An Anna falling all the king employs, + To vindicate from guilt our rising joys: + Our joys arise and innocently shine, + Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine! + Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne! + Nor let thy country think thee all her own. + Of thy delay how oft did we complain! + Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main. + With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet; + With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet; + And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, + We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more. + What hand but thine should conquer and compose, + Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes? + Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, + And by his rival's greatness give him fame? + Now in some foreign court he may sit down, + And quit without a blush the British crown. + Secure his honour, though he lose his store, + And take a lucky moment to be poor. + Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour, + In Britain's favour, you exert your power; + To us, far back in time, I joy to trace + The numerous tokens of your princely grace. + Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine, + Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine; + In the more scenes your genius was display'd, + The greater debt was on Britannia laid: + They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise, + And your new subjects proudly share the praise. + All share; but may not we have leave to boast + That we contemplate, and enjoy it most? + This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate + On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat; + For many roiling ages justly fam'd, + Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd; + And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) + Her blood and treasure to support the throne! + For England's church her latest accents strain'd; + And freedom with his dying hand retain'd. + No wonder then her various ranks agree + In all the fervencies of zeal for thee. + What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast, + And seas divide thee from the British coast? + The crown's impatient to enclose thy head: + Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread. + Our strict obedience through the world shall tell + That king's a Briton, who can govern well! + + + + + + THE INSTALMENT. + + + To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the Most Noble Order of + the Garter. + + + Quaesitam meritis. + + --HOR. + + + With invocations some their breasts inflame; + I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme. + Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise! + Our morning stars! our boast in former days! + Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display, + Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, + Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; + One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; + By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd; + This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist; + His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread; + Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; + And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race, + None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace. + When fate would call some mighty genius forth + To wake a drooping age to godlike worth, + Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil, + It bids his blood with generous ardour boil; + His blood, from virtue's celebrated source, + Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course; + That men prepar'd may just attention pay, + Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day, + When all the scatter'd merits of his line + Collected to a point, intensely shine. + See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far, + His azure ribbon, and his radiant star; + A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide + Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide. + If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer + A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; + And, gathering tribute from each distant shore, + In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour. + If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams + Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames, + With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent + To claim the seas, and awe the continent. + This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, + A star for us, a comet to the foe. + At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire: + My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire. + The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, + Refresh the dry domains of poesy. + My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, + What slender worth forbids us to despair: + Be this thy partial smile from censure free; + 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me. + Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse, + Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views. + False praises are the whoredoms of the pen, + Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men: + This profanation of celestial fire + Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire. + Let those I praise to distant times be known, + Not by their author's merit, but their own. + If others think the task is hard, to weed + From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed, + And rooted deep; one means must set them free, + Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee. + While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear, + Nor those retain, when winter chills the year; + The generous orange, favourite of the sun, + With vigorous charms can through the seasons run; + Defies the storm with her tenacious green; + And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen: + Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring; + And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing. + On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view + At once her ornament and profit too; + The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame, + Matur'd and gilded by the royal beam. + He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise + Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise; + Lets fall no honours, but, securely great, + Unfaded holds the colour of his fate: + No winter knows, though ruffling factions press; + By wisdom deeply rooted in success; + One glory shed, a brighter is display'd;(61) + And the charm'd muses shelter in his shade. + O how I long, enkindled by the theme, + In deep eternity to launch thy name! + Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead, + But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read. + "Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, + Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; + Whose glory great, but natural appears, + The genuine growth of services and years; + No sudden exhalation drawn on high, + And fondly gilt by partial majesty: + One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease, + One born to serve us, and yet born to please: + Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, + The prince may trust, and yet the people praise; + His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, + His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, + His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, + And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile." + Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, + To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won; + Who nobly conscious meets the smiles of fate; + True greatness lies in daring to be great. + Let dastard souls, or affectation, run + To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won; + Such men prefer, misled by false applause, + The pride of modesty to virtue's cause. + Honours, which make the face of virtue fair, + 'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear; + 'Tis holding up the prize to public view, + Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new; + Heightens the lustre of our age and clime, + And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time. + Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd, + Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd, + As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood, + The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood. + Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide, + And both Minervas rise in equal pride; + Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne, + Who shines illustrious not in wars alone. + Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes; + They coldly court desert, who fame despise. + For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail? + And what applause, but her propitious gale? + When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind + To glorious aims, as to the port design'd; + When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar, + She toils! she pants! nor gains the flying shore, + From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside + By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide: + For one that has succeeded ten are lost, + Of equal talents, ere they make the coast. + Then let renown to worth divine incite, + With all her beams, but throw those beams aright. + Then merit droops, and genius downward tends, + When godlike glory, like our land, descends. + Custom the garter long confin'd to few, + And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due: + Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down; + And high desert embraces fair renown. + Though rival'd, let the peerage smiling see + (Smiling, in justice to their own degree) + This proud reward by majesty bestow'd + On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd. + From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard, + Let subjects merit, and let kings reward. + Gods are most gods by giving to excel, + And kings most like them, by rewarding well. + Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn aright, + Short is the winged arrow's upward flight; + But if an eagle it transfix on high, + Lodg'd in the wound, it soars into the sky. + + Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, + And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise; + Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, + Not lifted by my genius, but my theme. + No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, + Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate + Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent + On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, + Brunswick of kings the terror or defence! + Who dares detain thee at a world's expense? + + + + + + AND EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE. + + + 1712. + + + Parnassia laurus + Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra. + + --VIRG. + + + When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, + And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone, + While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state + Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate; + Horace did oft the mighty man detain, + And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain; + Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string; + And taught the Roman genius how to sing. + Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, + Who know no want of Caesar, finding you; + The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press + Through circling crowds, and labor for access, + That partial to his darling he may prove, + And shining throngs for her reproach remove, + To all the world industrious to proclaim + His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. + Long has the western world reclin'd her head, + Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; + Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd, + And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; + By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; + Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd. + In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd, + In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; + Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, + And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; + The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, + The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; + Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear, + Not by the various aspects of the year; + The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, + And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh. + But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, + When such as you are near her glorious queen!) + Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, + And bids us smile on all our labours past; + Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, + And every monarch call his crown his own: + To valour gentler virtues now succeed; + No longer is the great man born to bleed; + Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, + Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: + Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, + And without trembling we resound his name. + No more the rising harvest whets the sword, + No longer waves uncertain of its lord; + Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, + Nor chance of battle change the master's name. + Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows; + The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; + All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, + And thank great Anna for returning peace. + The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, + No longer he invokes the gods in vain, + But rises to new life; in every field + He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; + Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, + And borrow beauties from his late disease. + Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, + As more than bids the rage of battle cease. + Death may determine war, and rest succeed, + 'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed: + In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, + And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. + See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, + Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; + So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home, + (Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon's stately dome; + The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne, + Will not that Anna call him all her own; + He claims a part, and looking round to find + Something might speak the fulness of his mind, + A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near, + Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; + Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one, + Who makes him less regret his darling son; + So dear is Anna's minister, so great, + Your glorious friend in his own private state. + To make our nations longer two, in vain + Does nature interpose the raging main: + The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, + For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: + From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find, + And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; + Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love, + And former injuries endearments prove. + What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword, + That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? + Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame + Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? + Thus generous hatred in affection ends, + And war, which rais'd the foes, completes the friends. + A thousand happy consequences flow + (The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); + Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll + Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole; + The British merchant, who with care and pain + For many moons sees only skies and main; + When now in view of his loved native shore, + The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er, + Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, + Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind; + By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe, + And give him strength to strike a deeper blow. + Sweet Philomela providently flies + To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, + To feed her young, and make them try the wing, + And with their tender notes attempt to sing: + Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare, + And renders vain the tuneful mother's care. + Britannia's bold adventurer of late + The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate. + Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, + And power a curse, if not a friend to right: + To conquer is to make dissension cease, + That man may serve the King of kings in peace. + Religion now shall all her rays dispense, + And shine abroad in perfect excellence; + Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, + To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land: + Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest; + The meagre famine, and the spotted pest, + Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, + And sweep the relics of the sword away. + When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, + Jove in the fulness of his glory shone; + Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, + Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. + Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile + Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle. + Those mighty souls, whom military care + Diverted from their only great affair, + Shall bend their full united force, to bless + Th' Almighty Author of their late success. + And what is all the world subdued to this? + The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss; + But there are conquests to great Anna known, + Above the splendour of an earthly throne; + Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within + The scanty bounds of matter to begin; + Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run + Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun, + And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. + Heroic shades! whom war has swept away, + Look down, and smile on this auspicious day: + Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell, + Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell; + Then deep into eternity retire, + Of greater things than peace or war inquire; + Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know + What farther passes in the world below. + The bravest of mankind shall now have leave + To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave: + On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet + Sad melancholy numbers in each street + (Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain, + Or wasting in the bottom of the main); + To turn us back from joy, in tender fear, + Lest it an insult of their woes appear, + And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood + Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food. + Devotion shall run pure, and disengage + From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage. + On heaven without a sin we now may call, + And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall; + Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath + Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death. + But O! I view with transport arts restor'd, + Which double use to Britain shall afford; + Secure her glory purchas'd in the field, + And yet for future peace sweet motives yield: + While we contemplate on the painted wall, + The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul, + In such bright images, such living grace, + As leave great Raphael but the second place; + Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, + And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes; + Much we shall triumph in our battles past, + And yet consent those battles prove our last; + Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, + We lose the means to keep that fame alive. + In silent groves the birds delight to sing, + Or near the margin of a secret spring: + Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve, + Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love. + But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string, + Or breathing canvass, when the muses sing? + The muse, my lord, your care above the rest, + With rising joy dilates my partial breast; + The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar, + Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar; + Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead, + And all her warlike neighbours round her bled; + For Janus shut, her Ioe Paeans rung, + Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung. + A thousand various forms the muse may wear, + (A thousand various forms become the fair;) + But shines in none with more majestic mien, + Than when in state she draws the purple scene; + Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, + And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; + Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use + The noblest virtues time did e'er produce; + Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind; + They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, + Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks + The hero's presence deep impression makes; + The scenes his soul and body reunite, + Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight; + Make our contemporary him that stood + High in renown, perhaps before the flood; + Make Nestor to this age advice afford, + And Hector for our service draw his sword. + More glory to an author what can bring, + Whence nobler service to his country spring, + Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, + Possess him with a passion for the right? + With honest magic make the knave inclin'd + To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; + Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, + And with her wants and anguish fall in love? + Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan, + And does not wish the glorious pain his own? + Lend but your understanding, and their skill + Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: + Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; + Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast. + How often have I seen the generous bowl + With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, + And steal a truth, which every sober hour + (The prose of life) had kept within her power! + The grape victorious often has prevail'd, + When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: + Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, + She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; + But mourn'd too late, no longer could deny, + And on her own confession charge the lie. + Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love + Of goodness here, or mercy from above, + Or fear of future pains, or human laws + Could render advocates in virtue's cause, + Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd + Their wonted disposition of the mind: + By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale, + As circling glasses on our senses steal; + Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd, + The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd, + They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage, + Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage, + Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring, + Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king. + How can they cool to villains? how subside + To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride? + To spoiling orphans how to day return, + Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn? + In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit + To govern, and control the world of wit, + As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known? + Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own; + He in the lap of elegance was bred, + And trac'd the muses to their fountain head: + But much we hope, he will enjoy at home + What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome. + Nor fear I mention of the court of France, + When I the British genius would advance; + There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste; + Yet still we dare invite him to our feast: + For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress + Of Oroonoko, and presume him less: + What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe + Waters those bays that shall for ever grow. + Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, + The drama glories in the British muse. + The French are delicate, and nicely lead + Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread; + Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, + Our strength can make the great plain action shine: + They raise a great curiosity indeed, + From his dark maze to see the hero freed; + We rouse th' affections, and that hero show + Gasping beneath some formidable blow: + They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care + We heighten into terror and despair; + Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch, + Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much. + What's great in nature we can greatly draw, + Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law. + The fate of Caesar is a tale too plain + The fickle Gallic taste to entertain; + Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove + The golden arras with gay flowers of love: + We know heaven made him a far greater man + Than any Caesar, in a human plan, + And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd, + To stand affected with what heaven design'd. + To claim attention, and the heart invade, + Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made. + Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays, + 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise; + On nature's surer aid Britannia calls, + None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls; + Then with a sigh returns our audience home, + From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. + France yields not to the glory of our lines, + But manly conduct of our strong designs; + That oft they think more justly we must own, + Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown: + Greece thought but justly, they think justly too; + We sometimes err by striving more to do. + So well are Racine's meanest persons taught, + But change a sentiment, you make a fault; + Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame: + When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame. + And yet in Shakespeare something still I find, + That makes me less esteem all human kind; + He made one nature, and another found, + Both in his page with master strokes abound: + His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle. + Bid us no longer at our nurses smile; + Of lost historians we almost complain, + Nor think it the creation of his brain. + Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance? + With his great Talbot(62) too he conquer'd France. + Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run + In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one; + And him, my lord, permit me not to name, + But in kind silence spare his rival's shame:-- + Yet I in vain that author would suppress, + What can't be greater, cannot be made less: + Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim, + And to himself great Agamemnon name. + Should Shakespeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile, + E'en Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle: + But if that reigning star propitious shine, + And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine; + E'en I, by far the meanest of your age, + Shall not repent my passion for the stage. + Thus did the will almighty disallow, + No human force could pluck the golden bough, + Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command, + And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand. + Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write + To you, the muses' glory and delight; + Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise, + And mortify an author with your praise: + Praise wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due, + But censure's self will please, my lord, from you; + Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend + To point them out, and teach us how to mend. + What though the great man set his coffers wide, + That cannot gratify the poet's pride; + Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good, + Is best rewarded, when best understood. + The muses write for glory, not for gold, + 'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold: + The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves + To speak a sense of what the muse deserves; + The muse which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong, + Best judge, as well as subject, of her song. + Should this great theme allure me further still, + And I presume to use your patience ill, + The world would plead my cause, and none but you + Will take disgust at what I now pursue: + Since what is mean my muse can't raise, I'll choose + A theme that's able to exalt my muse. + For who, not void of thought, can Granville name, + Without a spark of his immortal flame? + Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend, + Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend; + Whether we choose to love or to admire, + You melt the tender, and th'ambitious fire. + Such native graces without thought abound, + And such familiar glories spread around, + As more incline the stander by to raise + His value for himself, than you to praise. + Thus you befriend the most heroic way, + Bless all, on none an obligation lay; + So turn'd by nature's hand for all that's well, + 'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel. + Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien, + You to be happy want not to be seen; + Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone, + Nor court an approbation but your own: + In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze + In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please; + You, were all blind, would still deserve applause; + The world's your glory's witness, not its cause; + That lies beyond the limits of the day, + Angels behold it, and their God obey. + You take delight in others' excellence; + A gift, which nature rarely does dispense: + Of all that breathe 'tis you, perhaps, alone + Would be well pleas'd to see yourself outdone. + You wish not those, who show your name respect, + So little worth, as might excuse neglect; + Nor are in pain lest merit you should know; + Nor shun the well deserver as a foe; + A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim + To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame. + You wish your country's good; that told so well + Your powers are known, th' event I need not tell. + When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd; + That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd: + And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, + Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought. + When you, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat, + No crowds around for pleasure, or for state, + You are not cast upon a stranger land, + And wander pensive o'er the barren strand; + Nor are you by receiv'd example taught, + In toys to shun the discipline of thought; + But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, + You choose companions from all human race; + Converse with those the deluge swept away, + Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. + Books not so much inform, as give consent + To those ideas your own thoughts present; + Your only gain from turning volumes o'er, + Is finding cause to like yourself the more: + In Grecian sages you are only taught + With more respect to value your own thought: + Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew + Those precepts we behold alive in you: + Your life is so adjusted to their schools, + It makes that history they meant for rules. + What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise + Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, + When, in each learned page that you unfold, + You find some part of your own conduct told! + So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, AEneas stood, + And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, + When far from Trojan shores the hero spied + His story shining forth in all its pride; + Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand + The praise and wonder of a foreign land. + He knows not half his being, who's confin'd + In converse, and reflection on mankind: + Your soul, which understands her charter well, + Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell; + Ranges eternity without the leave + Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave. + When pains eternal, and eternal bliss, + When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss, + In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend, + And for your ease to deathless fame descend. + Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand, + Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.(63) + Behold the glories of your life complete! + Still at a flow, and permanently great; + New moments shed new pleasures as they fly, + And yet your greatest is, that you must die. + Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat + Of honour, and confess'd her servant great; + Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful fame + Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name; + Though you in modesty the title wear, + Your name shall be the title of your heir; + Farther than ermine, make his glory known, + And cast in shades the favour of a throne. + From thrones the beam of high distinction springs; + The soul's endowments from the King of kings, + Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers! + Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years; + Anna, be thou content to fix the fate + Of various kingdoms, and control the great; + But O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine! + To him that great prerogative resign, + Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher, + His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire. + Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, + A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; + That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame, + That I grow thus familiar with your name. + He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, + Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice: + Vice has he none, or such as none wish less, + But friends indeed, good-nature in excess. + You cannot boast the merit of a choice, + In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice, + Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood, + Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood; + Similitude of manners, such a mind + As makes you less the wonder of mankind. + Such ease his common converse recommends, + As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; + Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force + Of all beneath the sun, to bend his course.(64) + Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, + Flatters the motions of the wanton air; + Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd: + The pliant branches dance in every wind: + But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains, + And all the fury of the north disdains. + How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend! + Alas! with me the joys of friendship end; + O Harrison! I must, I will complain; + Tears soothe the soul's distress, tho' shed in vain; + Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore + With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?-- + Thy task was early done, and I must own + Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone. + But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn, + The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn; + Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive, + They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave. + With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, + I night to day in painful journey join'd, + When first inform'd of his approaching fate; + But reach'd the partner of my soul too late: + 'Twas past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, + Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, + Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain, + Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again: + Each art of life, in which he bore a part, + Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. + To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power, + But more to load that most unhappy hour? + Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind; + That, not in health, or life itself confin'd, + Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, + Mounted to joy, and smil'd in death's embrace. + His spirit now just ready to resign, + No longer now his own, no longer mine, + He grasps my hand, his swimming eyeballs roll, + My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul: + Then with a groan--Support me, O! beware + Of holding worth, however great, too dear!(65) + Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief, + That in untimely freedom seeks relief; + To better fate your love I recommend, + O! may you never lose so dear a friend! + May nothing interrupt your happy hours; + Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers: + Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn; + To make the muse immortal, you was born. + Sing; and in latest time, when story's dark, + This period your surviving fame shall mark; + Save from the gulf of years this glorious age, + And thus illustrate their historian's page. + The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, + And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung: + That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, + When this great man was first saluted lord. + + + + + + TWO EPISTLES TO MR. POPE + + + Concerning the Authors of the Age. 1730. + + + + + Epistle I. + + + Whilst you at Twickenham plan the future wood, + Or turn the volumes of the wise and good, + Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl, + And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall; + So rushing tides bring things obscene to light, + Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; + The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns, + And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains. + Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, + Where speculation roosted near the sky; + Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, + And all the garret thunders on the throng! + O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain; + I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain: + Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear + Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer; + I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour, + Shan't I return the vengeance in my power? + For who can write the true absurd like me?---- + Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee? + Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style, + The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file; + Merit less solid, less despite had bred; + They had not bit, and then they had not bled. + Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys, + But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; + With fame, in just proportion, envy grows; + The man that makes a character, makes foes: + Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise, + As a bright day awakes the world of flies; + With hearty malice, but with feeble wing, + (To show they live) they flutter, and they sting: + But as by depredations wasps proclaim + The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame. + Shall we not censure all the motley train, + Whether with ale irriguous, or champaign? + Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb, + And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme; + The college sloven, or embroider'd spark; + The purple prelate, or the parish clerk; + The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig; + The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig; + Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; + Whether extremely witty, or quite mad; + Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite; + Men that read well, or men that only write; + Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds, + And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds; + For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut, + As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut. + His hammer this, and that his trowel quits, + And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits. + By thriving men subsists each other trade; + Of every broken craft a writer's made: + Thus his material, paper, takes its birth + From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth. + Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong + Millions of wits, and brokers in old song: + Thee well a land of liberty we name, + Where all are free to scandal and to shame; + Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, + And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please; + Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense + Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence: + Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires; + Their verse immoral kindles loose desires: + Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime, + Our sport and pity, punishment and crime. + What glorious motives urge our authors on, + Thus to undo, and thus to be undone? + One loses his estate, and down he sits, + To show (in vain!) he still retains his wits: + Another marries, and his dear proves keen; + He writes as an hypnotic for the spleen: + Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt; + Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet; + Through private pique some do the public right, + And love their king and country out of spite: + Another writes because his father writ, + And proves himself a bastard by his wit. + Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? + Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound: + His belly, not his brains, this impulse give; + He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live: + He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, + With no provision made, but of his theme; + Perhaps a title has his fancy smit, + Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit: + He writes, in inspiration puts his trust, + Tho' wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just; + Genius directly from the gods descends, + And who by labour would distrust his friends? + Thus having reason'd with consummate skill, + In immortality he dips his quill: + And, since blank paper is denied the press, + He mingles the whole alphabet by guess: + In various sets, which various words compose, + Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows. + So sounds spontaneous from the sibyl broke, + Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke; + The priests found out the meaning, if they could; + And nations star'd at what none understood. + Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole + And great concern of an immortal soul!) + Oft have I said, "Awake! exist! and strive + For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!" + As oft I overheard the demon say, + Who daily met the loit'rer in his way, + "I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth replies, + "I'll meet thee there," and falls his sacrifice; + His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare + To ev'ry bribe, and blind to ev'ry snare: + Clodio for bread his indolence must quit, + Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit. + Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake; + How must Spain tremble, and the German shake! + Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; + Ev'n George's praise is dated from the mint. + In arms contemptible, in arts profane, + Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign. + Reform your lives before you thus aspire, + And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire. + O the just contrast! O the beauteous strife! + 'Twixt their cool writings, and pindaric life: + They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire; + They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. + I reverence misfortune, not deride; + I pity poverty, but laugh at pride: + For who so sad, but must some mirth confess + At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress? + Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, + There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat. + These, nature's commoners, who want a home, + Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; + They make a private study of the street; + And, looking full on every man they meet, + Run souse against his chaps; who stands amaz'd + To find they did not see, but only gaz'd. + How must these bards be rapt into the skies! + you need not read, you feel their ecstasies. + Will they persist? 'Tis Madness; Lintot, run, + See them confin'd--"O that's already done." + Most, as by leases, by the works they print, + Have took, for life, possession of the mint. + If you mistake, and pity these poor men, + est Ulubris, they cry, and write again. + Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, + And then pronounce just judges learning's foes; + O frail conclusion; the reverse is true; + If foes to learning, they'd be friends to you: + Treat them, ye judges! with an honest scorn, + And weed the cockle from the generous corn: + There's true good nature in your disrepect; + In justice to the good, the bad neglect: + For immortality, if hardships plead, + It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. + But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool, + But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull? + 'Tis sad experience takes the censor's part, + Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. + a virgin author, recent from the press, + The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success; + Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed, + Those in his hand, and glory in his head; + 'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight! + His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night: + But rising the next morn to clasp his fame, + He finds that without sleeping he could dream: + So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, + And find next day the devil in their stead. + In vain advertisements the town o'erspread; + They're epitaphs, and the work is dead. + Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; + 'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays. + A famous author visits a great man, + Of his immortal work displays the plan, + And says, "Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss; + Your glory, and my own, shall live by this; + Your power is fixt, your fame thro' time convey'd, + And Britain Europe's queen--if I am paid." + A statesman has his answer in a trice: + "Sir, such a genius is beyond all price; + What man can pay for this?"--Away he turns; + His work is folded, and his bosom burns: + His patron he will patronize no more; + But rushes like a tempest out of door. + Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! + Out comes the piece, another, and the same; + For A, his magic pen evokes an O, + And turns the tide of Europe on the foe: + He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff; + But 'tis so very foul, it wont go off: + Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; + But when once publish'd, they are heard no more. + Thus distant bugbears fright, but, nearer draw, + The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. + Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are such? + No; every party's tainted by their touch. + Infected persons fly each public place; + And none, or enemies alone, embrace: + To the foul fiend their every passion's sold: + They love, and hate, extempore, for gold: + What image of their fury can we form? + Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm. + Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, + To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly: + Write they with rage? The tempest quickly flags; + A state Ulysses tames 'em with his bags; + Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew: + For Christian ministers of state are few. + Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, + That pours his politics through pipes of lead, + Which far and near ejaculate, and spout + O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout: + But when they have bespatter'd all they may, + The statesman throws his filthy squirts away! + With golden forceps, these, another takes, + And state elixirs of the vipers makes. + The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay + A servile sycophant, if well they weigh + How much it costs the wretch to be so base; + Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, + Enough chastise, such prostitute applause, + If well they weigh how much it stains their cause. + But are our writers ever in the wrong? + Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? + Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's self they fight; + Still in the wrong, tho' champions for the right: + Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, + Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. + Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, + And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; + From the same hand how various is the page! + What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! + Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare; + Say, is this lunacy?--I wish it were. + If such our writers, startled at the sight, + Felons may bless their stars they cannot write! + How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit + The monstrous changes of a modern wit! + Now, such a gentle stream of eloquence + As seldom rises to the verge of sense; + Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, + Which yet fit engines, well applied, can tame; + Now, on immodest trash, the swine obscene, + Invites the town to sup at Drury Lane; + A dreadful lion, now he roars at power, + Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower; + He's now a serpent, and his double tongue + Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung; + What knot can bind him, his evasion such? + One knot he well deserves, which might do much. + The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake, + Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make: + The snake reigns most; snakes, Pliny says, are bred + When the brain's perish'd in a human head. + Ye grov'ling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, + Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings! + Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you, curst + To scribble in the dust, was snake the first. + What if the figure should in fact prove true! + It did in Elkenah, why not in you? + Poor Elkenah, all other changes past, + For bread in Smithfield dragons hist at last, + Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape, + And found his manners suited to his shape: + Such is the fate of talents misapplied; + So liv'd your prototype; and so he died. + Th' abandon'd manners of our writing train + May tempt mankind to think religion vain; + But in their fate, their habit, and their mien, + That gods there are is eminently seen: + Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen, + And marks the murderers of fame from men: + Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, + As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth: + Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt, + And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt. + The transient vestments of these frugal men, + Hastens to paper for our mirth again: + Too soon (O merry melancholy fate!) + They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate: + The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight; + The friend through pity gives, the foe through spite; + And though full conscious of his injur'd purse, + Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse. + So fare the men, who writers dare commence + Without their patent, probity, and sense. + From these, their politics our quidnuncs seek, + And Saturday's the learning of the week: + These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways, + With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays; + Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull; + And hem at every thump upon your skull: + These staunch bred writing hounds begin the cry, + And honest folly echoes to the lie. + O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see, + Thanking a villain for his probity; + Who stretches out a most respectful ear, + With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer: + It tickles thro' my soul to hear the cock's + Sincere encomium on his friend the fox, + Sole patron of his liberties and rights! + While graceless Reynard listens--till he bites. + As when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded state + Discharges all her poor and profligate; + Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield, + And prisons pour their filth into the field; + Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men, + Compose the black militia of the pen. + + + + + Epistle II. + + + From Oxford. + + + All write at London; shall the rage abate + Here, where it most should shine, the muses' seat? + Where, mortal or immortal, as they please, + The learn'd may choose eternity, or ease? + Has not a (66)royal patron wisely strove + To woo the muse in her Athenian grove? + Added new strings to her harmonious shell, + And given new tongues to those who spoke so well? + Let these instruct, with truth's illustrious ray, + Awake the world, and scare our owls away. + Meanwhile, O friend! indulge me, if I give + Some needful precepts how to write, and live! + Serious should be an author's final views; + Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. + An author! 'tis a venerable name! + How few deserve it, and what numbers claim! + Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, + Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind? + Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause? + That sole proprietor of just applause. + Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, + With whom would you consult to gain the bays?-- + With those great authors whose fam'd works you read? + 'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade. + What answer will the laurell'd shade return? + Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn + The noblest works his envied genius writ, + That boast of nought more excellent than wit. + If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread, + Woe to the page which has not that to plead! + Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote, + The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: + Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, + Condemn the charm of ages to the flame: + And in one point is all true wisdom cast, + To think that early we must think at last. + Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws, + Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; + And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, + (Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. + Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, + The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? + In prose 'tis blameable, in verse 'tis worse, + Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse: + His sacred influence never should be sold: + 'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold: + 'Tis immortality should fire your mind; + Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind. + If bribes you seek, know this, ye writing tribe! + Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe: + All's on the party of the virtuous man; + The good will surely serve him, if they can; + The bad, when interest, or ambition guide, + And 'tis at once their interest and their pride: + But should both fail to take him to their care, + He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. + Letters to man uncommon light dispense; + And what is virtue, but superior sense? + In parts and learning you who place your pride, + Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double dyed. + What is a scandal of the first renown, + But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown? + 'Tis harder far to please than give offence; + The least misconduct damns the brightest sense; + Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, + Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. + Flagitious manners make impressions deep + On those, that o'er a page of Milton sleep: + Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, + True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. + Wits are a despicable race of men, + If they confine their talents to the pen; + When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, + Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines. + Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, + And play the fool, because they're men of sense. + What instances bleed recent in each thought, + Of men to ruin by their genius brought! + Against their wills what numbers ruin shun, + Purely through want of wit to be undone! + Nature has shown, by making it so rare, + That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. + Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; + With that we drive the most substantial trade. + Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays; + A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; + A certain snare to miseries immense; + A gay prerogative from common sense; + Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, + And break to paths of virtue and of fame. + But grant your judgment equal to the best, + Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; + Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) + 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal; + As it is great to seize the golden prize + Of place or power; but greater to despise. + If still you languish for an author's name, + Think private merit less than public fame, + And fancy not to write is not to live; + Deserve, and take, the great prerogative. + But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost, + To write one page which you may justly boast. + Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press; + Who write, an awful character profess; + The world as pupil of their wisdom claim, + And for their stipend an immortal fame: + Nothing but what is solid or refin'd, + Should dare ask public audience of mankind. + Severely weigh your learning, and your wit: + Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: + No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; + Much trust example, but reflection more: + More had the ancients writ, they more had taught; + Which shows some work is left for modern thought. + This weigh'd, perfection know; and known, adore; + Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more; + Above, beneath it, the just limits fix; + And zealously prefer four lines to six. + Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, + And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen. + Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, + Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays. + Much time for immortality to pay, + Is just and wise; for less is thrown away. + Time only can mature the labouring brain; + Time is the father, and the midwife pain: + The same good sense that makes a man excel, + Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well. + Downright impossibilities they seek; + What man can be immortal in a week? + Excuse no fault; though beautiful, 'twill harm; + One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm. + Our age demands correctness; Addison + And you this commendable hurt have done. + Now writers find, as once Achilles found, + The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound. + He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best, + Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest: + Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, + We praise for what you burn, and what you spare: + The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine, + And is as incense to the part divine. + Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; + Men may too oft, though not too much, excel. + A few good works gain fame; more sink their price; + Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice: + They granted you writ well, what can they more, + Unless you let them praise for giving o'er? + Do boldly what you do, and let your page + Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. + So faintly Lucius censures and commends, + That Lucius has no foes, except his friends. + Let satire less engage you than applause; + It shows a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws: + Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end, + Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; + The public glory by your own beget; + Run nations, run posterity, in debt. + And since the fam'd alone make others live, + First have that glory you presume to give. + If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man + 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. + Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high; + Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. + As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, + Good breeding sends the satire to the heart. + Painters and surgeons may the structure scan; + Genius and morals be with you the man: + Defaults in those alone should give offence! + Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. + My narrow minded satire can't extend + To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend: + Himself should publish that (the world agree) + Before his works, or in the pillory. + Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, + Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that. + Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence, + 'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense. + Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, + Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. + Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, + 'Tis printing what was publish'd long before. + If nought peculiar through your labours run, + They're duplicates, and twenty are but one. + Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn + Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn; + To nurse with quick reflection be your strife, + Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life: + When most unsought, such inspirations rise, + Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise: + Expect peculiar fame from these alone; + These make an author, these are all your own. + Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er; + Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. + True, all men think of course, as all men dream; + And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same. + Letters admit not of a half renown; + They give you nothing, or they give a crown. + No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can, + But what did honour to the name of man. + Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, + Clear be the style, the very sound of force; + Easy the conduct, simple the design, + Striking the moral, and the soul divine: + Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed; + O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed: + Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow; + Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau: + And when your genius exquisitely shines, + Live up to the full lustre of your lines: + Parts but expose those men who virtue quit; + A fallen angel is a fallen wit; + And they plead Lucifer's detested cause, + Who for bare talents challenge our applause. + Would you restore just honours to the pen? + From able writers rise to worthy men. + "Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would restrain? + Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain? + Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? + As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" + Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt, + And challenge all mankind to find one fault? + With huge examens overwhelm my page, + And darken reason with dogmatic rage? + As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme, + In prose a duller could excuse the crime: + Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing + Is gravely to harangue on what we sing. + At that tribunal stands the writing tribe, + Which nothing can intimidate or bribe: + Time is the judge; time has nor friend nor foe; + False fame must wither, and the true will grow. + Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy; + For if I fall, by my own pen I die; + While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain + To wound immortals, or to slay the slain. + Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread + Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head, + Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain, + Of recent form, to serve me this campaign: + And safely hope to quit the dreadful field + Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; + Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray + In all his might, and damns me--for a day. + As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, + Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, + (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite, + So war their quills, when sons of dulness write. + + + + + + AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. + + + By Mr. Doddington, Afterwards Lord Melcombe. + + + --Quae censet amiculus, ut si + Caecus iter monstrare velit + + --HOR. + + + Though strength of genius, by experience taught, + Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, + To trace the various workings of the mind, + And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind; + (Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend + To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend + Can aught of use impart, though void of skill, + And win attention by sincere good-will; + For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies, + The heart may furnish what the head denies. + As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, + To grace old ocean's court, in triumph rides, + Tho' rich his source, he drains a thousand springs, + Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings. + So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, + Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; + Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, + Since no mean interest shall profane the muse, + No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, + Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. + When first a generous mind surveys the great, + And views the crowds that on their fortune wait; + Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) + He only seeks the power, to do the good; + Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose, + And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; + That every grant sincere affection wins, + And where our wants have end, our love begins: + But those who long the paths of state have trod, + Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, + Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates besiege, + 'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. + This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, + The chief perfection of the statesman's art, + To give to fair assent a fairer face, + Or soften a refusal into grace: + But few there are that can be truly kind, + Or know to fix their favours on the mind; + Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend, + And, while they make the fortune, lose the friend; + Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow; + For great men want not, what to give, but how. + The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true, + Think all they get, and more than all, their due; + Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts, + And measure by their interest, not their parts: + From this mistake so many men we see + But ill become the thing they wish'd to be; + Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise, + More power, more favour in the great man's eyes; + All feel a want, though none the cause suspects, + But hate their patron, for their own defects; + Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts, + And, when he gives them places, gives them parts. + As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great + May sell their favour at too dear a rate; + When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd, + And long attachment waits among the herd; + When no distinction, where distinction 's due, + Marks from the many the superior few; + When strong cabal constrains them to be just, + And makes them give at last--because they must; + What hopes that men of real worth should prize, + What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys? + The man who justly o'er the whole presides, + His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides; + Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance, + Nor gives through importunity or chance; + But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd, + When favours are extorted, not bestow'd. + When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd + Surround the great, importunate, and loud; + Through such a tumult, 'tis no easy task + To drive the man of real worth to ask: + Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show, + 'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow; + From hence so few are skill'd, in either case, + To ask with dignity, or give with grace. + Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, + Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; + Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, + They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, + Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, + And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; + Till we forget the hand that made us great, + And grow to envy, not to emulate: + To emulate, a generous warmth implies, + To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; + But envy wears a mean malignant face, + And aims not at their virtues--but their place. + Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence! + When every favour is a fresh offence, + By which superior power is still implied, + And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. + Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; + But those who hate from envy, hate indeed. + "Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?" + Methinks I hear thee cry--The brave and just; + The man by no mean fears or hopes controll'd, + Who serves thee from affection, not for gold. + We love the honest, and esteem the brave, + Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave; + No show of parts the truly wise seduce, + To think that knaves can be of real use. + The man, who contradicts the public voice, + And strives to dignify a worthless choice, + Attempts a task that on that choice reflects, + And lends us light to point out new defects. + One worthless man, that gains what he pretends, + Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends: + And since no art can make a counterpass, + Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass, + When princes to bad ore their image join, + They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. + Be thine the care, true merit to reward + And gain the good--nor will that task be hard; + Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend, + An honest man is more than half thy friend. + Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, shall sway, + Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray: + Ambition, here, shall at due distance stand + Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand: + Besides, if failings at the bottom lie, + We view those failings with a lover's eye; + Though small his genius, let him do his best, + Our wishes and belief supply the rest. + Let others barter servile faith for gold, + His friendship is not to be bought or sold: + Fierce opposition he, unmov'd, shall face, + Modest in favour, daring in disgrace, + To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend; + In power, a servant; out of power, a friend. + Here pour thy favours in an ample flood, + Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good: + Nor think that good to him alone confin'd; + Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind. + If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, + The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; + Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, + And teach us long to love the king, through thee: + Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe, + And make him tremble when he strikes the blow; + While honour, gratitude, affection join + To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline; + (Illustrious doom!) the great, when this displac'd, + With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd, + In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, + The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul. + No doubt, to genius some reward is due, + (Excluding that, were satirizing you;) + But yet, believe thy undesigning friend, + When truth and genius for thy choice contend, + Tho' both have weight when in the balance cast, + Let probity be first, and parts the last. + On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, + And check the growth of folly and deceit; + When party rage shall droop thro' length of days, + And calumny be ripen'd into praise, + Then future times shall to thy worth allow + That fame, which envy would call flattery now. + Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit, + Has pointed out the rocks where others split; + By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine, + And negligent of any fame--but thine, + I take the friendly, but superfluous part; + You act from nature what I teach from art. + + + + + + THE OLD MAN'S RELAPSE. + + + Verses Occasioned by the Foregoing Epistle. + + + Sopitos suscita ignes. + + --VIRG. + + + From man's too curious and impatient sight, + The future, Heaven involves in thickest night. + Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast, + Some least perform, what they determine most. + What sudden changes our resolves betray! + To-morrow is the satire on to-day, + And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe, + When constantly themselves, themselves deceive? + + Long had I bid my once-loved muse adieu; + You warm old age; my passion burns anew. + How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind! + What power of words! what skill in dark mankind! + Polite the conduct; generous the design; + And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line. + Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset; + Your wit has caught them in its golden net. + + But what strikes home with most exalted grace + Is, haughty genius taught to know its place; + And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend, + With zeal devoted to that godlike end. + When we discern so rich a vein of sense, + Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence; + 'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd + O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold. + + But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece? + The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece; + The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim, + And slowly take possession of the fame. + But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ, + Enough for me that 'tis from human wit; + That soothes my pride: all glory in the pen + Which has done honour to the race of men. + + But this have others done; a like applause + An ancient and a modern Horace draws.(67) + But they to glory by degrees arose, + Meridian lustre you at once disclose. + 'Tis continence of mind, unknown before, + To write so well, and yet to write no more. + More bright renown can human nature claim, + Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame? + + Next to the godlike praise of writing well, + Is on that praise with just delight to dwell. + O, for some God my drooping soul to raise! + That I might imitate, as well as praise; + For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess; + Nor would Augustus' age have priz'd it less; + An age, which had not held its pride so long, + But for the want of so complete a song. + + A golden period shall from you commence: + Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; + Whether your genius or your rank they view, + The muses find their Halifax in you. + Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown + For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own; + For lofty stations are but golden snares, + Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares. + + I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, + 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. + Though life I hate, methinks I could renew + Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. + When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? + When such your genius, who shall dare to write? + In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, + And, to commend you most, commend no more. + + Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast + Erelong I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; + The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! + Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; + There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, + And think of immortality and thee-- + My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine; + Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine. + + + + + + VERSES + + + Sent by Lord Melcombe to Dr. Young, Not Long Before His Lordship's + Death.(68) + + + Kind companion of my youth, + Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth! + Take what friendship can impart, + Tribute of a feeling heart; + Take the muse's latest spark,(69) + Ere we drop into the dark. + He, who parts and virtue gave, + Bad thee look beyond the grave + Genius soars, and virtue guides; + Above, the love of God presides. + There's a gulf 'twixt us and God; + Let the gloomy path be trod: + Why stand shivering on the shore? + Why not boldly venture o'er? + Where unerring virtue guides, + Let us have the winds and tides: + Safe, through seas of doubts and fears, + Rides the bark which virtue steers. + + The End + + + + + + + FOOTNOTES + + + 1 The Duke of Marlborough. + + 2 Westminster Abbey. + + 3 Founders of New College, Corpus Christi, and All Souls, in Oxford; + of all which the author was a member. + + 4 Here she embraces them. + + 5 Val. Max. + + 6 Horace. + + 7 A famous statue. + + 8 A famous tailor. + + 9 This refers to the first satire. + + 10 The name of a tulip. + + 11 Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus. + + 12 Milton. + + 13 A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle. + + 14 Lap-dog. + + 15 Shakespeare. + + 16 ----Solem quis dicere falsum + Audeat? + + Virg. + + 17 Shakespeare. + + 18 Milton. + + 19 Amphitryon. + + 20 The king in danger by sea. + + 21 Hom. Il. lib. I. + + 22 Ecce Deus ramum Lethaeo rore madentem, &c. + + Virg. + + 23 A new fund for Greenwich hospital, recommended from the throne. + + 24 Written soon after King George the First's accession. + + 25 It is disputed amongst the critics who was the author of the book of + Job; some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this + little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favour the + former of those opinions; which arguments I have flung into the + following notes, where little else is to be expected. + + 26 The Almighty's speech, chapter xxxviii. &c. which is what I + paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the + noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its + grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder + than a whisper. In order to set this distinguished part of the poem + in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I + have abridged the preceding and subsequent parts of the poem, and + joined them to it; so that this piece is a sort of an epitome of the + whole book of Job. + + I use the word paraphrase, because I want another which might better + answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, + added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other + parts, are entirely added: those upon the peacock, the lion, &c. are + much enlarged; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suited + to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this + piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons + for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole. + + Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shows that they + contribute much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made + up of them. Interrogation seems indeed the proper style of majesty + incensed. It differs from other manner of reproof, as bidding a + person execute himself does from a common execution; for he that + asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass + sentence on himself. + + 27 The book of Job is well known to be dramatic, and, like the + tragedies of old Greece, is fiction built on truth. Probably this + most noble part of it, the Almighty speaking out of the whirlwind, + (so suitable to the after-practice of the Greek stage, when there + happened _dignus vindice nodus_,) is fictitious; but is a fiction + more agreeable to the time in which Job lived, than to any since. + Frequent before the law were the appearances of the Almighty after + this manner, Exod. c. xix. Ezek. c. i. &c. Hence is he said to + "dwell in thick darkness: and have his way in the whirlwind." + + 28 There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally + sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and + ungovernable ocean receiving commands, and punctually obeying them; + to find it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but + by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in + sublimity to that of "Let there be light," &c., so much only as the + absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it. + + 29 Another argument that Moses was the author, is, that most of the + creatures here mentioned are Egyptian. The reason given why the + raven is particularly mentioned as an object of the care of + Providence, is, because by her clamorous and importunate voice, she + particularly seems always calling upon it; thence [Greek: korasso, a + korax], AElian. l. ii. c. 48, is "to ask earnestly." And since there + were ravens on the bank of the Nile more clamorous than the rest of + that species, those probably are meant in that place. + + 30 There are many instances of this bird's stupidity: let two suffice. + First, it covers its head in the reeds, and thinks itself all out of + sight, + + + Stat lumine clauso + Ridendum revoluta caput, creditque latere + Quae non ipsa videt. + + Claud. + + + Secondly, they that go in pursuit of them, draw the skin of an + ostrich's neck on one hand, which proves a sufficient lure to take + them with the other. + + They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred heads + for his supper. + + Here we may observe, that our judicious as well as sublime author, + just touches the great points of distinction in each creature, and + then hastens to another. A description is exact when you cannot add, + but what is common to another thing; nor withdraw, but something + peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A likeness is lost in + too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration. + + 31 Here is marked another peculiar quality of this creature, which + neither flies nor runs directly, but has a motion composed of both, + and, using its wings as sails, makes great speed. + + + Vasta velut Libyae venantum vocibus ales + Cum premitur, calidas cursu transmittit arenas, + Inque modum veli sinuatis flamine pennis + Pulverulenta volat. + + Claud. in Eutr. + + + 32 Xenophon says, Cyrus had horses that could overtake the goat and the + wild ass; but none that could reach this creature. A thousand golden + ducats, or a hundred camels, was the stated price of a horse that + could equal their speed. + + 33 Though this bird is but just mentioned in my author, I could not + forbear going a little farther, and spreading those beautiful plumes + (which are there shut up) in half a dozen lines. The circumstance I + have marked of his opening his plumes to the sun is true. Expandit + colores adverso maxime sole, quia sic fulgentius radiant. Plin. l. + x. c. 20. + + 34 Thyanus (de Re Accip.) mentions a hawk that flew from Paris to + London in a night. + + And the Egyptians, in regard to its swiftness, made it their symbol + for the wind; for which reason we may suppose the hawk, as well as + the crow above, to have been a bird of note in Egypt. + + 35 The eagle is said to be of so acute a sight, that when she is so + high in air that man cannot see her, she can discern the smallest + fish under water. My author accurately understood the nature of the + creatures he describes, and seems to have been a naturalist as well + as a poet, which the next note will confirm. + + 36 The meaning of this question is, Knowest thou the time and + circumstances of their bringing forth? For to know the time only was + easy, and had nothing extraordinary in it; but the circumstances had + something peculiarly expressive of God's providence, which makes the + question proper in this place. Pliny observes, that the hind with + young is by instinct directed to a certain herb called Seselis, + which facilitates the birth. Thunder also (which looks like the more + immediate hand of Providence) has the same effect. Ps. xxix. In so + early an age to observe these things, may style our author a + naturalist. + + 37 Pursuing their prey by night is true of most wild beasts, + particularly the lion. Ps. cvi. 20. The Arabians have one among + their five hundred names for the lion, which signifies "the hunter + by moonshine." + + 38 Cephissi glaciale caput, quo suetus anhelam + Ferre sitim Python, amnemque avertere ponto. + + Stat. Theb. vii. 349. + + Qui spiris tegeret montes, hauriret hiatu + Flumina, &c. Claud. Pref. in Ruf. + + Let not then this hyperbole seem too much for an eastern poet, + though some commentators of name strain hard in this place for a new + construction, through fear of it. + + 39 The taking the crocodile is most difficult. Diodorus says, they are + not to be taken but by iron nets. When Augustus conquered Egypt, he + struck a medal, the impress of which was a crocodile chained to a + palm-tree, with this inscription, Nemo antea religavit. + + 40 This alludes to a custom of this creature, which is, when sated with + fish, to come ashore and sleep among the reeds. + + 41 The crocodile's mouth is exceeding wide. When he gapes, says Pliny, + sic totum os. Martial says to his old woman, + + Cum comparata rictibus tuis ora + Niliacus habet crocodilus angusta. + + So that the expression there is barely just. + + 42 This too is nearer the truth than at first view may be imagined. The + crocodile, say the naturalists, lying long under water, and being + there forced to hold its breath, when it emerges, the breath long + represt is hot, and bursts out so violently, that it resembles fire + and smoke. The horse suppresses not his breath by any means so long, + neither is he so fierce and animated; yet the most correct of poets + ventures to use the same metaphor concerning him: + + Collectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem. + + By this and the foregoing note I would caution against a false + opinion of the eastern boldness, from passages in them ill + understood. + + 43 "His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning." I think this gives + us as great an image of the thing it would express as can enter the + thought of man. It is not improbable that the Egyptians stole their + hieroglyphic for the morning, which is the crocodile's eye, from + this passage, though no commentator, I have seen, mentions it. It is + easy to conceive how the Egyptians should be both readers and + admirers of the writings of Moses, whom I suppose the author of this + poem. + + I have observed already that three or four of the creatures here + described are Egyptian; the two last are notoriously so, they are + the river-horse and the crocodile, those celebrated inhabitants of + the Nile; and on these two it is that our author chiefly dwells. It + would have been expected from an author more remote from that river + than Moses, in a catalogue of creatures produced to magnify their + Creator, to have dwelt on the two largest works of his hand, viz. + the elephant and the whale. This is so natural an expectation, that + some commentators have rendered behemoth and leviathan, the elephant + and whale, though the descriptions in our author will not admit of + it; but Moses being, as we may well suppose, under an immediate + terror of the hippopotamus and crocodile, from their daily mischiefs + and ravages around him, it is very accountable why he should permit + them to take place. + + 44 Though the report was propagated without the least truth, it may be + sufficient ground to justify a poetical fancy's enlarging on it. + + 45 Lord Aubrey Beauclerk was the eighth son of the Duke of St. Albans, + who was one of the sons of King Charles the Second. He was born in + the year 1711; and, being regularly bred to the sea service, in 1731 + he was appointed to the command of his majesty's ship the Ludlow + Castle; and he commanded the Prince Frederick at the attack of the + harbour of Carthagena, March 24, 1741. This young nobleman was one + of the most promising commanders in the king's service. When on the + desperate attack of the castle of Bocca Chica, at the entrance of + the said harbour, he lost his life, both his legs being first shot + off. The prose part of the inscription on his monument was the + production of Mrs. Mary Jones of Oxford; who also wrote a poem on + his death, printed in her Miscellanies, 8vo, 1752.--_R._ + + 46 Lord Sommers procured a pension for Mr. Addison, which enabled him + to prosecute his travels.--_R._ + + 47 The publication of his Works. + + 48 The invader affects the character of Charles XII. of Sweden. + + 49 Mrs. M----. + + 50 Whilst the author was writing this, he received the news of Mr. + Samuel Richardson's death, who was then printing the former part of + the poem. + + 51 Mrs. Montague. + + 52 Mrs. Montague. + + 53 Mrs. Montague. Mrs Carter. + + 54 Candide. + + 55 Second Part. + + 56 Ephes. vi. 17. + + 57 Which his romance ridicules. + + 58 Isaiah lvii. 15. + + 59 Letter to Lord Lyttelton. + + 60 Alluding to Prussia. + + 61 Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter. + + 62 An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn + by Shakespeare.--Young. + + 63 See his lordship's tragedy entitled "Heroic Love." --Young. + + 64 His lordship's nephew, who took orders.--Young. + + 65 The author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William + Harrison, fellow of New-College, Oxon.--Young. [See a more particular + account of him in the Supplement to Swift.] + + 66 His late majesty's benefaction for modern languages. + + 67 Boileau. + + 68 A Poetical Epistle from the late Lord Melcombe to the Earl of Bute, + with corrections by the author of the Night Thoughts, was published + in 4to, 1776. + + 69 See Mr. Cust's Life of Young. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETICAL WORKS OF EDWARD YOUNG, VOLUME 2*** + + + + +CREDITS + + +July 2006 + + Project Gutenberg Edition + Joshua Hutchinson + Online Distributed Proofreading Team + This file was made using scans of public domain works from the + University of Michigan Digital Libraries + + +A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG + + +This file should be named 18827.txt or 18827.zip. + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + + + http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/2/18827/ + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one -- the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one +owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and +you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission +and without paying copyright royalties. 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