POEMS. BY ROBERT LLOYD, A.M.
POEMS. BY ROBERT LLOYD, A.M.
delere licebit
Quod non edideris, nescit vox missa reverti.
HOR.
LONDON: Printed for the AUTHOR, By DRYDEN LEACH; And Sold by T. DAVIES, in Russel-Street, Covent-Garden. MDCCLXII.
THIS VOLUME OF POEMS IS INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM FITZHERBERT, Esq. As a Faithful Testimony of The AUTHOR'S Gratitude and Esteem,
By his most Obedient, And Obliged Humble Servant, ROBERT LLOYD.
A.
Lord Abergavenny.
Lady Abergavenny.
Lord Aberdour.
John Ambler, Esq.
Abraham Ackworth, Esq.
John Aubrey, Esq. Gent. Comm. of Christ Church,
Oxon
2 Books.
Sir Edward Astley.
Ambrose Awdry, Esq.
General Armiger.
Mark Akenside, M. D.
Michael Adolphus, Esq.
Ralph Allen, Esq.
William Ashurst, Esq.
Thomas Anguish, Esq.
Honourable John Archer, Esq.
John Ansell, Esq. Fellow of Trinity Hall, Cambridge.
Francis Atterbury, Esq. 10 Books.
Rev. Mr. Atwood.
Mr. Agar, Student of Christ Church, Oxon.
Rev. Mr. Alt.
Rev. Mr. Arrow.
Rev. Mr. Andrews.
Mr. Buckeridge Ball Ackworth.
Charles Archdeacon, Esq. Student of Christ Church, Oxon.
Mr. Rupert Atkinson.
Mr. George Anderson.
Rev. Mr. Abbs, Fellow of Trinity Hall, Cambridge.
Mr. Affleck, Fellow of Trinity Hall.
Edward Andrews, Esq.
Mr. James Arrow.
B.
Duke of Beaufort.
Earl of Bath. 10 Books.
Lord Blessington.
Lord Beauchamp.
Lord Bolingbroke.
Sir Walter Blacket.
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Honourable Smith Barry, Esq.
Honourable Arthur Barry, Esq.
Bishop of Bristol.
Lord Barrington.
James Bland, Esq. of Harworth, Durham.
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Rev. Mr. Ballard, Prebendary of Westminster.
John Thomas Batt, Esq.
John Smith Budgen, Esq. Gent. Comm. Trin. Coll. Oxon.
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Honourable Mr. Brown.
Lewis Bagot, Esq. Student of Christ Church, Oxon.
Sir William Bunbury.
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William Beckford, Esq.
Honourable Mr. Boyle.
Samuel Blackwell, Esq.
Charles Boon, Esq.
Peter Burrell, Esq.
Nicholas Bonfoy, Esq.
— Bowyer, Esq.
General Brown.
George Barnes, Esq.
Edward Bearcrost, Esq.
John Burland, Esq.
Hugh Barker Bell, Esq.
Joshua Berkley, Esq.
John Burke, Esq.
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Mr. Blake, Fellow Comm. of Trinity Coll. Cambridge.
Rev. Mr. Backhouse, A. M. Fellow of Christ College, Cambridge.
Lieutenant Robert Bensley.
Lieutenant John Bensley.
Lieutenant William Bensley.
Mr. Bensley.
Mrs. Bensley.
Mr. Beard.
Captain John Brown.
Mr. Burton.
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Rev. Mr. Boote.
George Blunt, Esq.
Rev. Mr. Buttler.
Rev. Mr. Bland.
William Blanchard, M. D.
Timothy Buck, M. D.
William Bund, Esq.
Mr. Bladen.
Mr. Boydens.
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Rev. Mr. Backhouse, Chancellor of Bristol.
Doctor Barry.
Mr. Bunbury.
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Rev. Mr. Brougham.
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Henry Fox, Esq.
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I.
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Duke of Kingston.
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Duke of Leeds.
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Duke of Portland.
Earl of Pomfret.
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Q.
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T.
Earl of Tilney.
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V.
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Archbishop of York.
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POEMS.
THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.
MY works are advertis'd for sale,
And censures fly as thick as hail;
While my poor scheme of publication
Supplies the dearth of conversation.
What will the
World
say?—That's your cry.
Who is this
World?
and what am I?
Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er,
And persecution reigns no more,
One
man,
one
hardy man alone,
Usurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither taste or wit,
By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd sarce, and play, and actor down.
Who pass'd the sentence then?—the Town.
So now each upstart puny elf
Talks of the
world,
and means
himself.
Yet in the circle there are those
Who hurt e'en more than open foes:
Whose friendship serves the talking turn,
Just simmers to a kind concern,
And with a wond'rous soft expression
Expatiates upon indiscretion;
Flies from the Poems to the Man,
And gratifies the favourite plan
To pull down other's reputation,
And build their own on that foundation.
The Scholar grave, of taste discerning,
Who lives on credit for his learning,
And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ,
With pitying kindness, friendly fear,
Whispers conjectures in your ear.
"I'm sorry — and he's much to blame—
"He might have publish'd—but his name!
"The thing might please a few, no doubt,
"As handed privately about—
"It might amuse a friend or two,
"Some partial friend, like me or you;
"But when it comes to press and print
"You'll find, I fear, but little in't.
"He stands upon a dangerous brink
"Who totters o'er the sea of ink,
"Where reputation runs aground,
"The author cast away, and drown'd,
"And then—'twas wilful and absurd,
"(So well approv'd, so well preferr'd,)
"Abruptly thus a place to quit,
"A place which most his genius hit,
"The theatre for Latin wit!
"With critics round him chaste and terse,
"To give a plaudit to his verse!"
Latin, I grant, shews college breeding,
And some school-common-place of reading.
But has in
Moderns
small pretension
To real wit or strong invention.
The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrase;
Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From prose or verse, no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You set the classic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly seek
Fame from their Latin verse, or Greek;
Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd.
A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words,—a bare collection
Of phrases,—where the labour'd cento
Presents you with a dull memento,
How
Virgil, Horace, Ovid
join,
And club together half a line.
These only strain their motley wits
In gathering patches, shreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a classic Harlequin.
—Were I at once impower'd to shew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no pennance bigger
Than using him as learning's tool,
To make him Usher of a school.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And lab'ring with incessant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.
For whosoe'er, tho' slightly, sips
Their grateful flavour with his lips,
Will find it leave a smatch behind,
Shall sink so deeply in the mind,
It never thence can be eras'd—
But, rising up, you call it
Taste.
'Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse
A gusto, which he cannot use.
Better discard the idle whim,
What's
He
to
Taste?
or
Taste
to
Him?
For me, it hurts me to the soul
To brook confinement or controul;
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The syntax, and the parts of speech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, and rules of verse;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of
Oxford
ale;
—Oh! 'tis a service irksome more
Than tugging at the slavish oar.
Yet such
his
task, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills
their
minds with proper care,
And sees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,
His
own
lies fallow all the while.
"Yet still he's in the road, you say,
"Of learning."—Why, perhaps, he may.
But turns like horses in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor standing still:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.
"Yet you can send advent'rous youth,
"In search of letters, taste, and truth,
"Who ride the highway road to knowlege
"Through the plain turnpikes of a college."
True.—Like way-posts, we serve to shew
The road which travellers shou'd go;
Who jog along in easy pace,
Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,
The
Post,
and its direction still:
Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,
To many a passenger beside.
'Tis hard to carve for others meat,
And not have time one's self to eat.
Tho', be it always understood,
Our appetites are full as good.
"But there have been, and proofs appear,
"Who bore this load from year to year;
"Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit,
"The world has ne'er disputed yet.
"Whether the flowing mirth prevail
"In
Wesley
's song or humorous tale;
"Or happier
Bourne
's expression please
"With graceful turns of classic ease;
"Or
Oxford
's well-read poet sings
"Pathetic to the ear of kings:
"These have indulg'd the muse's flight,
"Nor lost their time or credit by't;
"Nor suffer'd fancy's dreams to prey
"On the due business of the day.
"Verse was to them a recreation
"Us'd but by way of relaxation."
Your instances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage spread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Blest, if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!
Come,—I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of sight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indiscreet.
Yet tell me, while you censure me,
Are you from error found and free?
Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind aside?
All have their hobby-horse, you see,
From Tristram down to you and me.
Ambition, splendour, may be thine;
Ease, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,
And set their hedges up before 'em,
Some sprouts will branch, and straggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,
And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.
But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools shall cackle out reproof,
The very ass shall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his possession,
The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of passions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and
seem
wise.
PART OF HOMER'S HYMN TO APOLLO. Translated from the Greek.
GOD of the Bow! Apollo, thee I sing;
Thee, as thou draw'st amain the sounding string,
Th' immortal pow'rs revere with homage low,
And ev'ry godhead trembles at thy bow.
All but Latona: She with mighty Jove
Eyes thee with all a tender parent's love;
Closes thy quiver, thy tough bow unbends,
And high amid th' aethereal dome suspends,
Then smiling leads thee, her all-glorious son,
To share the mighty Thunderer's awful throne.
Goblets of nectar thy glad fire prepares,
And thee, his fairest, noblest son declares;
While ev'ry god sits rapt, Latona's breast
Beats with superior joy, and hails her son confest.
Thrice blest Latona! from thee, Goddess, sprung
Diana chaste, and Phoebus ever-young:
Delos and ortygia are mentioned as different Islands in the original.
Her in Ortygia's isle, and Him you bore
At Cynthius' hill on Delos' sea-girt shore,
Where the tall palm uprears its lovely head,
And clear Inopus laves the slow'ry mead.
O Phoebus, where shall I begin thy praise?
Well can'st thou rule the poet's artless lays.
Oft on the craggy rock, or mountain hore,
By river-side, or on the sea's hoarse shore,
Wand'ring well-pleas'd, with music's magic sound,
And airs divine, thou charm'st the region round.
Say, shall I sing how first on Delos' shore
Thee, glorious progeny, Latona bore
Here several verses, containing nothing but a mere list of the names of Islands, are omitted.
?
How first, from other isles, beset with grief,
In vain thy tortur'd mother sought relief.
Each to her out-cast woe denied abode,
Nor durst one isle receive the future god.
At length to Delos came the lab'ring fair,
And suppliant thus besought her needful care.
Delos! receive Apollo, and O! raise
A glorious temple to record his praise!
Then shall He govern thee with gentle sway,
And only Phoebus shall thine isle obey.
What though no flocks, nor herds, nor juicy vine,
Nor plants of thousand natures shall be thine,
Swift to the temple of the Bowyer-king
Bowyer-king
and
Bowyer-god
are expressions frequently used by Dryden, in his version of the first Iliad, to signify Apollo.
,
Oblations rich shall ev'ry nation bring;
For ever from thy altars shall arise
The fragrant incense of burnt-sacrifice.
No longer then regret thy barren soil,
Receive the God, and live by other's toil!
She spake: with inward rapture Delos smil'd,
And sooth'd the suppliant pow'r with answer mild.
Latona! mighty Caeus' daughter fair,
Full willingly wou'd Delos ease thy care,
Full willingly behold her barren earth
Witness the glories of Apollo's birth:
The mighty God wou'd raise my lowly name,
And consecrate his native isle to fame.
One fear alone distracts my beating heart;
That fear, O Goddess, list while I impart.
Second to none amid th' aethereal skies,
Apollo soon all terrible shall rise:
All nations shall adore the mighty God,
And kings and kingdoms tremble at his nod.
Haply (for ah! dire fears my soul infest,
And fill with horror my tumultuous breast)
Soon as the glorious Godhead shall be born,
My desert region will he view with scorn,
Indignant spurn me, curse my barren soil,
And plunge into the waves my hated isle.
Triumphant then to happier climes remove,
There fix his shrine, plant there his sacred grove.
Whelm'd in the briny main shall Delos lay,
To all the finny brood a wretched prey.
But, O Latona! if, to quell my fear,
You'll deign a solemn sacred oath to swear,
That here the God his glorious seat shall hold,
And here his sapient oracles unfold,
Your sacred burthen here, Latona, lay,
Here view the Godhead bursting into day.
Thus Delos pray'd, nor was her pray'r denied,
But soon with solemn vows thus ratified:
Witness O heaven and earth! O Stygian lake!
Dire adjuration, that no God may break!
In Delos shall Apollo's shrine be rear'd,
Delos, his best belov'd, most honour'd, most rever'd.
Thus vow'd Latona: Delos hail'd her earth
Blest in the glories of Apollo's birth.
Nine hapless days and nights, with writhing throes,
And all the anguish of a mother's woes,
Latona tortur'd lay; in sorrowing mood,
Around her many a sister-goddess stood,
Alost in heaven imperial Juno sat,
And view'd relentless her unhappy fate.
Lucina too; the kind assuaging pow'r
That tends the lab'ring mother's child-bed hour,
And mitigates her woes, in golden clouds
High on Olympus' top the Goddess shrouds.
Her large full eyes with indignation roll,
And livid envy seiz'd her haughty soul,
That from Latona's loins was doom'd to spring
So great a son, the mighty Bowyer-king.
The milder pow'rs, that near the lab'ring fair
View'd all her pangs with unavailing care,
Fair Iris sent, the many colour'd maid,
To gain with goodly gifts Lucina's aid.
But charg'd her heed, lest Juno shou'd prevent
With prohibition dire their kind intent.
Fleet as the winged winds, the flying fair
With nimble pinion cut the liquid air.
Olympus gain'd, apart she call'd the maid,
Then sought with many a pray'r her needful aid,
And mov'd her soul: when soon with dove-like pace
Swiftly they measur'd back the viewless airy space.
Soon as to Delos' isle Lucina came
The pangs of travail seiz'd Latona's frame.
Her twining arms she threw the palm around,
And prest with deep-indented knee the ground:
Then into day sprung forth the jolly boy,
Earth smil'd beneath, and heaven rang with joy.
The Sister Pow'rs that round Latona stood
With chaste ablutions cleans'd the infant-god.
His lovely limbs in mantle white they bound,
And gently drew a golden swathe around.
He hung not helpless at his mother's breast,
But Themis fed him with an heavenly feast.
Pleas'd while Latona views the heavenly boy,
And fondly glows with all a mother's joy,
The lusty babe, strong with ambrosial food,
In vain their bonds or golden swathes withstood,
Bonds, swathes, and ligaments with ease he broke,
And thus the wondring Deities bespoke;
"The lyre, and sounding bow, and to declare
"The Thund'rer's counsels, be Apollo's care!"
He spake; and onwards all majestic strode;
The Queens of Heaven awe-struck view'd the God.
Delos beheld him with a tender smile,
And hail'd, enrich'd with gold, her happy isle;
Her happy isle, Apollo's native seat,
His sacred haunt, his best-belov'd retreat.
Grac'd with Apollo, Delos glorious shines,
As the tall mountain crown'd with stately pines.
Now stony Cynthus wou'd the God ascend,
And now his course to various islands bend.
Full many a fane, and rock, and shady grove,
River, and mountain, did Apollo love;
But chiefly Delos: The Ionians there,
With their chaste wives and prattling babes, repair.
There gladly celebrate Apollo's name
With many a solemn rite and sacred game;
The jolly dance, and holy hymn prepare,
And with the Caestus urge the manly war.
If, when their sacred feast th' Ionians hold,
Their gallant sports a stranger shou'd behold,
View the strong nerves the brawny chiefs that brace,
Or eye the softer charms of female grace,
Then mark their riches of a thousand kinds,
And their tall ships born swift before the winds,
So goodly to the sight wou'd all appear,
The fair assembly Gods he wou'd declare.
There too the Delian Virgins, beauteous choir,
Apollo's handmaids, wake the living lyre;
To Phoebus first they consecrate the lays,
Latona then and chaste Diana praise,
Then heroes old, and matrons chaste rehearse,
And sooth the raptur'd heart with sacred verse.
Each voice, the Delian maids, each human sound
With aptest imitation sweet resound:
Their tongues so justly tune with accents new,
That none the false distinguish from the true.
Latona! Phoebus! Dian, lovely fair!
Blest Delian nymphs, Apollo's chiefest care,
All hail! and O with praise your poet crown,
Nor all his labours in oblivion drown!
If haply some poor pilgrim shall enquire,
"O, virgins, who most skilful smites the lyre?
"Whose lofty verse in sweetest descant rolls,
"And charms to extasy the hearers souls?
O answer, a blind bard in Chios dwells,
In all the arts of verse who far excells.
Then o'er the earth shall spread my glorious fame,
And distant Nations shall record my name.
But Phoebus never will I cease to sing,
Latona's noble son, the mighty Bowyer-king.
Thee Lycia and Maeonia, thee, great Pow'r,
The blest Miletus' habitants adore;
But thy lov'd haunt is sea-girt Delos' shore.
Now Pytho's stony soil Apollo treads,
And all around ambrosial fragrance sheds,
Then strikes with matchless art the golden strings,
And ev'ry hill with heavenly musick rings.
Olympus now and the divine abodes
Glorious he seeks, and mixes with the Gods.
Each heavenly bosom pants with fond desire
To hear the lofty verse and golden lyre.
Drawn by the magic sound, the Virgin-Nine
With warblings sweet the sacred minstrel join:
Now with glad heart, loud voice, and jocund lays
Full sweetly carol bounteous heaven's praise;
And now in dirges sad, and numbers slow
Relate the piteous tale of human woe;
Woe, by the Gods on wretched mortals cast,
Who vainly shun affliction's wintry blast,
And all in vain attempt with fond delay
Death's certain shaft to ward, or chase old age away.
The Graces there, and smiling Hours are seen,
And Cytherea, laughter-loving queen,
And Harmony, and Hebe, lovely band,
To sprightliest measures dancing hand in hand.
There, of no common port or vulgar mien,
With heavenly radiance, shines the Huntress-Queen,
Warbles responsive to the golden lyre,
Tunes her glad notes, and joins the virgin choir.
There Mars and Mercury with awkward play,
And uncouth gambols, waste the live-long day.
There as Apollo moves with graceful pace
A thousand glories play around his face;
In splendor drest he joins the festive band,
And sweeps the golden lyre with magic hand.
Mean while, Latona and imperial Jove
Eye the bright Godhead with parental love;
And, as the Deities around him play,
Well pleas'd his goodly mien and awful port survey
The translator, when he begun this piece, had some thoughts of giving a complete English version of all Homer's Hymns, being the only parts of his works never yet translated; but (to say nothing of his opinion of this specimen of his translation) fearing that this species of poetry, though it has its beauties, and does not want admirers among the learned, would appear far less agreeable to the mere English reader, he desisted. They, who would form the justest idea of this sort of composition among the ancients, may be better informed, by perusing Dr. Akenside's most classical Hymn to the Naiads, than from any translation of Homer or Callimachus.
.
TO * * * * About to publish a volume of Miscellanies. Written in the year 1755.
SINCE now, all scruples cast away,
Your works are rising into day,
Forgive, though I presume to send
This honest counsel of a friend.
Let not your verse, as verse now goes,
Be a strange kind of measur'd prose;
Nor let your prose, which sure is worse,
Want nought but measure to be verse.
Write from your own imagination,
Nor curb your Muse by Imitation:
For copies shew, howe'er exprest,
A barren genius at the best.
—But Imitation's all the mode—
Yet where one hits, ten miss the road.
The mimic bard with pleasure sees
Mat. Prior's unaffected ease:
Assumes his style, affects a story,
Sets every circumstance before ye,
The day, the hour, the name, the dwelling,
And mars a curious tale in telling:
Observes how
easy
Prior flows,
Then runs his numbers down to prose.
Others have sought the filthy stews
To find a dirty slip-shod Muse.
Their groping genius, while it rakes
The bogs, the common-few'rs, and jakes,
Ordure and filth in rhyme exposes,
Disgustful to our eyes and noses;
With many a dash—that must offend us,
And much* * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * *
Hiatus
non
deflendus.
O Swift! how wouldst thou blush to see,
Such are the bards who copy Thee?
This Milton for his plan will chuse:
Wherein resembling Milton's Muse?
Milton, like thunder, rolls along
In all the majesty of song;
While his low mimics meanly creep,
Not quite awake, nor quite asleep:
Or, if their thunder chance to roll,
'Tis thunder of the mustard bowl.
The stiff expression, phrases strange,
The epithet's preposterous change,
Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite,
Such as the judging ear affright,
Stop in mid verse. Ye mimics vile!
Is't thus ye copy Milton's style?
His faults religiously you trace,
But borrow not a single grace.
How few, (say, whence can it proceed?)
Who copy Milton, e'er succeed!
But all their labours are in vain:
And wherefore so?—The reason's plain.
Take it for granted, 'tis by those
Milton's the model mostly chose,
Who can't write verse, and won't write prose.
Others, who aim at fancy, chuse
To wooe the gentle Spenser's Muse.
This poet fixes for his theme
An allegory, or a dream;
Fiction and truth together joins
Through a long waste of flimsy lines;
Fondly believes his fancy glows,
And image upon image grows;
Thinks his strong Muse takes wond'rous flights,
Whene'er she sings of peerless wights,
Of dens, of palfreys, spells and knights:
'Till allegory, Spenser's veil
T' instruct and please in moral tale,
With him's no veil the truth to shroud,
But one impenetrable cloud.
Others, more daring, fix their hope
On rivaling the fame of Pope.
Satyr's the word, against the times—
These catch the cadence of his rhymes,
And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings,
Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings
Her dirt up in the face of kings.
In these the spleen of Pope we find;
But where the greatness of his mind?
His numbers are their whole pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.
Some few, the sav'rites of the Muse,
Whom with her kindest eye she views;
Round whom Apollo's brightest rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze;
Some few, my friend, have sweetly trod
In Imitation's dangerous road.
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he smokes,
And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O
Isaac Hawkins Brown, Esq. author of a piece call'd the Pipe of Tobacco, a most excellent imitation of six different authors.
Brown, shall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays;
And whosoe'er thy verse shall see,
Shall fill another Pipe to thee.
EPISTLE to J. B. Esq. 1757.
AGAIN I urge my old objection,
That modern rules obstruct perfection,
And the severity of Taste
Has laid the walk of genius waste.
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Our authors creep instead of soaring,
And all the brave imagination
Is dwindled into declamation.
But still you cry in sober sadness,
"There is discretion e'en in madness."
A pithy sentence, which wants credit!
Because I find a poet said it:
Their verdict makes but small impression,
Who are known liars by profession.
Rise what exalted flights it will,
True genius will be genius still;
And say, that horse wou'd you prefer,
Which wants a bridle or a spur?
The mettled steed may lose his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.
Had Shakespeare crept by modern rules,
We'd lost his Witches, Fairies, Fools:
Instead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
A garden trim, and all inclos'd,
In nicest symmetry dispos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond the border:
Now like a forest he appears,
The growth of twice three hundred years,
Where many a tree aspiring shrouds
Its airy summit in the clouds,
While round its root still love to twine
The ivy or wild eglantine.
But Shakespeare's all-creative fancy
"Made others love extravagancy,
"While cloud-capt nonsense was their aim,
"Like Hurlothrumbo's mad lord Flame."
True—who can stop dull imitators?
Those younger brothers of translators,
Those insects, which from genius rise,
And buzz about, in swarms, like flies?
Fashion, that sets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the press:
As formerly the sons of rhyme
Sought Shakespeare's fancy and sublime,
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praise of Pope.
But Pope and Shakespeare both disclaim
These low retainers to their fame.
What task can dulness e'er affect
So easy, as to write
correct?
Poets, 'tis said, are sure to split
By too much or too little wit;
So, to avoid th' extremes of either,
They miss their mark and follow neither;
They so exactly poise the scale
That neither measure will prevail,
And mediocrity the Muse
Did never in her sons excuse.
'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd
With all the charms of modern taste,
And every senseless line is drest
In quaint expression's tinsel vest.
Say did you never chance to meet
A monsieur-barber in the street,
Whose ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers' ends,
His olive-tan'd complexion graces
With little dabs of Dresden laces,
While for the body Monsieur Puff,
Wou'd think e'en dowlas fine enough?
So fares it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes.
For lace, and fringe, and tawdry cloaths,
Sure never yet were greater beaux;
But fairly strip them to the shirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.
And shall these wretches bards commence
Without or spirit, taste, or sense?
And when they bring no other treasure,
Shall I admire them for their measure?
Or do I scorn the critic's rules
Because I will not learn of fools?
Although Longinus' full-mouth'd prose
With all the force of genius glows;
Though Dionysius' learned taste
Is ever manly, just, and chaste,
Who, like a skilful wise physician,
Diffects each part of composition,
And shews how beauty strikes the soul
From a just compact of the whole;
Though judgment, in Quintilian's page,
Holds forth her lamp for ev'ry age;
Yet
Hypercritics
I disdain,
A race of blockheads dull and vain,
And laugh at all those empty fools,
Who cramp a genius with dull rules,
And what their narrow science mocks
Damn with the name of Het'rodox.
These butchers of a poet's fame
While they usurp the critic's name,
Cry—"This is taste—that's my opinion."
And poets dread their mock dominion.
So have you seen with dire affright,
The petty monarch of the night,
Seated aloft in elbow chair,
Command the prisoners to appear,
Harangue an hour on watchmen's praise,
And on the dire effect of frays;
Then cry, "You'll suffer for your daring,
"And d—n you, you shall pay for swearing."
Then turning tell th' astonish'd ring,
I sit to represent the
KING.
The HARE and TORTOISE, 1757. A FABLE.
GENIUS, blest term, of meaning wide,
For sure no term so misapply'd,
How many bear thy sacred name,
That never felt a real flame!
Proud of the specious appellation,
Thus fools have christen'd inclination.
But yet suppose a genius true,
Exempli gratiâ,
me or you:
Whate'er he tries with due attention,
Rarely escapes his apprehension;
Surmounting ev'ry opposition,
You'd swear he learnt by intuition.
Shou'd he rely alone on parts,
And study therefore but by starts?
Sure of success whene'er he tries,
Should he forego the means to rise?
Suppose your watch a Graham make,
Gold, if you will, for value sake;
Its springs within in order due,
No watch, when going, goes so true;
If ne'er wound up with proper care,
What service is it in the wear?
Some genial spark of Phoebus' rays,
Perhaps within your bosom plays:
O how the purer rays aspire,
If Application fans the fire!
Without it Genius vainly tries,
Howe'er sometimes it seems to rise:
Nay Application will prevail,
When braggart parts and Genius fail:
And now to lay my proof before ye,
I here present you with a story.
In days of yore, when time was young,
When birds convers'd as well as sung,
When use of speech was not confin'd,
Merely to brutes of human kind,
A forward Hare, of swiftness vain,
The Genius of the neighb'ring plain,
Wou'd oft deride the drudging croud:
For Geniuses are ever proud.
He'd boast, his flight 'twere vain to follow,
For dog and horse he'd
beat them hollow,
Nay, if he put forth all his strength,
Outstrip his brethren
half a length.
A Tortoise heard his vain oration,
And vented thus his indignation.
Oh Puss, it bodes thee dire disgrace,
When I defy thee to the race.
Come, 'tis a match, nay, no denial,
I lay my shell upon the trial.
'Twas done and done, all fair, a bet,
Judges prepar'd, and distance set.
The scamp'ring Hare outstript the wind,
The creeping Tortoise lagg'd behind.
And scarce had pass'd a single pole,
When Puss had almost reach'd the goal.
Friend Tortoise, quoth the jeering Hare,
Your burthen's more than you can bear,
To help your speed, it were as well
That I should ease you of your shell:
Jog on a little faster pr'ythee,
I'll take a nap, and then be with thee.
So said, so done, and safely sure,
For say, what conquest more secure?
Whene'er he wak'd (that's all that's in it)
He could o'ertake him in a minute.
The Tortoise heard his taunting jeer,
But still resolv'd to
persevere,
Still drawl'd along, as who should say,
I'll win, like Fabius, by delay;
On to the goal securely crept,
While Puss unknowing soundly slept.
The bets were won, the Hare awake,
When thus the victor Tortoise spake.
Puss, tho' I own thy quicker parts,
Things are not always done by starts.
You may deride my awkward pace,
But
slow and steady
wins the race.
The SATYR and PEDLAR, 1757.
WORDS are, so Wollaston defines,
Of our ideas merely signs,
Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now
damn'd
for instance—all agree,
Damn'd
's the
superlative degree;
Means
that
alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore;
Damn'd
is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own,
But signifies or bad or good
Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough,
Damn'd
high,
damn'd
low,
damn'd
fine,
damn'd
stuff.
So fares it too with its relation,
I mean its substantive,
damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold,
And tells you he's
damnation
cold;
Perhaps, that metaphor forgot,
The self-same wit's
damnation
hot.
And here a fable I remember—
Once in the middle of December,
When ev'ry mead in snow is lost,
And ev'ry river bound with frost,
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When—pox on the descriptive rhyme—
In short it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot,
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose,
His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.
"Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends
"That blowing on thy fingers ends?
"It is to warm them thus I blow,
"For they are froze as cold as snow.
"And so inclement has it been
"I'm like a cake of ice within."
Come, quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll chear thy inside, if I can;
You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mess of pottage.
This said, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As smoaking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was so wond'rous hot.
What can be done?—with gentle puff
He blows it, 'till its cool enough.
Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter?
Still at thy blowing! quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it, cries the Clown,
That I may get the liquor down:
For though I grant, you've made it well,
You've boil'd it, fir, as hot as hell.
Then raising high his cloven stump.
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
"Begone, thou double knave, or fool,
"With the same breath to warm and cool:
"Friendship with such I never hold
"Who're so
damn'd
hot, and so
damn'd
cold.
The CIT'S COUNTRY BOX, 1757.
Vos sapere & solos aio bene vivere, quorum,
Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis.
HOR.
THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair,
Old
Dobbin,
or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With
Jacky
on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in
due
decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile!
And as they slowly jog together,
The Cit commends the road and weather;
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees,
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration.
What signify the loads of wealthy,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such easeless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear.
One may observe it in your face—
Indeed, my dear, you break apace:
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise, and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from
Cheney-Row:
He's a
good
man, indeed 'tis true,
But not so
warm,
my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to sneer—
One would not be out-done, my dear!
Sir Traffic's name so well apply'd
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confess'd her arguments had reason,
And by th' approaching summer season,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his Country Box.
Some three or four mile out of town,
(An hour's ride will bring you down,)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road:
And so convenient does it lay,
The stages pass it ev'ry day:
And then so snug, so mighty pretty,
To have an house so near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're set down at the very door.
Well then, suppose them fix'd at last,
White-washing, painting, scrubbing past,
Hugging themselves in ease and clover,
With all the fuss of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred!
And wanton in my lady's head.
Well to be sure, it must be own'd,
It is a charming spot of ground;
So sweet a distance for a ride,
And all about so
countrified!
'Twould come to but a trifling price
To make it quite a paradise;
I cannot bear those nasty rails,
Those ugly broken mouldy pales:
Suppose, my dear, instead of these,
We build a railing, all Chinese.
Although one hates to be expos'd,
'Tis dismal to be thus inclos'd;
One hardly any object sees—
I wish you'd fell those odious trees.
Objects continual passing by
Were something to amuse the eye,
But to be pent within the walls—
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While ev'ry trav'ler in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze,
And pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry, that's Sir Thrifty's Country Seat.
No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Blest age! when all men may procure,
The title of a Connoisseur;
When noble and ignoble herd,
Are govern'd by a single word;
Though, like the royal German dames,
It bears an hundred Christian names;
As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Goût,
Whim, Caprice, Je-ne-scai-quoi, Virtù:
Which appellations all describe
TASTE, and the modern
tasteful
tribe.
Now bricklay'rs, carpenters, and joiners,
With Chinese artists, and designers,
Produce their schemes of alteration,
To work this wond'rous reformation.
The useful dome, which secret stood,
Embosom'd in the yew-tree's wood,
The trav'ler with amazement sees
A temple, Gothic, or Chinese,
With many a bell, and tawdry rag on,
And crested with a sprawling dragon;
A wooden arch is bent astride
A ditch of water, four foot wide,
With angles, curves, and zigzag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact designs.
In front, a level lawn is seen,
Without a shrub upon the green,
Where Taste would want its first great law,
But for the skulking, sly
ha-ha,
By whose miraculous assistance,
You gain a prospect two fields distance.
And now from Hyde-Park Corner come
The Gods of Athens, and of Rome.
Here squabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumsy Graces:
Apollo there, with aim so clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there, without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.
The Villa thus completely grac'd,
All own, that Thrifty has a Taste;
And Madam's female friends, and cousins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock ev'ry Sunday to the Seat,
To stare about them, and to eat.
From CATULLUS.
CHLOE, that dear bewitching prude,
Still calls me saucy, pert, and rude,
And sometimes almost strikes me;
And yet, I swear, I can't tell how,
Spite of the knitting of her brow,
I'm very sure she likes me.
Ask you me, why I fancy thus?
Why, I have call'd her jilt, and puss,
And thought myself above her;
And yet I feel it, to my cost,
That when I rail against her most,
I'm very sure I love her.
SHAKESPEARE: An EPISTLE to Mr. GARRICK.
THANKS to much industry and pains,
Much twisting of the wit and brains,
Translation has unlock'd the store,
And spread abroad the Grecian lore,
While Sophocles his scenes are grown
E'en as familiar as our own.
No more shall Taste presume to speak
From its enclosures in the Greek;
But, all its fences broken down,
Lie at the mercy of the town.
Critic, I hear thy torrent rage,
"'Tis blasphemy against that stage,
"Which Aeschylus his warmth design'd,
"Euripides his taste refin'd,
"And Sophocles his last direction,
"Stamp'd with the signet of perfection."
Perfection! 'tis but a word ideal,
That bears about it nothing real:
For excellence was never hit
In the first essays of man's wit.
Shall
ancient
worth, or
ancient
fame
Preclude the Moderns from their claim?
Must they be blockheads, dolts, and fools,
Who write not up to Grecian rules?
Who tread in buskins or in socks.
Must they be damn'd as Heterodox,
Nor merit of good works prevail.
Except within the classic pale?
'Tis stuff that bears the name of knowlege,
Not current half a mile from college;
Where half their lectures yield no more
(Besure I speak of times of yore)
Than just a niggard light, to mark
How much we all are in the dark.
As rushlights, in a spacious room,
Just burn enough to form a gloom.
When Shakespeare leads the mind a dance,
From France to England, hence to France,
Talk not to me of time and place;
I own I'm happy in the chace.
Whether the drama's here or there,
'Tis nature, Shakespeare, every where.
The poet's fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring past and present close together,
In spite of distance, seas, or weather;
And shut up in a single action,
What cost whole years in its transaction.
So, ladies at a play, or rout,
Can flirt the universe about,
Whose geographical account
Is drawn and pictur'd on the mount.
Yet, when they please, contract the plan,
And shut the world up in a fan.
True Genius, like Armida's wand,
Can raise the spring from barren land.
While all the art of Imitation,
Is pilf'ring from the first creation;
Transplanting flowers, with useless toil,
Which wither in a foreign soil.
As conscience often sets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' assistance of the laws
To combat in the moral cause;
So Genius, of itself discerning,
Without the mystic rules of learning,
Can, from its present intuition,
Strike at the truth of composition.
Yet those who breathe the classic vein,
Enlisted in the mimic train,
Who ride their steed with double bit,
Ne'er run away with by their wit,
Delighted with the pomp of rules,
The specious pedantry of schools,
(Which rules, like crutches, ne'er became
Of any use but to the lame)
Pursue the method set before 'em;
Talk much of order, and decorum,
Of probability of fiction,
Of manners, ornament, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,
(A privilege which dulness claims,
And merely us'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common sense)
Extol the wit of antient days,
The simple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all so chaste,
Trick'd up in antient-modern taste,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In such a sweet descriptive stile,
While Chorus marks the servile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Present you with a perfect piece,
Form'd on the model of old Greece.
Come, pr'ythee Critic, set before us,
The use and office of a chorus.
What! silent! why then, I'll produce
Its services from antient use.
'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage,
To be an arrant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Shewing its sorrow, or delight,
By shifting dances, left and right,
Not much unlike our modern notions,
Adagio
or
Allegro
motions;
To watch upon the deep distress,
And plaints of royal wretchedness;
And when, with tears, and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for supplies,
And with their
Hais,
and
Hees,
and
Hoes,
To make a symphony of woes.
Doutless the Antients want the art
To strike at once upon the heart:
Or why their prologues of a mile
In simple—call it—humble stile,
In unimpassion'd phrase to say
"'Fore the beginning of this play,
"I, hapless Polydore, was found
"By fishermen, or others, drown'd!"
Or, "I, a gentleman, did wed,
"The lady I wou'd never bed,
"Great Agamemnon's royal daughter,
"Who's coming hither to draw water."
Or need the Chorus to reveal
Reflexions, which the audience feel;
And jog them, left attention sink,
To tell them how and what to think?
Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view
Cou'd look the whole creation through,
Who travers'd all the human heart,
Without recourse to Grecian art?
He scorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and translation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakespeare, thus, who stands alone—
—But why repeat what
You
have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts must tell.
EPISTLE to J—B—Esq. 1757.
HAS my good dame a wicked child?
It takes the gentler name of wild.
If chests he breaks, if locks he picks,
'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks.
The mother's fondness stamps it merit,
For vices are a sign of spirit.
Say, do the neighbours think the same,
With the good old indulgent dame?
"Cries gossip Prate, I hear with grief
"My neighbour's son's an arrant thief.
"Nay, cou'd you think it, I am told,
"He stole five guineas, all in gold.
"You know the youth was always wild—
"He got his father's maid with child;
"And robb'd his master, to defray
"The money he had lost at play.
"All means to save him now must fail.
"What can it end in? — In a jail."
Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youth,
My gossip says the very truth.
But as his vices love wou'd hide,
Or torture them to virtue's side,
So friendship's glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)
And makes you
think
at least you see
Some spark of genius, ev'n in me:
You say I shou'd get fame. I doubt it:
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praise?
What poet ever din'd on bays?
For though the Laurel, rarest wonder!
May screen us from the stroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.
And poet's live on slender fare,
Who, like Chameleons, feed on air,
And starve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only serves them after death.
Grant I succeed, like Horace rise,
And strike my head against the skies,
Common experience daily shews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we shall find in every town
Gossips enough to cry them down;
Who meet in pious conversation
T' anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.
Their idle censures I despise:
Their niggard praises won't suffice.
Tempt me no more then to the crime
Of dabbling in the font of rhime.
My Muse has answer'd all her end,
If her productions please a friend.
The world is burthen'd with her store,
Why need I add one scribbler more?
ODE Spoken on a public Occasion at Westminster-school.
NOR at Apollo's vaunted shrine,
Nor to the fabled Sisters Nine,
Offers the youth his ineffectual vow.
Far be their rites!—Such worship fits not now;
When at Eliza's sacred name
Each breast receives the present flame:
While eager genius plumes her infant wings,
And with bold impulse strikes th' accordant strings,
Reflecting on the crouded line
Of mitred sages, bards divine,
Of patriots, active in their country's cause,
Who plan her councils, or direct her laws.
Oh Memory! how thou lov'st to stray,
Delighted, o'er the flow'ry way
Of childhood's greener years! when simple youth
Pour'd the pure dictates of ingenuous truth!
'Tis then the souls congenial meet,
Inspir'd with friendships genuine heat,
E'er interest, frantic zeal, or jealous art,
Have taught the language foreign to the heart.
'Twas
here,
in many an early strain
Dryden first try'd his classic vein,
Spurr'd his strong genius to the distant goal,
In wild effussions of his manly soul;
When Busby's skill, and judgment sage,
Repress'd the poet's frantic rage,
Cropt his luxuriance bold, and blended taught
The flow of numbers with the strength of thought.
Nor, Cowley, be thy Muse forgot! which strays
In wit's ambiguous flowery maze,
With many a pointed turn and studied art:
Tho' affectation blot thy rhyme,
Thy mind was lofty and sublime,
And manly honour dignified thy heart:
Though fond of wit, yet firm to virtue's plan,
The
Poet
's trifles ne'er disgrac'd the
Man.
Well might thy morals sweet engage
Th' attention of the Mitred Sage,
Smit with the plain simplicity of truth.
For not ambition's giddy strife,
The gilded toys of public life,
Which snare the gay unstable youth,
Cou'd lure Thee from the sober charms,
Which lapt thee in retirements' arms,
Whence Thou, untainted with the pride of state,
Coud'st smile with pity on the bustling Great.
Such were Eliza's sons. Her soft'ring care
Here
bad free genius tune his grateful song;
Which else had wasted in the defart air,
Or droop'd unnotic'd 'mid the vulgar throng.
—Ne'er may her youth degenerate shame
The glories of Eliza's name!
But with the poet's frenzy bold,
Such as inspir'd her bards of old,
Pluck the green laurel from the hand of fame!
The ACTOR. ADDRESS'D TO BONNELL THORNTON, Esq.
ACTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws
From no observance of mechanic laws:
No settled maxims of a fav'rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to sit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted so
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd we Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius must our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.
Thrice happy Genius, whose unrival'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead, with more than magic skill,
The train of captive passions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear spontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilness creep,
When horrors such as thine
have murder'd sleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic stare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I see him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The Comic Muse too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requisite to please,
Taste, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Ease,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers so pliant, and so various blest,
That what we see the last, we like the best.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burst outrageous with the laugh of sense.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's profession (tho' I hate the phrase,
'Tis so
mechanic
in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowlege is his only art.
The strong-felt passion bolts into the face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace?
To this one standard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden secret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or distrest,
No actor pleases that is not
possess'd.
Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Christians were the subject of their plays,
E'er persecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men still wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame.
Nature's disciple, and Genest his name.
A noble object for his skill he chose,
A martyr dying 'midst insulting foes.
Resign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's cause.
Fill'd with th' idea of the secret part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look and voice, and gesture, all exprest
A kindred ardour in the player's breast;
Till as the flame thro' all his bosom ran,
He lost the Actor, and commenc'd the Man:
Profest the faith, his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.
The Player's province they but vainly try,
Who want these pow'rs,
Deportment, Voice,
and
Eye.
The Critic Sight 'tis only
Grace
can please,
No figure charms us if it has not
Ease.
There are, who think the stature all in all;
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling sense all other want supplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his size.
Superior height requires superior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the solemn pace of state.
One foot put forward in position strong,
The other, like its vassal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, so exact and slow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill supplies its place.
Unskilful actors, like your mimic apes,
Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes;
However foreign from the poet's art,
No tragic hero but admires a start.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his
attitude
is fine?
While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till praise dismiss him with her echoing hands!
Resolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perseverance to extort applause.
When Romeo sorrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness bursts the canvas tomb,
The sudden whirl, stretch'd leg, and listed staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.
To paint the passion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's self will tell:
No pleasing pow'rs distortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loaths excess.
In sock or buskin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Disgusts our reason, and the taste confounds.
Of all the evils which the stage molest,
I hate your fool who overacts his jest:
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With shrug, and grin, and gesture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnson once, tho' Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and sober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the strong outlines of the comic scene.
What was writ down, with decent utt'rance spoke,
Betray'd no symptom of the conscious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the stage, appear'd no Play'r.
The word and action should conjointly suit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While sober humour marks th' impression strong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each scene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not asham'd of being so.
But let the generous Actor still forbear
To copy features with a Mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill, which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile stage-custom, honour'd in the breach.
Worse as more close, the disingenuous art
But shews the wanton looseness of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public scene,
Forsaking nature's fair and open road
To mark some whim, some strange peculiar mode,
Fir'd with disgust I loath his servile plan,
Despise the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hospitals repair,
And hunt for humour in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim
With shrug, wink, snuffle, and convulsive limb;
Then shame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good sense, good manners, virtue, and the stage!
'Tis not enough the Voice be found and clear,
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of passion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress,
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on
all.
Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,
Point ev'ry stop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,
Their words, like stage-processions, stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,
And e'en in speaking we may seem
too
just.
Nor proper, Thornton, can those sounds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear:
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
While pause, and break, and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.
Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, insipid and serene;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature
and finer strokes are shown,
In the low whisper than tempestuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who swol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.
He, who in earnest studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
Up to the Face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking Eyes;
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul is there.
In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her straws fantastic strews the ground,
In vain now sings, now heaves the desp'rate sigh,
If phrenzy sit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding sorrows speak,
And call the tear fast trick'ling down my cheek.
There is a fault which stirs the critic's rage;
A want of due attention on the stage.
I have seen actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whose tongues wound up set forward from their cue;
In their own speech who whine, or roar away,
Yet seem unmov'd at what the rest may say;
Whose eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects roam,
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.
Divest yourself of hearers, if you can,
And strive to speak, and be the very man.
Why should the well-bred actor wish to know
Who sits above to-night, or who below?
So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian squallers oft disgrace the stage;
When, with a simp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The squeaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'sie to her grace.
To suit the dress demands the actor's art,
Yet there are those who over-dress the part.
To some prescriptive right gives settled things,
Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings.
But Michael Cassio might be drunk enough,
Tho' all his features were not grim'd with snuff.
Why shou'd Pol Peachum shine in satin cloaths?
Why ev'ry devil dance in scarlet hose?
But in stage-customs what offends me most
Is the slip-door, and slowly-rising ghost.
Tell me, nor count the question too severe,
Why need the dismal powder'd forms appear?
When chilling horrors shake th' affrighted king,
And guilt torments him with her scorpion sting;
When keenest feelings at his bosom pull,
And fancy tells him that the seat is full;
Why need the ghost usurp the monarch's place,
To frighten children with his mealy face?
The king alone shou'd form the phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.
If Belvidera her lov'd loss deplore,
Why for twin spectres bursts the yawning floor?
When with disorder'd starts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And still pursues them with a frantic stare,
'Tis pregnant madness brings the visions there.
More instant horror would enforce the scene,
If all her shudd'rings were at shapes unseen.
Poet and Actor thus, with blended skill,
Mould all our passions to their instant will;
'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the stage,
(The speaking comment of his Shakespear's page)
Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears,
I shake with horror, or dissolve with tears.
O, ne'er may folly seize the throne of taste,
Nor dulness lay the realms of genius waste!
No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire,
No tumbler float upon the bending wire!
More natural uses to the stage belong,
Than tumblers, monsters, pantomime, or song.
For other purpose was that spot design'd:
To purge the passions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,
And while it charms the ear to mend the heart.
Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend,
The decent stage as virtue's natural friend.
Tho' oft debas'd with scenes profane and loose,
No reason weighs against it's proper use.
Tho' the lewd priest his sacred function shame,
Religion's perfect law is still the same.
Shall They, who trace the passions from their rise,
Shew scorn her features, her own image vice?
Who teach the mind it's proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man,
Shall their profession e'er provoke disdain,
Who stand the foremost in the mortal train,
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And strike the precept home upon the heart?
Yet, hapless Artist! tho' thy skill can raise
The bursting peal of universal praise,
Tho' at thy beck Applause delighted stands,
And lists, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the stroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,
And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.
Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's share,
Relentless death untwists the mingled fame,
And sinks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muscles of the various face,
The mien that gave each sentence strength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind.
To GEORGE COLMAN, Esq. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.
Written
Jan. 1, 1761.
From Tiffington in Derbyshire.
FRIENDSHIP with most is dead and cool,
A dull, inactive, stagnant pool;
Yours like the lively current flows,
And shares the pleasure it bestows.
If there is ought, whose lenient pow'r
Can sooth affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,
And snatch the wretched from despair,
Superior to the sense of woes,
From friendship's source the balsam flows.
Rich then am I, possest of thine,
Who know that happy balsam mine.
In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The souls congenial spring to meet,
And emulation's infant strife,
Cements the man in future life.
Oft too the mind well-pleas'd surveys
Its progress from its childish days;
Sees how the current upwards ran,
And reads the child o'er in the man.
For men, in reason's sober eyes,
Are children, but of larger size,
Have still their idle hopes and fears,
And Hobby-Horse of riper years.
Whether a blessing, or a curse,
My rattle is the love of verse.
Some fancied parts, and emulation,
Which still aspires to reputation,
Bad infant fancy plume her flight,
And held the laurel full to sight.
For vanity, the poet's sin,
Had ta'en possession all within:
And he whose brain is verse-possest,
Is in himself as highly blest,
As he, whose lines and circles vie
With heav'ns direction of the sky.
Howe'er the river rolls its tides,
The cork upon the surface rides.
And on Ink's Ocean, lightly buoy'd,
That cork of vanity is Lloyd.
Let
me
too use the common claim
And souse at once upon my name,
Which some have done with greater stress,
Who know me, and who love me less.
Poets are very harmless things,
Unless you teaze one till he stings;
And when affronts are plainly meant,
We're bound in honour to resent:
And what tribunal will deny
An injur'd person to reply?
In these familiar emanations,
Which are but writing conversations,
Where thought appears in dishabille,
And fancy does just what she will,
The sourest critic wou'd excuse
The vagrant sallies of the Muse:
Which lady, for Apollo's blessing
Has still attended our caressing,
As many children round her sees
As maggots in a Cheshire cheese,
Which I maintain at vast expence,
Of pen and paper, time and sense:
And surely 'twas no small miscarriage
When first I entered into marriage.
The poet's title which I bear,
With some strange castles in the air,
Was all my portion with the fair.
However narrowly I look,
In Phoebus's
valorum
book,
I cannot from enquiry find
Poets had much to leave behind.
They had a copyhold estate
In lands, which they themselves create,
A foolish title to a
fountain,
A right of common in a
mountain,
And yet they liv'd amongst the great,
More than their brethren do of late;
Invited out at feasts to dine,
Eat as they pleas'd, and drank their wine;
Nor is it any where set down
They tipt the servants half a crown,
But pass'd amid the waiting throng
And pay'd the porter with a song;
As once, a wag in modern days,
When all are in these bribing ways,
His shillings to dispense unable,
Scrap'd half the fruit from off the table,
And walking gravely thro' the croud,
Which stood obsequiously, and bow'd,
To keep the fashion up of tipping,
Dropt in each hand a golden pippin.
But there's a difference indeed
'Twixt ancient bards and modern breed.
Tho' poet known, in Roman days,
Fearless he walk'd the public ways,
Nor ever knew that sacred name
Contemptuous smile, or painful shame:
While with a foolish face of praise;
The folks wou'd stop to gape and gaze,
And half untold the story leave,
Pulling their neighbour by the sleeve,
While th' index of the finger shews,
—There—yonder's Horace—there he goes.
This finger, I allow it true,
Points at us modern poets too;
But 'tis by way of wit and joke,
To laugh, or as the phrase is,
smoke.
Yet, there are those, who're fond of wit,
Altho' they never us'd it yet,
Who wits and witlings entertain
Of Taste, Virtù, and Judgment vain,
And dinner, grace, and grace-cup done,
Expect a wond'rous deal of fun:
Yes—He at bottom—don't you know him?
"That's He that wrote the last new poem.
"His Humour's exquisitely high,
"You'll hear him open by and by."
The man in print and conversation
Have often very small relation;
And he, whose humour hits the town,
When copied fairly, and set down,
In public company may pass,
For little better than an ass.
Perhaps the fault is on his side,
Springs it from modesty, or pride,
Those qualities asham'd to own,
For which he's happy to be known;
Or that his nature's strange and shy,
And diffident, he knows not why;
Or from a prudent kind of fear,
As, knowing that the world's severe,
He wou'd not suffer to escape
Familiar wit in easy shape:
Left gaping fools, and vile repeaters,
Should catch her up, and spoil her features,
And, for the child's unlucky maim,
The faultless parent come to shame.
Well, but methinks I hear you say,
Write then, my friend!—Write what?—a Play.
"The theatres are open yet,
"The market for all sterling wit;
"Try the strong efforts of your pen,
"And draw the characters of men;
"Or bid the bursting tear to flow,
"Obedient to the fabled woe:
"With Tragedy's severest art,
"Anatomize the human heart,
"And, that you may be understood,
"Bid nature speak, as nature shou'd."
That talent, George, tho' yet untried,
Perhaps my genius has denied;
While you, my friend, are sure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.
Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.
One might by pleasant thoughts be led
To lose a trifling maiden-head;
But 'tis a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with Plays to do,
Has got the devil to go through.
Critics have reason for their rules,
I dread the censure of your fools.
For tell me, and consult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while aside)
How cou'd you, George, with patience bear,
The critic prosing in the play'r?
Some of that calling have I known,
Who hold no judgment like their own;
And yet their reasons fairly scan,
And separate the wheat and bran,
You'd be amaz'd indeed to find,
What little wheat is left behind.
For, after all their mighty rout,
Of chatt'ring round and round about;
'Tis but a kind of clock-work talking,
Like crossing on the stage, and walking,
The form of this tribunal past,
The play receiv'd, the parts all cast,
Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections:
The man's is drawn too course and rough,
The lady's has not smut enough.
It want's a touch of Cibber's ease,
A higher kind of talk to please;
Such as your titled folks would chuse,
And Lords and Ladyship's might use.
Which stile, whoever would succeed in,
Must have small wit, and much good breeding,
If this is dialogue—
ma foi,
Sweet Sir, say I,
pardonnez moi!
As long as life and business lasts,
The actors have their several casts,
A walk where each his talents shews,
Queens, Nurses, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux;
Suppose you've found a girl of merit,
Who'd shew your part in all its spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the scope,
Some little lively thing, like Pope,
You rob some others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.
But grant the cast is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.
To-morrow then—(but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to shew,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented—
To-morrow then, will be presented
The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right.
How do you sleep, my friend, to-night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roast-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mabb's wheels a-cross your temples creep,
You toss and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and spleen,
"That fellow murders all my scene."
To-morrow comes. I know your merit,
And see the piece's fire and spirit;
Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.
The coach below, the clock gone five,
Now to the theatre we drive:
Peeping the curtain's eyelet through,
Behold the house in dreadful view!
Observe how close the critics sit,
And not one bonnet in the pit.
With horror hear the galleries ring,
Nosy! Black Joke! God save the King!
Sticks clatter, catcalls scream,
Encore!
Cocks crow, pit hisses, galleries roar:
E'en
cha' some oranges
is found
This night to have a dreadful sound:
'Till, decent sables on his back,
(Your prologuizers all wear black)
The prologue comes; and, if its mine,
Its very good, and very fine.
If not, I take a pinch of snuff,
And wonder where you got such stuff.
That done, a-gape the critics sit,
Expectant of the comic wit.
The fiddlers play again pell-mell,
—But hist!—the prompter rings his bell.
—Down there! hats off!—the curtain draws!—
What follows is—the just applause.
PROLOGUE To the JEALOUS WIFE.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
THE JEALOUS WIFE! a Comedy! poor man!
A charming subject! but a wretched plan.
His skittish wit, o'erleaping the due bound,
Commits flat trespass upon tragic ground.
Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,
Grow too familiar in the comic scene.
Tinge but the language with heroic chime,
'Tis Passion, Pathos, Character, Sublime!
What round big words had swell'd the pompous scene,
A king the husband, and the wife a queen!
Then might Distraction rend her graceful hair,
See sightless forms, and scream, and gape, and stare.
Drawcansir death had rag'd without controul,
Here the drawn dagger, there the poison'd bowl.
What eyes had stream'd at all the whining woe!
What hands had thunder'd at each
Hah!
and
Oh!
But peace! the gentle prologue custom sends,
Like drum and serjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, each a lawful game,
Our author flies, but with no
partial
aim.
He read the manners, open as they lie
In nature's volume to the general eye.
Books too he read, nor blush'd to use their store.—
He does but what his betters did before.
Shakespeare has done it, and the Grecian stage
Caught truth of character from Homer's page.
If in his scenes an honest skill is shewn,
And borrowing, little, much appears his own;
If what a master's happy pencil drew
He brings more forward, in dramatic view;
To your decision he submits his cause,
Secure of candour, anxious for applause.
But if all rude, his artless scenes deface
The simple beauties which he meant to grace;
If, an invader upon others land,
He spoil and plunder with a robber's hand,
Do justice on him!—As on fools before,
And give to
Blockheads
past one
Blockhead
more.
The Nightingale, the Owl, and the Cuckow. A FABLE.
Addressed to DAVID GARRICK, Esq. On the report of his retiring from the stage, Dec. 1760.
CRITICS, who like the scarecrows stand
Upon the poet's common land,
And with severity of sense,
Drive all imagination thence,
Say that in truth lies all sublime,
Whether you write in prose or rhyme.
And yet the truth may lose its grace,
If blurted to a person's face;
Especially, if what you speak
Shou'd crimson o'er the glowing cheek:
For when you throw that slaver o'er him,
And tumble out your praise before him,
However just the application,
It looks a-squint at adulation.
I would be honest and sincere,
But not a flatterer, or severe.
Need I be surly, rough, uncouth,
That folks may think I love the Truth?
And She, good dame, with Beauty's Queen,
Was not at all times naked seen:
For every boy, with Prior, knows,
By accident she lost her cloaths,
When Falshood stole them to disguise
Her misbegotten brood of lies.
Why shou'd the prudish Goddess dwell
Down at the bottom of a well,
But that she is in piteous fright,
Lest, rising up to mortal sight,
The modest world shou'd fleer and flout her,
With not a rag of cloaths about her?
Yet she might wear a proper dress
And keep her essence ne'ertheless.
So Delia's bosom still will rise,
And fascinate her lover's eyes,
Tho' round her ivory neck she draws,
The decent shade of specious gauze.
I hear it buzz'd about the table,
What can this lead to?—Sirs,
A FABLE.
When Birds allow'd the Eagle's sway,
E'er Eagles turn'd to fowls of prey,
His Royal Majesty of Air
Took Music underneath his care;
And, for his queen and court's delight,
Commanded Concerts ev'ry night.
Here every Bird of Parts might enter,
The Nightingale was made Praecentor;
Under whose care and just direction,
Merit was sure to meet protection.
The Lark, the Blackbird, and the Robin
This concert always bore a bob in:
The best performers all were in it,
The Thrush, Canary-bird, and Linnet.
But Birds, alas! are apt to aim
At things, to which they've smallest claim.
The staring Owl, with hideous hoot,
Offer'd his service for a flute.
The Cuckow needs would join the band;
"The Thrush is but a paultry hand:
"And I can best supply that place,
"For I've a shake, a swell, a grace."
The Manager their suit preferr'd:
Both tun'd their pipes, and both were heard;
Yet each their several praises miss'd,
For both were heard, and both were hiss'd.
The Cuckow hence, with rancour stirr'd,
(A kind of
periodic
bird,
Of nasty hue, and body scabby,
No would-be play-wright half so shabby)
Reviles, abuses, and defames,
Screams from a branch, and calls hard names,
And strikes at Nightingale or Lark,
Like Lisbon russians, in the dark.
The Owl harangues the gaping throng
On
Pow'rs,
and excellence of song.
"The Blackbird's note has lost its force;
"The Nightingale is downright hoarse;
"The Linnet's harsh; the Robin shrill;
"—The Sparrow has prodigious skill!"
At length they had what they desir'd:
The skilfull Nightingale retir'd.
When Folly came, with wild Uproar,
And Harmony was heard no more.
TWO ODES
I take the liberty of inserting the two following Odes, though I cannot, with strict propriety, print them as my own composition. The truth is, they were written in concert with a friend, to whose labours I am always happy to add my own: I mean the Author of the Jealous Wife.
.
ΦΩΝΑΝΤΑ ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙΝ ΕΣ
ΔΕ ΤΟ ΠΑΝ, ΕΡΜΗΝΕΩΝ
ΧΑΤΙΖΕΙ.
PINDAR, Olymp. II.
ODE I.
I. 1.
DAUGHTER of Chaos and old Night,
Cimmerian Muse, all hail!
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil!
What Poet sings, and strikes the strings?
It was the mighty Theban spoke.
He from the ever-living Lyre
With magic hand elicits fire.
Heard ye the din of Modern Rhimers bray?
It was cool M—n: or warm G—y,
Involv'd in tenfold smoke.
I. 2.
The shallow Fop in antic vest,
Tir'd of the beaten road,
Proud to be singularly drest,
Changes, with every changing moon, the mode,
Say, shall not then the heav'n-born Muses too
Variety pursue?
Shall not applauding critics hail the vogue?
Whether the Muse the stile of Cambria's sons,
Or the rude gabble of the Huns,
Or the broader dialect
Of Caledonia she affect,
Or take, Hibernia, thy still ranker brogue?
I. 3.
On this terrestial ball
The tyrant, Fashion, governs all.
She, fickle Goddess, whom, in days of yore,
The Ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore.
Long she paid him with disdain,
And long his pangs in silence he conceal'd:
At length, in happy hour, his love-sick pain
On thy blest Calends, April, he reveal'd.
From their embraces sprung,
Ever changing, ever ranging,
Fashion, Goddess ever young.
II. 1.
Perch'd on the dubious height, She loves to ride,
Upon a weather-cock, astride.
Each blast that blows, around she goes,
While nodding o'er her crest,
Emblem of her magic pow'r,
The light Cameleon stands confest,
Changing it's hues a thousand times an hour.
And in a vest is she array'd,
Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zoneless is her waist:
But fair and beautiful, I ween,
As the cestos-cinctur'd Queen,
Is with the Rainbow's shadowy girdle brac'd.
II. 2.
She bids pursue the fav'rite road
Of lofty cloud-capt Ode.
Meantime each Bard, with eager speed,
Vaults on the Pegasean Steed:
Yet not that Pegasus, of yore
Which th' illustrious Pindar bore,
But one of nobler breed.
High blood and youth his lusty veins inspire.
From Tottipontimoy He came,
Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
The bloody-shoulder'd Arab was his Sire.
The Author is either mistaken in this place, or has else indulged himself in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. Whitenose was not the Sire, but a Son of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar. HEBER.
His White-nose. He on sam'd Doncastria's plains
Resign'd his fated breath:
In vain for life the struggling courser strains.
Ah! who can run the race with death?
The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,
Strives all in vain to fly.
He leads the chace, he wins the race,
We stumble, fall, and die.
II. 3.
Third from Whitenose springs
Pegasus with eagle wings:
Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings.
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:
He too Newmarket won.
There Granta's Son
Seiz'd on the Steed;
And thence him led, (so fate decreed)
To where old Cam, renown'd in poet's song,
With his dark and inky waves,
Either bank in silence laves,
Winding flow his sluggish streams along.
III. 1.
What stripling neat, of visage sweet,
In trimmest guise array'd,
First the neighing Steed assay'd?
His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel
Sparkles refulgent with elastick steel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way,
Prancing, ambling, round and round,
By hill, and dale, and mead, and greenswerd gay:
Till sated with the pleasing ride,
From the lofty Steed dismounting,
He lies along, enwrapt in conscious pride,
By gurgling rill or crystal fountain.
III. 2.
Lo! next, a Bard, secure of praise,
His self-complacent countenance displays.
His broad Mustachios, ting'd with golden die,
Flame, like a meteor, to the troubled air:
Proud his demeanor, and his eagle eye,
O'er-hung with lavish lid, yet shone with glorious glare.
The grizzle grace
Of bushy peruke shadow'd o'er his face.
In large wide boots, whose ponderous weight
Would sink each wight of modern date,
He rides, well pleas'd. So large a pair
Not Garagantua's self might wear:
Not He, of nature fierce and cruel,
Who, if we trust to antient Ballad,
Devour'd Three Pilgrims in a Sallad;
Nor He of fame germane, hight Pantagruel.
III. 3.
Accoutred thus, th' adventrous Youth
Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,
Fast by whose side clear streams meandring creep;
But urges on amain the fiery Steed
Up Snowdon's shaggy side, or Cambrian rock uncouth:
Where the venerable herd
Of Goats, with long and sapient beard,
And wanton Kidlings their blithe revels keep.
Now up the mountain see him strain!
Now down the vale he's tost,
Now flashes on the sight again,
Now in the Palpable Obscure quite lost.
IV. 1.
Man's feeble race eternal dangers wait,
With high or low, all, all, is woe,
Disease, mischance, pale fear, and dubious fate.
But, o'er every peril bounding,
Ambition views not all the ills surrounding,
And, tiptoe on the mountain's steep,
Reflects not on the yawning deep.
IV. 2.
See, see, he soars! With mighty wings outspread,
And long resounding mane,
The Courser quits the plain.
Alost in air, see, see him bear
The Bard, who shrouds
His Lyrick Glory in the clouds,
Too fond to strike the stars with lofty head!
He topples headlong from the giddy height,
Deep in the Cambrian Gulph immerg'd in endless night.
IV. 3.
O Steed Divine! what daring spirit
Rides thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor self-opinion,
Which elate the mighty Pair,
Each of Taste the fav'rite minion,
Prancing thro' the desert air;
By help mechanick of Equestrian Block,
Yet shall he mount, with classick housings grac'd,
And, all unheedful of the Critick Mock,
Drive his light Courser o'er the bounds of Taste.
ODE to OBLIVION.
I.
According to Lillaeus, who bestows the Parental Function on Oblivion.
Verba
OBLIVISCENDI
regunt
GENITIVUM. Lib. xiii. Cap. 8. There is a similar passage in Busbaeus.
PARENT OF EASE! OBLIVION old,
Who lov'st thy dwelling-place to hold.
Where scepter'd Pluto keeps his dreary sway,
Whose sullen pride the shiv'ring ghosts obey!
Thou, who delightest still to dwell
By some hoar and moss-grown cell,
At whose dank foot Cocytus joys to roll,
Or Styx' black streams, which even Jove controul!
Or if it suit thy better will
To chuse the tinkling weeping rill,
Hard by whose side the seeded poppy red
Heaves high in air his sweetly curling head,
While, creeping in meanders slow,
Lethe's drowzy waters flow,
And hollow blasts, which never cease to sigh,
Hum to each care-struck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
A prey no longer let me be
To that gossip, MEMORY,
Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To spread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With Thee, OBLIVION, let me go,
For MEMORY'S a friend to woe;
With thee, FORGETFULNESS, fair silent Queen,
The solemn stole of grief is never seen.
II.
All, all is thine. Thy pow'rful sway
The throng'd poetic hosts obey.
Tho' in the van of MEM'RY proud t' appear,
At thy command they darken in the rear.
What tho' the modern Tragic strain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet thro' the Nine, like whelps of currish kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
Sacred to Thee the Crambo Rhime,
The motley forms of Pantomime:
For Thee from Eunuch's throat still loves to flow
The soothing sadness of his warbled woe:
Each day to Thee falls Pamphlet clean:
Each month a new-born Magazine:
Hear then, O GODDESS, hear thy vot'ry's pray'r!
And, if Thou deign'st to take one moment's care,
Attend Thy Bard! who duly pays
The tribute of his votive lays;
Whose Muse still offers at thy sacred shrine;—
Thy Bard, who calls THEE
His,
and makes
Him
THINE.
O, sweet FORGETFULLNESS, supreme
Rule supine o'er ev'ry theme,
O'er each sad subject, o'er each soothing strain,
Of mine, O GODDESS, stretch thine awful reign!
Nor let MEM'RY steal one note,
Which this rude hand to Thee hath wrote!
So shalt thou save me from the Poet's shame,
Tho' on the letter'd Rubric DODSLEY post my Name.
III.
O come! with opiate poppies crown'd,
Shedding slumbers soft around!
O come! FAT GODDESS, drunk with Laureat's Sack!—
See, where she sits on the benumb'd Torpedo's back!
Me, in thy dull Elysium lapt, O bless
With thy calm Forgetfulness!
And gently lull my senses all the while
With placid poems in the sinking stile!
Whether the Herring-Poet sing,
Great Laureat of the Fishes' King,
Or Lycophron prophetic rave his fill,
Wrapt in the darker strains of Johnny—;
Or, if HE sing, whose verse affords
A
bevy
of the
choicest
words,
Who meets his Lady Muse by moss-grown cell,
Adorn'd with epithet and tinkling bell:
These, GODDESS, let me still forget,
With all the dearth of Modern Wit!
So may'st Thou gently o'er my youthful breast
Spread, with thy welcome hand, OBLIVION'S friendly vest.
THE LAW-STUDENT.
An EPISTLE, Addressed to the Author of The JEALOUS WIFE; With a Preface by BEN JONSON.
POETASTER. ACT I.
SCENE I.
OVID, LUSCUS.
"THEN, when this body falls in funeral fire,
"My name shall live, and my best part aspire.
It shall go so.
Young master, master Ovid, do you hear? Gods a'me! away with your songs, and sonnets; and on with your gown and cap quickly: here, here, your father will be a man of this room presently. Come, nay, nay, nay, nay, be brief. These verses too, a poyson on 'em, I cannot abide 'em, they make me ready to cast, by the banks of Helicon. Nay, look, what a rascally untoward thing this poetry is; I could tear 'em now.
Give me, how near's my father?
Heart a' man: get a law-book in your hand, I will not answer you else. Why so now there's some formality in you. By Jove, and three or four of the gods more, I am right of mine old master's humour for that; this villainous poetry will undo you by the welkin.
What hast thou buskins on, Luscus, that thou swear'st so tragically and high?
No, but I have boots on, sir, and so has your father too by this time; for he call'd for 'em, e're I came from the lodging.
Why? was he no readier?
O no; and there was the mad skeldring captain, with the velvet arms, ready to lay hold on him as he comes down: he that presses every man he meets, with an oath to lend him money, and cries, (Thou must do't old boy, as thou art a man, a man of worship.)
Who? Pantilius Tucca?
I, he; and I met little master Lupus, the tribune, going thither too.
Nay, an' he be under their arrest, I may (with safety enough) read over my elegy before he come.
Gods a' me? what'll you do? Why young master, you are not Castalian mad, lunatick, frantick, desperate? ha!
What ail'st thou, Luscus?
God be with you, sir, I'll leave you to your poetical fancies, and furies. I'll not be guilty, I.
Be not, good ignorance: I'm glad th'art gone: For thus alone, our ear shall better judge The hasty errors of our morning muse.
[Reads an elegy ending with
My name shall live, and my best part aspire.
SCENE II.
Ovid senior, Ovid junior, Luscus, Tucca, Lupus, Pyrgus.
Your
name shall live
indeed, sir; you say true: but how infamously, how scorn'd and contemn'd in the eyes and ears of the best and gravest Romans, that you think not on: you never so much as dream of that. Are these the fruits of all my travail and expences? Is this the scope and aim of thy studies? Are these the hopeful courses, wherewith I have so long flattered my expectation from thee? Verses? Poetry? Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader, become Ovid the play-maker?
No, sir.
Yes, sir; I hear of a tragedy of yours coming forth for the common players there, call'd Medea. By my houshold-gods, if I come to the acting of it, I'll add one tragic part more than is yet expected to it; believe me when I promise it. What? shall I have my son a stager now? an enghle for players? a gull? a rook? a shot-clog? to make suppers, and be laugh'd at? Publius, I will set thee on the funeral pile first.
Sir, I beseech you to have patience.
Indeed, Marcus Ovid, these players are an idle generation, and do much harm in a state, corrupt young gentry very much, I know it: I have not been a tribune thus long and observ'd nothing; besides, they will rob us, us, that are magistrates, of our respect, bring us upon their stages, and make us ridiculous to the plebeians; they will play you or me, the wisest men they can come by still, only to bring us in contempt with the vulgar, and make us cheap.
Th'art in the right, my venerable cropshin, they will indeed, the tongue of the oracle never twang'd truer. Your courtier cannot kiss his misstress's slippers in quiet for 'em; nor your white innocent gallant pawn his revelling suit to make his punk a supper. An honest decay'd commander cannot skelder, cheat, nor be seen in a bawdy-house, but he shall be strait in one of their wormwood comedies. They are grown licentious, the rogues; libertines, flat libertines. They forget they are i' the statute, the rascals; they are blazon'd there; there they are trick'd, they and their pedigrees; they need no other heralds, I wiss.
Methinks, if nothing else, yet this alone, the very reading of the public edicts, should fright thee from commerce with them, and give thee distaste enough of their actions. But this betrays what a student you are, this argues your proficiency in the Law.
They wrong me, sir, and do abuse you more, That blow your ears with these untrue reports. I am not known unto the open stage, Nor do I traffick in their theatres. Indeed, I do acknowledge, at request Of some meer friends, and honourable Romans, I have begun a poem of that nature.
You have, sir, a poem? and where is't? That's the Law you study.
Cornelius Gallus borrowed it to read.
Cornelius Gallus; There's another gallant too hath drunk of the same poison, and Tibullus and Propertius. But these are gentlemen of means and revenues now. Thou art a younger brother, and hast nothing but thy bare exhibition; which I protest shall be bare indeed, if thou forsake not these unprofitable by-courses, and that timely too. Name me a profest poet, that his poetry did ever afford him so much as a competency. I, your god of poets there (whom all of you admire and reverence so much) Homer, he whose worm-eaten statue must not be spewed against, but with hallow'd lips and groveling adoration, what was he? what was he?
Marry, I'll tell thee, old swaggerer; he was a poor, blind, rhyming rascal, that liv'd obscurely up and down in booths and tap-houses, and scarce ever made a good meal in his sleep, the whoreson hungry beggar.
He says well: Nay, I know this nettles you now; but answer me, is't not true? You'll tell me his name shall live; and that (now being dead) his works have eternis'd him, and made him divine; but could this divinity feed him while he liv'd? could his name feast him?
Or purchase him a senator's revenue? could it?
I, or give him place in the commonwealth? worship, or attendants? make him be carried in his litter?
Thou speakest sentences, old Bias.
All this the Law will do, young sir, if you'll follow it.
If he be mine, he shall follow and observe what I will apt him to, or I profess here openly and utterly to disclaim him.
Sir, let me crave you will forego these moods: I will be any thing, or study any thing; I'll prove the unfashion'd body of the Law Pure elegance, and make her rugged'st strains Run smoothly as Propertius' elegies.
Propertius' elegies? good!
Nay, you take him too quickly, Marcus.
Why, he cannot speak, he cannot think out of poetry; he is bewitch'd with it.
Come, do not mis-prise him.
Mis-prize? I marry, I would have him use some such words now; they have some touch, some taste of the Law. He should make himself a stile out of these, and let his Propertius' elegies go by.
Indeed, young Publius, he that will now hit the mark, must shoot through the Law; we have no other planet reigns, and in that sphere you may sit and sing with angels. Why, the Law makes a man happy, without respecting any other merit; a simple scholar, or none at all, may be a lawyer.
He tells thee true, my noble Neophyte; my little grammaticaster, he does: it shall never put thee to thy mathematicks, metaphysicks, philosophy, and I know not what suppos'd sufficiencies; if thou canst but have the patience to plod enough, talk, and make a noise enough, be impudent enough, and 'tis enough.
Three books will furnish you.
And the less art the better besides, when it shall be in the power of thy chevril conscience to do right or wrong at thy pleasure, my pretty Alcibiades.
I, and to have better men than himself, by many thousand degrees, to observe him, and stand bare.
True, and he to carry himself proud and stately, and have the law on his side for't, old boy.
Well, the day grows old, gentlemen, and I must leave you. Publius, if thou wilt have my favour, abandon these idle fruitless studies that so bewitch witch thee. Send Janus home his back-face again, and look only forward to the law: intend that. I will allow thee what shall sute thee in the rank of gentlemen, and maintain thy society with the best; and under these conditions I leave thee. My blessings light upon thee, if thou respect them; if not, mine eyes may drop for thee, but thine own heart will ake for itself; and so farewel.
The LAW-STUDENT. To GEORGE COLMAN, Esq.
Quid tibi cum Cirrhâ? quid cum Permessidos undâ?
Romanum propius divitiusque Forum est.
Mart.
NOW Christ-Church left, and fixt at Lincoln's Inn,
Th' important studies of the Law begin.
Now groan the shelves beneath th' unusual charge
Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large.
Each Classic Author seeks his peaceful nook,
And modest Virgil yields his place to Coke.
No more, ye Bards, for vain precedence hope,
But even Jacob take the lead of Pope!
While the pil'd shelves sink down on one another,
And each huge folio has its cumb'rous brother,
While, arm'd with these, the Student views with awe
His rooms become the magazine of Law,
Say whence so few succeed? where thousands aim,
So few e'er reach the promis'd goal of fame?
Say, why Caecilius quits the gainful trade
For regimentals, sword, and smart cockade?
Or Sextus why his first profession leaves
For narrower band, plain shirt, and pudding sleeves?
The depth of Law asks study, thought, and care;
Shall we seek these in rich Alonzo's heir?
Such diligence, alas! is seldom found
In the brisk heir to forty thousand pound.
Wealth, that excuses folly, sloth creates,
Few, who can spend, e'er learn to get estates.
What is to him dry case, or dull report,
Who studies fashions at the Inns of Court;
And proves that thing of emptiness and show,
That mungrel, half-form'd thing, a Temple-Beau?
Observe him daily sauntring up and down,
In purple slippers, and in silken gown;
Last night's debauch, his morning conversation;
The coming, all his evening preparation.
By Law let others toil to gain renown!
Florio's a gentleman, a man o'th' town.
He nor courts, clients, or the law regarding,
Hurries from Nando's down to Covent-Garden.
Yet he's a Scholar;—mark him in the Pit
With critic catcall sound the stops of wit!
Supreme at George's he harangues the throng,
Censor of stile from tragedy to song:
Him ev'ry witling views with secret awe,
Deep in the Drama, shallow in the Law,
Others there are, who, indolent and vain,
Contemn the science, they can ne'er attain:
Who write, and read, but all by fits and starts,
And varnish folly with the name of Parts;
Trust on to Genius, for they scorn to pore,
Till e'en that little Genius is no more.
Knowlege in Law care only can attain,
Where honour's purchased at the price of pain.
If, loit'ring, up th' ascent you cease to climb,
No starts of labour can redeem the time.
Industrious study wins by flow degrees,
True sons of Coke can ne'er be sons of ease.
There are, whom Love of Poetry has smit,
Who, blind to interest, arrant dupes to wit,
Have wander'd devious in the pleasing road,
With Attic flowers and Classic wreaths bestrew'd:
Wedded to verse, embrac'd the Muse for life,
And ta'en, like modern bucks, their whores to wife.
Where'er the Muse usurps despotic sway,
All other studies must of force give way.
Int'rest in vain puts in her prudent claim,
Nonsuited by the pow'rful plea of fame.
As well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.
On Littleton Coke gravely thus remarks,
(Remember this, ye rhyming Temple Sparks!)
"In all our author's tenures,
be it noted,
"This is the fourth time any verse is quoted."
Which, 'gainst the Muse and verse, may well imply
What lawyers call a
noli prosequi.
Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What tho' the sprightly scene, well-acted, draws
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some Monthly Grub, some Dennis of the age,
In print cries shame on the degen'erate stage
See the very curious and
very similar
criticisms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in the two Reviews, together with the most malicious and insolent attack on that writer, and the author of this Collection in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the succeeding Month, containing fresh insults on one of the injured parties.
.
If haply Churchill strive, with generous aim,
To fan the sparks of genius to a flame;
If all UNASK'D, UNKNOWING, AND UNKNOWN,
By noting thy desert, he prove his own;
Envy shall strait to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her spleen, and gall, and venom there,
Thee, and thy works, and all thy friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,
Swear your own hand the flatt'ring likeness drew,
Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.
Well I remember oft your friends have said,
(Friends, whom the surest maxims ever led)
Turn parson, Colman, that's the way to thrive;
Your parsons are the happiest men alive.
Judges, there are but twelve, and never more,
But Stalls untold, and Bishops, twenty-four.
Of pride and claret, sloth and ven'son full,
Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull!
He ne'er, good man, need pensive vigils keep
To preach his audience once a week to sleep;
On rich preferments battens at his ease,
Nor sweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.
Thus they advis'd. I know thee better far;
And cry, stick close, dear Colman, to the Bar!
If genius warm thee, where can genius call
For nobler action than in yonder hall?
'Tis not enough each morn, on Term's approach,
To club your legal threepence for a coach;
Then at the Hall to take your silent stand,
With ink-horn and long note-book in your hand,
Marking grave serjeants cite each wise report,
And noting down sage dictums from the court,
With overwhelming brow, and law-learn'd face,
The index of your book of common-place.
These are mere drudges, that can only plod,
And tread the path their dull forefathers trod,
Doom'd thro' law's maze, without a clue, to range,
From
second Vernon
down to
second Strange,
Do Thou uplift thine eyes to happier wits!
Dulness no longer on the woolpack sits;
No longer on the drawling dronish herd
Are the first honours of the law confer'd;
But they, whose fame reward's due tribute draws,
Whose active merit challenges applause,
Like glorious beacons, are set high to view,
To mark the paths which genius shou'd persue.
O for thy spirit, MANSFIELD! at thy name
What bosom glows not with an active flame?
Alone from Jargon born to rescue Law,
From precedent, grave hum, and formal saw!
To strip chican'ry of its vain pretence,
And marry Common Law to Common Sense!
PRAT! on thy lips persuasion ever hung!
English falls, pure as Manna, from thy tongue:
On thy voice truth may rest, and on thy plea
Unerring HENLEY found the just decree.
HENLEY! than whom, to HARDWICK's well-rais'd fame,
No worthier second Royal GEORGE cou'd name:
No lawyer of prerogative; no tool
Fashion'd in black corruption's pliant school;
Form'd 'twixt the People and the Crown to stand,
And hold the scales of right with even hand!
True to our hopes, and equal to his birth,
See, see in YORKE the force of lineal worth!
But why their sev'ral merits need I tell?
Why on each honour'd sage's praises dwell?
WILMOT how well his place, or FOSTER fills?
Or shrew'd sense beaming from the eye of WILLS?
Such, while thou see'st the public care engage,
Their fame increasing with increasing age,
Rais'd by true genius, bred in Phoebus' school,
Whose warmth of soul sound judgment knew to cool
—With such illustrious proofs before your eyes,
Think not, my friend, youv'e too much wit to rise:
Think of the bench, the coif, long robe, and fee,
And leave the Press to ********* *** ** **.
The First Book of the HENRIADE. Translated from the French of M. De Voltaire.
THY chieftain, France, of try'd illustrious worth,
By right of conquest king, by right of birth,
I sing. Who, tutor'd in misfortune's school,
There learnt the noblest science, how to Rule;
Bad Faction's furious discord cease to rave,
Valiant to conquer, merciful to save;
Baffled the daring League's rebellious schemes,
MAYENNE's proud hopes, and Spain's ambitious dreams:
With civil prudence blest, with martial fire,
A nation's conqueror, and a nation's fire.
Truth, heavenly maid, from th' Empyraean height
Descend, and with thy strong and purest light
My verse illume! and O, let mortals hear
Thy sacred word, and awfully revere!
Be thou my guide! thy sage experience brings
Unerring maxims to the ear of kings.
'Tis thine, blest maid, and only thine, to show
What most befits the regal pow'r to know.
Purge thou the film from off a nation's eyes,
And shew what ills from civil discord rise!
Nor spare with decent boldness to disclose
The prince's errors, and the people's woes:
And O! if fable e'er, in times of yore,
Mix'd her soft accents with thy sterner lore,
If e'er her hand adorn'd thy tow'ring head,
And o'er thy front her milder graces spread;
If e'er her shades, which lovingly unite,
Bad thy fair form spring stronger into light,
With me, permit her all thy steps to trace,
Not to conceal thy beauties, but to grace!
Still VALOIS reign'd, and sunk in pleasure's bow'r,
O'er a mad state held loose the reigns of pow'r:
The trampled Law had lost its ancient force,
And Right confounded, miss'd her even course.
'Twas thus when VALOIS France's sceptre bore,
Scepter'd indeed, but now a king no more;
Not glory's minion now, the voice of fame
Swell'd the loud trumpet to the hero's name;
His laurels withered, and all blasted now,
Which conquest hung upon his infant brow;
Whose progress Europe mark'd with conscious fear,
Whose loss provoked his country's common tear,
When, the long train of all his virtues known,
The North admiring call'd him to the throne.
In second rank, the light which strikes the eyes,
Rais'd to the first, grows dim, and feebly dies.
From war's stern soldier, active, firm, and brave,
He sunk a monarch, pleasure's abject slave.
Lull'd with soft ease, forgetful all of state,
His weakness totter'd with a kingdom's weight;
While lost in sloth, and dead to glorious fame,
The sons of riot govern'd in his name.
QUELUS, St. MAIGRIN, death-cemented pair,
JOYEUSE the gay, and D' ESPERNON the fair,
The careless king in pleasure plung'd with these,
In lust intemperate, and lethargic ease.
Mean time, the GUISES, fortunate and brave,
Catch'd the fair moment which his weakness gave.
Then rose the fatal League in evil hour,
That dreadful rival of his waning pow'r.
The people blind, their sacred Monarch brav'd,
Led by those Tyrants, who their rights enslav'd.
His friends forsook him, helpless and alone,
His servants chas'd him from his royal throne;
Revolted Paris, deaf to kingly awe,
Within her gates the crouding stranger saw.
Through all the city burst rebellion's flame;
And all was lost, when virtuous BOURBON came;
Came, full of warlike ardour, to restore
That light his prince, deluded, had no more.
His active presence breath'd an instant flame;
No longer now the sluggish sons of shame,
Onward they press, where glory calls, to arms,
And spring to War from Pleasure's silken charms:
To Paris gates both kings advance amain,
Rome felt th' alarm, and trembled haughty Spain:
While Europe, watching where the tempest falls,
With anxious eyes beheld th' unhappy walls.
Within was DISCORD, with her hell-born train,
Stirring to war the League, and haughty MAYNE,
The people, and the church: and from on high
Call'd out to Spain, rebellion's prompt ally.
DISCORD, dread monster, deaf to human woe,
To her own subjects an avengeful foe,
Bloody, impetuous, eager to destroy,
In man's misfortune founds her hateful joy;
To neither party ought of mercy shown,
Well-pleas'd she stabs the dagger in her own;
Dwells a fierce tyrant in the breast she fires,
And smiles to punish what herself inspires.
West of the city, near those borders gay,
Where Seine obliquely winds her sloping way,
(Scenes now, where pleasure's soft retreats are found,
Where triumphs art, and nature smiles around,
Then, by the will of fate, the bloody stage
For war's stern combat and relentless rage)
Th' unhappy VALOIS bad his troops advance,
There rush'd at once the generous strength of France.
A thousand heroes, eager for the fight,
By sects divided, from revenge unite.
These virtuous BOURBON leads, their chosen guide,
Their cause confederate, and their hearts allied.
It seem'd the army felt one common flame,
Their zeal, religion, cause, and chief the sameame.
The sacred Louis, fire of BOURBON's race,
From azure skies, beside the throne of grace,
With holy joy beheld his future heir,
And ey'd the Hero with paternal care;
With such as prophets feel, a blest presage,
He saw the virtues of his ripening age:
Saw Glory round him all her laurels deal,
Yet wail'd his errors, tho' he lov'd his zeal;
With eye prophetic he beheld e'en now,
The crown of France adorn his royal brow;
He knew the wreath was destin'd which they gave,
More will'd the Saint, the light which shines to save.
Still HENRY's steps mov'd onward to the throne,
By secret ways, e'en to himself unknown.
His help from Heaven the Holy Prophet sent,
But hid the arm his wise indulgence lent;
Left sure of conquest, he had slack'd his flame,
Nor grappl'd danger for the meed of fame.
Already MARS had donn'd his coat of mail,
And doubtful Conquest held her even scale;
Carnage with blood had mark'd his purple way,
And slaughter'd heaps in wild confusion lay,
When VALOIS thus his part'ner king addrest,
The sigh deep-heaving from his anxious breast.
"You see what fate, what humbling fate is mine,
"Nor yet alone,—the injury is thine.
"The dauntless League, by hardy Chieftains led,
"Which hisses faction with her Hydra head,
"Boldly consederate by a desperate oath,
"Aims not at me alone, but strikes at both.
"Tho' I long since the regal circle wear,
"Tho' thou by rank succeed my rightful heir,
"Paris disowns us, nor will homage bring
"To me their present, you their future king.
"Thine, well they know the next illustrious claim,
"From law, from birth, and deeds of loudest fame;
"Yet from that throne's hereditary right
"Where I but totter, wou'd exclude thee quite.
"Religion hurls her furious bolts on thee,
"And holy councils join her firm decree:
"ROME, tho' she raise no soldier's martial band,
"Yet kindles war thro' every awe-struck land;
"Beneath her banners bids each host repair,
"And trusts her thunder to the Spaniard's care,
"Far from my hopes each summer friend is flown,
"No subjects hail me on my sacred throne;
"No kindred now the kind affection shows,
"All fly, their king, abandon, or oppose:
"Rich in my spoils, with greedy treacherous haste,
"While the base Spaniard lays my country waste.
"Midst foes like these, abandon'd, and betray'd,
"France in her turn shall seek a foreign aid:
"Shall Britain's court by secret methods try,
"And win ELIZA for a firm ally.
"Of old I know between each pow'rful state,
"Subsists a jealous and immortal hate;
"That London lifts its tow'ring front on high,
"And looks on Paris with a rival eye;
"But I, the monarch of each pageant throne,
"Have now no subjects, and no country own:
"Vengeance alone my stern resolves avow,
"Who gives me that, to me is Frenchman now.
"The snail-pac'd agents, whose deliberate way,
"Creeps on in trammels of prescrib'd delay,
"Such fit not now; 'tis You, great Prince, alone
"Must haste a suppliant to ELIZA's throne.
"Your voice alone shall needful succours bring,
"And arm Britannia for an injur'd king.
"To Albion hence, and let thy happier name
"Plead the king's cause, and raise their generous flame!
"My foes' defeat upon thy arm depends,
"But from thy virtues I must hope for friends."
Thus spoke the king, while HENRY's looks confest
The jealous ardour which inflam'd his breast,
Left others' arms might urge their glorious claim,
And ravish from him half the meed of fame.
With deep regret the Hero number'd o'er
The wreaths of glory he had won before;
When, without succours, without skill's intrigue,
Himself with CONDE shook the trembling League.
When those command, who hold the regal sway,
It is a subject's virtue to obey.
Resolv'd to follow what the King commands,
The blows, suspended, fell not from his hands;
He rein'd the ardour of his noble mind,
And parting left the gather'd wreaths behind.
Th' astonish'd army felt a deep concern,
Fate seem'd depending on the Chief's return.
His absence still unknown, the pent-up foe
In dire expectance dread the sudden blow;
While VALOIS' troops still feel their hero's flame,
And virtue triumphs in her HENRY'S name.
Of all his fav'rites, none their chief attend,
Save MORNAY brave, his soul's familiar friend.
MORNAY of steady faith, and manners plain,
And truth, untainted with the flatt'rers strain;
Rich in desert, of valour rarely tried;
A virtuous champion, tho' on error's side;
With signal prudence blest, with patriot zeal
Firm to his church, and to the public weal;
Censor of courtiers, but by courts belov'd,
Rome's fierce assailant, and by Rome approv'd;
Across two rocks, where with tremendous roar,
The foaming ocean lashes either shore,
To Dieppe's strong port the Hero's steps repair,
The ready sailors ply their busy care.
The tow'ring ships, old ocean's lordly kings,
Aloft in air display their canvas wings;
Not swell'd by Boreas now, the glassy seas
Flow'd calmly on, with Zephyr's gentle breeze.
Now, anchor weigh'd, they quit the friendly shore,
And land receding greets their eyes no more.
Jocund they sail'd, and Albion's chalky height
At distance rose full fairly to the sight.
When rumbling thunders rend th' affrighted pole,
Loud roar the winds, and seas tempestuous roll:
The livid lightnings cleave the darken'd air,
And all around reigns horror and despair.
No partial fear the Hero's bosom knows,
Which only trembled for his country's woes.
It seem'd his looks, toward her in silence bent,
Accus'd the winds, which cross'd his great intent.
So CAESAR, striving for a conquer'd world,
Near Epire's banks, with adverse tempests hurl'd,
Trusting, undaunted, and securely brave,
Rome's and the world's fate to the swelling wave.
Tho' leagu'd with POMPEY NEPTURE'S self engage,
Oppos'd his fortune to dull Ocean's rage.
Mean time, that GOD, whose power the tempest binds,
Who rides triumphant on the wings of winds,
That GOD, whose wisdom, which presides o'er all,
Can raise, protect, or crush this earthly ball,
From his bright throne, beyond the starry skics,
Beheld the Hero with considering eyes.
GOD was his guide, and 'mid the tempest's roar
The tossing vessel reach'd the neighbouring shore;
Where Jerfey rises from the ocean's bed,
There, heaven-conducted, was the Hero led.
At a small distance from the shore, there stood
The growth of many years, a shadowy wood.
A neighbouring rock the calm retirement saves
From the rude blasts, and hoarse-resounding waves.
A grotto stands behind, whose structure knows
The simple grace, which nature's hand bestows.
Here far from court remov'd, a holy Sage
Spent the mild evening of declining age.
While free from worldly toils, and worldly woe,
His only study was himself to know:
Here mus'd, regretting on his mispent days,
Or lost in love, or pleasure's flowry maze.
No gusts of folly swell the dangerous tide,
While all his passions to a calm subside;
The bubble life he held an empty dream,
His food the simple herb, his drink the stream;
Tranquil and calm he drew his aged breath,
And look'd with patience t'ward the port of death,
When the pure soul to blissful realms shall soar,
And join with GOD himself to part no more.
The GOD he worshipp'd ey'd the zealous Sage,
And bless'd with wisdom's lore his silver'd age:
Gave him the skill of prophecy to know,
And from fate's volume read events below.
The Sage with conscious joy the Prince address'd,
And spread the table for his royal guest;
The prompt repast, which simple nature suits,
The stream's fresh water, and the forest's roots,
Not unaccustom'd to the homely fare,
The Warrior sat; for oft from busy care,
From courts retir'd, and pomp's fastidious pride,
The Hero dar'd to throw the king aside:
And in the rustic cot well-pleas'd partook
Of labour's mean repast, and chearful look;
Found in himself the joys to kings unknown
And self depos'd forgot the lordly throne.
The world's contention to their minds supplies
Much converse, wholsome to the good and wise.
Much did they talk of woes in human life,
Of Christian kingdoms torn with jarring strife.
The zeal of MORNAY, like a stubborn fort,
Attach'd to Calvin stood his firm support.
HENRY, still doubting, sought th'indulgent skies,
That lights' clear ray might burst upon his eyes,
"Must then, said he, the truth be always found,
"To mortals weak with mists encompas'd round?
"Must I still err, my way in darkness trod,
"Nor know the path which leads me to my GOD?
"If all alike he will'd us to obey,
"The GOD who will'd it, had prescrib'd the way.
"Let us not vainly GOD'S designs explore!
"(The Sage reply'd) be humble, and adore!
"Arraign not madly heav'n's unerring laws
"For faults, where mortals are themselves the cause.
"These aged eyes beheld in days of yore,
"When Calvin's doctrine reach'd the Gallic shore,
"Then, tho' with blood it now distains the earth,
"Creeping in shade and humble in the birth,
"I saw it banish'd by religion's laws,
"Without one friend to combat in the cause.
"Thro' ways oblique I saw the phantom tread,
"Slow winding, and asham'd to rear her head,
"'Till, at the last, upheld by pow'rful arms,
"'Midst cannon's thunder, and 'mid war's alarms,
"Burst forth the Monster in the glare of light,
"With tow'ring front, full dreadful to the sight;
"To scoul at mortals from her tyrant seat,
"And spurn our altars at her impious feet.
"Far then from courts, beneath this peaceful cot,
"I wail'd Religion's and my Country's lot;
"Yet here, to comfort my declining days,
"Some dawn of hope presents its chearful rays.
"So new a worship cannot long survive,
"Which man's caprice alone has kept alive.
"With that it rose, with that shall die away,
"Man's works and Man are bubbles of a day.
"The GOD, who reigns for ever and the same,
"At pleasure blasts a world's presumptuous aim.
"Vain is our malice, vain our strength display'd,
"To sap the city his right hand hath made;
"Himself hath fix'd the strong foundations low,
"Which brave the wreck of time, and hell's "inveterate blow:
"The Lord of Lords shall bless thy purged sight
"With bright effulgence of diviner light;
"On thee, Great Prince, his mercies he'll bestow,
"And shed that Truth thy bosom pants to know.
"THAT GOD hath chose thee, and his hand alone
"Safe through the war shall lead thee to a throne.
"Conquest already (for his voice is fate,)
"For thee bids Glory ope her golden gate.
"If on thy sight the Truth unnotic'd falls,
"Hope not admission in thy Paris' walls.
"Tho' splendid Ease invite thee to her arms,
"O shun, Great Prince, the Syren's poison'd charms!
"O'er thy strong passions hold a glorious reign,
"Fly love's soft lap, break pleasure's silken chain!
"And when, with efforts strong, all foes o'erthrown,
"A League's great conqueror, and what's more Your "Own,
"When, with united hearts, and triumph's voice,
"Thy people hail thee with one common choice,
"From a dread siege, to fame for ever known,
"To mount with glory thy paternal throne,
"That time, Affliction shall lay by her rod,
"And thy glad eyes shall seek thy father's GOD:
"Then shalt thou see from whence thy arms prevail.
"Go, Prince—WHO TRUSTS IN GOD—can never "fail."
Each word the Sage's holy lips impart,
Falls, like a flame, on HENRY'S generous heart.
The Hero stood transported in his mind
To times, when GOD held converse with mankind,
When simple virtue taught her heav'n-born lore,
And Truth commanding bid e'en kings adore.
His eager arms the reverend Sage embrace,
And the warm tear fast trickled down his face.
Untouch'd, yet lost awhile in deep surprise,
Stood MORNAY brave; for still on MORNAY'S eyes
Hung error's mist, and GOD'S high will conceal'd
The gifts from him to HENRY'S breast reveal'd.
His wisdom idly wou'd the world prefer,
Whose lot, tho' rich in virtues, was to err.
While the wrapt Sage fulfilling GOD'S beheft,
Spoke inspiration to the Prince's breast,
Hush'd were the winds, within their caverns bound,
Smooth flow'd the seas, and nature smil'd around.
The Sage his guide, the Hero sought his way
Where the tall vessels safe at anchor lay:
The ready sailors quit the friendly strand,
Hoist the glad sails, and make for Albion's land.
While o'er her coast his eyes admiring range,
He prais'd in silence Britain's happier change:
Where laws abus'd by foul intestine foes,
Had erst entail'd a heap of dreadful woes
On prince and people; on that bloody stage,
Where slaughter'd heroes bled for civil rage;
On that bright throne, from whence descended springs,
Th' illustrious lineage of a hundred kings,
Like HENRY, long in adverse fortune school'd,
O'er willing English hearts a WOMAN rul'd:
And, rich in manly courage, female grace,
Clos'd the long lustre of her crouded race.
ELIZA then, in Britain's happiest hour,
Held the just balance of contending pow'r;
Made English subjects bow the willing knee,
Who will not serve, and are not happy free.
Beneath her sacred reign the nation knows
No sad remembrance of its former woes;
Their flocks securely graz'd the fertile plain,
Their garners bursting with their golden grain.
The stately ships, their swelling sails unfurl'd,
Brought wealth and homage from the distant world:
All Europe watch'd Britannia's bold decree,
Dreaded by land, and monarch of the sea.
Wide o'er the waves his fleet exulting rode,
And fortune triumph'd over Ocean's GOD.
Proud London now, no more of barbarous fame,
To arms and commerce urg'd her blended claim,
Her pow'rs, in union leagû'd, together sate,
King, Lords, and Commons, in their threefold state.
Though separate each their several interest draw.
Yet all united form the stedfast law.
All three, one body's members, firm and fit,
Make but one pow'r in strong conjunction knit;
Pow'r to itself of danger often found,
But spreading terror to its neighbours round.
Blest, when the people duty's homage show,
And pay their king the tribute which they owe!
More blest, when kings for milder virtues known,
Protect their people's freedom from the throne!
"Ah when, cry'd BOURBON, shall our discord cease,
"Our glory, Albion, rise, like thine, in peace?
"Blush, blush, ye kings, ye lords of jarring states,
"A Woman bids, and War hath clos'd its gates:
"YOUR countries bleed with factious rage opprest,
"While SHE reigns happy o'er a people blest."
Mean time the Hero reach'd the sea-girt isle,
Where freedom bids eternal plenty smile;
Not far from William's Tow'r at distance seen,
Stood the fam'd palace of the Virgin Queen.
Hither, the faithful MORNAY at his side,
Without the noise and pageant pomp of pride,
The toys of grandeur which the vain pursue,
But glare unheeded to the Hero's view.
Tue Prince arriv'd: With bold and manly sense
He spoke, his frankness, all his eloquence;
Told his sad tale, and bow'd his lofty heart,
For France's woes, to act submission's part;
For needful aids the British Queen addrest,
While in the suppliant shone the king confest.
"Com'st thou, reply'd the Queen, with orange surprise,
"Com'st thou from VALOIS for die wish'd allies?
"Ask'st thou protection for a tyrant foe,
"Whose deadly hate work'd all thy fortune's woe?
"Far as the golden sun begins to rise,
"To where he drives adown the western skies,
"His strise and Thine to all the world is known:
"Stand'st thou for Him a friend at Britain's throne?
"And is that hand, which VALOIS oft hath fear'd,
"Arm'd in his cause, and for his vengeance rear'd?"
When thus the Prince: A monarch's adverse fate
"Wipes all remembrance out of former hate.
"VALOIS was their a slave, his passion's slave,
"But now himself, a monarch firm and brave;
"He bursts at once the ignominious chain,
"Resumes the Hero, and asserts his reign.
"Blest, if of nature more assur'd and free,
"He'd sought no aid but from himself and me!
"But, led by fraud, and arts, all insincere,
"He was my foe from weakness and from fear.
"His faults die with me, when his woes I view,
"I've gain'd the conquest—grant me vengeance, "You!
"For know the work is thine, Illustrious Dame,
"To deck thy Albion's brows with worthiest fame.
"Let thy protection spread her ready wings,
"And fight with me the injur'd cause of Kings!"
ELIZA then, for much she wish'd to know,
The various turns of France's long-felt woe,
Whence rising first the civil discord came,
And Paris kindled to rebellion's flame—
"To me, Great Prince, thy griefs are not unknown,
"Though brought imperfect, and by Fame alone;
"Whose rapid wing too indiscreetly flies,
"And spreads abroad her indigested lies.
"Deaf to her tales, from thee, Illustrious Youth,
"From thee alone ELIZA seeks the truth.
"Tell me, for you have witness'd all the woe,
"VALOIS' brave friend, or VALOIS' conquering foe,
"Say, whence this friendship, this alliance grew,
"Which knits the happy bond 'twixt him and you;
"Explain this wond'rous change, 'tis you alone
"Can paint the virtues which yourself hath shown.
"Teach me thy woes, for know thy story brings
"A moral lesson to the pride of kings."
"And must my memory then, Illustrious Queen,
"Recal the horrors of each dreadful scene?
"O had it pleas'd th' Almighty Pow'r (which "knows,
"How my heart bleeds o'er all my country's woes)
"Oblivion then had shatch'd them from the light,
"And hid them buried in eternal night.
"Nearest of blood, must I aloud proclaim,
"The princes' madness, and expose their shame?
"Reflection shakes my mind with wild dismay—
"But 'tis ELIZA'S will, and I obey.
"Others, in speaking, from their smooth address
"Might make their weakness or their crimes seem "less:
"The flowery art was never made for me,
"I speak a soldier's language, plain and free."
FAMILIAR EPISTLE To—Apothecary.
WHEN once a man so far is gone
To wet his lips at Helicon,
Not all the hellebore, which you
Buy in, the Lord knows what to do,
His head can settle, or restore
His reason as it was before.
Talk about physic, what you will,
And magnify the doctor's skill,
Mention the names of all the college,
Thole shining miracles of knowledge,
Or more to justify your praise,
Call in the learn'd of former days,
Let Mead, Friend, Boorehave, Ratcliffe join,
Their mighty-knowing heads to thine,
Consult together, and survey
The whole
Materia Medica,
The various powers of med'cine state,
And find out virtues, or create,
Try all old ways, if they won't do
Experimentally try new;
And when all's ended, rest assur'd,
Poetic madness can't be cur'd.
When haughty Caelia's vain desires
Inflame her brain, and fancy fires,
When on her bed she sits elate
And takes it for a throne of state,
And with a sceptre made of straw
Keeps the subjected world in awe;
Or when Clarissa, hapless fair,
With downcast eye, and pensive air
Treads her lone cell, and now complains
Of broken vows, and perjur'd swains,
Now blames her own too easy heart,
Which took the base deluder's part;
Or when the poet's rowling eye
Proclaims his hour of phrenzy nigh,
When on imaginary horse
From pole to pole he takes his course,
Or, of fantastick trophies proud,
Bestrides some easy-pacing cloud,
Or wildly running thro' the streets,
Pours couplets out to all he meets;
Can Addington, with all his care,
The shatter'd seat of sence repair?
When Madness (now my worthy friend,
I must insist that you'll attend,
For of distinctions fond I'm grown,
And so will make one of my own,
A nice distinction, not a jot
It matters whether true or not,
For he proceeds on surest grounds
Who, when he can't convince, confounds,
And to the credit of his brain,
Puzzles the cause he can't maintain)
When Madness, of all sorts and sizes,
From bodily disease arises,
Whether the blood half froze remains,
And scarce moves lab'ring thro' the veins,
Or, over-hot with sanguine pride,
Impetuous rolls her rapid tide,
If the mind is no more affected,
Than as with body 'tis connected,
Physic may then of service prove,
Abate the grief, perhaps remove;
But if the body and the brain
Only, t'oblige the mind, complain,
And the distemper's in the heart,
It is beyond the reach of art.
But to distinguish farther still—
Read it or not, just as you will,
Or, if you read, commend or blame,
To me, old boy, 'tis all the same;
Say, if you please, perhaps say true,
This nothing is to me or you,
Or say, what observation says
Of many great men now-adays,
Of most indeed, that I am one
Of great distinction, judgment none.
But once more to return, for this
You'll read in a parenthesis,
Tho' I had left you in the dark
By leaving out the usual mark.
All kinds of Madness, we shall find,
Ev'n those which spring out of the mind,
More readily a cure admit,
Than that which flows from Love of Wit.
In other phrenzies pain's endur'd,
The patient wishes to be cur'd,
If e'er some lucid interval.
The scatter'd rays of sense recal;
Whereas the poet's highest pleasure,
And frequently his only treasure,
In Madness lies; his joys still vary,
Joys real or imaginary,
As his head turns, and he's most blest,
When most with Madness he's possest.
Phoebus himself, that we may quote
Example of undoubted note,
Phoebus, who well is known to be
Of Physic, God, and Poetry,
When first he found by symptoms sure
His brain affected, thought of cure;
Try'd ev'ry way, but try'd in vain,
To settle his distracted brain.
Convinc'd at length, that nought would do,
The useless drugs aside he threw,
And smiling to the list'ning croud
This maxim he declar'd aloud
(A maxim since most sacred had)
No Poet's
WISE
who is not
MAD.
A TALE
VENUS, of laughter queen and love,
The greatest demirep above,
Who scorn'd restriction, hated custom,
Knew her own sex too well to trust 'em,
Proceeded on the noble plan,
At any rate, to have her man;
Look'd on decorum, as mere trash,
And liv'd like *** and ***,
From Paphos, where they her revere
As much as we do Caelia here,
Or from Cythera, where her altars
Are deck'd with daggers, true-love halters,
Garters yclept, and other trophies,
Which prove that man in love an oaf is,
According to appointment came
To see CAECILIA, tuneful dame,
Whose praise by Dryden's Ode is grown
Bright and immortal as his own,
And who hath been for many years
The chief directress of the spheres.
Thomas, who rode behind the car,
And for a flambeau held a star,
Who, in the honest way of trade,
Hath forg'd more horns, and cuckold's made,
Than Vulcan and his brawny dolts
Ever for Jove forg'd thunderbolts,
Slipt gently down, and ran before 'em,
Ringing the bell with due decorum.
But, truth to say, I cannot tell
Whether it Knocker was or Bell,
(This for vertù an anecdote is,)
Which us'd to give CAECILIA notice,
When any lady of the sky
Was come to bear her company.
But this I'm sure, be which it will,
Thomas perform'd his part with skill.
Methinks I hear the reader cry—
His part with skill? why, You or I,
Or any body else, as well
As Thomas, sure, could ring a bell,
Nor did I ever hear before
Of skill in knocking at a door.
Poor low-liv'd creature! I suppose,
Nay, and am sure, you're one of those
Who, at what door soe'er they be,
Will always knock in the same key.
Thinking that Bell and Knocker too
Were found out nothing else to do,
But to inform the house, no doubt,
That there was somebody without,
Who, if they might such favour win,
Would rather chuse to be within.
But had our servants no more sense,
Lord! what must be the consequence?
Error would error still pursue,
And strife and anarchy ensue,
Punctilio from her altar hurl'd,
Whence she declares unto the world
Whate'er by fancy is decreed,
Thro' all her niceties must bleed.
For if there was not to be found
Some wholesome difference of sound,
But the same rap foretold th' approach
Of him who walk'd, or rode in coach,
A poor relation now and then,
Might to my lord admittance gain,
When his good lordship hop'd to see
Some rascal of his own degree;
And, what is more unhappy still,
The stupid wretch, who brings a bill,
Might pass thro' all the motley tribe,
As free as one, who brings a bribe.
My lady too might pique her grace
Wich carriage stiff, and formal face,
Which, she deceiv'd, had taken care
For some inferior to prepare.
Or might some wretch from Lombard-street
With greater ease and freedom meet,
Than sense of honour will admit
Between my lady and a cit.
Those evils wisely to prevent,
And root out care and discontent,
Ev'ry gay smart, who rides behind,
With rose and bag in taste refin'd,
Must musick fully understand,
Have a nice ear and skilful hand;
At ev'ry turn be always found
A perfect connoissour in sound;
Thro' all the gamut skilful fly
Varying his notes, now low, now high,
According as he shifts his place;
Now hoarsely grumbling in the base,
Now turning tenor, and again
To treble railing his shrill strain;
So to declare, where'er he be,
His master's fortune and degree,
By the distinguishing address
Which he'll upon the door express.
Thomas, whom I have nam'd before
As ringing at CAECILIA'S door,
Was perfect master of this art,
And vers'd alike in ev'ry part:
So that Caecilia knew, before
Her footman came unto the door,
And in due form had told her so,
That Madam VENUS was below.
The doors immediate open flew,
The GODDESS, without more ado,
Displaying beauty's thousand airs,
Skim'd thro' the hall, and trip'd up stairs.
CAECILIA met her with a smile
Of great delight, when all the while
If her false heart could have been seen,
She wish'd she had at Cyprus been.
But ladies, skill'd in forms and arts,
Don't in their faces wear their hearts,
And those above, like those below,
Deal frequently in outside show,
And always, to keep up parade,
Have a smile by them ready-made.
The forms, which ladies when they meet
Must for good-manners' sake repeat,
As
humble servant, how d'you do,
And in return,
pray how are you?
Enrich'd at ev'ry proper space
With due integuments of lace,
As Madam, Grace, and Goddeship,
Which we for brevity shall skip,
Happily past, in elbow-chair
At length our ladies seated are.
Indiff'rent subjects first they chusc.
And talk of weather and the news.
That done, they sit upon the state,
And snarl at the decrees of fate,
Invectives against Jove are hurl'd,
And They alone should rule the world.
Dull politicks at length they quit,
And by ill-nature shew their wit;
For hand in hand, too well we know,
These intimates are said to go,
So that where either doth preside
T'other's existence is implied.
The man of wit, so men decree,
Must without doubt ill-natur'd be;
And the ill-natur'd scarce forgets
To rank himself among the wits.
Malicious VENUS, who by rote
Had ev'ry little anecdote,
And most minutely could advance
Each interesting circumstance,
Which unto all intrigues related,
Since Jupiter the world created,
Display'd her eloquence with pride,
Hinted, observ'd, enlarged, applied,
And not the reader to detain
With things impertinent and vain,
She did, as ladies do on earth
Who cannot bear a rival's worth,
In such a way each tale rehearse
As good made bad, and bad made worse.
CAECILIA too, with saint-like air,
But lately come from evening pray'r,
Who knew her duty, as a saint,
Always to pray, and not to faint,
And, rain or shine, her church ne'er mist,
Prude, devotee, and methodist,
With equal zeal the cause promoted,
Misconstru'd things, and words misquoted,
Misrepresented, misapplied,
And, inspiration being her guide,
The very heart of man dissected,
And to his principles objected.
Thus, amongst us, the sanctified,
In all the spirituals of pride,
Whose honest consciences ne'er rested,
Till, of carnalities diverted,
They knew and felt themselves t'inherit
A double portion of the spirit:
Who from one church to t'other roam,
Whilst their poor children starve at home,
Consid'ring they may claim the care
Of Providence, who sent them there,
And therefore certainly is tied
To see their ev'ry want supplied;
Who unto preachers give away,
That which their creditors should pay,
And hold that chosen vessels must
Be generous before they're just,
And that their charity this way
Shall bind o'er heaven their debts to pay,
And serve their temp'ral turn, no doubt,
Better than if they'd put it out,
Whilst nought hereafter can prevent,
Their sure reward of cent. per cent.
Who honest labour scorn, and say
None need to work who love to pray,
For heaven will satisfy their cravings,
By sending of Elijah's ravens,
Or rain down, when their spirits fail,
A dish of manna, or a quail;
Who from Moorfields to Tottenham Court
In furious fits of zeal resort,
Praise what they do not understand,
Turn up the eye, stretch out the hand,
Melt into tears, whilst—blows
The twang of nonsense thro' his nose,
Or—deals in speculation,
Or—hums his congregation,
Or—talks with the lord of hosts,
—with pillars and with posts;
Who strictly watch, lest Satan shou'd,
Roaring like lion for his food,
Ensnare their feet his fatal trap in,
And their poor souls be taken napping;
Who strictly fast, because they find,
The flesh still wars against the mind,
And flesh of saints, like sinner's, must
Be mortified, to keep down lust;
Who, four times in the year at least,
Join feast of love to love of feast,
Which, tho' the profligate and vain
In terms of blasphemy prophane,
Yet all the ceremony here is
Pure as the mysteries of Ceres;
Who, God's elect, with triumph feel
Within themselves salvation's seal,
And will not, must not, dare not doubt,
That heav'n itself can't blot it out;
After they've done their holy labours,
Return to scandalize their neighbours,
And think they can't serve heav'n so well,
As with its creatures filling hell,
So that, inflam'd with holy pride,
They save themselves, damn all beside.
For persons, who pretend to feel
The glowings of uncommon zeal,
Who others scorn, and seem to be
Righteous in very great degree,
Do, 'bove all others, take delight
To vent their spleen in tales of spite,
And think they raise their own renown
By pulling of a neighbour's down;
Still lying on with most success,
Because they charity profess,
And make the out-side of religion,
Like Mahomet's inspiring pigeon,
To all their forgeries gain credit,
'Tis enough sure that—said it.
But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever such a hodge-podge seen?
VENUS, CAECILIA, Saints, and Whores,
Thomas, Vertù, Bells, Knockers, Doors,
Lords, Rogues, Relations, Ladies, Cits,
Stars, Flambeaus, Thunderbolts, Horns, Wits,
Vulcan, and Cuckold-maker, Scandal,
Music, and Footmen, Ear of Handel,
Weather, News, Envy, Politicks,
Intrigues, and Women's Thousand Tricks,
Prudes, Methodists, and Devotees,
Fastings, Feasts, Pray'rs, and Charities,
Ceres, with her mysterious train,
—, —, —, and—,
Flesh, Spirit, Love, Hate, and Religion,
A Quail, a Raven, and a Pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dish,
Red-Herring, Bread, Fowl, Flesh, and Fish.
Where's the connection, where's the plan?
The devil sure is in the man.
All in an instant we are hurl'd
From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reason for it—mum
There, my good critic, lies the hum—
Well, but methinks, it wou'd avail
To know the end of this—A TALE.
An EPISTLE to C. CHURCHILL, AUTHOR of the ROSCIAD.
IF at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,
They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
Would you, resolve me, critics, for you can,
Send for the master up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish business drives,
But tell me what's the master who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which says, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauseous slop,
Master or prentice; we detest the shop.
Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or censur'd with an open face:
Boldly persu'd the free decisive task,
Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask.
To works not men, with honest warmth, severe,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear:
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To san true genius to an active flame;
To bring forth merit in its strongest light,
Or damn, the blockhead to his native night.
But, as all states are subject to decay,
The state of letters too will melt away.
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling sound,
Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, sought their honour'd graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of slaves.
In classic lore, deep science, language dead,
Tho' modern witlings are but scantly read,
Prosessors
The author takes this opportunity, notwithstanding all insinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentleman, whose abilities he sufficiently acknowledges.
fail not, who will loudly bawl
In praise of either, with the want of all.
Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour.
—The tribune's name surviv'd the tribune's pow'r.
Now Quack and Critic differ but in name,
Empirics frontless both, they mean the same;
This raw in Physic, that in Letters fresh,
Both spring, like warts, excrescence from the flesh.
Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling schools,
For all professions have their rogues and fools,
Tho' the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Casts no reflection on the wise or brave.
Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age,
When, blind with dulness, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first,
From the low earth aspiring genius springs,
And sails triumphant, born on eagle wings.
No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time.
Pity perhaps might wish a harmless fool
To scape th' observance of the critic school;
But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rise,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful dulness, if she ever wake,
Write sleepy nonsense but for writing sake,
And, stung with rage, and piously severe,
Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear;
If some small wit, some fix-lin'd verseman, rakes
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
Talents usurp'd demand a censor's rage,
A dunce is dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry age.
Courtier, physician, lawyer, parson, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, Actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Professions bleed not from his just attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the same,
And every dunce is satire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has free'st room,
Why then apologize? for what? to whom?
Though Gray's-Inn wits with author squires unite,
And self-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.
Firm in thyself with calm indifference smile,
When the wise Vet'ran knows you by your stile,
With critic scales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy just and proper worth,
But to give falshood's spurious issue birth;
And all self-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious slander on the base of praise.
Disgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Or fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But shrewd Suspicion with her squinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
The World, a pompous name, by custom due
To the small circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats,
And sends the whisper buzzing through the streets.
The prude demure, with sober saint-like air,
Pities her neighbour for she's wondrous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet.
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly—that the deed were done.
Mean time sits watching for the daily lie,
As spiders lurk to catch a simple fly.
Yet is not scandal to one sex consin'd,
Though men would fix it on the weaker kind.
Yes, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
For instance now, your Rosciad all to me.
If partial friendship, in thy sterling lays,
Grows all too wanton in another's praise,
Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known,
Shall swear the praise, the poem is my own;
For 'tis the method in these learned days
For wits to scribble first, and after praise.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched stuff,
And help out nonsense by a monthly puff,
Exalt to giant's forms weak puny elves,
And descant sweetly on their own dear selves;
For works per month by learning's midwives paid,
Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Reserv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My Muse e'er sought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour silent where she cou'd not praise.
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor, or mimic, printer, or Review,
Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceaseless venom spread
Still hiss out scandal from their Hydra head,
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men.
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor spare the knife where'er infection's found!
But Prudence, Churchill, or her sister, Fear,
Whispers forbearance to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forsake the thorny road,
Left we should flounder in some Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And sunk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame,
Holds any portrait, and with any name;
Or, like your nitches, planted thick and thin,
Will serve to cram the random hero in.
Hail mighty Bard too—whatsoe'er thy name,
—or Durfy, for it's all the same.
To brother bards shall equal praise belong,
For wit, for genius, comedy and song?
No costive Muse is thine, which freely rakes
With ease familiar in the well-known jakes,
Happy in skill to souse through foul and fair,
And toss the dung out with a lordly air.
So have I seen, amidst the grinning throng,
The sledge procession slowly dragg'd along,
Where the mock female shrew and hen-peck'd male
Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail,
Call'd bursts of laughter from the roaring rout,
And dash'd and splash'd the filthy grains about,
Quit then, my friend, the Muses' lov'd abode,
Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.
Be solemn, sad, put on the priestly frown,
Be dull! 'tis sacred, and becomes the gown,
Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed,
Your foes shall thank you, for they know their need.
Broad is the path by learning's sons possess'd,
A thousand modern wits might walk abreast,
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,
Jostled by pedants out of elbow room.
I, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Must mourn in silence o'er the Muse's fate.
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,
While all our tenures are by critic's will.
Where, watchful guardians of the lady muse,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, press forward to the door.
But let some chief, some bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke these champions to an equal fight,
Strait into air to spaceless nothing fall
The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.
Ill it befits with undiscerning rage,
To censure Giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius stains those happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
The see-saw Muse that flows by
measur'd
laws,
In tuneful numbers, and affected pause,
With sound alone, sound's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic sin,
A
Magazine
must hand the lady in.
How
Moderns
write, how nervous, strong and well,
The ANTI-ROSCIAD'S decent Muse
does
tell:
Who, while she strives to cleanse each actor hurt,
Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt.
Sure never yet was happy aera known
So gay, so wise, so
tasteful
as our own.
Our curious histories rise at once COMPLETE,
Yet still
continued,
as they're paid, per sheet.
See every science which the world wou'd know,
Your Magazines shall every month bestow,
Whose very titles fill the mind with awe,
Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law;
Their rich contents will every reader fit,
Statesman, Divine, Philosopher
and
Wit;
Compendious schemes I which teach all things at once,
And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce.
But let not anger with such frenzy grow,
Drawcansir like, to strike down friend and foe.
To real worth be homage duly paid,
But no allowance to the paltry trade.
My friends I name not (though I boast a few,
To me an honour, and to letters too)
Fain would I praise, but, when such
Things
oppose,
My
praise of course must make them—'s foes.
If manly JOHNSON, with satyric rage,
Lash the dull follies of a trifling age,
If his strong Muse with genuine strength aspire,
Glows not the reader with the poet's fire?
HIS the true fire, where creep the witling fry
To warm themselves, and light their rushlights by.
What Muse like GRAY'S shall pleasing pensive flow
Attemper'd sweetly to the rustic woe?
Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre,
And, as his master, pour forth thoughts of fire?
E'en now to guard afflicted learning's cause,
To judge by reason's rules, and nature's laws,
Boast we
true critics
in their proper right,
While LOWTH and Learning, Hurd and Taste unite.
Hail sacred names!—Oh guard the Muse's page,
Save your lov'd mistress from a ruffian's rage;
See how she gasps and struggles hard for life,
Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife:
Critics, like surgeons, blest with curious art,
Should mark each passage to the human heart,
But not, unskilful, yet with lordly air,
Read surgeon's lectures while they scalp and tear.
To names like these I pay the hearty vow,
Proud of their worth, and not asham'd to bow.
To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise.
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Muse, who owns no servile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.
PROLOGUE, Intended to have been spoken at Drury-lane theatre, on His Majesty's Birth-Day, 1761.
GENIUS, neglected, mourns his wither'd bays;
But soars to heav'n from virtue's generous praise.
When Kings themselves the proper judges sit
O'er the blest realms of science, arts and wit,
Each eager breast beats high for glorious fame,
And emulation glows with active flame.
Thus, with Augustus rose imperial Rome,
For arms renown'd abroad, for arts at home,
Thus, when Eliza fill'd Britannia's throne.
What arts, what learning was not then our own?
Then sinew'd Genius, strong and nervous rose,
In Spenser's numbers, and in Raleigh's prose;
On Bacon's lips then every science hung,
And Nature spoke from her own Shakespeare's tongue.
Her patriot smiles fell, like refreshing dews,
To wake to life each pleasing useful Muse,
While every virtue which the Queen profess'd,
Beam'd on her subjects, but to make them blest.
O glorious times!—O theme of praise divine!
—Be happy, Briton, then—such times are thine.
Behold e'en now strong science imps her wing,
And arts revive beneath a Patriot King.
The Muses too burst forth with double light,
To shed their lustre in a Monarch's sight.
His cheering smiles alike to all extend—
Perhaps
this spot
may boast a Royal Friend.
And when a Prince, with early judgment grac'd,
Himself shall marshal out the way to taste,
Caught with the flame perhaps e'en
here
may rise
Some powerful genius of uncommon size,
And, pleas'd with nature, nature's depths explore,
And be what our great Shakespeare was before.
GENIUS, ENVY, and TIME, A FABLE; Address'd to WILLIAM HOGARTH, Esq.
IN all professionary skill,
There never was, nor ever will
Be excellence, or exhibition,
But fools are up in opposition;
Each letter'd, grave, pedantic dunce
Wakes from his lethargy at once,
Shrugs, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes,
And, being dull, looks wond'rous wife,
With solemn phiz, and critic scowl,
The wisdom of his brother owl.
MODERNS! He hates the very name;
Your Antients have prescriptive claim:—
But let a century be past,
And We have taste and wit at last;
For at that period Moderns too
Just turn the corner of
Virtù.
But merit now has little claim
To any meed of present fame,
For 'tis not worth that gets you friends,
'Tis excellence that most offends.
If, Proteus-like, a GARRICK'S art,
Shews taste and skill in every part;
If, ever just to nature's plan,
He is in all the very man,
E'en here shall envy take her aim,
—write, and—blame.
The JEALOUS WIFE, tho' chastly writ,
With no parade of frippery wit,
Shall set a scribbling, all at once,
Both giant wit, and pigmy dunce;
While Critical Reviewers write,
Who shew their teeth before they bite,
And sacrifice each reputation,
From wanton false imagination.
These observations, rather stale,
May borrow spirit from a tale.
GENIUS, a bustling lad of parts,
Who all things did by fits and starts,
Nothing above him or below him,
Who'd make a riot, or a poem,
From excentricity of thought,
Not always do the thing he ought;
But, was it once his own election,
Would bring all matters to perfection;
Would act, design, engrave, write, paint,
But neither from the least constraint,
Who hated all pedantic schools,
And scorn'd the gloss of knowing fools,
That hold perfection all in all,
Yet treat it as
mechanical,
And give the fame sufficient rule
To make a poem, as a stool—
From the first spring-time of his youth,
Was downright worshipper of truth;
And, with a free and liberal spirit,
His courtship paid to lady MERIT.
ENVY, a squint-ey'd, meer old maid,
Well known among the scribbling trade;
A hag, so very, very thin,
Her bones peep'd through her bladder-skin;
Who could not for her soul abide
That folks shou'd praise, where she must chide,
Follow'd the Youth where'er he went,
To mar each good and brave intent;
Would lies, and plots, and mischief hatch,
To ruin HIM and spoil the match.
Honour she held at bold defiance,
Talk'd much of
Faction,
Gang, Alliance,
As if the real sons of taste
Had clubb'd to lay a DESART waste.
In short, wherever GENIUS came,
You'd find this Antiquated Dame;
Whate'er he did, where'er he went,
She follow'd only to torment;
Call'd MERIT by a thousand names,
Which decency or truth disclaims,
While all her business, toil, and care,
Was to depreciate, lye, compare,
To pull the Modest Maiden down,
And blast her fame to all the town.
The Youth, inflam'd with conscious pride,
To Prince POSTERITY apply'd,
Who gave his answer thus in rhyme,
By his chief minister, Old TIME.
"Repine not at what pedants say,
"We'll bring thee forward on the way;
"If wither'd ENVY strive to hurt
"With lies, with impudence and dirt,
"You only pay a common tax
"Which fool, and knave, and dunce exacts.
"Be this thy comfort, this thy joy,
"Thy strength is in it's prime, my boy,
"And ev'ry year thy vigour grows
"Impairs the credit of thy foes.
"ENVY shall sink, and be no more
"Than what her NAIADS were before;
"Mere excremental maggots, bred
"In poet's topsy-turvy head,
"Born like a momentary fly,
"To flutter, buzz about, and die.
"Yet, GENIUS, mark what I presage,
"Who look through every distant age:
"MERIT shall bless thee with her charms,
"FAME list thy offspring in her arms,
"And stamp eternity of grace
"On all thy numerous various race.
"ROUBILLIAC, WILTON, names as high
"As
Phidias
of antiquity,
"Shall strength, expression, manner give,
"And make e'en marble breathe and live;
"While SIGISMUNDA'S deep distress,
"Which looks the soul of wretchedness,
"When I, with flow and soft'ning pen,
"Have gone o'er all the tints agen,
"Shall urge a bold and proper claim
"To level half the antient fame;
"While future ages yet unknown
"With critic air shall proudly own
"Thy HOGARTH first of every clime,
"For humour keen, or strong sublime,
"And hail him from his fire and spirit,
"The child of GENIUS and of MERIT."
The PROGRESS of ENVY.
It was not originally intended to insert the above poem, occasioned by LAUDER'S attack on the character of MILTON, in this collection; and it is now done merely to oblige several subscribers, who have particularly desired it.
. Written in the year 1751.
I.
AH me! unhappy state of mortal wight,
Sith Envy's sure attendant upon fame,
Ne doth she rest from rancorous despight,
Until she works him mickle woe and shame;
Unhappy he whom ENVY thus doth spoil,
Ne doth she check her ever restless hate,
Until she doth his reputation foil:
Ah! luckless imp is he, whose worth elate,
Forces him pay this heavy tax for being great.
II.
There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass,
(The fair domain of sacred poesy)
Which, with fresh odours ever-blooming, was
Besprinkled with the dew of Castaly;
Which now in soothing murmurs, whisp'ring glides,
Wat'ring with genial waves the fragrant soil,
Now rolls adown the mountain's steepy sides,
Teaching the vales full beauteously to smile,
Dame NATURE'S handy-work, notform'd by lab'ring toil.
III.
The MUSES fair, these peaceful shades among,
With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings;
The air in silence listens to the song,
And TIME forgets to ply his lazy wings;
Pale-visag'd CARE, with foul unhallow'd feet,
Attempts the summit of the hill to gain,
Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat;
Her unavailing strength is spent in vain,
CONTENT sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain.
IV.
Oft PHOEBUS self left his divine abode,
And here enshrouded in a shady bow'r,
Regardless of his state, lay'd by the God,
And own'd sweet music's more alluring pow'r.
On either side was plac'd a peerless wight,
Whose merit long had fill'd the trump of FAME;
This, FANCY'S darling child, was SPENSER hight,
Who pip'd full pleasing on the banks of Tame;
That no less sam'd than He, and MILTON was his name.
V.
In these cool bow'rs they live supinely calm;
Now harmless talk, now emulously sing;
While VIRTUE, pouring round her sacred balm,
Makes happiness eternal as the spring.
Alternately they sung; now SPENSER 'gan,
Of jousts and tournaments, and champions strong;
Now MILTON sung of disobedient man,
And Eden lost: The bards around them throng,
Drawn by the wond'rous magic of their princes' song.
VI.
Not far from these, Dan CHAUCER, antient wight,
A lofty seat on Mount Parnassus held,
Who long had been the Muses' chief delight;
His reverend locks were silver'd o'er with eld;
Grave was his visage, and his habit plain;
And while he sung, fair nature he display'd,
In verse albeit uncouth, and simple strain;
Ne mote he well be seen, so thick the shade,
Which elms and aged oaks had all around him made.
VII.
Next SHAKESPEARE sat, irregularly great,
And in his hand a magic rod did hold,
Which visionary beings did create,
And turn the foulest dross to purest gold:
Whatever spirits rove in earth or air,
Or bad or good, obey his dread command;
To his behests these willingly repair,
Those aw'd by terrors of his magic wand,
The which not all their pow'rs united might withstand.
VIII.
Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid,
Whose glittering appearance dimm'd the eyen;
Her thin-wrought vesture various tints display'd,
FANCY her name, ysprong of race divine;
Her mantle
Wimpled.
A word used by Spenser for
hung down.
The line inclosed within Commas is one of Fairfax's in his translation of Tasso.
wimpled low, her silken hair,
Which loose adown her well-turn'd shoulders stray'd,
'She made a net to catch the wanton air,'
Whose love-sick breezes all around her play'd,
And seem'd in whispers soft to court the heav'nly maid.
IX.
And ever and anon she wav'd in air
A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow'r:
She wav'd it round: Eftsoons there did appear
Spirits and witches, forms unknown before:
Again she lifts her wonder-working wand;
Eftsoons upon the flow'ry plain were seen.
The gay inhabitants of fairie land,
And blithe attendants upon MAB their queen
In mystic circles danc'd along th' inchanted green.
X.
On th' other side stood NATURC, goddess fair;
A matron seem'd she, and of manners staid;
Beauteous her form, majestic was her air,
In loose attire of purest white array'd:
A potent rod she bore, whole pow'r was such,
(As from her darling's works may well be shown)
That often with its soul-enchanting touch,
She rais'd or joy, or cause the deep-felt groan,
And each man's passions made subservient to her own.
XI.
But lo! thick fogs from out the earth arise,
And murky mists the buxom air invade,
Which with contagion dire infect the skies,
And all around their baleful influence shed;
Th' infected sky, which whilom was so fair,
With thick Cimmerian darkness is o'erspread;
The sun, which whilom shone without compare,
Muffles in pitchy veil his radiant head,
And fore the time sore-grieving seeks his wat'ry bed.
XII.
ENVY, the daughter of fell Acheron,
(The flood of deadly hate and gloomy night)
Had left precipitate her Stygian throne,
And thro' the frighted heavens wing'd her flight:
With careful eye each realm she did explore,
Ne mote she ought of happiness observe;
For happiness, alas! was now no more,
Sith ev'ry one from virtue's paths did swerve,
And trample on religion base designs to serve.
XIII.
At length, on blest Parnassus seated high,
Their temple circled with a laurel crown,
SPENSER and MILTON met her scowling eye,
And turn'd her horrid grin into a frown.
Full fast unto her Sister did she post,
There to unload the venom of her breast,
To tell how all her happiness was crost,
Sith others were of happiness possest:
Did never gloomy hell send forth like ugly pest.
XIV.
Within the covert of a gloomy wood,
Where fun'ral cypress star-proof branches spread,
O'ergrown with tangling briers a cavern stood;
Fit place for melancholy
Dreary-head.
Gloominess.
dreary-head.
Here a deformed monster joy'd to won,
Which on fell rancour ever was ybent,
All from the rising to the setting sun,
Her heart pursued spite with black intent,
Ne could her iron mind at human woes relent,
XV.
In flowing sable stole she was yclad,
Which with her countenance did well accord;
Forth from her mouth, like one thro' grief gone mad,
A frothy sea of nauseous foam was ponr'd;
A ghastly grin and eyes asquint, display
The rancour which her hellish thoughts contain,
And how, when man is blest, she pines away,
Burning to turn his happiness to pain;
MALICE the monster's name, a foe to God and man.
XVI.
Along the floor black loathsome toads still crawl,
Their gullets swell'd with poison's mortal bane,
Which ever and anon they spit at all
Whom hapless fortune leads too near her den;
Around her waist, in place of silken zone,
A life-devouring viper rear'd his head,
Who no distinction made 'twixt friend and foen,
But death on ev'ry side fierce brandished,
Fly, reckless mortals, fly, in vain is
Hardy-head.
Courage.
hardy-head.
XVII.
Impatient ENVY, thro' th' aetherial waste,
With inward venom fraught, and deadly spite,
Unto this cavern steer'd her panting haste,
Enshrouded in a darksome veil of night.
Her inmost heart burnt with impetuous ire,
And fell destruction sparkled in her look,
Her ferret eyes flash'd with revengeful fire,
A while contending passions utt'rance choke,
At length the fiend in furious tone her silence broke.
XVIII.
Sister, arise! see how our pow'r decays,
No more our empire Thou and I can boast,
Sith mortal man now gains immortal praise,
Sith man is blest, and Thou and I are lost:
See in what state Parnassus' Hill appears;
See PHOEBUS' self two happy bards atween;
See how the God their song attentive hears;
This SPENSER hight, that MILTON, well I ween!
Who can behold unmov'd sike heart-tormenting scene?
XIX.
Sister, arise! ne let our courage droop,
Perforce we will compel these mortals own,
That mortal force unto our force shall stoop;
ENVY and MALICE then shall reign alone:
Thou best has known to file thy tongue with lies,
And to deceive mankind with specious bait:
Like TRUTH accoutred, spreadest forgeries,
The fountain of contention and of hate:
Arise, unite with me, and be as whilom great!
XX.
The Fiend obey'd, and with impatient voice—
"Tremble, ye bards, within that blissful feat;
"MALICE and ENVY shall o'erthrow your joys,
"Nor PHOEBUS self shall our designs defeat.
"Shall We, who under friendship's seigned veil,
"Prompted the bold archangel to rebel;
"Shall we, Who under show of sacred zeal,
"Plung'd half the pow'rs of heav'n in lowest hell—
"Such vile disgrace of us no mortal man shall tell.
XXI.
And now, more hideous render'd to the sight,
By reason of her raging cruelty,
She burnt to go, equipt in dreadful plight,
And find fit engine for her forgery.
Her eyes inflam'd did cast their rays askance,
While hellish imps prepare the monster's car,
In which she might cut thro' the wide expanse,
And find out nations that extended far,
When all was pitchy dark, ne twinkled one bright star.
XXII.
Black was her chariot, drawn by dragons dire,
And each fell serpent had a double tongue,
Which ever and anon spit flaming fire,
The regions of the tainted air among;
A lofty seat the sister-monsters bore,
In deadly machinations close combin'd,
Dull FOLLY drove with terrible uproar,
And cruel DISCORD follow'd fast behind;
God help the man 'gainst whomsuch caitiff foes are join'd.
XXIII.
Aloft in air the rattling chariot flies,
While thunder harshly grates upon its wheels;
Black pointed spires of smoke around them rise,
The air depress'd unusual burthen feels;
Detested sight! in terrible array,
They spur their fiery dragons on amain,
Ne mote their anger suffer cold delay,
Until the wish'd-for region they obtain,
And land their dingy car on Caledonian plain.
XXIV.
Here, eldest son of MALICE, long had dwelt
A wretch of all the joys of life forlorn;
His fame on double falsities was built:
(Ah! worthless son, of worthless parent born!)
Under the shew of semblance fair, he veil'd
The black intentions of his hellish breast;
And by these guileful means he more prevail'd
Than had he open enmity profest: [drest,
The wolf more safely wounds when in sheep's cloathing
XXV.
Him then themselves at ween they joyful place,
(Sure sign of woe when such are pleas'd, alas!)
Then measure back the air with swifter pace,
Until they reach the foot of Mount Parnass.
Hither in evil hour the monsters came,
And with their new companion did alight,
Who long had lost all sense of virtuous shame,
Beholding worth with poisonous despight;
On his success depends their impious delight.
XXVI.
Long burnt He sore the summit to obtain,
And spread his venom o'er the blissful seat;
Long burnt He sore, but still He burnt in vain;
Mote none come there, who come with impious feet.
At lenth, at unawares, he out doth spit
That spite which else had to himself been bane;
The venom on the breast of MILTON lit,
And spread benumbing death thro' every vein;
The Bard of life bereft fell senseless on the plain.
XXVII.
As at the banquet of Thyestes old,
The sun is faid t' have shut his radiant eye,
So did he now thro' grief his beams with-hold.
And darkness to be felt o'erwhelm'd the sky;
Forth issued from their dismal dirk abodes
The birds attendant upon hideous night,
Shriek-owls and ravens, whose fell croaking bodes
Approaching death to miserable wight:
Did never mind of man behold sike dreadful sight?
XXVIII.
APOLLO wails his darling, done to die
By foul attempt of ENVY'S fatal bane;
The MUSES sprinkle him with dew of Castaly,
And crown his death with many a living strain;
Hoary PARNASSUS beats his aged breast,
Aged, yet ne'er before did sorrow know;
The flowers drooping their despair attest,
Th' aggrieved rivers querulously flow;
All nature sudden groan'd with sympathetic woe.
XXIX.
But, lo! the sky a gayer livery wears,
The melting clouds begin to fade apace,
And now the cloak of darkness disappears,
(May darkness ever thus to light give place!)
Erst griev'd APOLLO jocund looks resumes,
The NINE renew their whilom chearful song,
No grief PARNASSUS' aged breast consumes,
Forth from the teeming earth new flowers sprong,
The plenteous rivers flow'd full peacefully along.
XXX.
The stricken Bard fresh vital heat renews,
Whose blood, erst stagnate, rushes thro' his veins;
Life thro' each pore her spirit doth infuse,
And FAME by MALICE unextinguish'd reigns:
And see, a Form breaks forth, all heav'nly bright,
Upheld by one of mortal progeny,
A Female Form, yclad in snowy white,
Ne half so fair at distance seen as nigh;
DOUGLAS and TRUTH appear, ENVY and LAUDER die.
POEMATA.
PROLOGUS, 1757.
EST Schola Rhetorices, celebrat quam crebra juventus,
Et tumido inflatos ejicit ore sonos.
Quà quisque assumit tragicas novus histrio partes.
Nee loquitur, verbum quin sapit omne, pathos.
Ingenia hic crescunt, mox suecessura theatris,
Regis, amatoris, prompta subire vices.
Multus ibi furiis Macbetha agitatus iniquis,
Elusâ telum prendit inane manu.
Multus ibi, infuscat cui vultus suber adustum,
Immodicis saevit raucus Othello minis.
Omnia queis tragicis opus est, hic arma parantur;
Auribus insidiae sunt, oculisque suae:
Conatus manuumque, pedumque, orisque rotundi,
Certatim et vultus vis, laterumque labor.
Quam sibi, dum gestu stat fixus quisque silenti,
Quam placet a speculo forma reflexa sui!
Hae studeant, cordi quibus ars et pompa theatri!
Non tamen est NOBIS
inde
petendus honor.
Ingenua ut pubes vultum sibi sumat apertum,
Et sensim assuescat fortius ore loqui;
Ne dubiis tandem verba eluctantia labris
Occludat timidus praepediatque pudor,
Ingredimur scenam; nec clam Vos, Docta Corona,
Commoda ab hoc tenui quanta labore fluant.
Hinc SAPERE ET FARI discit generosa juventus,
Dum pavida accendit pectora laudis amor.
Freti his, majorem mox ingrediemur arenam;
His stabilita vigent Curia, Rostra, Forum.
PROLOGUS, 1758.
HIC nihil ad populum—non pompa hic vana theatri,
Qualem ore attonito plebs inhiare solet:
Non scena hic splendet magicâ variabilis arte,
Et sumit formas prodigiosa novas.
Non hic, librato subvecthis fune per auras,
Mercurius celeres itque reditque vias.
Nee freta caeruleâ turgent undosa papyro,
Nee resinato fulgurat igne polus.
Janua nec caecos aperit furtiva recessus,
Unde minutatim proferat umbra caput.
Quin valeant levia haec vulgi crepitacula! jactant
Et proprium, et simplex, nostra theatra decus.
—Heus! nemòn audit?—fac sursum aulea trahantur!
—En! qualis qualis sit, NOVA SCENA patet.
En Illae, quas Vos semper coluistis, Athenae,
Gratia quas voluit, quas sibi Musa domum.
Hie sese ostendunt prisci monumenta laboris,
Queis usa est modulis Vitruviana Manus;
Hic stat Ventorum, Thesei hic venerabile Fanum,
Hie arce in summâ, Casta Minerva, tuum.
Omnia jam votis respondent. Attica jam sunt
Omnia. Personse, Fabula, Scena, Sales.
Quoque etiam magis hae nostrae laetentur Athenae,
Cecropidas jactant Vos, recoluntque suos.
PROLOGUS in ADELPHOS, 1759.
CUM Patres Populumque dolor communis haberet,
Fleret et Aemilium Maxima Roma suum,
Funebres inter ludos, his dicitur ipsis
Scenis extinctum condecorâsse ducem.
Ecquis adest, scenam nocte hâc qui spectet eandem,
Nec nobis luctum sentiet esse parem?
Utcunque arrisit pulchris victoria caeptis,
Qua Sol extremas visit uterque plagas,
Successûs etiam medio de fonte Britannis
Surgit amari aliquid, legitumusque dolor.
Si famae generosa fitis, si bellica virtus,
Ingenium felix, intemerata fides,
Difficiles laurus, ipsoque in flore juventae
Heu! nimium lethi praecipitata dies,
Si quid habent pulchrum haec, vel si quid amabile, jure
Esto tua haee, WOLFI, laus, propriumque decus.
Nec moriere omnis.—Quin usque corona vigebit,
Unanimis Britonûm quam tibi nectit amor.
Regia quin pietas marmor tibi nobile ponet,
Quod tua perpetuis praedicet acta notis.
Confluet hue studio visendi martia pubes,
Sentiet et flammâ corda calere pari;
Dumque legit mediis cecidisse heroa triumphis,
Dicet, SIC DETUR VINCERE, SIC MORIAR,
EPILOGUS in ADELPHOS, 1759. SYRUS loquitur.
QUANTA intus turba est! quanto molimine sudat,
Accinctus cultro et forcipe, quisque coquus!
Monstrum informe maris—TESTUDO—in prandia fertur,
Quae, varia, et simplex, omnia sola sapit.
Pullina esca placet?—vitulina?—suilla?—bovina?
Praesto est. Haec quadrupes singula piscis habet.
De gente Aethiopum conducitur Archimagirus,
Qui secet, et coquat, et concoquat, arte novâ.
Qui doctè contundat aromata; misceat aptè
Thus, apium, thyma, sal, cinnama, cepe, piper.
Qui jecur et pulmonem in frusta minutula scindat,
Curetque ut penitus sint saturata mero.
Multo ut ventriculus pulchrè flavescat ab ovo;
Ut tremulus, circum viscera, vernet adeps.
His ritè instructis conchae sint fercula! nam Tu,
TESTUDO! et patinis sufficis, atque cibo.
Quam cuperem in laudes utriusque excurrere conchae!
Sed vereor
Calipash
dicere—vel
Calipee.
Vos etiam ad caenam mecum appellare juvaret,
Vellem et relliquias participate dapum.
At sunt conviva? tain multi, tamque gulosi,
Restabit, metuo, nil nisi concha mihi.
Recte statuit BAXTERUS de Somniorum Phaenomenis.
CUM nox tellurem fuscis amplectitur alis,
Mabba atomos jungit celercs, et vecta per auras
Inchoat assuetos simulatrix regia ludos.
Huic auriga culex tortura quatit usque flagellum,
Acceleratque fugam tardis; retinacula currûs
Erucae sunt texta levis, radiique rotarum
Cruscula areneoli; currus, quern dente sciurus
Finxerat e coryli frudlu, primaeva vetustas
Hunc Mabbae artificem memorat: sub nodle silenti
Hoc instructa modo egreditur, neque cernitur ulli.
Nonnunquam leviter cerebrum perstringit Amantis;
Somniat ille faces jaculari et vulnera ocellos,
Malarum labrique rosas, perfusaque collo
Lilia: mox Medici digitos titillat, avarus
Mercedis dextram qui pandit, et acriter aurum
Ter captat; ter vana manus eludit imago.
Nunc quoque sopitae demulcet labra Puellae;
Somniat illa procum, pulvinoque oscula libans
Absens absentem teneris amplectitur ulnis;
Vae tibi, si Lemurum videat Regina colorem
Mentitum fuco, vultusque ex arte nitentes!
Praecipites aget ira manus, lacerabit acuto
Ungue genas, simul amissâ dulcedine somni,
Osculaque, et tenues vanescit amator in auras.
Ampla Sacerdotis nonnunquam transvolat ora;
Continuo rostrum conscendens Hic thema trinas
Dividit in partes, exponendoque laborat,
Vel vigilem credas, adeo dormitat. Ad aures
Militis hinc migrat; turbatur imagine belli
Fortis eques, gemitusque audit, strepitusque, tubasque,
Exilit, et paulum trepidans, insomnia diris
Devovet, in lecto prolabitur—obdormiscit.
Nunc Rabulam palmâ mulcet, qui litibus aptus,
Defensoris agit causam, actorisque peritus,
Innectensque moras ad finem deeipit ambos.
Sin casu visat facilis regina Poetam,
Hunc sibi plaudentem deludit amabilis error,
Et riguos fontes, et amaenos somniat hortos;
Cum vero vigil ille domum exploraverit omnem,
Viderit et tristis quam sit sibi curta supellex,
Quam vellet semper dormire!—Volubilis inde
Judicis invehitur trans nasum, et naribus illi
Emunclo subolet causa. Interdum Dea fesso
Blanditur Servo, qui libertate vagatur,
Exultans redit ad patriam carosque penates,
Et gremio uxoris longis amplexibus haeret.
Deinde rotâ strepitante fremit per colla Tyranni;
Umbrarum ante oculos surgit chorus, improbus orco
Quas dedit insontes; furiis agitatur acerbis
Conscia mens, lectoque quies simul exulat. Inde
Si currus flectat, placidissima munera somni
Quà carpit Sceleris Purus; non territus ille
Spectrorum est caetu, et furiarum ultricibus iris,
Sed molli potitur require, aut si somniat, umbrae
Delectant oculos gratae; praedulcis imago
Virtutis reficit mentem, et tellure relictâ
Radit iter liquidum caeli, fruiturque deorum
Colloquio felix. O Tu! quicunque beatum
Te velis, et tuto tranquillum carpere somnum;
I, pete, quo virtus ducit! ne vindice curru
Mabba ferox instet, vexentque cubilia curae.
I, pete, quo virtus ducet! te numine molli
Mabba teget, radetque levi tua pectora curru.
In Comitiis Posteribus,
Apr. 5, 1753.
Carmina ad Nobilissum THOMAM HOLLES DUCEM DE NEWCASTLE inscripta, cum Academiam Cantabrigiensem Bibliothecae Restituendae causa inviseret. Prid. Kalend. Maias, 1755.
DE REGE.
AUGUSTUS, Artium usque fautor optimus,
Hic moenia haud inauspicato numine
Condi imperavit consecrata literis,
Eo nitore & partium elegantiâ,
Ut invidenda sint vel illis Aedibus
Quae saeculorum voce comprobantium
Prae caeteris superbiunt, justissima
Romae recentis & vetustae gloria.
Nec his supellex digna deerit moenibus,
Et Vaticanae, Bodleanaeque aemula;
Id Ille abundè caverat, novissimus
Dedit volenti jura qui Britanniae.
Brunsvichianis scilicet sanctissimum est
Legesque tutari & sovere Literas.
AD CANCELLARIUM.
OTu, qui doctas Cami feliciter artes
Protegis, Aonii duxque decusque chori,
Quod Domus incipiat tarn laeto haec omine condi,
Quae nee Bodleio cedat, id omne tuum est.
Munera dant numerosa manus procerumque patrumque,
Exemplo & monitis exstimulata tuis.
Perge fovere Artes, nec vanum urgere laborem:
Tam pulchrum pulchrè Musa rependet opus.
Haec moles quanquam ipsa ruet; monumenta, Camenae
Quae condent, nullo sunt ruitura die.
AN ELEGY, Written in a Country Church-Yard. By Mr. GRAY.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
CARMEN ELEGIACUM, In CIMAETERIO RUSTICO compositum.
AUdistin! quam lenta sonans campana per agros,
Aerato occiduam nuntiat ore diem.
Armenta impellunt crebris mugitibus auras,
Lassatusque domum rusticus urget iter.
Solus ego in tenebris moror, & vestigia solus
Compono tacitâ nocte, vacoque mihi.
Omnia pallescunt jam decedentia visu,
Et terra & coelum, qua patet, omne silet.
Cuncta silent, nisi musca suam sub vespere sero
Raucisonans pigram qua rotat orbe fugam;
Cuncta silent, nisi qua faciles campanula somnos
Allicit, & lento murmure mulcet oves.
Quàque hedera antiquas sociâ complectitur umbrâ
Turres, feralis lugubre cantat avis;
Et strepit ad lunam, si quis sub nocte vagetur
Imperium violans, Cynthia Diva, tuum.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
CARMEN ELEGIACUM, In CIMAETERIO RUSTICO compositum.
AUdistin! quam lenta sonans campana per agros,
Aerato occiduam nuntiat ore diem.
Armenta impellunt crebris mugitibus auras,
Lassatusque domum rusticus urget iter.
Solus ego in tenebris moror, & vestigia folus
Compono tacitâ nocte, vacoque mihi.
Omnia pallescunt jam decedentia visu,
Et terra & coelum, qua patet, omne silet.
Cuncta silent, nisi musca suam sub vespere sero
Raucisonans pigram qua rotat orbe sugam;
Cuncta silent, nisi qua faciles campanula somnos
Allicit, & lento murmure mulcet oves.
Quàque hedera antiquas sociâ complectitur umbrâ
Turres, feralis lugubre cantat avis;
Et strepit ad lunam, si quis sub nocte vagetur
Imperium violans, Cynthia Diva, tuum.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade,
Where heaves the turs in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Has propter veteres ulmos, taxique sub umbrâ
Qua putris multo cespite turget humus,
Dormit, in aeternum dormit gens prisca colonûm,
Quisque fuâ angustâ conditus usque domo.
Hos nec mane novum, Zephyrique fragrantior aura,
Nec gallus vigili qui vocat ore diem,
Nec circumvolitans quae stridula garrit hirundo
Stramineumque altâ sub trabe figit opus,
Undique nec cornu vox ingeminata sonantis
Aeterno elicient hos, repetentque toro.
Amplius his nunquam conjux bene fida marito
Ingeret ardenti grandia ligna foco;
Nec reditum expectans domini sub vespere sero
Excoquet agrestes officiosa dapes;
Nec curret raptim genitoris ad oscula proles,
Nec reducem agnoscent aemula turba patrem.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke!
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Quam saepe Hi rastris glebam fregere seracem!
Saepe horum cecidit falce resecta seges.
Quam laeti egerunt stridentia plaustra per agros,
Et stimulis tardos increpuere boves!
Horum sylva vetus quam concidit icta bipenni,
Quaque ruit latè vi tremesecit humum!
Ne tamen Ambitio risu male laeta maligno
Sortemve, aut lusus, aut rude temnat opus!
Nec fronte excipiat ventosa Superbia torvâ
Pauperis annales, historiasque breves!
Et generis jactatus honos, dominatio regum,
Quicquid opes, quicquid forma dedere boni,
Supremam simul hanc expectant omnia noctem:
Scilicet ad lethum ducit honoris iter.
Nolite hos humiles culpae insimulare, Superbi,
Quod domini ostendant nulla trophaea decus,
Quà canit amissum longo ordine turba patronum,
Clarosque ingeminant claustra profunda sonos.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire:
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
An vanis inscripta notis angustior urna,
Phidiacumve loquens nobile marmor opus,
An revocent animam fatali a sede fugacem?
Detque iterum vitâ posse priore frui?
Possit adulantum fermo penetrare sepulchrum?
Evocet aut manes laus et inanis honor?
Forsan in hoc, olim divino femine praegnans
Ingenii, hoc aliquis cespite dormit adhuc.
Neglecto hoc forsan jaceat sub cespite, sceptra
Cujus tractârint imperiosa manus.
Vel quales ipso forsan vel Apolline dignae
Pulsârint docto pollice fila lyrae.
Doctrinae horum oculis antiqua volumina priscae
Nunquam divitias explicuere suas.
Horum autem ingenium torpescere fecit egestas
Aspera, & angustae sors inimica domi.
Multa sub oceano pellucida gemma latescit,
Et rudis ignotum fert & inane decus.
Plurima neglectos fragrans rosa pandit odores,
Ponit et occiduo pendula sole caput.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
Aemulus Hamdeni hic aliquis requiescat agrestis,
Quem patriae indignans exstimulavit amor;
Ausus hic exiguo est villae oppugnare tyranno,
Asserere et forti jura paterna manu.
Aut mutus forsan, fatoque inglorius, alter
Hac vel Miltono par requiescat humo.
Dormiat aut aliquis Cromuelli hic aemulus audax,
Qui patriam poterit vel jugulasse suam.
Eloquio arrectum prompto mulcere senatum,
Exilii immoto pectore ferre minas,
Divitias largâ in patriam diffundere dextrâ,
Historiam ex populi colligere ore suam,
Illorum vetuit sors improba,—nec tamen arcto
Tantum ad virtutem limite clausit iter,
Verum etiam & vitia ulterius transire vetabat,
Nec dedit his magnum posse patrare scelus.
Hos vetuit temere per stragem invadere regnum,
Excipere et surdâ supplicis aure preces.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
Sentire ingenuum nec dedidicere ruborem,
Conscia suffusus quo notat ora pudor.
Luxuriâ hi nunquam sese immersere superbâ,
Nec Musae his laudes prostituere suas.
At placidè illorum, procul a certamine turbae
Spectabant propriam sobria vota domum;
Quisque sibi vivens, & sponte inglorius exul,
Dum tacito elabens vita tenore fluit.
Haec tamen a damno qui servet tutius ossa,
En tumulus fragilem praebet amicus opem!
Et vera agresti eliciunt suspiria corde
Incultae effigies, indocilesque modi.
Atque locum supplent elegorum nomen & anni
Quae formâ inscribit rustica Musa rudi:
Multa etiam sacri diffundit commata textûs,
Queis meditans discat vulgus agreste mori.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we see him at the peep of dawn
"Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
Heu, quis enim dubiâ hâc dulcique excedere vitâ
Jussus, et aeternas jam subiturus aquas,
Descendit nigram ad noctem, cupidusque supremo
Non saltem occiduam respicit ore diem?
Decedens alicui saltem mens fidit amico
In cujus blando pectore ponit opem,
Fletum aliquem exposcunt jam deficientia morte
Lumina, amicorum qui riget imbre genas.
Quin etiam ex tumulo, veteris non inscia flammae,
Natura exclamat fida, memorque sui.
At tibi, qui tenui hoc deducis carmine sortem,
Et defunctorum rustica fata gemis,
Huc olim intentus si quis vestigia flectat
Et fuerit qualis sors tua forte roget,
Huic aliquis forsan senior respondeat ultro,
Cui niveis albent tempora sparsa comis,
Vidimus hunc quam saepe micantes roribus herbas
Verrentem rapido, mane rubente, gradu.
Ad roseum solis properabat saepius ortum,
Summaque tendebat per juga laetus iter.
"There at the foot of younder nodding beech
"That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
"His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
"And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
"Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove;
"Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
"Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
"Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree:
"Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
"Nor up the lawn, nor at the woods was he.
"The next with dirges due, in sad array,
"Slow through the church-yard path we saw him born,
"Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
"Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Saepe sub hac fago, radices undique circum
Quae varie antiquas implicat alta suas,
Stratus humi meditans medio procumberet aestu,
Lustraretque inhians flebile murmur aquae.
Saepius hanc sylvam propter, viridesque recessus
Urgeret meditans plurima, lentus iter,
Intentam hic multâ oblectaret imagine mentem,
Musarumque frequens sollicitaret opem,
Jam veluti demens, tacitis erraret in agris,
Aut cujus stimulat corda repulsus amor.
Mane aderat nuper, tamen hunc nec viderat arbos,
Nec juga, nec saliens sons, tacitumve nemus;
Altera lux oritur; nec apertâ hic valle videtur,
Nec tamen ad fagum, nec prope fontis aquam.
Tertia successit—lentoque exangue cadaver
Ecce sepulcrali est pompa secuta gradu.
Tu lege, namque potes, caelatum in marmore carmen,
Quod juxta has vepres exhibet iste lapis.
THE EPITAPH.
HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown,
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
EPITAPHIUM.
CUI nunquam favit fama aut fortuna secunda,
Congesto hoc juvenem cespite servat humus.
Huic tamen arrisit jucunda Scientia vultu,
Selegitque, habitans pectora, Cura sibi.
Largus opum fuit, & sincero pectore fretus,
Accepit pretium par, tribuente Deo.
Indoluit miserans inopi, lacrymasque profudit.
—Scilicet id, miseris quod daret, omne fuit.
A coelo interea fidum acquisivit amicum,
Scilicet id, cuperet quod magis, omne fuit.
Ne merita ulterius defuncti exquirere pergas,
Nec vitia ex sacrâ sede referre petas.
Utraque ibi trepidâ pariter spe condita restant,
In gremio Patris scilicet atque Dei.
SONG, by a Person of Quality
From Pope's Works.
.
FLutt'ring spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth:
Him the Boar in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir!
CARMEN ELEGANS.
TUQUE adeo roseas expande volatilis alas,
Et leviter pectus tange, Cupido, meum.
Imperiis, pulchelle, tuis ego servulus ultro;
Naturam ars victrix scilicet usque domat.
Arcades, aeterno viridantes flore juventae,
Nocte innutantes qualibet inter oves,
Aspicite, ut sensim languens juvenilior aetas,
Haec juxta, haec, inquam, florea saxa perit!
Ante omnes carum sic flevit Adonida Cypris,
Deceptusque Deam tristius ussit Amor;
Hunc, tacitè adrepens per densa silentia noctis
Incautum saevo dente momordit Aper.
Stringe lyram interea pulchre Prudentia ludens,
Harmoniaeque graves, Cynthia, funde modos!
Doctae ambae vigiles curas sopire canendo,
Tuque tuum imperti, Praeses Apollo, chorum!
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat'ring soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy, smooth Maeander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd.
Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
Tuque adamanteis, Pluton, armate catenis,
O Tu Terrorum Rex, metuende Deus,
Due me, qua passim chrystallina flumina currunt,
Elysiique lavat lucida lympha nemus.
Vos etiam maesti falices, tristesque cupressi,
Aureliae aeternum serta dicata meae;
Audi etiam, Morpheu, divum placidissime Morpheu,
Ut queror, ut penitus maceror igne novo.
Triste fluens, sed lene fluens, Maeander, amaeno
Murmure qui cursum flexilis orbe rotas!
Margine saepe etiam quam plurimus erat amator,
Cui tua submittunt florea dona decus.
Sic quando sensim, languens Philomela, silentem
Mollior aggreditur, nec sine voce, procum;
Aspice, de coelo interea Junonius ales
Descendens, fato cedit inane Melos.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Managers of Drury-Lane Theatre, thinking themselves bound to join the rest of the nation, in public congratulations of their Majesties, on their auspicious nuptials; the following little piece was written merely with a view of manifesting such their loyalty and gratitude, to the best of monarchs, and most candid encourager of theatrical exhibitions. The reader, as well as the spectator, will easily discover that, the author has paid but little attention to the nature of dramatic composition, in the conduct of this piece; and indeed, in the representation, the labours of the poet and the composer appeared very inferior to the elegant taste of the managers in the decoration.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
DAMAETAS,
DAMON,
PRIEST,
SYLVIA,
PHOEBE,
DELIA.
ARCADIA. A DRAMATIC PASTORAL.
SCENE I. A view of the country.
Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
SHepherds, buxom, blith and free,
Now's the time for jollity.
AIR.
Hither haste, and bring along
Merry tale and jocund song.
To the pipe and tabor beat
Frolic measures with your feet.
Ev'ry gift of time employ;
Make the most of proffer'd joy.
Pleasure hates the scanty rules
Portion'd out by dreaming fools.
Shepherds, buxom, blith and free,
Now's the time for jollity.
[A dance of Shepherds, &c.
RECITATIVE.
Rejoice, ye happy swains, rejoice;
It is the heart that prompts the voice.
Be sorrow banish'd far away;
Thyrsis shall make it holy-day.
Who at his name can joy suppress?
Arcadian-born to rule and bless.
And hark! from rock to rock the sound
Of winding horn, and deep-mouch'd hound,
Breaking with rapture on the ear,
Proclaims the blithsome Phoebe near:
See where she hastes with eager pace,
To speak the joys that paint her face.
SCENE II. Opens to a prospect of rocks.
Huntsmen, Huntresses, &c. coming down from them.
Hither I speed with honest glee,
Such as befits the mind that's free;
Your chearful troop, blith youth, to join,
And mix my social joys with thine.
Now may each nymph, and frolic swain,
O'er mountain steep, or level plain,
Court buxom health, while jocund horn
Bids echo wake the sluggard morn.
AIR.
When the morning peeps forth, and the zephyr's cool gale,
Carries fragrance and health over mountain and dale;
Up, ye nymphs, and ye swains, and together we'll rove,
Up hill, down the valley, by thicket or grove:
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds
With the notes of the horns, and the cry of the hounds.
Let the wretched be slaves to ambition and wealth;
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health.
So shall innocence' self give a warrant to joys
No envy disturbs, no dependence destroys.
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds
With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the hounds.
O'er hill, dale, and woodland, with rapture we roam;
Yet returning, still find the dear pleasures at home;
Where the chearful good humour gives honesty grace,
And the heart speaks content in the smiles of the face.
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds
With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the hounds.
RECITATIVE.
Small care, my friends, your youth annoys,
Which only looks to present joys.
Though the white locks of silver'd age,
And long experience hail thee sage;
Ill suits it in this joy, to wear
A brow so over-hung with care.
Better with us thy voice to raise,
And join a whole Arcadia's praise.
With you I joy that Thirsis reigns
The guardian o'er his native plains:
But praise is scanty to reveal
The speaking blessings all must feel.
True, all must feel—but thankless too?
Nor give to virtue, virtue's due?
My grateful heart shall ever shew
The debt I need not blush to owe.
AIR.
That I go where I list, that I sing what I please;
That my labour's the price of contentment and ease,
That no care from abroad my retirement annoys,
That at home I can taste the true family joys,
That my kids wanton safely o'er meadows and rocks,
That my sheep graze secure from the robber or fox;
These are blessings I share with the rest of the swains,
For it's Thyrsis who gave them, and Thyrsis maintains.
RECITATIVE.
Perish my voice, if e'er I blame
Thy duty to our guardian's name!
His active talents I revere,
But eye them with a jealous fear.
Intent to form our bliss alone,
The generous youth forgets his own;
Nor e'er his busy mind employs
To find a partner of his joys.
So might his happy offspring own
The virtues which their sire hath shewn.
AIR.
With joy the parent loves to trace
Resemblance in his children's face:
And as he forms their docil youth
To walk the steady paths of truth,
Observes them shooting into men,
And lives in them life o'er again.
While active sons, with eager flame,
Catch virtue at their father's name;
When full of glory, full of age,
The parent quits this busy stage,
What in the sons we most admire,
Calls to new life the honour'd fire.
RECITATIVE.
O prudent Sage forgive the zeal
Of thoughtless youth. With thee I feel,
The glories now Arcadia shares
May but embitter future cares.
Oh mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice,
Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice.
AIR.
So may all thy sylvan train,
Dryad, nymph, and rustic faun,
To the pipe and merry strain,
Trip it o'er the russet lawn!
May no thorn or bearded grass
Hurt their footsteps as they pass,
Whilst in gambols round and round
They sport it o'er the shaven ground!
Though thy Syrinx, like a dream,
Flying at the face of day,
Vanish'd in the limpid stream,
Bearing all thy hopes away,
If again thy heart should burn,
In caressing,
Blest, and blessing,
May'st thou find a wish'd return.
O mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice,
Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice.
[A dance of huntsmen and huntresses.
RECITATIVE.
Peace, shepherds, peace, with jocund air,
Which speaks a heart unknown to care,
Young Delia hastes. The glad surprize
Of rapture flashing from her eyes.
Enter DELIA.
AIR.
Shepherds, shepherds, come away;
Sadness were a sin to-day.
Let the pipe's merry notes aid the skill of the voice;
For our wishes are crown'd, and our hearts shall rejoice.
Rejoice, and be glad;
For sure he is mad
Who, where mirth and good humour, and harmony's found,
Never catches the smile, nor lets pleasure go round.
Let the stupid be grave,
'Tis the vice of the slave;
But can never agree
With a maiden like me,
Who is born in a country that's happy and free.
RECITATIVE.
What means this rapture, Delia? Shew
Th' event our bosoms burn to know.
Now as I trod yon verdant side,
Where Ladon rolls its silver tide,
All gayly deck'd in gorgeous state,
Sail'd a proud barge of richest freight:
Where sat a nymph, more fresh and fair
Than blossoms which the morning air
Steals persume from; the modest grace
Of maiden blush bespread her face.
Hither it made, and on this strand
Pour'd its rich freight for shepherds' land.
Ladon, for this, smooth flow thy tide!
The precious freight was Thyrsis' bride.
RECITATIVE.
Stop, shepherds, if aright I hear,
The sounds of joy proclaim them near:
Lets meet them, friends, I'll lead the way;
Joy makes me young again to-day.
SCENE III. A view of the sea, with a vessel at a distance.
Here follows a PASTORAL PROCESSION to the wedding of THYRSIS.
RECITATIVE.
Mighty Pan! with tender care,
View this swain and virgin fair;
May they ever thus impart
Just return of heart for heart.
May the pledges of their bliss
Climb their knees to share the kiss.
May their steady blooming youth,
While they tread the paths of truth,
Virtues catch from either side,
From the bridegroom and the bride.
May their steady blooming youth,
While they tread the paths of truth,
Virtues catch from either side,
From the bridegroom and the bride.
FINIS.