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 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
109
AN ESSAY ON SATIRE,
Occasioned by the Death of Mr. POPE. Inscribed to Dr. WARBURTON. By JOHN BROWN, D. D,
O while along the stream of Time thy Name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little barque attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little barque attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
317
I. PART I.
Fate gave the word; the cruel arrow sped;
And Pope lies number'd with the mighty dead!
Resign'd he fell superior to the dart,
That quench'd its rage in Yours and Britain's heart:
You mourn: but Britain, lull'd in rest profound,
(Unconscious Britain!) slumbers o'er her wound.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Rous'd at the signal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And snake-hung Envy hisses o'er his urn:
Th'envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb.
And Pope lies number'd with the mighty dead!
Resign'd he fell superior to the dart,
That quench'd its rage in Yours and Britain's heart:
318
(Unconscious Britain!) slumbers o'er her wound.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Rous'd at the signal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And snake-hung Envy hisses o'er his urn:
Th'envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb.
But You, O Warburton! whose eye refin'd
Can see the greatness of an honest mind;
Can see each virtue and each grace unite,
And taste the raptures of a pure delight;
You visit oft' his aweful page with care,
And view that bright assemblage treasur'd there;
You trace the chain that links his deep design,
And pour new lustre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues;
Intent from this great archetype to draw
Satire's bright form, and fix her equal law;
Pleas'd if from hence th'unlearn'd may comprehend,
And reverence His and Satire's generous end.
Can see the greatness of an honest mind;
Can see each virtue and each grace unite,
And taste the raptures of a pure delight;
You visit oft' his aweful page with care,
And view that bright assemblage treasur'd there;
You trace the chain that links his deep design,
And pour new lustre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues;
Intent from this great archetype to draw
Satire's bright form, and fix her equal law;
Pleas'd if from hence th'unlearn'd may comprehend,
And reverence His and Satire's generous end.
In ev'ry breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame:
The passion One, tho' various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dimm'd by fear.
The lisping infant, and the hoary sire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire;
The charms of praise the coy, the modest wooe,
And only fly, that glory may pursue:
She, pow'r resistless, rules the wise and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet:
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the scepter and the spade.
The love of glory, or the dread of shame:
The passion One, tho' various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dimm'd by fear.
319
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire;
The charms of praise the coy, the modest wooe,
And only fly, that glory may pursue:
She, pow'r resistless, rules the wise and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet:
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the scepter and the spade.
Thus heav'n in pity wakes the friendly flame,
To urge mankind on deeds that merit fame:
But man, vain man, in folly only wise,
Rejects the manna sent him from the skies:
With rapture hears corrupted passion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall.
As each deceitful shadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd substance quits the true:
Eager to catch the visionary prize,
In quest of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry praise he pants to gain.
To urge mankind on deeds that merit fame:
But man, vain man, in folly only wise,
Rejects the manna sent him from the skies:
With rapture hears corrupted passion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall.
As each deceitful shadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd substance quits the true:
Eager to catch the visionary prize,
In quest of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry praise he pants to gain.
Thus still imperious Nature plies her part;
And still her dictates work in ev'ry heart.
Each pow'r that sov'reign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy.
Like mighty rivers, with resistless force
The passions rage, obstructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before.
And still her dictates work in ev'ry heart.
Each pow'r that sov'reign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy.
Like mighty rivers, with resistless force
The passions rage, obstructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before.
320
And sure, the dreadliest foe to virtue's flame,
Our worst of evils, is perverted shame.
Beneath this load what abject numbers groan,
Th'entangled slaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd,
We seek our virtues in each other's breast;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign vice,
Another's weakness, interest, or caprice.
Each fool to low ambition, poorly great,
That pines in splendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treach'rous chase, wou'd nobly yield,
And but for shame, like Sylla, quit the field:
The dæmon Shame paints strong the ridicule,
And whispers close “the world will call you fool.”
Our worst of evils, is perverted shame.
Beneath this load what abject numbers groan,
Th'entangled slaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd,
We seek our virtues in each other's breast;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign vice,
Another's weakness, interest, or caprice.
Each fool to low ambition, poorly great,
That pines in splendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treach'rous chase, wou'd nobly yield,
And but for shame, like Sylla, quit the field:
The dæmon Shame paints strong the ridicule,
And whispers close “the world will call you fool.”
Behold, yon wretch, by impious fashion driv'n,
Believes and trembles while he scoffs at heav'n.
By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone,
He dreads the sneer by shallow coxcombs thrown;
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod;
To man a coward, and a brave to God.
Believes and trembles while he scoffs at heav'n.
By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone,
He dreads the sneer by shallow coxcombs thrown;
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod;
To man a coward, and a brave to God.
Faith, Justice, heav'n itself now quit their hold,
When to false fame the captiv'd heart is sold:
Hence blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd:
Nought cou'd subdue his virtue, but his pride.
Hence chaste Lucretia's innocence betray'd
Fell by that honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue sinks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When passions born her friends, revolt, her foes.
When to false fame the captiv'd heart is sold:
Hence blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd:
Nought cou'd subdue his virtue, but his pride.
321
Fell by that honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue sinks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When passions born her friends, revolt, her foes.
Hence Satire's pow'r: 'tis her corrective part
To calm the wild disorders of the heart.
She points the arduous height where glory lies,
And teaches mad ambition to be wise:
In the dark bosom wakes the fair desire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Strips black Oppression of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horror rise;
Strikes tow'ring pride and lawless rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's aweful head.
To calm the wild disorders of the heart.
She points the arduous height where glory lies,
And teaches mad ambition to be wise:
In the dark bosom wakes the fair desire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Strips black Oppression of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horror rise;
Strikes tow'ring pride and lawless rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's aweful head.
Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin'd pow'r,
Tho' oft she mourn those ills she cannot cure.
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who shun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her aweful voice the vain and vile obey,
And every foe to wisdom feel her sway.
Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more are vain;
Desponding fops resign the clouded cane:
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's self is still,
And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Like the arm'd Bee, with art most subtly true
From pois'nous Vice she draws a healing dew:
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, securely wrapt in wiles;
And Force strong-sinew'd rends th'unequal toils:
The stream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for policy, for pow'r too strong.
Ev'n fair Religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the crowd, seeks refuge with the wise;
The crowd with laughter spurns her aweful train,
And Mercy courts, and Justice frowns in vain.
But Satire's shaft can pierce the harden'd breast:
She plays a ruling passion on the rest:
Undaunted mounts the battery of his pride,
And awes the Brave, that earth and heav'n defy'd.
When fell Corruption, by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Justice prostrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd people's groan,
Bold Satire shakes the tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as death, defies the sordid train,
And slaves and sycophants surround in vain.
Tho' oft she mourn those ills she cannot cure.
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who shun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her aweful voice the vain and vile obey,
And every foe to wisdom feel her sway.
Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more are vain;
Desponding fops resign the clouded cane:
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's self is still,
And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Like the arm'd Bee, with art most subtly true
From pois'nous Vice she draws a healing dew:
322
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, securely wrapt in wiles;
And Force strong-sinew'd rends th'unequal toils:
The stream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for policy, for pow'r too strong.
Ev'n fair Religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the crowd, seeks refuge with the wise;
The crowd with laughter spurns her aweful train,
And Mercy courts, and Justice frowns in vain.
But Satire's shaft can pierce the harden'd breast:
She plays a ruling passion on the rest:
Undaunted mounts the battery of his pride,
And awes the Brave, that earth and heav'n defy'd.
When fell Corruption, by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Justice prostrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd people's groan,
Bold Satire shakes the tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as death, defies the sordid train,
And slaves and sycophants surround in vain.
But with the friends of Vice, the foes of Satire,
All truth is spleen; all just reproof, ill-nature.
All truth is spleen; all just reproof, ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Muse's fatal skill;
Well may they tremble when she draws her quill:
Her magick quill, that like Ithuriel's spear
Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear:
Bids Vice and Folly take their natural shapes,
Turns duchesses to strumpets, beaux to apes;
Drags the vile whisperer from his dark abode,
Till all the dæmon starts up from the toad.
Well may they tremble when she draws her quill:
Her magick quill, that like Ithuriel's spear
Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear:
Bids Vice and Folly take their natural shapes,
Turns duchesses to strumpets, beaux to apes;
323
Till all the dæmon starts up from the toad.
O sordid maxim, form'd to screen the vile,
That true good-nature still must wear a smile!
In frowns array'd her beauties stronger rise,
When love of virtue wakes her scorn of vice:
Where justice calls, 'tis cruelty to save;
And 'tis the law's good-nature hangs the knave.
Who combats Virtue's foe is Virtue's friend;
Then judge of Satire's merit by her end:
To guilt alone her vengeance stands confin'd,
The object of her love is all mankind.
Scarce more the friend of man, the wise must own,
Ev'n Allen's bounteous hand, than Satire's frown:
This to chastise, as that to bless, was giv'n;
Alike the faithful ministers of heav'n.
That true good-nature still must wear a smile!
In frowns array'd her beauties stronger rise,
When love of virtue wakes her scorn of vice:
Where justice calls, 'tis cruelty to save;
And 'tis the law's good-nature hangs the knave.
Who combats Virtue's foe is Virtue's friend;
Then judge of Satire's merit by her end:
To guilt alone her vengeance stands confin'd,
The object of her love is all mankind.
Scarce more the friend of man, the wise must own,
Ev'n Allen's bounteous hand, than Satire's frown:
This to chastise, as that to bless, was giv'n;
Alike the faithful ministers of heav'n.
Oft' on unfeeling hearts the shaft is spent:
Tho' strong th'example, weak the punishment.
They least are pain'd, who merit Satire most;
Folly the Laureat's, Vice was Chartres' boast;
Then where's the wrong, to gibbet high the name
Of fools and knaves already dead to shame?
Oft' Satire acts the faithful surgeon's part;
Generous and kind, tho' painful is her art:
With caution bold, she only strikes to heal,
Tho' folly raves to break the friendly steel.
Then sure no fault impartial Satire knows,
Kind, ev'n in vengeance kind, to Virtue's foes.
Whose is the crime, the scandal too be theirs:
The knave and fool are their own libellers.
Tho' strong th'example, weak the punishment.
They least are pain'd, who merit Satire most;
Folly the Laureat's, Vice was Chartres' boast;
Then where's the wrong, to gibbet high the name
Of fools and knaves already dead to shame?
Oft' Satire acts the faithful surgeon's part;
Generous and kind, tho' painful is her art:
With caution bold, she only strikes to heal,
Tho' folly raves to break the friendly steel.
Then sure no fault impartial Satire knows,
Kind, ev'n in vengeance kind, to Virtue's foes.
324
The knave and fool are their own libellers.
Alluding to these lines of Mr. Pope;
In the nice bee what art so subtly true,
From pois'nous herbs extracts a healing dew.
From pois'nous herbs extracts a healing dew.
II. PART II.
Dare nobly then: but conscious of your trust,
As ever warm and bold, be ever just:
Nor court applause in these degenerate days:
The villain's censure is extorted praise.
As ever warm and bold, be ever just:
Nor court applause in these degenerate days:
The villain's censure is extorted praise.
But chief, be steady in a noble end,
And shew mankind that truth has yet a friend.
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write,
As foplings grin to show their teeth are white:
To brand a doubtful folly with a smile,
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is vile:
'Tis doubly vile, when but to prove your art,
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.
O lost to honour's voice, O doom'd to shame,
Thou fiend accurs'd, thou murderer of fame!
Fell ravisher, from innocence to tear
That name, than liberty, than life more dear!
Where shall thy baseness meet its just return,
Or what repay thy guilt, but endless scorn!
And know, immortal truth shall mock thy toil:
Immortal truth shall bid the shaft recoil;
With rage retorted, wing the deadly dart;
And empty all its poison in thy heart.
And shew mankind that truth has yet a friend.
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write,
As foplings grin to show their teeth are white:
To brand a doubtful folly with a smile,
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is vile:
'Tis doubly vile, when but to prove your art,
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.
O lost to honour's voice, O doom'd to shame,
Thou fiend accurs'd, thou murderer of fame!
Fell ravisher, from innocence to tear
That name, than liberty, than life more dear!
Where shall thy baseness meet its just return,
Or what repay thy guilt, but endless scorn!
And know, immortal truth shall mock thy toil:
Immortal truth shall bid the shaft recoil;
With rage retorted, wing the deadly dart;
And empty all its poison in thy heart.
With caution, next, the dang'rous power apply;
An eagle's talon asks an eagle's eye:
Let Satire then her proper object know,
And ere she strike, be sure she strikes a foe.
Nor fondly deem the real fool confest,
Because blind Ridicule conceives a jest:
Before whose altar Virtue oft' hath bled,
And oft' a destin'd victim shall be led:
Lo, Shaftsb'ry rears her high on Reason's throne,
And loads the slave with honours not her own:
Big-swoln with folly, as her smiles provoke,
Prophaneness spawns, pert dunces nurse the joke!
Come, let us join awhile this tittering crew,
And own the ideot guide for once is true;
Deride our weak forefathers' musty rule,
Who therefore smil'd, because they saw a fool;
Sublimer logick now adorns our isle,
We therefore see a fool, because we smile.
Truth in her gloomy cave why fondly seek?
Lo, gay she sits in Laughter's dimpled cheek:
Contemns each surly academic foe,
And courts the spruce free-thinker and the beau.
Dædalian arguments but few can trace,
But all can read the language of grimace.
Hence mighty Ridicule's all-conqu'ring hand
Shall work Herculean wonders thro' the land:
Bound in the magick of her cobweb chain,
You, mighty Warburton, shall rage in vain,
In the vain trackless maze of Truth You scan,
And lend th'informing clue to erring man:
No more shall Reason boast her pow'r divine,
Her base eternal shook by Folly's mine!
Truth's sacred fort th'exploded laugh shall win;
And coxcombs vanquish Berkley by a grin.
An eagle's talon asks an eagle's eye:
325
And ere she strike, be sure she strikes a foe.
Nor fondly deem the real fool confest,
Because blind Ridicule conceives a jest:
Before whose altar Virtue oft' hath bled,
And oft' a destin'd victim shall be led:
Lo, Shaftsb'ry rears her high on Reason's throne,
And loads the slave with honours not her own:
326
Prophaneness spawns, pert dunces nurse the joke!
Come, let us join awhile this tittering crew,
And own the ideot guide for once is true;
Deride our weak forefathers' musty rule,
Who therefore smil'd, because they saw a fool;
327
We therefore see a fool, because we smile.
Truth in her gloomy cave why fondly seek?
Lo, gay she sits in Laughter's dimpled cheek:
Contemns each surly academic foe,
And courts the spruce free-thinker and the beau.
328
But all can read the language of grimace.
Hence mighty Ridicule's all-conqu'ring hand
Shall work Herculean wonders thro' the land:
Bound in the magick of her cobweb chain,
You, mighty Warburton, shall rage in vain,
In the vain trackless maze of Truth You scan,
And lend th'informing clue to erring man:
No more shall Reason boast her pow'r divine,
Her base eternal shook by Folly's mine!
Truth's sacred fort th'exploded laugh shall win;
And coxcombs vanquish Berkley by a grin.
But you, more sage, reject th'inverted rule,
That Truth is e'er explor'd by Ridicule:
On truth, on falsehood let her colours fall,
She throws a dazzling glare alike on all;
As the gay prism but mocks the flatter'd eye,
And gives to ev'ry object ev'ry dye.
Beware the mad advent'rer: bold and blind
She hoists her sail, and drives with ev'ry wind;
Deaf as the storm to sinking Virtue's groan,
Nor heeds a friend's destruction, or her own.
Let clear-ey'd Reason at the helm preside,
Bear to the wind, or stem the furious tide;
Then mirth may urge, when reason can explore,
This point the way, that waft us glad to shore.
That Truth is e'er explor'd by Ridicule:
On truth, on falsehood let her colours fall,
She throws a dazzling glare alike on all;
As the gay prism but mocks the flatter'd eye,
And gives to ev'ry object ev'ry dye.
Beware the mad advent'rer: bold and blind
She hoists her sail, and drives with ev'ry wind;
Deaf as the storm to sinking Virtue's groan,
Nor heeds a friend's destruction, or her own.
Let clear-ey'd Reason at the helm preside,
Bear to the wind, or stem the furious tide;
Then mirth may urge, when reason can explore,
This point the way, that waft us glad to shore.
Tho' distant times may rise in Satire's page,
Yet chief 'tis her's to draw the present age:
With Wisdom's lustre, Folly's shade contrast,
And judge the reigning manners by the past:
Bid Britain's heroes (aweful shades!) arise,
And ancient honour beam on modern vice:
Point back to minds ingenuous, actions fair,
Till the sons blush at what their fathers were:
Ere yet 'twas beggary the great to trust;
Ere yet 'twas quite a folly to be just;
When low-born sharpers only dar'd a lye,
Or falsify'd the card, or cogg'd the dye:
Ere lewdness the stain'd garb of honour wore,
Or chastity was carted for the whore;
Vice flutter'd, in the plumes of freedom dress'd;
Or publick spirit was the publick jest.
Yet chief 'tis her's to draw the present age:
329
And judge the reigning manners by the past:
Bid Britain's heroes (aweful shades!) arise,
And ancient honour beam on modern vice:
Point back to minds ingenuous, actions fair,
Till the sons blush at what their fathers were:
Ere yet 'twas beggary the great to trust;
Ere yet 'twas quite a folly to be just;
When low-born sharpers only dar'd a lye,
Or falsify'd the card, or cogg'd the dye:
Ere lewdness the stain'd garb of honour wore,
Or chastity was carted for the whore;
Vice flutter'd, in the plumes of freedom dress'd;
Or publick spirit was the publick jest.
Be ever in a just expression bold,
Yet ne'er degrade fair Satire to a scold:
Let no unworthy mien her form debase,
But let her smile, and let her frown with grace:
In mirth be temp'rate, temp'rate in her spleen;
Nor while she preaches modesty, obscene.
Deep let her wound, not rankle to a sore,
Nor call his lordship ---, her grace a ---:
The Muse's charms resistless then assail,
When wrapt in irony's transparent veil:
Her beauties half-conceal'd the more surprize,
And keener lustre sparkles in her eyes.
Then be your line with sharp encomiums grac'd:
Stile Clodius honourable, Bufa chaste.
Yet ne'er degrade fair Satire to a scold:
Let no unworthy mien her form debase,
But let her smile, and let her frown with grace:
In mirth be temp'rate, temp'rate in her spleen;
Nor while she preaches modesty, obscene.
Deep let her wound, not rankle to a sore,
Nor call his lordship ---, her grace a ---:
The Muse's charms resistless then assail,
When wrapt in irony's transparent veil:
Her beauties half-conceal'd the more surprize,
And keener lustre sparkles in her eyes.
Then be your line with sharp encomiums grac'd:
Stile Clodius honourable, Bufa chaste.
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Dart not on Folly an indignant eye:
Who e'er discharg'd artillery on a fly?
Deride not Vice: absurd the thought and vain,
To bind the tyger in so weak a chain.
Nay more: when flagrant crimes your laughter move,
The knave exults: to smile is to approve.
The Muse's labour then success shall crown,
When Folly feels her smile, and Vice her frown.
Who e'er discharg'd artillery on a fly?
Deride not Vice: absurd the thought and vain,
To bind the tyger in so weak a chain.
Nay more: when flagrant crimes your laughter move,
The knave exults: to smile is to approve.
The Muse's labour then success shall crown,
When Folly feels her smile, and Vice her frown.
Know next what measures to each theme belong,
And suit your thoughts and numbers to your song:
On wing proportion'd to your quarry rise,
And stoop to earth, or soar among the skies.
Thus when a modish folly you rehearse,
Free the expression, simple be the verse.
In artless numbers paint th'ambitious peer
That mounts the box, and shines a charioteer:
In strains familiar sing the midnight toil
Of camps and senates disciplin'd by Hoyle.
Patriots and chiefs whose deep design invades
And carries off the captive king of—spades!
Let Satire here in milder vigour shine,
And gayly graceful sport along the line;
Bid courtly Fashion quit her thin pretence,
And smile each affectation into sense.
And suit your thoughts and numbers to your song:
On wing proportion'd to your quarry rise,
And stoop to earth, or soar among the skies.
Thus when a modish folly you rehearse,
Free the expression, simple be the verse.
In artless numbers paint th'ambitious peer
That mounts the box, and shines a charioteer:
In strains familiar sing the midnight toil
Of camps and senates disciplin'd by Hoyle.
Patriots and chiefs whose deep design invades
And carries off the captive king of—spades!
Let Satire here in milder vigour shine,
And gayly graceful sport along the line;
Bid courtly Fashion quit her thin pretence,
And smile each affectation into sense.
Not so when Virtue by her guards betray'd,
Spurn'd from her throne, implores the Muse's aid;
When crimes, which erst in kindred darkness lay,
Rise frontless, and insult the eye of day;
Indignant Hymen veils his hallow'd fires,
And white-rob'd Chastity with tears retires;
When rank Adultery on the genial bed
Hot from Cocytus rears her baleful head:
When private faith and publick trust are sold,
And traitors barter liberty for gold;
When fell Corruption dark and deep, like Fate,
Saps the foundation of a sinking state:
When giant-vice and irreligion rise,
On mountain'd falsehoods to invade the skies:
Then warmer numbers glow thro' Satire's page,
And all her smiles are darken'd into rage:
On eagle-wing she gains Parnassus' height,
Not lofty Epic soars a nobler flight:
Then keener indignation fires her eye;
Then flash her lightnings, and her thunders fly;
Wide and more wide her flaming bolts are hurl'd,
Till all her wrath involves the guilty world.
Spurn'd from her throne, implores the Muse's aid;
When crimes, which erst in kindred darkness lay,
Rise frontless, and insult the eye of day;
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And white-rob'd Chastity with tears retires;
When rank Adultery on the genial bed
Hot from Cocytus rears her baleful head:
When private faith and publick trust are sold,
And traitors barter liberty for gold;
When fell Corruption dark and deep, like Fate,
Saps the foundation of a sinking state:
When giant-vice and irreligion rise,
On mountain'd falsehoods to invade the skies:
Then warmer numbers glow thro' Satire's page,
And all her smiles are darken'd into rage:
On eagle-wing she gains Parnassus' height,
Not lofty Epic soars a nobler flight:
Then keener indignation fires her eye;
Then flash her lightnings, and her thunders fly;
Wide and more wide her flaming bolts are hurl'd,
Till all her wrath involves the guilty world.
Yet Satire oft' assumes a gentler mien,
And beams on Virtue's friends a look serene:
She wounds reluctant, pours her balm and joy,
Glad to commend where merit strikes her eye.
But tread with cautious step this dangerous ground,
Beset with faithless precipices round:
Truth be your guide: disdain Ambition's call;
And if you fall with truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis Virtue's native lustre that must shine:
The poet can but set it in his line:
And who unmov'd with laughter can behold
A sordid pebble meanly grac'd with gold?
Let real merit then adorn your lays,
For shame a tends on prostituted praise:
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art
But makes us grieve, you want an honest heart.
And beams on Virtue's friends a look serene:
She wounds reluctant, pours her balm and joy,
Glad to commend where merit strikes her eye.
But tread with cautious step this dangerous ground,
Beset with faithless precipices round:
Truth be your guide: disdain Ambition's call;
And if you fall with truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis Virtue's native lustre that must shine:
The poet can but set it in his line:
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A sordid pebble meanly grac'd with gold?
Let real merit then adorn your lays,
For shame a tends on prostituted praise:
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art
But makes us grieve, you want an honest heart.
Nor think the Muse by Satire's law confin'd:
She yields description of the noblest kind,
Inferior art the landskip may design,
And paint the purple evening in the line:
Her daring thought essays a higher plan;
Her hand delineates passion, pictures man.
And great the toil, the latent soul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace;
By turns bid vice or virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a Wolsey or a Cromwell rise;
Now with a touch more sacred and refin'd,
Call forth a Chesterfield's or Lonsdale's mind.
Here sweet or strong may ev'ry colour flow,
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each striking feature into life.
She yields description of the noblest kind,
Inferior art the landskip may design,
And paint the purple evening in the line:
Her daring thought essays a higher plan;
Her hand delineates passion, pictures man.
And great the toil, the latent soul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace;
By turns bid vice or virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a Wolsey or a Cromwell rise;
Now with a touch more sacred and refin'd,
Call forth a Chesterfield's or Lonsdale's mind.
Here sweet or strong may ev'ry colour flow,
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each striking feature into life.
It were to be wished that lord Shaftsbury had expressed himself with greater precision on this subject: however, thus much may be affirmed with truth.
1st, By the general tenor of his essays on Enthusiasm, and the freedom of wit and humour, it appears that his principal design was to recommend the way of ridicule, (as he calls it) for the investigation of truth, and detection of falsehood, not only in moral but religious subjects.
2dly, It appears no less evident, that in the course of his reasonings on this question, he confounds two things which are in their nature and consequences entirely different. These are ridicule and good-humour: the latter acknowledged by all to be the best mediator in every debate; the former no less regarded by most, as an embroiler and incendiary. Tho' he sets out with a formal profession of proving the efficacy of wit, humour, and ridicule, in the investigation of truth, yet by shifting and mixing his terms, he generally slides insensibly into mere encomiums on good-breeding, chearfulness, urbanity, and free enquiry. This indeed keeps something like an argument on foot, and amuses the superficial reader; but to a more observant eye discovers a very comtemptible defect, either of sincerity or penetration.
The question concerning ridicule may be thus not improperly stated, Whether doubtful propositions of any kind can be determined by the application of ridicule? Much might be said on this question; but a few words will make the matter clear to an unprejudiced mind.
The disapprobation or contempt which certain objects raise in the mind of man, is a particular mode of passion. The objects of his passion are apparent falsehood, incongruity, or impropriety of some particular kinds. Thus, the object of fear is apparent danger : the object of anger is apparent injury. But who hath ever dreamt of exalting the passions of fear and anger into a standard or test of real danger and injury? The design must have been rejected as absurd, because it is the work of reason only, to correct and fix the passions on their proper objects. The case is parallel: apparent or seeming falsehoods, &c. are the objects of contempt; but it is the work of reason only, to determine whether the supposed falsehood be real or fictitious. But it is said, “The sense of ridicule can never be mistaken.”—Why, no more can the sense of danger, or the sense of injury.—“What, do men never fear or resent without reason?”—Yes, very commonly: but they as often despise and laugh without reason. Thus before any thing can be determined in either case, reason, and reason only, must examine circumstances, separate ideas, decide upon, restrain, and correct the passion.
Hence it follows, that the way of ridicule, of late so much celebrated, is in fact no more than a species of eloquence; and that too the lowest of all others : so Tully justly calls it, tenuissimus ingenii fructus. It applies to a passion, and therefore can go no farther in the investigation of truth, than any of those arts which tend to raise love, pity, terror, rage or hatred in the heart of man. Consequently, his lordship might have transplanted the whole system of rhetorick into his new scheme, with the same propriety as he hath intorduced the way of ridicule itself. A hopeful project this, for the propagation of truth!
As this seems to be the real nature of ridicule, it hath been generally discouraged by philosophers and divines, together with every other mode of eloquence, when applied to controverted opinions. This discouragement, from what is said above, appears to have been rational and just : therefore the charge laid ageinst divines with regard to this affair by a zealous admirer of Lord Shaftsbury (see a note on the Pleasures of Imagination, Book III.) seems entirely groundless. The distinction which the same author hath attempted with respect to the influence of ridicule, between speculative and moral truths, seems no better founded. It is certain that opinions are no less liable to ridicule than actions. And it is no less certain, that the way of ridicule cannot determine the propriety or impropriety of the one, more than the truth or falsehood of the other; because the same passion of contempt is equally engaged in both cases, and therefore, as above, reason only can examine the circumstances of the action or opinion, and thus fix the passion on its proper objects.
Upon the whole, this new design of discovering truth by the vague and unsteady light of ridicule, puts one in mind of the honest Irishman, who apply'd his candle to the sun-dial in order to see how the night went.
III. PART III.
Thro' ages thus hath Satire keenly shin'd,
The friend to truth, to virtue, and mankind:
Yet the bright flame from virtue ne'er had sprung,
And man was guilty ere the poet sung.
This Muse in silence joy'd each better age,
Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage.
Truth saw her honest spleen with new delight,
And bade her wing her shafts, and urge their flight.
First on the sons of Greece she prov'd her art,
And Sparta felt the fierce Iambick dart .
To Latium next avenging Satire flew:
The flaming faulchion rough Lucilius drew;
With dauntless warmth in Virtue's cause engag'd,
And conscious villains trembled as he rag'd.
The friend to truth, to virtue, and mankind:
Yet the bright flame from virtue ne'er had sprung,
And man was guilty ere the poet sung.
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Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage.
Truth saw her honest spleen with new delight,
And bade her wing her shafts, and urge their flight.
First on the sons of Greece she prov'd her art,
And Sparta felt the fierce Iambick dart .
To Latium next avenging Satire flew:
The flaming faulchion rough Lucilius drew;
With dauntless warmth in Virtue's cause engag'd,
And conscious villains trembled as he rag'd.
Then sportive Horace
caught the generous fire
For Satire's bow resign'd the sounding lyre:
Each arrow polish'd in his hand was seen,
And as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in study'd negligence
Politely sly, cajol'd the foes of sense:
He seem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But while he sported, drove it to the heart.
For Satire's bow resign'd the sounding lyre:
Each arrow polish'd in his hand was seen,
And as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in study'd negligence
Politely sly, cajol'd the foes of sense:
He seem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But while he sported, drove it to the heart.
In graver strains majestick Persius wrote,
Big with a ripe exuberance of thought:
Greatly sedate, contemn'd a tyrant's reign,
And lash'd corruption with a calm disdain.
Big with a ripe exuberance of thought:
Greatly sedate, contemn'd a tyrant's reign,
And lash'd corruption with a calm disdain.
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More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage
Inflame bold Juvenal's exalted page.
His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted Rome,
And swept audacious greatness to its doom;
The headlong torrent thundering from on high,
Rent the proud rock that lately brav'd the sky.
Inflame bold Juvenal's exalted page.
His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted Rome,
And swept audacious greatness to its doom;
The headlong torrent thundering from on high,
Rent the proud rock that lately brav'd the sky.
But lo! the fatal victor of mankind,
Swoln Luxury!—Pale Ruin stalks behind!
As countless insects from the north-east pour,
To blast the spring, and ravage ev'ry flow'r:
So barb'rous millions spread contagious death:
The sick'ning laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep superstition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the poppy sprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But Dulness nodded in the Muses' grove:
Wit, spirit, freedom, were the sole offence,
Nor aught was held so dangerous as sense.
Swoln Luxury!—Pale Ruin stalks behind!
As countless insects from the north-east pour,
To blast the spring, and ravage ev'ry flow'r:
So barb'rous millions spread contagious death:
The sick'ning laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep superstition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the poppy sprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But Dulness nodded in the Muses' grove:
Wit, spirit, freedom, were the sole offence,
Nor aught was held so dangerous as sense.
At length, again fair Science shot her ray,
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now Satire, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now load thy quiver, string thy slacken'd bow!
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now Satire, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now load thy quiver, string thy slacken'd bow!
'Tis done—See, great Erasmus breaks the spell,
And wounds triumphant Folly in her cell!
(In vain the solemn cowl surrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her sowr grimace)
With shame compell'd her leaden throne to quit,
And own the force of reason urg'd by wit.
And wounds triumphant Folly in her cell!
(In vain the solemn cowl surrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her sowr grimace)
With shame compell'd her leaden throne to quit,
And own the force of reason urg'd by wit.
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'Twas then plain Donne in honest vengeance rose,
His wit refulgent, tho' his rhyme was prose:
He 'midst an age of puns and pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.
His wit refulgent, tho' his rhyme was prose:
He 'midst an age of puns and pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.
Yet scarce had Satire well relum'd her flame,
(With grief the Muse records her country's shame)
Ere Britain saw the foul revolt commence,
And treach'rous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then 'rose a shameless, mercenary train,
Whom latest time shall view with just disdain:
A race fantastick, in whose gaudy line
Untutor'd thought, and tinsel beauty shine;
Wit's shatter'd mirror lies in fragments bright,
Reflects not nature, but confounds the sight.
Dry morals the court-poet blush'd to sing:
'Twas all his praise to say “the oddest thing.”
Proud for a jest obscene, a patron's nod,
To martyr Virtue, or blaspheme his God.
(With grief the Muse records her country's shame)
Ere Britain saw the foul revolt commence,
And treach'rous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then 'rose a shameless, mercenary train,
Whom latest time shall view with just disdain:
A race fantastick, in whose gaudy line
Untutor'd thought, and tinsel beauty shine;
Wit's shatter'd mirror lies in fragments bright,
Reflects not nature, but confounds the sight.
Dry morals the court-poet blush'd to sing:
'Twas all his praise to say “the oddest thing.”
Proud for a jest obscene, a patron's nod,
To martyr Virtue, or blaspheme his God.
Ill-fated Dryden! who unmov'd can see
Th'extremes of wit and meanness join'd in thee!
Flames that cou'd mount, and gain their kindred skies,
Low creeping in the putrid sink of vice:
A Muse whom Wisdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain,
The pimp of pow'r, the prostitute to gain:
Wreaths, that shou'd deck fair Virtue's sorm alone,
To strumpets, traitors, tyrants, vilely thrown:
Unrival'd parts, the scorn of honest fame;
And genius rise, a monument of shame!
Th'extremes of wit and meanness join'd in thee!
Flames that cou'd mount, and gain their kindred skies,
Low creeping in the putrid sink of vice:
A Muse whom Wisdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain,
The pimp of pow'r, the prostitute to gain:
Wreaths, that shou'd deck fair Virtue's sorm alone,
To strumpets, traitors, tyrants, vilely thrown:
Unrival'd parts, the scorn of honest fame;
And genius rise, a monument of shame!
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More happy France: immortal Boileau there
Supported genius with a sage's care:
Him with her love propitious Satire blest,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast:
Fancy and sense to form his line conspire,
And faultless judgment guides the purest fire.
Supported genius with a sage's care:
Him with her love propitious Satire blest,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast:
Fancy and sense to form his line conspire,
And faultless judgment guides the purest fire.
But see, at length, the British Genius smile,
And show'r her bounties o'er her favour'd isle:
Behold for Pope she twines the laurel crown,
And centers ev'ry poet's pow'r in one:
Each Roman's force adorns his various page;
Gay smiles, collected strength, and manly rage.
Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the sight,
As spectres vanish at approaching light:
In this clear mirror with delight we view
Each image justly fine, and boldly true:
Here Vice, drag'd forth by Truth's supreme decree,
Beholds and hates her own deformity:
While self-seen Virtue in the faithful line
With modest joy surveys her form divine.
But oh, what thoughts, what numbers shall I find,
But faintly to express the poet's mind!
Who yonder star's effulgence can display,
Unless he dip his pencil in the ray?
Who paint a god, unless the god inspire?
What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire?
So, mighty Pope, to make thy genius known,
All pow'r is weak, all numbers—but thy own.
Each Muse for thee with kind contention strove,
For thee the Graces left th'Idalian grove:
With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung,
Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue.
Next, to her bard majestick Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the heav'nly flame:
With taste superior scorn'd the venal tribe,
Whom fear can sway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At fancy's call who rear the wanton sail,
Sport with the stream, and trifle in the gale:
Sublimer views thy daring spirit bound;
Thy mighty voyage was creation's round;
Intent new worlds of wisdom to explore,
And bless mankind with Virtue's sacred store;
A nobler joy than wit can give, impart;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastick wit shoots momentary fires,
And like a meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the sulph'rous breath of Vice,
Like the blue lightning, while it shines, destroys:
But genius, fir'd by truth's eternal ray,
Burns clear and constant, like the source of day:
Like this, its beam prolifick and refin'd
Feeds, warms, inspirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly dispels each wint'ry passion's gloom,
And opens all the virtues into bloom.
This praise, immortal Pope, to thee be giv'n:
Thy genius was indeed a gift from heav'n.
Hail, bard unequall'd, in whose deathless line
Reason and wit with strength collected shine:
Where matchless wit but wins the second praise,
Lost, nobly lost, in truth's superior blaze.
Did Friendship e'er mislead thy wand'ring Muse?
That friendship sure may plead the great excuse:
That sacred friendship which inspir'd thy song,
Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.
Error like this ev'n truth can scarce reprove;
'Tis almost virtue when it flows from love.
And show'r her bounties o'er her favour'd isle:
Behold for Pope she twines the laurel crown,
And centers ev'ry poet's pow'r in one:
Each Roman's force adorns his various page;
Gay smiles, collected strength, and manly rage.
Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the sight,
As spectres vanish at approaching light:
In this clear mirror with delight we view
Each image justly fine, and boldly true:
Here Vice, drag'd forth by Truth's supreme decree,
Beholds and hates her own deformity:
While self-seen Virtue in the faithful line
With modest joy surveys her form divine.
But oh, what thoughts, what numbers shall I find,
But faintly to express the poet's mind!
Who yonder star's effulgence can display,
Unless he dip his pencil in the ray?
Who paint a god, unless the god inspire?
What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire?
So, mighty Pope, to make thy genius known,
All pow'r is weak, all numbers—but thy own.
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For thee the Graces left th'Idalian grove:
With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung,
Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue.
Next, to her bard majestick Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the heav'nly flame:
With taste superior scorn'd the venal tribe,
Whom fear can sway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At fancy's call who rear the wanton sail,
Sport with the stream, and trifle in the gale:
Sublimer views thy daring spirit bound;
Thy mighty voyage was creation's round;
Intent new worlds of wisdom to explore,
And bless mankind with Virtue's sacred store;
A nobler joy than wit can give, impart;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastick wit shoots momentary fires,
And like a meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the sulph'rous breath of Vice,
Like the blue lightning, while it shines, destroys:
But genius, fir'd by truth's eternal ray,
Burns clear and constant, like the source of day:
Like this, its beam prolifick and refin'd
Feeds, warms, inspirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly dispels each wint'ry passion's gloom,
And opens all the virtues into bloom.
This praise, immortal Pope, to thee be giv'n:
Thy genius was indeed a gift from heav'n.
338
Reason and wit with strength collected shine:
Where matchless wit but wins the second praise,
Lost, nobly lost, in truth's superior blaze.
Did Friendship e'er mislead thy wand'ring Muse?
That friendship sure may plead the great excuse:
That sacred friendship which inspir'd thy song,
Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.
Error like this ev'n truth can scarce reprove;
'Tis almost virtue when it flows from love.
Ye deathless names, ye sons of endless praise,
By Virtue crown'd with never-fading bays!
Say, shall an artless Muse, if you inspire,
Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire?
Or if, O Warburton, inspir'd by You,
The daring Muse a nobler path pursue,
By You inspir'd, on trembling pinion soar,
The sacred founts of social bliss explore,
In her bold numbers chain the tyrant's rage,
And bid her country's glory fire her page:
If such her fate, do thou, fair Truth, descend,
And watchful guard her in an honest end:
Kindly severe, instruct her equal line
To court no friend, nor own a foe but thine.
But if her giddy eye should vainly quit
Thy sacred paths, to run the maze of wit;
If her apostate heart shou'd e'er incline
To offer incense at Corruption's shrine;
Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound,
And dash the smoaking censer to the ground.
Thus aw'd to fear, instructed bards may see,
That guilt is doom'd to sink in infamy.
By Virtue crown'd with never-fading bays!
Say, shall an artless Muse, if you inspire,
Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire?
Or if, O Warburton, inspir'd by You,
The daring Muse a nobler path pursue,
By You inspir'd, on trembling pinion soar,
The sacred founts of social bliss explore,
In her bold numbers chain the tyrant's rage,
And bid her country's glory fire her page:
If such her fate, do thou, fair Truth, descend,
And watchful guard her in an honest end:
Kindly severe, instruct her equal line
To court no friend, nor own a foe but thine.
But if her giddy eye should vainly quit
Thy sacred paths, to run the maze of wit;
If her apostate heart shou'd e'er incline
To offer incense at Corruption's shrine;
339
And dash the smoaking censer to the ground.
Thus aw'd to fear, instructed bards may see,
That guilt is doom'd to sink in infamy.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |